Disclaimer: It's not mine, blah blah blah, don't sue me, please.
A/N: Finally, after another long wait… an update! Thanks for your patience, everyone, and I hope you like this chapter.
Rum and Roses
V: Drifting
Jack Sparrow was about to get some. He was sure of it. Absolutely positive, in fact. At least, he thought so. Unless it was the rum… liquor sometimes skewed his perception of reality. But that couldn't be the case this time, Jack knew with unquestionable certainty. He had won Anamaria over. The funny thing was, it felt less like winning and more like losing . . . some part of himself. Her eyes had been hard as ebony, but her lips were soft, and he felt as if they were stealing something from him. It was odd; somewhat unnerving, but sweet as well. Recognition flashed through his mind: it was surrender. Jack Sparrow, the ineffable, ever defiant Captain Jack Sparrow, had surrendered—to a cabin girl.
He pulled her closer, fingers drifting over the smooth skin of her neck as he cupped her chin, deepening the kiss. He never wanted to breathe again, if that meant breaking away. A resolution formed in his heart: he was never going to let this one go, never. She would come with him to the Black Pearl, he would station her in the crow's nest, at the helm, in his cabin . . . wherever she wanted. Whatever she wanted, as long as she didn't leave.
"Anamaria!"
Anamaria tore herself away from Jack so abruptly she nearly toppled from the swaying mast. The whites of her eyes shone with fear as she stared down at the deck, her lips trembling slightly. Alexander Moore stood there, massive hands bunched into fists and face twisted in a dark grimace of rage. The night watch waited a few feet behind him, shifting uncomfortably every few seconds.
"Anamaria!" Moore roared again.
She cast one frightened glance at Jack and vaulted over the edge of the crow's nest. Jack grabbed for her arm, but missed and nearly fell. "Ana!" he called after her. She did not look up as she clambered unsteadily down the ropes. Mere seconds later, she jumped down to the deck and remaining standing uncertainly in the shadow of the mast, head down, with the air of a cornered animal. Jack watched, spell-bound, as she and her captain glared at each other, an invisible battle of wills raging between them. Then Moore strode imperiously forward and slapped her once.
Cursing, he sprang after her, but had to stop and cling for dear life as the world spun dizzily around his head. He began to suspect he had drunk too much, a fact which was not going to help him in the near future. After a moment, however, the careening ship calmed, his inner balance returned, and he felt steadier. He slid down the rope and landed solidly at Anamaria's side, crossing his arms casually.
"So, Captain Jack," Moore said, curling his fingers around Anamaria's arm, "passage on my ship wasn't enough for you? Had to help yourself to my rum and my woman, too, eh? I'm afraid the captain's courtesy doesn't extend that far. . . ."
"I'll pay you for the rum," Jack said pleasantly, "I'll pay triple, once I get my ship back and some plunder. But you'll have a hard time convincing me Anamaria belongs to you."
Moore pulled her closer to him. "That's none of your business," he growled.
Jack could see Ana watching him from beneath her eyelashes. She no longer looked drunk. There was an odd glint in her eye, and she did not drop her gaze. What. . . ? Was she trying to tell him something?
"I'm making it my business," he drawled, the beginnings of anger flaring in his heart.
"You won't want to be doing that, my boy." The captain's voice had become silky and dangerous. "Me and my crew won't stand for it. Downright foolish idea, they'd say."
"For someone else, it might be foolish. But I am Captain Jack Sparrow." Jack flashed his most ingratiating grin, careful to keep the amusement off his face when Moore scowled into his beard.
"You're a daft, little bastard, that's what you are!" Moore growled, pushing Anamaria behind him into the clutches of the night watchman. Jack cast her a covert glance. She was still watching him silently, a line of concentration hovering on her brow. What was she up to? Why didn't she tell her oaf of a captain she didn't want him? Jack had a difficult time believing she was too frightened. Despite the unpleasant situation she had been living in, she did not seem the cringing type.
Jack took a step back, edging around the mast, until he stood by the rigging. He kept his eyes fixed on Moore. He would kill the bloody brute, if necessary. Jack despised men who harmed women, particularly those he had taken to. It was disgusting and contemptuous. The fine art of seduction did not incorporate force in any shape or form. Unfortunately, Moore clearly had the advantage, and Jack disliked acting without the odds on his side.
"What say we make a deal?" he asked, holding his quick hands up diplomatically. "You drop Anamaria and me off at the next port, and I'll give you seventy-five percent of my next plunder."
Moore laughed rudely. "I don't need no pirate's booty! Rum-running pays all I want. And I won't have any man taking what's mine. Make no mistake, Sparrow—Anamaria is mine."
"Pity," Jack reflected, "I'll just have to kill you, then."
No one moved. Moore stared at him expectantly, red eyebrows raised. The silence continued serenely for another minute, before the captain burst out laughing, doubling over in mirth. At that instant, Jack grabbed the rope above his head, slung it nimbly around Moore's neck, and wrenched as hard as he could. The captain gurgled and toppled forward, ramming his solar plexus into Jack's fortuitously placed boot. Moore's knees buckled, flooring him, but his still hands shot out, reaching for Jack, who leaped nimbly away with only a slight sensation of giddiness. Simultaneously, a man's shout rang through the night air. Jack swayed, regaining his balance just in time.
"Jack!" Anamaria called. He whirled at the opportune moment, catching the object she had thrown him. It was the night watchman's sword. A second later, Ana disappeared, drawn into a scuffle with the watchman, who was trying rather half-heartedly to restrain her. Jack had no time to intervene, however, as Moore had already stumbled to his feet and drawn his own blade.
"I'll hang you from the bleeding crow's nest!" he howled, "by your own scurvy bootstraps!"
