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 Six

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Spike woke with a start. After a moment's confusion, he found himself staring up at Captain Jack, who stood over him holding a half-shuttered bullseye lantern. The pirate was now fully dressed in coat, sash, breeches, and boots, with his leather tricorn on his head and the magic compass at his belt.

"Doubtless you've heard this before, mate," Jack said, "but you sleep like the dead."

"Can't accuse me of snoring, though, can you?" Spike responded, sitting up. Since he didn't breathe while sleeping—or so he'd heard—this was a pretty safe assumption. He swung his feet to the floor and stretched. Twilight painted the walls of the bare little room with cool charcoal and violet shadows; obviously, he'd slept the day away. Diablo sat on the windowsill, washing his ears with great attention, doubtless in anticipation of his own night out. Spike looked around for his hostess.

"She's gone off to conduct some business," Jack explained, following his gaze. "Her crops fetch more when they're fresh."

"Crops? She has more crops?"

"Where d'you think all those mangoes and bananas came from, my friend? It's not just oranges—the lady owns groves all 'round this part of the island; quite an entrepreneuse, that one," Jack said, with some pride. "You should see her haggle on market-day; she's a pirate herself, in her way. At any rate, she'll be back later. You don't want to hinder the lovely Yvette's hunt for an extra coin, take my word. So—are you ready for a little expedition, then?"

Spike grabbed a ripe papaya for his breakfast from a wooden bowl on the table and snatched up his coat, reflexively feeling the zippered breast pocket. "Right behind you."

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With the shutter of his lantern three-quarters closed, Jack led the way eastwards, away from the small cluster of dwellings, up a rocky, barely detectable trail. Their path skirted a rushing stream on the right and a steep slope on the left. Since his own enhanced agility let Spike follow his friend without difficulty, he had the leisure to marvel again at the brilliance and clarity of the stars as they popped out, one by one, against the darkening, ink blue sky, still streaked with the ultramarine and lapis of dusk. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He'd always enjoyed breathing, a quirk that annoyed other vampires—Angelus, for instance, who prided himself on his lack of human traits—but here, in this entirely unpolluted atmosphere, it was a particular pleasure.

"Almost there, mate," Jack called over his shoulder. The winding path grew steeper as they approached a small cascade, whose waters sent up billows of mist as they tumbled over an outcrop of jagged boulders. Suddenly, a cold breath seemed to freeze the back of Spike's neck; he halted in his tracks and stood stock-still. After a moment, he spun around, swiftly and silently, and stared back down the path. Someone or something was watching; he was sure of it. His eyes raked the thick, green foliage, but he saw no sign of movement, and sensed no warmth or heartbeat. A few more seconds passed. Finally, he shrugged, and turned to catch up with Jack. There might be large lizards on this island, he supposed, and his vampire senses might not detect them straight off. Or it could be his imagination. But he didn't think so.

Jack, apparently not noticing his comrade's inattention, flattened against the rock face by the waterfall and edged behind and beneath the torrent, where he slid into a man-sized niche that opened inward. Spike followed, and saw that they had entered into a natural tunnel, apparently untouched by human hands.

A constricted passage led them leftwards for about twenty feet. Spike surmised that they were well inside the steep hill whose slope they had climbed, though he could still hear the gurgle of flowing water. Changing air currents told him that they were approaching an open area. After a few more paces, Jack stepped out of the tunnel and opened his lantern's shutter wide.

"That's better," he said. "Now we can see what we're about." Then he corrected himself. "Well, now I can." Setting the light down on a convenient rock, he gave a graceful bow, saying, "Welcome to my, ah, 'umble lair. Pray make yourself at home."

Spike looked around. "Very nice," he said politely. He'd seen a lot of lairs in his time and he wasn't overly impressed. They stood in a small cave, as such things went, about thirty feet in diameter and roughly circular. Another waterfall tumbled from a fissure near the dome-like roof into a churning pool that took up nearly the entire center of the chamber. This pool apparently emptied through another underground stream, causing the surface to continuously plash and eddy.

Their goal in seeking this place was quite apparent, for stacked against the farther wall was Jack's personal hoard of treasure. Spike saw at least a dozen wooden and metal chests piled on top of each other, and near them stood a riotous assortment of decorative objects. His eyes widened as he recognized quite a few of these, amongst them four very fine blue and white Ming vases, a tall, silver Bengali candelabrum in the shape of a peacock, an inlaid, hammered-copper tray of a style unique to Syria, and a curious pointed ebony stand, fantastically carved and set with mother-of-pearl. Having travelled the entire route of the Orient Express at one time, Spike knew what the last object was, though he would have bet quite a lot—wrongly, as it turned out—that Jack didn't.

