Title: "Funny Old World"
Author: Ivytree
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: (Almost) all characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, the Walt Disney Company, Terry Rossio and Ted Elliot, Jerry Bruckheimer, Gore Verbinski, etc. And, of course, James Marsters and Johnny Depp.
Feedback: Please!
Summary: An adventure with two poets.
Setting: Post "Chosen" —and post "yo-ho."
"Funny Old World" Part Two
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"All we have here," Jack pointed out, "is barrels and kegs, most of 'em empty."
They had spent the daylight hours in a snug underground storage chamber left, presumably, by long vanished freebooters, snoring off the mists of rum. Now the sun dipped below the horizon once more, and the time had come to plan their escape.
"But the barrels are wood, so they float, don't they?" Spike asked. "I'll bust 'em up, and we can make a raft, right? Got any rope?"
"No, I haven't any rope," Jack replied, with some exasperation. "I haven't any rope, I haven't any mast, I haven't any oars, and I haven't a sail. If I did 'ave any of those useful articles, I wouldn't be here, would I?" He halted abruptly, and Spike thought he saw a flash of calculation cross his face. But then his attention seemed to turn back to the rope problem. "For a raft, now, we'll have to collect some vines or such-like, from amongst the trees…"
"That could take days. What about this?" Spike suggested, indicating the colorful silk sash wrapped around the pirate's middle.
"I think not. A souvenir of me glorious days as a tribal chieftain, is what that is," Jack replied, drawing himself up with hauteur. "It's of great sentimental value, in point of fact, and I don't really fancy parting with it."
"Listen, mate, you won't fancy parting with every drop of blood in your body if I should happen to come over peckish, either," Spike warned, folding his arms. "Vampire, remember?"
No need to mention his soul, whose continued presence was confirmed by the slight pang of conscience Spike felt on merely uttering the threat. Of course, the soul would (probably) prevent him from actually acting on his hunger, however desperate he became—but Captain Jack didn't know that.
"You make an interesting point," Jack said, fingering his braided beard. "I hadn't quite thought of it that light. I s'pose I should sacrifice for the greater good; after all, it's the right thing to do, isn't it?" Somehow, Spike found this explanation less than convincing, but Jack began untying the sash nevertheless.
"I've got a belt we can use," Spike offered. It was the least he could do, if his companion was willing to forfeit his own special bits and bobs. The captain obviously paid attention to his 'look;' Spike could understand that. But survival was survival.
Captain Jack measured the fabric with outstretched arms. To Spike's inexpert eye it seemed to be a useful length, at least ten feet, which could be torn into several strips. Jack folded the ragged silk carefully, and then turned to gaze at Spike, speculation in his eyes.
"I believe you've got more than your belt to offer, matey," he suggested in an insinuating voice, with a sideways tilt of the head that sent the many beads, feathers, coins, bones, and other ornaments tied in his hair a-clinking. "Like I said, we need a sail, too, don't we? And that's a nice coat you're wearing." Suddenly he grinned. "Savvy?"
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"…So, there she sat on a rock, and never a word would she utter," Captain Jack said, "though she'd twitch the end of her tail like a cat whenever she got peevish."