Jack whipped out the sword just in time to parry Moore's downstroke. His entire arm vibrated with the force of the blow. He dodged the next slash with a margin of error of less than an inch. The steel whistled as it passed his cheek.
"I don't need a haircut, mate," he said with reckless enjoyment, "The ladies love my luxurious locks. Just ask Ana—" He had to jump back a foot to avoid his opponent's whirling blade, and found himself backed against the ship's side. Without sparing a moment for thought, he leaped onto the railing and danced away, taking advantage of the higher, though more precarious ground.
"Bloody pirate!" Moore hissed, "I'll castrate you for touching her!"
"The fact is," Jack said conversationally, parrying a stroke, "she'd still prefer me to an old"—block—"impotent"—stab—"pimply"—Moore growled—"gutless"—parry—"buffoon!" They locked blades, and Jack was forced to jump from the railing and retreat across the ship. Their blades clashed and separated almost too quickly to see. Jack had quicker wrists and feet, but Moore put his size to good use. The pair traveled back and forth over the deck, moving with the steps of an elaborate and improvised dance. But after a while, Jack's moves became increasingly defensive, and he retreated further and further. He had not slept, and the liquor had weakened him.
He kept up a stream of insults to distract Moore, and began to maneuver closer to the hidden stash of rum among the ropes. He almost missed it, but a few steps brought him within a foot of the bottles. Ducking a slash of Moore's sword, he curled his free hand around the neck of a bottle and hurled it at his adversary's head, lunging up to follow it with a direct attack.
By the time Jack realized he had miscalculated, he was almost dead. The bottle grazed Moore's head, but failed to stop or even slow him down. Caught off guard, Jack found himself running headlong into a sword thrust. He twisted away, contorting his body in a way he hadn't known was possible—and felt his blade fly from his hand.
He froze, staring at Moore's triumphantly grinning face, searching desperately for a way out. No escape in sight. Nothing that could be used as a weapon. No one to back him up. The ship shifted under his feet, the air was cool and liquid, the stars were shining brightly—and it was all useless because in a moment he was going to be dead. Oh, damn.
At that moment, divine intervention came. Anamaria shot in front of him, spreading out her arms and glaring at Moore with unprecedented fierceness. The watchman, galled at being outwitted by a girl, lumbered after her, but halted at a look from his captain.
"What's this, Ana?" Moore said carefully.
"You can't kill him. I won't let you."
"There's nothing you can do to stop me, silly girl. Move aside, or I'll move you—and you won't like that!"
Anamaria raised her chin. "You're right. I can't stop you from killing him. But if you do, you'll wake up one morning with my body swinging before your cabin window."
Moore stared at her, obviously taken aback. "What's gotten into you? He's a bloody stranger. Haven't I been good to you? What've you got for him?"
"I love him," she replied with calm dignity.
Ana's statement swept fear of impending death entirely from Jack's mind. He cocked his head, staring at her in shock. Had he heard correctly? Love? He considered all the women who had spoken those words to him. He'd never thought much of it—half of them were paid to say such things, and the other half were silly, if pretty barmaids whose sole purpose was to entice randy men to buy more drinks. For the first time in his adult life, the word "love" made an impression on him. Perhaps because, for the first time, it was meant sincerely, with no ulterior motive.
He wondered if she would care to take the post of first mate on the Pearl, after he shot Barbossa.
Moore had not taken Ana's assertion well. His expression darkened, if that was at all possible. Surprisingly, however, he sheathed his sword, and when he spoke, his voice was low and controlled.
"I see your wits have left you. Ungrateful wench! A quick death by the sword would be too good for you. Hanging would be too good."
"You can't scare me, Alexander. Not anymore."
"You think not?" He smiled toothily and turned to the watchman. "Wake the crew," he ordered curtly, "Tell them to ready one of the boats."
A twinge of apprehension snapped Jack out of his amazed stupor. He laid his hand questioningly on Ana's arm, but she hunched her shoulders and did not turn to look at him.
Twenty minutes later, Jack and Anamaria watched the Demerara recede slowly into the night. The ship became a toy, a vague shape, and finally a rapidly shrinking shadow. After another five minutes, it disappeared completely. The two of them gazed after it from the solitude of an otherwise empty boat, floating forlornly like a tiny island in the vast ocean. The water around them was black; the sky above glistened with brilliant stars. The moon had finally risen, casting paths of silver light onto the waves. The murmur of the sea seemed like silence compared to the familiar sounds of a ship. They were alone in a wasteland, as surely as if they had been stranded in a desert.
The boat bore no food, no water, and no oars. It was a shell, drifting without direction in an expanse of water too wide to contemplate.
"What are the odds of reaching land?" Jack wondered aloud, hoarsely. Anamaria did not answer, but her shoulders slumped.
Jack's hand strayed to the pistol in his belt. Moore had allowed him the irony of keeping it. One bullet. He met Ana's gaze. She looked very beautiful; the moonlight shone on her dark hair, pooled in her eyes, outlined her lips and the contours of her face in elegant black and white. His fingers slid along the handle of the weapon. One bullet.
Then she kissed him, and all thoughts of pistols and bullets became obsolete. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close to him as he had yearned to do since he'd first seen her. Though death was now almost certain, she seemed to have left fear and hopelessness behind on the Demerara. Here, she was alive and happy, finally free of the suffocating prison now sailing away into her past. He felt her joy, letting it envelop him.
The stars wheeled overhead, and they waited.
A/N: Every pirate story needs its sword fight. : ) LOL, I admit I laughed when Moore said he wasn't interested in pirate booty… how sad is that, laughing at your own jokes? Sorry for any typos, it's late and I'm too tired to spell-check properly. Not much further to go on this story, I'll update again as soon as I can! Thanks for reading!