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 Three



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Captain Jack and Spike beached their raft on smooth, black sands without incident, and proceeded to dismantle it, as Jack wanted his sash back. Spike donned his leather coat, which seemed undamaged by sea-spray, and patted himself down, feeling a certain lump in the zippered inner breast pocket with relief.

"Well," Jack said, winding layer after layer of wet, torn silk around his waist, "This will be the south side of the island, and there's a path through these trees leading to a road up yonder. I suggest we have ourselves a look-see. We shouldn't encounter any difficulties—natives in these parts are fine people." Slinging his coat over his shoulder, he turned and started up the trail. "Very lovely and affectionate ladies, I might add, if you've a fancy to forget your troubles…"

"I'm sure they're very nice," Spike said, falling into step beside him, digging his hands in his pockets, "but I don't want to forget."

"I quite understand you, mate. Sore of heart is what you are. Now, I myself am of the school that believes in getting right back on the 'orse once you're thrown, but I can see your point of view, as well."

Side by side, they proceeded northward without further speech. Moonlight, filtered by tall palms and tree ferns, striped the pathway ahead. Sea breezes, salt-scented and balmy, and touched with the sweet aroma of tropical flowers, rustled through the foliage. Pebbles and debris crunched beneath their boots, and the occasional caws, hoots, and trills of diverse wildlife echoed from the forest.

After an easy half mile, they came to a dirt road stretching east to west. Peering first in one direction, and then the other, Spike saw no sign of a town or other settlement. But Jack gestured toward the left.

"If my recollection is accurate—and it almost always is—the village is this way," he said.

"All right," Spike agreed.

They turned down an unpaved road, rutted by innumerable cartwheels.



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A dog barked as they neared a cluster of whitewashed mud brick huts, roofed with palm fronds, which lined the narrow street. No lights showed from the windows or doors. Captain Jack halted.

"This'll be where the poorer folks reside," he whispered. "No use putting the wind up them at this hour, eh? We'd best step quiet-like." He moved with surprising stealth to the side of the road, and signaled to Spike to follow.

"Where are we going?" Spike asked, in an undertone.

"There's a certain someone close by who will be ever so glad to see me," Jack assured him. "Just a few houses down…"

He led the way behind the dwellings, where open areas had been hacked out of the jungle. These were set with small kitchen garden plots and dotted with hoes, rakes, and other simple implements; small sheds and rudely fenced enclosures housed chickens, goats, pigs, donkeys, and the occasional black cow. Spike knew that he himself could slip past the livestock noiselessly enough to avoid rousing them, but he was impressed to find that Jack could, too. They wound a snakelike course through four or five properties, until Jack motioned a halt.

"Mind the bean patch," he said over his shoulder. Then he drew Spike close to the rear of one well-kept house, and hunkered down with his back flat against the wall beneath an open window. "Listen, matey—am I correct in assuming that, among your many vampire talents, you can see in the dark?"

"Just about."

"Then just have a peep through that window, if you would, and see if the charming lady inside is sleeping alone tonight."

"I can tell you that right now," Spike said.

Captain Jack looked taken aback, for almost the first time since Spike had met him. Then his expression grew exceedingly thoughtful.

"You can see through walls?" he said. "That particular skill could come in very handy indeed, I hope you realize that."

Spike grinned. He appreciated the way Jack's mind worked—crooked as a corkscrew. "Sorry, but no, mate; it's not that. I can smell her, can't I? Hear her heartbeat. She's alone, all right. Though she's got a tomcat," he added. "I can smell him, too."

"Well, no worries there; I know that cat. He responds to bribery, the greedy old brute." Jack rose, and, leaning his folded arms on the windowsill, addressed the sleeping inhabitant within.

"Bon maten, Yvette min!" he called, in a low tone. "Reveyé! Levé! Wakey, wakey, darlin'."

There was a rustle, and a muted crash from inside the room.

"Jack?" a woman's voice said. "C'est vreman Jack?" Presumably, this was Yvette.

"None other," Jack said. "Louvri la pot, my lovely. Let us in."