"And what did you do to make her peevish?" Spike asked, almost despite himself. Frankly, he wasn't sure he believed this story; he knew quite well how to dress a tall tale in convincing details. He'd done it himself a thousand times. On the other hand, Jack's capricious mermaid sounded like a pretty true to life female…
"Well, as you might imagine, her coming from the bottom of the sea, and all, she 'ad no use for fire. She ate whatever she caught raw, and she hated it when I cooked the fish she brought me. All it took was one sight of me campfire and off she'd go, in a right passion, just like any vexed wench, with her tail wiggling and waggling and thrashing up a foam. Though, mind you, it never lasted for long—next morning I'd go back to the beach, and there she'd be, perched on her rock, with her red-gold hair bright as the sunrise and her blue eyes sparkling like the sea, as fine a lady as any you'd see in Buckin'am Palace itself. Though a good bit quieter, o'course, due to the not-speaking part." Jack's tone grew fond. "She was a sweet-natured lass, that one, if all were told. Never held a grudge…"
A trail of moonlight glittered with almost starry brilliance across the indigo water. Warm sea-breezes puffed against Spike's back, setting strands of his hair to tickling his forehead. But as beautiful as the night was, he couldn't help feeling that the creaks emitted by their makeshift barrel-and-sash raft sounded ominous, and the swell of the waves made keeping his balance problematical. Tightening his grip on Jack's sacrificed keepsake, now serving to lash several rum kegs together, Spike tried to concentrate on his new friend's yarns of narrow escapes, enchanted treasure, mermaids, and ghost ships (though that one he did NOT believe). But he felt curiously detached and indecisive, almost as if he'd hit his head when he landed on the beach, though he didn't recall doing so. Admittedly, this could be ascribed in part to the quantity of raw rum he'd consumed. Still, he usually held his liquor better than that.
At the same time, he couldn't help noticing a remarkable change in his comrade. As soon as Captain Jack hit the water, as it were, his odd careening ceased, and he stood calm, upright, and rock-solid on his feet. He certainly seemed to know what he was doing, too, steering their craft by what seemed to Spike like minute adjustments of the all-too-familiar black leather sail. This was mounted on a jury-rigged mast of palm branches bound tightly together with vines, thanks to the application of Spike's super-strength and Jack's remarkable knot-tying ability. Occasionally Jack would glance at an odd-looking compass drawn from his belt, and now and then Spike would have sworn he heard the captain singing to himself, although he couldn't make out the words. But his friend seemed to know exactly where they were and where they were going.
"How long, now?" Spike asked, with a glance at the sky. It was after midnight, and the thought of being out on the open ocean near sunrise was beginning to make him uneasy.
"No worries, mate; everything's hunky-dory. This craft will get us ashore in St. Vincent—quite a big island—within an hour or two. There we'll find friendly natives, chow, grog, trade, and a smallish port," Jack answered cheerfully. "Then we'll have a sit-down and see what's what, I suppose, seeing as how we've got quite a number of what you might call unanswered questions."
Spike was silent. He had unanswered questions, all right.
From the first, he had assumed that he landed on the island, for whatever inexplicable reason, relatively shortly after his last incineration. He felt no sense of time's passage; all he remembered was the final white-hot blaze of light, then a peaceful, muffling blackness, then a feeling of falling, and finally a bumpy landing on white sand. But since his arrival, he'd seen nothing at all that belonged to the 21st century—not an airplane, not a ship, not a cigarette butt, not even a scrap of discarded plastic. That seemed unlikely, to say the least. Wasn't the glorious Caribbean a year-round tourist playground? Then where was the evidence of said tourists?
With a growing sense of disquiet, he wondered just what century he had dropped into. Could he have actually gone back in time? If this was Captain Jack's native era, so to speak… well, that was the 17th century or so, well before Spike was born, wasn't it? Wouldn't that fact cause a paradox or something? And if this wasn't Jack's era, what the devil was Jack doing in the present? If this was, in fact, the past, could Spike himself get back to his own time? Did he want to get back? He felt as though he'd watched just enough Star Trek to be confused by the whole concept of time travel, but not enough to understand any of it.
Spike sighed. Then again, who was he, a vampire risen from the grave for the second time, so to speak, to ask questions? If existence made sense, he would have been dust long ago. All he could do was take it as it came, he supposed.
A swell tossed their craft, and the water grew choppy. Spike took a firmer grip on his mooring. It wasn't that he couldn't swim—he could swim all the way to this port they were headed toward, whatever it was, if he had to. But he certainly didn't want to—the thought of exhausted, aching muscles and lungfuls of sea water wasn't exactly inviting. Fortunately, the rough sea calmed again after few minutes, and he massaged the back of his neck with one hand. Right now he really, really wished he had a cigarette.
