After leaving Isle de Mureta, Jack became very strange. Well, very
strange compared to the weeks previous. She scarce saw him anymore at all.
He'd come inside to sleep long after she'd finally fell victim to slumber,
despite her best efforts to meet him. When her eyes fluttered open to
greet the sun and to catch Jack, he'd already be gone. She felt a bone-
crushing chill surrounding her, reminiscent of the life on Daemon's Pointe.
The life of Portia and Devonny and hating every moment, something that had
almost disappeared from her memory after being kidnapped by Jack. No
matter how boldly the sun beamed down at high noon, or the number of plush
blankets she covered the bed with, the cold remained and numbed.
She'd come out of the captain's quarters every day, and every day Jack would be in the same place. Perched at the wheel, staring out beyond the horizon and refusing to meet her gaze. Even the crew seemed to keep a far distance from her, circling about her location in the most ackward sort of way and avoiding her eyes. When she'd raise her voice or make a motion toward them, they'd scurry ever faster past to disappear to whatever meaningless destination they had waiting at the moment.
"Miss McGovern, McGovern miss!!" Tabitha whirled around from her perch on the bow to face Pip, the potato peeler who lived in the kitchen. He was a tiny, slightly slow little man who wobbled on his right leg, and was so short it would be worth inquiring to whether he was ten or thirty. It was the first time she'd heard her name in days, and she found she had nearly forgotten how to speak as her dry mouth choked on her words.
"Y...y...yes?" She stammered, letting out a hoarse couch.
"Well, as y' know I was down peelin' th' potatoes an-"
"Pip!! What d'ye think yer doin'?!" A stern-looking man boomed behind him. He jumped to turn and face him, as did she. He caught one look at her imploring face, then tore his eyes back to the shipmate. "You heard Jack."
"I did?"
"Yes, ye did."
"When?"
"A few days ago," he said impatiently, his glare deepening the wrinkles in his weather-worn face.
"Really? What'd he say?"
"About Miss McGovern?"
"Eh?"
"No one's to be mindin' Miss McGovern then, eh?" He said slowly, drawing out each syllable of the words as his patience grew thin.
"Oooooooh," Pip gasped, scurrying away as the man followed.
She could feel her face burning, though she couldn't decide whether to be hurt or indignant by Jack's commands. Like a rare vase. Keep away. Had she somehow disappointed him? After the incident at the shop, perhaps he'd realized something. Maybe he'd overestimated her. She'd proved to be quite the damsel in distress by walking right into a percarious situation, no different than the many other stupid girls he'd met. Before he'd seemed so enamored of her, and now she was less than human. He'd spoken of how intruiging she was, how curious... now, she was nothing.
An image of life flashed into her head, life after the Black Pearl. Tracing around the Caribbean on Father's ship, acting the demure lady, marrying Commander Who-Gives-A-Damn and retiring in Port Royale to a voluptuous mansion filled with servants and luxury, dead and buried buried in children and formalities and obligation. Was that what she was? Despite all her work and wishing to become more, was that her destiny? Once upon a time there was a gentlewoman who walked and breathed and died without a fight?
That's what Jack sees.
The sun was beginning to set, melting violets and crimsons into the sea. The sparkling waves seemed to mirror the imminent stars, so peaceful and timeless as her own internal world spun into mortal turmoil. The ship began to quiet down, with only the most vital hands remaining as everyone else disappeared below decks. Might as well head in myself, she decided with a melancholy inner dialogue.
As she entered the captain's quarters, she was shocked to see Jack seated at the table, surrounded by a half-dozen empty bottles in addition to the almost-empty one swinging percariously in his left hand as he swung it forward to greet her. "Tabitha! Come on in 'ere an' take a seat with ol' Jack."
"Jack...?"
"I've got all kinds o' stuff 'ere, y'know." She'd missed that smile so much, the gleaming teeth and sparkling eyes. It was intoxicating simply looking at him now, the capricious captain whom had all but vanished to her. She'd never seen him so incredibly drunk; his arms flailed around every which way, even when no words were escaping his mouth. His eyes shifted jerkily from her to the rum and to other random facets of the room, not sure what was what or what was worth trying to focus on.
Silently, enticed by shock, she strode to the table and sat across from him. He shoved a brimming glass of orangeish liquid toward her, nearly knocking it over on the rough wood. "Cheers, love," he toasted to himself, drowning the rest of the bottle's contents without ensuring that Tabitha had even touched her own beverage.
"Jack, are you all right?" She asked, than instantly reprimanded herself. What sort of a question was that? He wouldn't know the Black Pearl from an English palace.
"Y'know love, fer a while there, I wasn't, y'see?" With a flick of the wrist he shattered the nearest green bottle, but went on gesturing feverishly without notice. "I di'in't know what to make of ye, e'er since I dragged ye out o' that bloody tea party at Daemon's Pointe. An' it's been drivin' me out o' my mind."
