Title: What Jack Wants
Chapter: 3: Far Out of Reach
Author: Korax
blog: http://maboroshi_korax.livejournal.com/
Rating: PG for now
Pairing: Jack/Will, mild Will/Elizabeth
Summary: Jack always gets what he wants. . . well mostly.
Disclaimer: Damn the Mouse, he owns everything, and I own a piece of string and a futon.
Archive: Sure, if you want. Just tell me first. Permission given previously still holds, you need not ask if I've already said yes.
AN: Sooooo very sorry this took so long. I seriously have little to no time anymore. But I will not give up on this fic, ever! Thanks go to Doll, who is a small grammatical goddess, and to Kit and Chris who kept me going.
Sweat clung to his body as he brought the hammer down on the white-hot metal. The sword he was working on wasn't terribly complicated, just a regular uniform sword that the navy used, but he put all his effort into it. He didn't want to think that he was running from himself, his own thoughts, but Will was never very good at lying, especially to himself.
It had been a week since the high tea with Elizabeth. It hadn't gone badly really; actually it had gone rather smoothly, but he couldn't quite shake the feeling that he had failed at something that day. He had gone to the beach with Elizabeth, and they had walked to the cliffs and back, exchanging small talk and such, but never really talking. It was never really talking with Elizabeth, ever.
It was not through lack of trying. It seemed, more, that they'd never gotten into the practice of it. Before the whole situation with Captain Barbossa, Will had never been given the proper opportunity to talk to Elizabeth at the manor outside of a social visit, and Governor Swann would never allow Elizabeth to visit such a place as the blacksmith's shop. So both had dealt with a "love from afar" as it were. But they were together now, and every day it became more and more clear to Will that aside from the beautiful and strong woman that he always had seen in her, Will had no idea who Elizabeth Swann was.
Will sighed and hit the metal one final time, then thrust the metal in a bucket of water to cool. He stretched his back and moved to the window to let a breeze to cool his heated body.
He'd once thought that he understood everything there was about himself. He had fallen in love with Elizabeth when he had been picked up by the Dauntless. She had been the one who had stayed with him the entire way to Port Royal and who had cared for his injuries. He'd felt eternally grateful for what she had done, and had sworn to himself that he would protect her from whatever might threaten her. He had known for eight years that he was in love with Elizabeth, and also, that he would probably never have her because he was just a blacksmith's apprentice. And that was it.
'It seems I was wrong,' Will thought as a cool breeze drifted over his skin, 'but how was I wrong? Elizabeth cares for me, I know. We are engaged! But why does it feel like I'm making the biggest mistake of my life getting married to her?' Will sighed heavily and rubbed his face with his hand tiredly. He had said the same thing to himself every night for the last week, and he had yet to find an answer. He had no doubts that he loved Elizabeth and that she loved him in return, but it felt like he was hurting her some how.
There was a clank and the door of the smithy opened to let in Mr. Brown. Will stood straighter and turned to him. There was something odd in the way Mr. Brown walked, Will decided. It wasn't the way he usually walked when he came home from the taverns. Latching the door behind him, Mr. Brown walked down the ramp and looked around, his eyes finally finding Will leaning on the window frame. "Ah, lad," Mr. Brown said, turning fully towards him, "y'er done already are ye?"
With a jolt, Will realized that he was seeing something that he had not seen since he was a young boy barely able to lift a hammer. Mr. Brown was sober.
Will's brows creased in concern, but he nodded anyway. "Yes sir, I just finished. The sword is cooling and should be ready to pick up by the morning." Will gestured over to the bucket of water where the sword had been placed. Mr. Brown nodded and walked to it and took the sword out to inspect it. Will tensed as Mr. Brown's eyes and hands swept over the blade. He silently berated himself. 'Honestly Turner, you are no longer fourteen. The blade is fine, but . . .' he gazed at Mr. Brown who was testing the balance, 'Mr. Brown hasn't come home without smelling of spirits since the late Mrs. Brown was taken by the fever six years ago. Something going to happen,' he thought with a sense of dread.
Mr. Brown huffed and set the blade back in the water. He turned and gave Will a disapproving look which made the boy stand straight before he knew he realized what he was doing.
