A Tale of Two Captains, Chapter 3
By Khylaren and CinnamonGrrl
Janeway was so tired after her lengthy argument with Sparrow to give her something to sleep in-- the result being the rumpled, mostly-clean shirt she now held in her hand-- that she barely noticed the bolt on the outside of the door.
"Need any help with that, luv?" he asked, waggling his fingers at her.
Janeway was used to his half-drunk leering by this point. "I think I'll manage," she said dryly. "I'm not that drunk," she added under her breath. Truthfully, she couldn't remember the last time she'd actually felt this way. Synthohol just didn't have the kick of real liquor. She held the shirt to her chest and looked at him pointedly. "Goodnight, Captain Sparrow."
"Jack," he said, tipping his head slightly and causing the beads in his beard to clink together. He turned to go, pausing at the door. "Call me Jack." The bolt slid home, and Janeway thought about protesting for a second before recalling how vastly preferable this tiny cabin was to the cold, wet brig she'd been in before. Make the best out of any bad situation, her father always said.
She wasn't fooled by his sudden onset of good will; no, he was after something and going about it dishonestly. Just like she was. In addition, she was not ignorant of the spicy, masculine scent that clung to the shirt, though she tried hard to be. "Jack," she muttered. "Just call me Jack." A snort escaped her as she pulled on the shirt, tossing her uniform-- combadge and all-- onto the empty chair beside the table. She crawled beneath the blankets and blew out the candle, hoping that there weren't any uninvited guests sharing the bedding with her.
Janeway awoke a few hours later when a giggling, staggering Anamaria fumbled around in the darkness. Moonlight streaming through the porthole showed Anamaria's increasingly nude form as she removed article after article of clothing, and Janeway felt it prudent to announce her presence. "Anamaria, Jack said it would be alright for me to share your cabin."
The young woman seemed utterly unsurprised. "Aye!" she replied cheerfully, her soused voice loud in the tiny cabin. "As long as you don't steal all the blankets!"
Flopping into the bed, Anamaria burrowed under the covers and Janeway found herself assailed by the powerful scent of rum on the other woman's breath. "Whew," she murmured, amazed. "How much have you had to drink?"
Anamaria laughed, sending another gust of pungent fumes in Janeway's direction. "I have no idea," she said before continuing, "Enough to be able to fuck Kursar." She frowned. "Or was it Ladbroc?" She giggled, sending a thrill of alarm up Janeway's spine. Anamaria giggling was rather disconcerting. "I don't know which one it was, actually." She sighed happily. "He weren't bad, though."
Janeway blinked, honestly shocked by the young woman's coarse language, as well as her casual attitude towards the activity itself. At her age, with her experiences, she didn't think there was anything left that could leave her completely speechless, but Anamaria had done it with ease. But there was still more surprise to come, for Anamaria snuggled right up to Janeway, head on shoulder, and passed out. Soon, the only sound filling the cabin was that of the woman's soft snoring.
~ * ~
Janeway woke suddenly, feeling the rumbling of her empty stomach and wondering what Neelix would serve for breakfast that day. Then she opened her eyes and saw the grubby nautical surroundings and remembered the entirety of the previous day.
It certainly wasn't the best start to her morning she'd ever had.
A low and pitiful groan escaped her and she closed her eyes again. "Coffee," she muttered. "I need coffee." Knowing she couldn't stay in bed, no matter how much she dreaded facing the reality of her situation, Janeway reluctantly rose from the blankets; the shirt Jack had lent her flopping around her bare knees. She yawned, reaching blindly for her uniform, and started when her fingers brushed the bare wood of the chair.
Janeway went to the door, but it was bolted shut once more. She pounded on it for a minute, calling for someone, and eventually Mr. Cotton appeared.
"Top of the morning," squawked the parrot. "Top of the--"
"Oh, shut up," Janeway snapped.
Both Mr. Cotton and the bird looked most offended by her interruption but she pushed past them both, making her way topside. Her bare foot squished on something she might, in a better mood, have been concerned about but the way she felt at that moment, nothing was going to distract her. Conversation gradually ceased at the sight of her making her purposeful way across the deck toward the swarthy figure at the rear, until the only sound was the waves lapping gently against the sides of the ship.
Janeway saw Gibbs' eyes widen at her approach, and nudge Jack urgently with his elbow, causing him to turn to see what the fuss was all about. A slow, lazy smile curved Jack's mouth as he watched her approach, his eyes openly appreciative.
"I see you've finally decided to honor us with your presence," he commented, twitching the wheel an inch to the left.
"No thanks to whomever locked me in Anamaria's cabin," she replied, surprised at the evenness of her voice.
"Just for your own safety, madam," Jack told her with a half-grin.
"And what of the safety of my belongings?" she enquired sweetly. "Are they to be safe, too?"