"You must have seen a few things worth seeing, in your travels," Captain Jack piped up, cutting short Spike's reverie. "Been 'round the world, have you? Ever been to Singapore?"
"Matter of fact, I have. We—I—spent quite a few years in the East. China, India, Siam, Burma, Java…" He hadn't thought of those days in a long, long time. They weren't what he'd call good times, exactly, at least not from his present perspective, but he'd certainly learned a lot.
"In all the world, what's your favorite port of call?"
Spike considered. "Japan, I think," he answered finally. "Beautiful. Poetic. Very well organized. Very law-abiding."
"Now, that's unexpected; I'd have thought that in your, uh, line of work, you'd rather prefer violence, upheaval, and a nice spot of bloodshed, as you might say."
"Well, in those days, we—I—liked to lay low," Spike said thoughtfully. "It was easier to strike if they weren't expecting an attack, if you know what I mean. They never knew what hit 'em, and there wasn't anything they could do about it, either."
"I know exactly what you mean. An excellent tactic, used it meself—when I sacked Nassau Port without firing a shot, for instance. Infiltration, that's the ticket. Bloodshed's dangerous, messy, and causes hard feelings all around. Much better to just take what you want when the law-abiding folk are all unaware, and disappear before they catch on."
"But now…"
"Now?"
"To tell you the truth, I don't kill people anymore," Spike said, in a rush of confidence.
The pirate shot him a sidelong glance. "Well, I have to say that's welcome news from my point of view, but it's a bit startling, all the same. Why don't you?"
"I've got a soul now." There. It was out.
"So you're a vampire with a soul, then, are you?" Captain Jack inquired politely, quite unfazed. "Is there a lot of that about?"
"No," Spike said. "There's just one other."
"Hmm." Serenely riding out another swell, Jack pulled at his beard in a meditative fashion. "Well, I'll say this for you, William the Bloody; you're full of surprises. However does a such a cataclysm happen to a self-respecting vampire like yourself?"
Spike looked up at his companion coolly. Now HE had a tale to relate.
"Ever hear tell of the Slayer?" he asked.
TBC
Author: Ivytree
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: (Almost) all characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, the Walt Disney Company, Terry Rossio and Ted Elliot, Jerry Bruckheimer, Gore Verbinski, etc. And, of course, James Marsters and Johnny Depp.
Feedback: Please!
Summary: An adventure with two poets.
Setting: Post "Chosen" —and post "yo-ho."
"Funny Old World" Part Two
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"All we have here," Jack pointed out, "is barrels and kegs, most of 'em empty."
They had spent the daylight hours in a snug underground storage chamber left, presumably, by long vanished freebooters, snoring off the mists of rum. Now the sun dipped below the horizon once more, and the time had come to plan their escape.
"But the barrels are wood, so they float, don't they?" Spike asked. "I'll bust 'em up, and we can make a raft, right? Got any rope?"
"No, I haven't any rope," Jack replied, with some exasperation. "I haven't any rope, I haven't any mast, I haven't any oars, and I haven't a sail. If I did 'ave any of those useful articles, I wouldn't be here, would I?" He halted abruptly, and Spike thought he saw a flash of calculation cross his face. But then his attention seemed to turn back to the rope problem. "For a raft, now, we'll have to collect some vines or such-like, from amongst the trees…"
"That could take days. What about this?" Spike suggested, indicating the colorful silk sash wrapped around the pirate's middle.
"I think not. A souvenir of me glorious days as a tribal chieftain, is what that is," Jack replied, drawing himself up with hauteur. "It's of great sentimental value, in point of fact, and I don't really fancy parting with it."
"Listen, mate, you won't fancy parting with every drop of blood in your body if I should happen to come over peckish, either," Spike warned, folding his arms. "Vampire, remember?"
No need to mention his soul, whose continued presence was confirmed by the slight pang of conscience Spike felt on merely uttering the threat. Of course, the soul would (probably) prevent him from actually acting on his hunger, however desperate he became—but Captain Jack didn't know that.