" I's a good sword, lad, but no' up t' yer usual standards. What's gottn' int' ye lately?" Mr. Brown said with his arms crossed, giving Will a steady stare.
"I. . . I'm not sure what you mean, sir," Will said after a beat.
"What I means is, ye' re not working as 'ard as ye used t'," He he said with a note of irritation as he waved away the protest forming on Will's face. "Yes, ye be working 'ard as ever, bu' what I means 's . . ." He paused and looked around at the scores of swords that were held here and there about the shop. "What 'm trying t' say is tha' ye used t' make art, Will. Now all ye merely makes is simple blades."
Will stared at Mr. Brown in confusion. Then he too looked around the smithy at the many swords he had made when there wasn't anything else to do for the smithy.
"Yer swords were perfect, Will. Even I wasn't too drunk not t' realize tha'. Which was probably why I took most o' the credit fer 'em. Tha' . . . must 'ave been 'ard-- I apol'gize." He paused again, this time walking up to a sabre that was hanging from a rack above the giant wheel that took up most of the smithy's interior. "I realize I 'aven't been the best master t' ye lad, but it seems tha' ye learned t' create beauty without me. I'm proud."
Will stood, mute. He honestly didn't know what to say. Mr. Brown had never acted like this, ever. He'd been a demanding master when Will had first apprenticed himself to him, and when his wife died, he'd been a lousy drunk in the corner, leaving Will to fend for himself with only the basic knowledge of what to do to guide him. Will wondered if this was how the blacksmith had acted before Will had come to Port Royal, the hard working man whom he'd heard stories of but never had truly believed existed. Will felt his eyes pulled to a small rack in the back of the smithy; it had a half a dozen swords on it and an axe. He'd been told the day he got there that these where Mr. Brown's favorite pieces that he had done in his youth, the axe itself having gained him his mastership. They had grown dull with neglect, but Mr. Brown, even drunk, had not ever let him touch them. As if he were protecting the memory of them somehow.
Mr. Brown followed Will's gaze and his eyes grew soft. There was a silence in the forge that lasted for a few moments. Mr. Brown finally turned from Will and the rack and spoke to the opposite wall. "I put me recommendation t' the guild a while ago, lad, an' Commodore Norrington presented 'is sword ye made o' while back t' a representative fer inspection. They've decided t' give ye yer mastership."
Wide brown eyes regarded the elder blacksmith's back. 'My. . . me. . . a master? This . . . this cannot be real. This is a strange dream for sure, one that I will wake up from very soon,' he though frantically. 'This is just is not happening.'
But Mr. Brown wasn't finished. "I've also sold the forge. There is nothing keeping ye here anymore, Will Turner. Leave! Marry Elizabeth or sail t'a new town and make yer life anew."
"What?" Will blurted out after a stunned moment. "W. . . But why? When?" He walked swiftly around to face Mr. Brown. "Why? I get no say in this at all? I. . ."
"No you don'!" Mr. Brown shouted and looked suddenly angry, yet it seemed to be not directed at Will himself, but at the world around them. "Will, you can't stay 'ere. I can't be the man I used t' be and run this forge without ye, and people 're talking boy, an' I can't stand ter listen t' it anymore." He was breathing heavily. "Ye 've 'eard them; 'pirate' they say, 'can't be trusted.' 'Cheater, thief, an' scoundrel!' They won't accept me business anymore, Will."
"But I am not those things! I am not a pirate!" Will shouted, watching his life slip away through his fingers. "You know I am not! I have worked here under you half my life, this is my home!" He drew a long breath and continued softly, "Where will I go?"
/Pirate is in your blood, boy, so you'll have to square with that some day. . ./ 'Shut up you. This is entirely your fault!' he thought furiously.