"Because I'm not what you'd hoped, right?" She shook her head, and with a quick motion let a mouthful of the foul drink wash down her throad to quench the aching thirst of misery. "I'm just a prim and boring English lady, just like the rest."
"Lady?! Where'd you go gettin' an idea like that?" He laughed with abandon. "No, I knew that weren't true always... not a wench, not a lady, just an enigma. An' so what do ye do with an enigma? Hell if I know. I can't figure out what to do with ye. Or I couldn't. But now," he stood up suddenly, ackwardly, nearly tripping over himself as he stumbled to reach the space right before her, "the world is so clear, like there's been a fog. This great fog, an' it's jus' faded right away with th' afternoon. Th' afternoon of very good rum. An' in the lovely afternoon of good rum, I know exactly what I want." And without a moment's hesitation Jack's lips were molded against her own, those expressive hands weaving and grasping the long midnight hair right below her neck. She made a muffled yelp of surprise, but his embracing kiss tore it away to release something deeper inside of her. Something primal that had been stirring for weeks, a hunger that could never be satisfied by the wonderful food or rich liqueor or impending treasure. Her eyes folded down and her hands clasped Jack's rough face, drawing him in ever closer. It felt like ripping into the flesh of a ripened, fresh fruit after longing for a taste on a hot summer's day. Feeling the sweet, tangy juice dancing across your tongue and awakening every sense in your body to an alarming new height.
"Jack," she murmured in a long, drawing breath away from his caress. She stared at him, dark kohl-lined eyes still closed, drifting back and licking his lips. For her taste or that of the rum, she couldn't tell.
This isn't Jack! She suddenly realized, her swelling heart drawing back with sudden alarm. Yes, she craved Jack more than she could now ever deny, but she wanted Captain Jack Sparrow. Not a drunken lout that might as well be kissing a renegade salmon than a lovesick girl. It was what she wanted, but not like this. Not reeking of rum and apathy. "Jack...?" With a low moan he fell backward onto the floor planks, snoring loudly. "Jack, I should go," she sighed, her throat becoming tight as tears welled up in the back of her eyes. She flew out the doors and made her way as far as she could from the scene, to the very tip of the bow. She still burned for the warmth she felt with him, but she couldn't live a lie. The next day he wouldn't even remember anything, would probably be angry and sullen all over again.
"But if he really does feel that way without inhibition," she mused aloud, staring out at the dead black sea, "perhaps he simply needs a sobering realization. If tomorrow, I tell him I love him-"
Suddenly a cold hand clamped around her mouth, and the entire world dimmed to the darkness of the night.
She'd come out of the captain's quarters every day, and every day Jack would be in the same place. Perched at the wheel, staring out beyond the horizon and refusing to meet her gaze. Even the crew seemed to keep a far distance from her, circling about her location in the most ackward sort of way and avoiding her eyes. When she'd raise her voice or make a motion toward them, they'd scurry ever faster past to disappear to whatever meaningless destination they had waiting at the moment.
"Miss McGovern, McGovern miss!!" Tabitha whirled around from her perch on the bow to face Pip, the potato peeler who lived in the kitchen. He was a tiny, slightly slow little man who wobbled on his right leg, and was so short it would be worth inquiring to whether he was ten or thirty. It was the first time she'd heard her name in days, and she found she had nearly forgotten how to speak as her dry mouth choked on her words.
"Y...y...yes?" She stammered, letting out a hoarse couch.
"Well, as y' know I was down peelin' th' potatoes an-"
"Pip!! What d'ye think yer doin'?!" A stern-looking man boomed behind him. He jumped to turn and face him, as did she. He caught one look at her imploring face, then tore his eyes back to the shipmate. "You heard Jack."
"I did?"
"Yes, ye did."
"When?"
"A few days ago," he said impatiently, his glare deepening the wrinkles in his weather-worn face.
"Really? What'd he say?"
"About Miss McGovern?"
"Eh?"
"No one's to be mindin' Miss McGovern then, eh?" He said slowly, drawing out each syllable of the words as his patience grew thin.
"Oooooooh," Pip gasped, scurrying away as the man followed.
She could feel her face burning, though she couldn't decide whether to be hurt or indignant by Jack's commands. Like a rare vase. Keep away. Had she somehow disappointed him? After the incident at the shop, perhaps he'd realized something. Maybe he'd overestimated her. She'd proved to be quite the damsel in distress by walking right into a percarious situation, no different than the many other stupid girls he'd met. Before he'd seemed so enamored of her, and now she was less than human. He'd spoken of how intruiging she was, how curious... now, she was nothing.