"You make an interesting point," Jack said, fingering his braided beard. "I hadn't quite thought of it that light. I s'pose I should sacrifice for the greater good; after all, it's the right thing to do, isn't it?" Somehow, Spike found this explanation less than convincing, but Jack began untying the sash nevertheless.
"I've got a belt we can use," Spike offered. It was the least he could do, if his companion was willing to forfeit his own special bits and bobs. The captain obviously paid attention to his 'look;' Spike could understand that. But survival was survival.
Captain Jack measured the fabric with outstretched arms. To Spike's inexpert eye it seemed to be a useful length, at least ten feet, which could be torn into several strips. Jack folded the ragged silk carefully, and then turned to gaze at Spike, speculation in his eyes.
"I believe you've got more than your belt to offer, matey," he suggested in an insinuating voice, with a sideways tilt of the head that sent the many beads, feathers, coins, bones, and other ornaments tied in his hair a-clinking. "Like I said, we need a sail, too, don't we? And that's a nice coat you're wearing." Suddenly he grinned. "Savvy?"
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"…So, there she sat on a rock, and never a word would she utter," Captain Jack said, "though she'd twitch the end of her tail like a cat whenever she got peevish."
"And what did you do to make her peevish?" Spike asked, almost despite himself. Frankly, he wasn't sure he believed this story; he knew quite well how to dress a tall tale in convincing details. He'd done it himself a thousand times. On the other hand, Jack's capricious mermaid sounded like a pretty true to life female…
"Well, as you might imagine, her coming from the bottom of the sea, and all, she 'ad no use for fire. She ate whatever she caught raw, and she hated it when I cooked the fish she brought me. All it took was one sight of me campfire and off she'd go, in a right passion, just like any vexed wench, with her tail wiggling and waggling and thrashing up a foam. Though, mind you, it never lasted for long—next morning I'd go back to the beach, and there she'd be, perched on her rock, with her red-gold hair bright as the sunrise and her blue eyes sparkling like the sea, as fine a lady as any you'd see in Buckin'am Palace itself. Though a good bit quieter, o'course, due to the not-speaking part." Jack's tone grew fond. "She was a sweet-natured lass, that one, if all were told. Never held a grudge…"
A trail of moonlight glittered with almost starry brilliance across the indigo water. Warm sea-breezes puffed against Spike's back, setting strands of his hair to tickling his forehead. But as beautiful as the night was, he couldn't help feeling that the creaks emitted by their makeshift barrel-and-sash raft sounded ominous, and the swell of the waves made keeping his balance problematical. Tightening his grip on Jack's sacrificed keepsake, now serving to lash several rum kegs together, Spike tried to concentrate on his new friend's yarns of narrow escapes, enchanted treasure, mermaids, and ghost ships (though that one he did NOT believe). But he felt curiously detached and indecisive, almost as if he'd hit his head when he landed on the beach, though he didn't recall doing so. Admittedly, this could be ascribed in part to the quantity of raw rum he'd consumed. Still, he usually held his liquor better than that.
At the same time, he couldn't help noticing a remarkable change in his comrade. As soon as Captain Jack hit the water, as it were, his odd careening ceased, and he stood calm, upright, and rock-solid on his feet. He certainly seemed to know what he was doing, too, steering their craft by what seemed to Spike like minute adjustments of the all-too-familiar black leather sail. This was mounted on a jury-rigged mast of palm branches bound tightly together with vines, thanks to the application of Spike's super-strength and Jack's remarkable knot-tying ability. Occasionally Jack would glance at an odd-looking compass drawn from his belt, and now and then Spike would have sworn he heard the captain singing to himself, although he couldn't make out the words. But his friend seemed to know exactly where they were and where they were going.
"How long, now?" Spike asked, with a glance at the sky. It was after midnight, and the thought of being out on the open ocean near sunrise was beginning to make him uneasy.
"No worries, mate; everything's hunky-dory. This craft will get us ashore in St. Vincent—quite a big island—within an hour or two. There we'll find friendly natives, chow, grog, trade, and a smallish port," Jack answered cheerfully. "Then we'll have a sit-down and see what's what, I suppose, seeing as how we've got quite a number of what you might call unanswered questions."