Will was breathing heavily, staring pleadingly at Mr. Brown, who seemed to deflate into the drunken slump that he'd had for the past years. "Aye, I knows ye aren't, Will. Ye 're a good lad, an' loyal too. And if I'd 'ad any sense I should 'ave given ye yer mastership and the forge a long while before now. But as it 's . . . Will, you can't stay 'ere anymore. I can stand the talk no longer, an' this place is not for you no more," he said, glancing at the cooled blade still in the bucket. "Leave Will, lad, clean out yer room, take yer pick o' yer blades," he said, gesturing to the swords that decorated the room, "and jus' go. Go anywhere, anywhere ya like, go t' yer Miss Swann and live. Or find a place where the eyes and mouths o' this god's damned port willn't haunt yer steps. There is nothing t' tie ye here no more. Ye 're a master now, Will Turner, and I gave ye all I could a long time ago. Ye deserve better then this run down shack."
Mr. Brown's eyes were bright as they regarded Will, who had slumped against the anvil during Mr. Brown's speech. He blinked slowly. It still seemed too unreal; everything was happening too quickly. He knew this would have happen eventually, but he had never thought of what he would do when it actually did. He looked up into the tired face of his former master.
"What is to become of you then?" he asked slowly.
"The forge 'as been sold to the representative from the guild, and a replacement will be sen' within the week. I am t' return t' England an' live with my sister and 'er children," he said distractedly moving to a far back door to the smithy, which led to a stairway to the rooms above the shop. On the way, his foot tapped an empty bottle of ale. Mr. Brown stilled a minute before reaching down and picking it up. He stared at it for a long time, turning he glass around in his hand, before he threw it, hard, at the wall. He turned back to Will, an almost desperate glint in his eyes. "Best hurry up lad, we've t' clean and clear this forge o' us tomorrow. Get some sleep, 't will be a hard, long day," he commanded, sounding, for a moment, like the man Will had first met on the docks eight years ago. And with that, he stormed up to his room.
Will stared at the shards of glass before purposefully turning himself away and dragging himself up the stairs as well.
~~~~~
'Blast. . .' Jack thought miserably. 'What /is/ it with women and burnin' me rum?'
Jack was standing on the side of Black Pearl, leaning heavily on the rail as he watched two of his rowboats burn, a barrel of rum in each. It was a thoroughly depressing sight, but it had to be done. The Pearl creaked sympathetically in response to his sighs.
He turned to Anamaria, who was sitting on a barrel nearby drinking tankard of water. "Honestly, Anamaria, did it have t' be the rum?" he pleaded, though it would do him no good now. Anamaria smirked and took a large draft of water before replying.
"You're the one who wants to get back to Port Royal, Cap'n. And there ain't enough grog to make a proper signal."
Jack sighed in defeat and looked back to the burning boats. His poor rum. Ana was going to make this up to him. But technically speaking, if the plan went as it should--and unless there were any monkeys or oar-wielding whelps about, it was sure to--it wouldn't be necessary.
As if mirroring his thoughts, Anamaria looked out at the horizon. "Some poor sod's gonna see the smoke soon, I reckon. Merchant ships are by here almost daily these days, this being Port Royal's main trading route an' all." Whether she said this to reassure her Captain or to reassure herself she wasn't quite sure, and it showed clear as day on her face as Jack glanced up at her. He nodded once and continued to stare off into the distance, watching for any glimpse of sail. Anamaria sighed wistfully and took another swig of her water before she set the mug down to watch the horizon with the Captain.
The Pearl swayed with the ocean's current, almost softly as if the boat were anxious to get the plan in motion as well. The crew itself had optioned to not mention their own feelings, but most were becoming restless with the wait, and almost all did not approve of the Captain's plan to return to Port Royal.
Mr. Gibbs fiddled with his flask, bouncing back and forth from watching Jack to glancing to the horizon himself. He'd known this would have happened sooner or later; it had just been a matter of time, really. He cleared his throat as he walked up behind Jack. "So supposing we do manage t' attract a passing merchant inta coming close enough fer us t' commandeer, what be the plan then fer the rest o' us?"
Jack didn't move an inch from his spot as he answered Gibbs, "Anamaria, Squint, Johnson, Cotton, and I will be commandeering our ride to Port Royal, which I'm sure the Captain of our said ride will be happy to oblige us once he and me sword finish negotiations. I want ye, " he said with a slight nod to Gibbs' direction, "t' take the Pearl along t' Tortuga and wait for us there, restock a bit and give the crew some shore leave. I don't plan on bein' long."