Spike heard the pad of bare feet across an uncarpeted floor (as well as the soft thud of a well-fed tomcat decending from the bed). Yvette seemed to pause for a moment; there came a rattle as the inner bar was lifted, and the door flew open with some vigor. In the entrance stood a strikingly attractive young woman, with enormous black eyes and a tumble of dusky curls falling about her shoulders. She was dressed in a thin linen nightgown with a low neck and sleeves gathered about the elbow, and her left hand held up a sputtering rushlight. Spike noted warily that the other hand was balled into a fist, and firmly planted on her hip.

"Yvette! Cheri!" Jack said, holding his arms open wide.

"Chen!" Yvette snapped. "Kochon!"

She spoke the local patois with a charming lilt to her voice—but somehow these did not seem to be words of welcome. With the prudence of long experience, Spike took a step back a moment before the girl aimed a roundhouse blow straight at Jack's head, which struck with a resounding smack.

"Mantlé! Djoté!" she spat, and actually stamped her foot.

"Now, sweetheart, I meant to come back, I swear I did, but fortune intervened," Jack cajoled, reaching for her again. Suddenly, her fury seemed to collapse, and she burst into tears, flinging her arms around his neck with such force that it caused him to stagger back, and sent the rushlight flying. Spike bent to pick it up.

"Sovaj," Yvette sniffled into Jack's collar, punching his arm for emphasis. "Volé…"

"There, there," Jack soothed, patting her shoulder. "'S'all water under the bridge, isn't it, eh? And here I am again, turned up like a bad penny."

As the tender scene proceeded, Spike felt a warm, heavy weight against his ankle. He looked down, and met the judicious yellow gaze of a burly, grey-striped tomcat, who stared unblinkingly up at him, seeming to expect some sort of recompense for his interrupted night's sleep. From his bulk, it was apparent that Mademoiselle Yvette's suitors were in the habit of buying him off.

"Sorry, mate, I've nothing bribe-worthy with me at the moment," Spike said, reaching down to let the cat sniff his fingers. Cats were among the few animals that actually seemed to like vampires, despite the lack of body heat. "Perhaps later we can split a rat, though, all right?"



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"Now, then," Captain Jack said, "Perhaps we'd best try to determine just where we stand. To tell you the truth, when you turned up, I wondered if I'd been asleep under that tree for a hundred years—I've heard of such things, in legends and tales. A bit hard to swallow, I'll grant you, but who can say, eh? But it seems like it's the other way 'round, doesn't it? You're the one who's out of your proper setting."

"Too right," Spike said. "This is not my time and not my place."

They sat at an unfinished wooden table in Yvette's one-roomed residence, which was dimly lit by a clay tallow lamp. After about ten minutes of shameless wheedling from Jack, the mistress of the house had finally begun to smile, and Spike furthered her surrender by taking her hand and kissing it when introduced, saying "Enchanté, madame," which made her toss her ringlets and laugh aloud.

She invited them both inside with every appearance of restored cheer, and plied them with wooden bowls of spicy goat stew, a stack of soft bread, some ripe papayas, and even a bottle of Spanish wine. The cat sat at their feet as they devoured their meal, tail wrapped around his substantial hindquarters, wearing an expectant golden glare.

"His name is Diablo," Yvette explained fondly, offering her pet a tidbit. "He is death to mouses, but also a great sneak thief. What is more, he has very many children, all over the island." Reflecting on this admiring description of the cat's character, Spike could only conclude that Yvette's tastes in men and pets were remarkably similar.

"Devil by name and devil by nature, if you ask me," muttered Jack, who appeared to have unresolved issues with the tomcat. Diablo ignored him with studied insolence. Spike, however, responded to the appeal of a fellow predator, and offered the animal bits of goat meat from time to time, which he accepted as if it were no more than his due.

After a few minutes, Yvette yawned prettily, and, with an unobtrusive touch to Jack's shoulder, retired to the curtained corner where her bed presumably stood, saying only, "Bon nuit, 'sieur Spike," with a pleasant smile and nod. Jack didn't speak, but followed her retreat with enigmatic eyes before returning to his wine. Then he put down his tin mug, pushed his plate aside, and looked with atypical candor at Spike.

"So, my friend," he said, "Cards on the table, right?"



TBC