Spike was silent. He had unanswered questions, all right.
From the first, he had assumed that he landed on the island, for whatever inexplicable reason, relatively shortly after his last incineration. He felt no sense of time's passage; all he remembered was the final white-hot blaze of light, then a peaceful, muffling blackness, then a feeling of falling, and finally a bumpy landing on white sand. But since his arrival, he'd seen nothing at all that belonged to the 21st century—not an airplane, not a ship, not a cigarette butt, not even a scrap of discarded plastic. That seemed unlikely, to say the least. Wasn't the glorious Caribbean a year-round tourist playground? Then where was the evidence of said tourists?
With a growing sense of disquiet, he wondered just what century he had dropped into. Could he have actually gone back in time? If this was Captain Jack's native era, so to speak… well, that was the 17th century or so, well before Spike was born, wasn't it? Wouldn't that fact cause a paradox or something? And if this wasn't Jack's era, what the devil was Jack doing in the present? If this was, in fact, the past, could Spike himself get back to his own time? Did he want to get back? He felt as though he'd watched just enough Star Trek to be confused by the whole concept of time travel, but not enough to understand any of it.
Spike sighed. Then again, who was he, a vampire risen from the grave for the second time, so to speak, to ask questions? If existence made sense, he would have been dust long ago. All he could do was take it as it came, he supposed.
A swell tossed their craft, and the water grew choppy. Spike took a firmer grip on his mooring. It wasn't that he couldn't swim—he could swim all the way to this port they were headed toward, whatever it was, if he had to. But he certainly didn't want to—the thought of exhausted, aching muscles and lungfuls of sea water wasn't exactly inviting. Fortunately, the rough sea calmed again after few minutes, and he massaged the back of his neck with one hand. Right now he really, really wished he had a cigarette.
"You must have seen a few things worth seeing, in your travels," Captain Jack piped up, cutting short Spike's reverie. "Been 'round the world, have you? Ever been to Singapore?"
"Matter of fact, I have. We—I—spent quite a few years in the East. China, India, Siam, Burma, Java…" He hadn't thought of those days in a long, long time. They weren't what he'd call good times, exactly, at least not from his present perspective, but he'd certainly learned a lot.
"In all the world, what's your favorite port of call?"
Spike considered. "Japan, I think," he answered finally. "Beautiful. Poetic. Very well organized. Very law-abiding."
"Now, that's unexpected; I'd have thought that in your, uh, line of work, you'd rather prefer violence, upheaval, and a nice spot of bloodshed, as you might say."
"Well, in those days, we—I—liked to lay low," Spike said thoughtfully. "It was easier to strike if they weren't expecting an attack, if you know what I mean. They never knew what hit 'em, and there wasn't anything they could do about it, either."
"I know exactly what you mean. An excellent tactic, used it meself—when I sacked Nassau Port without firing a shot, for instance. Infiltration, that's the ticket. Bloodshed's dangerous, messy, and causes hard feelings all around. Much better to just take what you want when the law-abiding folk are all unaware, and disappear before they catch on."
"But now…"
"Now?"
"To tell you the truth, I don't kill people anymore," Spike said, in a rush of confidence.
The pirate shot him a sidelong glance. "Well, I have to say that's welcome news from my point of view, but it's a bit startling, all the same. Why don't you?"
"I've got a soul now." There. It was out.
"So you're a vampire with a soul, then, are you?" Captain Jack inquired politely, quite unfazed. "Is there a lot of that about?"
"No," Spike said. "There's just one other."
"Hmm." Serenely riding out another swell, Jack pulled at his beard in a meditative fashion. "Well, I'll say this for you, William the Bloody; you're full of surprises. However does a such a cataclysm happen to a self-respecting vampire like yourself?"
Spike looked up at his companion coolly. Now HE had a tale to relate.
"Ever hear tell of the Slayer?" he asked.
TBC