Anamaria and Mr. Gibbs exchanged a quick glance, half-intrigued, and half-apprehensive. Gibbs voiced their thought first. "So, ye really think it will work. Do ye think he'll come?"
Jack said nothing and continued to stare off into the horizon. Anamaria leaned back on her perch and gave an almost sympathetic look to Gibbs' expression of suppressed dismay. Though most of the crew had, at least, accepted Jack's wish to return to Port Royal, none of then relished the idea of the Captain landing himself back into a situation that could possibly have very disastrous results, especially after they had gone all the way there to rescue him in the first place.
Jack stood up suddenly and gave a wide grin. He said one single word, one that sounded almost cherished as it fell from his mouth. "Sails."
Gibbs' demeanor changed in an instant. What was a slightly defeated slump of a man was suddenly a strong and seasoned sailor, shouting orders at the top of him lungs and quickly bringing the crew to activity.
Anamaria gave a small smile of relief and jumped down from the railing. A hand grabbed her wrist as she walked and she turned sharply to look at Jack's profile. He was staring determinedly out towards the sails that were appearing in the distance. Without looking at her, he murmured quietly so only she could hear. "I always go back for what's mine."
"You're sure he'll want to come back with you? He has everything he's always wanted now, his future . . . his lady. You sure he'll leave all that for the life of a pirate, blood or no, even if it /is/ you?"
The hand on her arm tightened at the mention of Elizabeth, but Jack didn't even blink. "He doesn't have everything, and he knows it. He'll come. With the right leverage he'll be free of that . . . life. He'll be back where he should be."
Anamaria was silent for only a moment, contemplating the best way to reveal her fears to her captain. Cheating, bloody-minded scoundrel or not, she didn't want him hurt more than was necessary. "Just . . . be sure you have enough strength to use that leverage when the time comes Captain, the Black Pearl will be mightily upset if you come back . . . if it doesn't go well for you."
The hand on her arm released her and she made her way to help the crew make a good show of being distressed. Jack didn't move from where he stood, one hand caressing the rail as he watched the sails approach.
Chapter: 3: Far Out of Reach
Author: Korax
blog: http://maboroshi_korax.livejournal.com/
Rating: PG for now
Pairing: Jack/Will, mild Will/Elizabeth
Summary: Jack always gets what he wants. . . well mostly.
Disclaimer: Damn the Mouse, he owns everything, and I own a piece of string and a futon.
Archive: Sure, if you want. Just tell me first. Permission given previously still holds, you need not ask if I've already said yes.
AN: Sooooo very sorry this took so long. I seriously have little to no time anymore. But I will not give up on this fic, ever! Thanks go to Doll, who is a small grammatical goddess, and to Kit and Chris who kept me going.
Sweat clung to his body as he brought the hammer down on the white-hot metal. The sword he was working on wasn't terribly complicated, just a regular uniform sword that the navy used, but he put all his effort into it. He didn't want to think that he was running from himself, his own thoughts, but Will was never very good at lying, especially to himself.
It had been a week since the high tea with Elizabeth. It hadn't gone badly really; actually it had gone rather smoothly, but he couldn't quite shake the feeling that he had failed at something that day. He had gone to the beach with Elizabeth, and they had walked to the cliffs and back, exchanging small talk and such, but never really talking. It was never really talking with Elizabeth, ever.
It was not through lack of trying. It seemed, more, that they'd never gotten into the practice of it. Before the whole situation with Captain Barbossa, Will had never been given the proper opportunity to talk to Elizabeth at the manor outside of a social visit, and Governor Swann would never allow Elizabeth to visit such a place as the blacksmith's shop. So both had dealt with a "love from afar" as it were. But they were together now, and every day it became more and more clear to Will that aside from the beautiful and strong woman that he always had seen in her, Will had no idea who Elizabeth Swann was.
Will sighed and hit the metal one final time, then thrust the metal in a bucket of water to cool. He stretched his back and moved to the window to let a breeze to cool his heated body.