An image of life flashed into her head, life after the Black Pearl. Tracing around the Caribbean on Father's ship, acting the demure lady, marrying Commander Who-Gives-A-Damn and retiring in Port Royale to a voluptuous mansion filled with servants and luxury, dead and buried buried in children and formalities and obligation. Was that what she was? Despite all her work and wishing to become more, was that her destiny? Once upon a time there was a gentlewoman who walked and breathed and died without a fight?
That's what Jack sees.
The sun was beginning to set, melting violets and crimsons into the sea. The sparkling waves seemed to mirror the imminent stars, so peaceful and timeless as her own internal world spun into mortal turmoil. The ship began to quiet down, with only the most vital hands remaining as everyone else disappeared below decks. Might as well head in myself, she decided with a melancholy inner dialogue.
As she entered the captain's quarters, she was shocked to see Jack seated at the table, surrounded by a half-dozen empty bottles in addition to the almost-empty one swinging percariously in his left hand as he swung it forward to greet her. "Tabitha! Come on in 'ere an' take a seat with ol' Jack."
"Jack...?"
"I've got all kinds o' stuff 'ere, y'know." She'd missed that smile so much, the gleaming teeth and sparkling eyes. It was intoxicating simply looking at him now, the capricious captain whom had all but vanished to her. She'd never seen him so incredibly drunk; his arms flailed around every which way, even when no words were escaping his mouth. His eyes shifted jerkily from her to the rum and to other random facets of the room, not sure what was what or what was worth trying to focus on.
Silently, enticed by shock, she strode to the table and sat across from him. He shoved a brimming glass of orangeish liquid toward her, nearly knocking it over on the rough wood. "Cheers, love," he toasted to himself, drowning the rest of the bottle's contents without ensuring that Tabitha had even touched her own beverage.
"Jack, are you all right?" She asked, than instantly reprimanded herself. What sort of a question was that? He wouldn't know the Black Pearl from an English palace.
"Y'know love, fer a while there, I wasn't, y'see?" With a flick of the wrist he shattered the nearest green bottle, but went on gesturing feverishly without notice. "I di'in't know what to make of ye, e'er since I dragged ye out o' that bloody tea party at Daemon's Pointe. An' it's been drivin' me out o' my mind."
"Because I'm not what you'd hoped, right?" She shook her head, and with a quick motion let a mouthful of the foul drink wash down her throad to quench the aching thirst of misery. "I'm just a prim and boring English lady, just like the rest."
"Lady?! Where'd you go gettin' an idea like that?" He laughed with abandon. "No, I knew that weren't true always... not a wench, not a lady, just an enigma. An' so what do ye do with an enigma? Hell if I know. I can't figure out what to do with ye. Or I couldn't. But now," he stood up suddenly, ackwardly, nearly tripping over himself as he stumbled to reach the space right before her, "the world is so clear, like there's been a fog. This great fog, an' it's jus' faded right away with th' afternoon. Th' afternoon of very good rum. An' in the lovely afternoon of good rum, I know exactly what I want." And without a moment's hesitation Jack's lips were molded against her own, those expressive hands weaving and grasping the long midnight hair right below her neck. She made a muffled yelp of surprise, but his embracing kiss tore it away to release something deeper inside of her. Something primal that had been stirring for weeks, a hunger that could never be satisfied by the wonderful food or rich liqueor or impending treasure. Her eyes folded down and her hands clasped Jack's rough face, drawing him in ever closer. It felt like ripping into the flesh of a ripened, fresh fruit after longing for a taste on a hot summer's day. Feeling the sweet, tangy juice dancing across your tongue and awakening every sense in your body to an alarming new height.
"Jack," she murmured in a long, drawing breath away from his caress. She stared at him, dark kohl-lined eyes still closed, drifting back and licking his lips. For her taste or that of the rum, she couldn't tell.
This isn't Jack! She suddenly realized, her swelling heart drawing back with sudden alarm. Yes, she craved Jack more than she could now ever deny, but she wanted Captain Jack Sparrow. Not a drunken lout that might as well be kissing a renegade salmon than a lovesick girl. It was what she wanted, but not like this. Not reeking of rum and apathy. "Jack...?" With a low moan he fell backward onto the floor planks, snoring loudly. "Jack, I should go," she sighed, her throat becoming tight as tears welled up in the back of her eyes. She flew out the doors and made her way as far as she could from the scene, to the very tip of the bow. She still burned for the warmth she felt with him, but she couldn't live a lie. The next day he wouldn't even remember anything, would probably be angry and sullen all over again.
"But if he really does feel that way without inhibition," she mused aloud, staring out at the dead black sea, "perhaps he simply needs a sobering realization. If tomorrow, I tell him I love him-"
Suddenly a cold hand clamped around her mouth, and the entire world dimmed to the darkness of the night.