"'Andsome, don't you think?" Jack said, catching his eye. "That's a sort of Mohametan hat-stand, believe it or not; when Persian gentlemen take off their turbans at night, they set them on these little racks. Clever, isn't it? Saves all that wrapping and unwrapping."

Frankly, Spike was dumbstruck by the splendor and variety of the collection. Clearly, Captain Jack had an excellent eye. He examined a few less identifiable objects—a gold, pre-Columbian female figurine, a large oblong shield covered with brown and white cowhide—wondering all the while what on earth this trove of riches was doing hidden away on a remote and sleepy Caribbean island. The porcelain alone would be worth millions by the twenty-first century.

"This lot's just trinkets, really," Jack said casually, pulling out an iron-barred chest, and unhooking the leather straps that bound it. "I keep a few pretties 'ere that I'm fond of—as well as some more practical items. You never know what might come in useful sometime or another, do you? 'Waste not, want not,' innit?"

"Trinkets!" Spike exclaimed, fingering a Russian laquer tray inlaid with garnets and tiny amber beads. "This lot's worth a bloody fortune, mate. Or it will be," he added.

Jack paused, his hands on the lid of the chest, and shot Spike a keen glance. "Will it, now?" he said. "That's interesting. That's very interesting."

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Spike never knew how long he sat alone on the sand that first night on St. Vincent, almost drunk with a heady sense of the endless motion of the earth, two-thirds liquid and molten within, crowded with living things, swinging through space in an eternally complex dance. Nothing ever really stopped, not even unnatural beings such as he was. Once he had believed that stasis was possible, had wanted to believe it—"Everything changes," ensouled Angel had told him. "Not demons! Not us!" had been his heartfelt cry in return.

But now Spike saw that Angel was right. He had changed, all right; when he looked back at the creature he had been for so long, it was like seeing himself on a distant stage, a silent, gesticulating mannikin.

How had he endured a hundred years going round and round the same millwheel, unquestioning? He remembered—dimly—that the first thrill of Drusilla's touch was exactly like the last. There had been no joy of discovery, no mutual adjustments, no growing old together for them. There had been no growing at all. Looking back, his long life as a soulless vampire seemed arid, empty—dead.

Now Spike could feel himself changing by the minute, and it was as exhilarating as—well, as a hunt, or a great fight. He couldn't wait to see what happened next. Was this what it meant to have a soul, then? This feeling that something earthshaking, something joyous, something that would make it all make sense, was just around the corner? What would change his world next—love? Honor? Or, perhaps, friendship?

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"'Ere you are, mate, take your pick," Jack said. Polished metal gleamed within oilcloth folds as the pirate unwrapped a longish bundle, revealing a wicked variety of exotic weaponry, including Moorish scimitars, Indian kris, elaborately decorated Afgani pistols, and a magnificent set of Persian steel armor, inlaid with gold, including a round shield, a helmet with a pointed top and chainmail sidepieces, and a treacherous-looking axe with a club-like handle. "Choose whatever you fancy."

"Ta very much—but I don't really need weapons, y'know," Spike replied. "All I need's the motivation, and it's 'grrr' and fangs right off the mark. That's what you call a tactical advantage, isn't it? Saves time."

"Well, we don't want to let on about that, though, do we? We want everyone to think you're merely an average fellow. Or an average pirate, at any rate," Jack said, busily arming himself to the teeth. As Spike watched with a fascinated eye, he stowed a dagger in each boot, secured another to his right forearm with a strap, and tucked another beneath his sash; then he hung a baldric over each shoulder, one to hold a scabbard and cutlass on his left hip, and the other supporting a long-barreled pistol on his right. "At any rate, you can't just stroll about Kingstown without at least a sword," he continued. "That would cause unwelcome comment amongst the vulgar. Then somebody'd try to pick your pocket, you'd break 'is arm with one blow, and the jig would be up. The whole town would know there's something unusual afoot—and we want everyone complacent. Especially this Koomah geezer and his mates."

"You've got a point there," Spike conceded. "All right, let's see those scimitars again—quite lovely, they were."

He closed his hand around the pommel of one particularly eye-catching specimen. The sword seemed to quiver within his grasp, and gave a faint but resonant clang as he drew it from its scabbard and whirled it above his head. Even in the dim cave, a shimmer of light ran down the curving, razor-sharp blade. Suddenly Spike laughed. This was beginning to resemble fun.

TBC