He'd once thought that he understood everything there was about himself. He had fallen in love with Elizabeth when he had been picked up by the Dauntless. She had been the one who had stayed with him the entire way to Port Royal and who had cared for his injuries. He'd felt eternally grateful for what she had done, and had sworn to himself that he would protect her from whatever might threaten her. He had known for eight years that he was in love with Elizabeth, and also, that he would probably never have her because he was just a blacksmith's apprentice. And that was it.
'It seems I was wrong,' Will thought as a cool breeze drifted over his skin, 'but how was I wrong? Elizabeth cares for me, I know. We are engaged! But why does it feel like I'm making the biggest mistake of my life getting married to her?' Will sighed heavily and rubbed his face with his hand tiredly. He had said the same thing to himself every night for the last week, and he had yet to find an answer. He had no doubts that he loved Elizabeth and that she loved him in return, but it felt like he was hurting her some how.
There was a clank and the door of the smithy opened to let in Mr. Brown. Will stood straighter and turned to him. There was something odd in the way Mr. Brown walked, Will decided. It wasn't the way he usually walked when he came home from the taverns. Latching the door behind him, Mr. Brown walked down the ramp and looked around, his eyes finally finding Will leaning on the window frame. "Ah, lad," Mr. Brown said, turning fully towards him, "y'er done already are ye?"
With a jolt, Will realized that he was seeing something that he had not seen since he was a young boy barely able to lift a hammer. Mr. Brown was sober.
Will's brows creased in concern, but he nodded anyway. "Yes sir, I just finished. The sword is cooling and should be ready to pick up by the morning." Will gestured over to the bucket of water where the sword had been placed. Mr. Brown nodded and walked to it and took the sword out to inspect it. Will tensed as Mr. Brown's eyes and hands swept over the blade. He silently berated himself. 'Honestly Turner, you are no longer fourteen. The blade is fine, but . . .' he gazed at Mr. Brown who was testing the balance, 'Mr. Brown hasn't come home without smelling of spirits since the late Mrs. Brown was taken by the fever six years ago. Something going to happen,' he thought with a sense of dread.
Mr. Brown huffed and set the blade back in the water. He turned and gave Will a disapproving look which made the boy stand straight before he knew he realized what he was doing.
" I's a good sword, lad, but no' up t' yer usual standards. What's gottn' int' ye lately?" Mr. Brown said with his arms crossed, giving Will a steady stare.
"I. . . I'm not sure what you mean, sir," Will said after a beat.
"What I means is, ye' re not working as 'ard as ye used t'," He he said with a note of irritation as he waved away the protest forming on Will's face. "Yes, ye be working 'ard as ever, bu' what I means 's . . ." He paused and looked around at the scores of swords that were held here and there about the shop. "What 'm trying t' say is tha' ye used t' make art, Will. Now all ye merely makes is simple blades."
Will stared at Mr. Brown in confusion. Then he too looked around the smithy at the many swords he had made when there wasn't anything else to do for the smithy.
"Yer swords were perfect, Will. Even I wasn't too drunk not t' realize tha'. Which was probably why I took most o' the credit fer 'em. Tha' . . . must 'ave been 'ard-- I apol'gize." He paused again, this time walking up to a sabre that was hanging from a rack above the giant wheel that took up most of the smithy's interior. "I realize I 'aven't been the best master t' ye lad, but it seems tha' ye learned t' create beauty without me. I'm proud."
Will stood, mute. He honestly didn't know what to say. Mr. Brown had never acted like this, ever. He'd been a demanding master when Will had first apprenticed himself to him, and when his wife died, he'd been a lousy drunk in the corner, leaving Will to fend for himself with only the basic knowledge of what to do to guide him. Will wondered if this was how the blacksmith had acted before Will had come to Port Royal, the hard working man whom he'd heard stories of but never had truly believed existed. Will felt his eyes pulled to a small rack in the back of the smithy; it had a half a dozen swords on it and an axe. He'd been told the day he got there that these where Mr. Brown's favorite pieces that he had done in his youth, the axe itself having gained him his mastership. They had grown dull with neglect, but Mr. Brown, even drunk, had not ever let him touch them. As if he were protecting the memory of them somehow.
Mr. Brown followed Will's gaze and his eyes grew soft. There was a silence in the forge that lasted for a few moments. Mr. Brown finally turned from Will and the rack and spoke to the opposite wall. "I put me recommendation t' the guild a while ago, lad, an' Commodore Norrington presented 'is sword ye made o' while back t' a representative fer inspection. They've decided t' give ye yer mastership."
Wide brown eyes regarded the elder blacksmith's back. 'My. . . me. . . a master? This . . . this cannot be real. This is a strange dream for sure, one that I will wake up from very soon,' he though frantically. 'This is just is not happening.'
But Mr. Brown wasn't finished. "I've also sold the forge. There is nothing keeping ye here anymore, Will Turner. Leave! Marry Elizabeth or sail t'a new town and make yer life anew."
"What?" Will blurted out after a stunned moment. "W. . . But why? When?" He walked swiftly around to face Mr. Brown. "Why? I get no say in this at all? I. . ."
"No you don'!" Mr. Brown shouted and looked suddenly angry, yet it seemed to be not directed at Will himself, but at the world around them. "Will, you can't stay 'ere. I can't be the man I used t' be and run this forge without ye, and people 're talking boy, an' I can't stand ter listen t' it anymore." He was breathing heavily. "Ye 've 'eard them; 'pirate' they say, 'can't be trusted.' 'Cheater, thief, an' scoundrel!' They won't accept me business anymore, Will."
"But I am not those things! I am not a pirate!" Will shouted, watching his life slip away through his fingers. "You know I am not! I have worked here under you half my life, this is my home!" He drew a long breath and continued softly, "Where will I go?"
/Pirate is in your blood, boy, so you'll have to square with that some day. . ./ 'Shut up you. This is entirely your fault!' he thought furiously.
Will was breathing heavily, staring pleadingly at Mr. Brown, who seemed to deflate into the drunken slump that he'd had for the past years. "Aye, I knows ye aren't, Will. Ye 're a good lad, an' loyal too. And if I'd 'ad any sense I should 'ave given ye yer mastership and the forge a long while before now. But as it 's . . . Will, you can't stay 'ere anymore. I can stand the talk no longer, an' this place is not for you no more," he said, glancing at the cooled blade still in the bucket. "Leave Will, lad, clean out yer room, take yer pick o' yer blades," he said, gesturing to the swords that decorated the room, "and jus' go. Go anywhere, anywhere ya like, go t' yer Miss Swann and live. Or find a place where the eyes and mouths o' this god's damned port willn't haunt yer steps. There is nothing t' tie ye here no more. Ye 're a master now, Will Turner, and I gave ye all I could a long time ago. Ye deserve better then this run down shack."
Mr. Brown's eyes were bright as they regarded Will, who had slumped against the anvil during Mr. Brown's speech. He blinked slowly. It still seemed too unreal; everything was happening too quickly. He knew this would have happen eventually, but he had never thought of what he would do when it actually did. He looked up into the tired face of his former master.
"What is to become of you then?" he asked slowly.
"The forge 'as been sold to the representative from the guild, and a replacement will be sen' within the week. I am t' return t' England an' live with my sister and 'er children," he said distractedly moving to a far back door to the smithy, which led to a stairway to the rooms above the shop. On the way, his foot tapped an empty bottle of ale. Mr. Brown stilled a minute before reaching down and picking it up. He stared at it for a long time, turning he glass around in his hand, before he threw it, hard, at the wall. He turned back to Will, an almost desperate glint in his eyes. "Best hurry up lad, we've t' clean and clear this forge o' us tomorrow. Get some sleep, 't will be a hard, long day," he commanded, sounding, for a moment, like the man Will had first met on the docks eight years ago. And with that, he stormed up to his room.
Will stared at the shards of glass before purposefully turning himself away and dragging himself up the stairs as well.
~~~~~
'Blast. . .' Jack thought miserably. 'What /is/ it with women and burnin' me rum?'
Jack was standing on the side of Black Pearl, leaning heavily on the rail as he watched two of his rowboats burn, a barrel of rum in each. It was a thoroughly depressing sight, but it had to be done. The Pearl creaked sympathetically in response to his sighs.
He turned to Anamaria, who was sitting on a barrel nearby drinking tankard of water. "Honestly, Anamaria, did it have t' be the rum?" he pleaded, though it would do him no good now. Anamaria smirked and took a large draft of water before replying.
"You're the one who wants to get back to Port Royal, Cap'n. And there ain't enough grog to make a proper signal."
Jack sighed in defeat and looked back to the burning boats. His poor rum. Ana was going to make this up to him. But technically speaking, if the plan went as it should--and unless there were any monkeys or oar-wielding whelps about, it was sure to--it wouldn't be necessary.
As if mirroring his thoughts, Anamaria looked out at the horizon. "Some poor sod's gonna see the smoke soon, I reckon. Merchant ships are by here almost daily these days, this being Port Royal's main trading route an' all." Whether she said this to reassure her Captain or to reassure herself she wasn't quite sure, and it showed clear as day on her face as Jack glanced up at her. He nodded once and continued to stare off into the distance, watching for any glimpse of sail. Anamaria sighed wistfully and took another swig of her water before she set the mug down to watch the horizon with the Captain.
The Pearl swayed with the ocean's current, almost softly as if the boat were anxious to get the plan in motion as well. The crew itself had optioned to not mention their own feelings, but most were becoming restless with the wait, and almost all did not approve of the Captain's plan to return to Port Royal.
Mr. Gibbs fiddled with his flask, bouncing back and forth from watching Jack to glancing to the horizon himself. He'd known this would have happened sooner or later; it had just been a matter of time, really. He cleared his throat as he walked up behind Jack. "So supposing we do manage t' attract a passing merchant inta coming close enough fer us t' commandeer, what be the plan then fer the rest o' us?"
Jack didn't move an inch from his spot as he answered Gibbs, "Anamaria, Squint, Johnson, Cotton, and I will be commandeering our ride to Port Royal, which I'm sure the Captain of our said ride will be happy to oblige us once he and me sword finish negotiations. I want ye, " he said with a slight nod to Gibbs' direction, "t' take the Pearl along t' Tortuga and wait for us there, restock a bit and give the crew some shore leave. I don't plan on bein' long."
Anamaria and Mr. Gibbs exchanged a quick glance, half-intrigued, and half-apprehensive. Gibbs voiced their thought first. "So, ye really think it will work. Do ye think he'll come?"
Jack said nothing and continued to stare off into the horizon. Anamaria leaned back on her perch and gave an almost sympathetic look to Gibbs' expression of suppressed dismay. Though most of the crew had, at least, accepted Jack's wish to return to Port Royal, none of then relished the idea of the Captain landing himself back into a situation that could possibly have very disastrous results, especially after they had gone all the way there to rescue him in the first place.
Jack stood up suddenly and gave a wide grin. He said one single word, one that sounded almost cherished as it fell from his mouth. "Sails."
Gibbs' demeanor changed in an instant. What was a slightly defeated slump of a man was suddenly a strong and seasoned sailor, shouting orders at the top of him lungs and quickly bringing the crew to activity.
Anamaria gave a small smile of relief and jumped down from the railing. A hand grabbed her wrist as she walked and she turned sharply to look at Jack's profile. He was staring determinedly out towards the sails that were appearing in the distance. Without looking at her, he murmured quietly so only she could hear. "I always go back for what's mine."
"You're sure he'll want to come back with you? He has everything he's always wanted now, his future . . . his lady. You sure he'll leave all that for the life of a pirate, blood or no, even if it /is/ you?"
The hand on her arm tightened at the mention of Elizabeth, but Jack didn't even blink. "He doesn't have everything, and he knows it. He'll come. With the right leverage he'll be free of that . . . life. He'll be back where he should be."
Anamaria was silent for only a moment, contemplating the best way to reveal her fears to her captain. Cheating, bloody-minded scoundrel or not, she didn't want him hurt more than was necessary. "Just . . . be sure you have enough strength to use that leverage when the time comes Captain, the Black Pearl will be mightily upset if you come back . . . if it doesn't go well for you."
The hand on her arm released her and she made her way to help the crew make a good show of being distressed. Jack didn't move from where he stood, one hand caressing the rail as he watched the sails approach.