Jack quirked a brow at her. "I sincerely doubt that anything is safe aboard a pirate vessel, madam," he replied. "Belongings, virtue...might as well drop them over the side as soon as you step aboard."
He was teasing her. Another time, she would have enjoyed it, but not now. "My uniform is missing."
Jack stared at her without comprehension. "And?"
She gritted her teeth. "Someone has stolen my uniform. What are you going to do about it?"
He blinked. "Er." Then he swept his arm in an all-encompassing gesture to indicate the crew. "Pirates, love." That seemed to say it all.
Janeway sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I have nothing else to wear, Captain," she told him, voice low and aggravated.
His lips twitched, as if he were forcibly restraining himself from grinning. "A tragedy," he declared, and beside him, Gibbs reacted for the first time since Janeway's appearance on deck; the quartermaster snorted before trying to hide his smile behind his hand.
She opened her mouth for a scathing retort, when the deck dipped suddenly beneath her feet. She stumbled forward and would have crashed in a manner most undignified for a Starfleet Captain, if it hadn't been for a pair of arms suddenly catching her. Looking up, she found her face only inches from that of Jack Sparrow, and at this proximity felt like she could see right through to his soul. There was a fresh scar bisecting his left eyebrow, and a fading bruise along his jaw also spoke of recent tumult. The kohl on his eyelids was drawn harshly and caked a little in the fine lines bracketing his eyes; despite his easy laugh and youthful demeanor, this was no stripling lad, but a man her own age who had borne many trials in his life.
He set her none too gently back on her own feet, and Janeway saw for the first time that he was fully dressed, hat to boots, and wore not only a sword at his side but had a pistol thrust through his belt, as well. Looking around at the tense faces surrounding them, watching, she saw that all of them were similarly armed.
"What's happening?" she asked, ire dissolving in the face of potential danger.
"It would appear that the commander of the Dauntless has managed to pick up a few tips on sailing recently," Jack replied, his tone a touch sour as he stared toward the west. Janeway could see nothing, but if the grim lines of his mouth as he peered into the spyglass were any indication, it was far closer than he'd have liked. "It's approaching far quicker than it should be, really, and that doesn't make me a very happy captain." He held out his hand to one of the crew, who slapped a cross-shaped object into it. Sparrow then thrust it at Janeway, muttering, "Here, make yourself useful, at least."
She stared down at the wooden instrument in her hands, baffled. "I can't stay on deck without being properly attired," she said, putting both hands on her hips. Someone whistled appreciatively, and she realized the movement had made the shirt ride up, revealing a goodly portion of her thighs. Quickly, she dropped her arms to her sides and glared up at Jack. I've dealt with the Kazon and the Borg. Surely I can deal with this, she thought, taking a deep breath. "Someone better give me back my uniform, or else."
The scarred eyebrow rose slightly. "You're in no position to be makin' threats, luv," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "You'd be wise to remember that."
Pride stiffened her spine. "Fine," she snapped. Her fingers curled around the instrument he'd handed her and she held it up at him. "What am I supposed to do with this?"
The other eyebrow rose to match its mate. "It's a cross-staff." At her look of confusion, he smirked slightly. "It's used to navigate."
She glanced down at the strange wooden object in her hand. "We have other methods to learning where we are and where we're going," she muttered, causing him to quirk a dark brow.
"And would any of them happen to be in my cabin at this very moment?" he asked softly.
For a moment, she thought her heart would stop, and was sure her alarm showed on her face. "No," she said, surprised at how casual it sounded. "Those are mere trinkets. The things we French use are far more sophisticated than that."
"Crafty buggers, the French," Jack agreed with deceptive casualness. Nearby, Matelot beamed with pride. "On pouvait presque oublier qu'ils sont les fromage-mangeur singes de surrompre." Matelot frowned.
Janeway also frowned, because her mind was whirling with a dozen thoughts, the foremost among them being Why can't he be speaking Klingon? She wasn't bad at Klingon. Even her Vulcan was passable, thanks to Tuvok. But she'd never been even remotely interested it the Terran languages other than the English spoken by virtually everyone on the planet. Without her combadge, with its universal translator, she had no hope of knowing what it was he'd just said.
Schooling her features into something resembling comprehension, she could see she'd fooled no one, especially not Jack Sparrow. "So," he began, "I catch you in another lie. Not that I really expected you to be French, savez, but it would have been a pleasant surprise. You know, to break up the day. Gets boring on the open seas, it does. Nothing but miles of water all 'round. You wake up, have brekky, check the quadrant, plot which settlements to pillage. A little bit of refreshing honesty might liven things up a bit."
Janeway laughed at him. "You wouldn't know what to do with an honest person," she replied. "They'd scare you senseless."
Jack exchanged looks with his crew. "This is true," he admitted wryly, and they laughed. "I couldn't get away from Port Royal fast enough, bursting at the seams as it is with all its honest citizenry." His smile melted from his face, then, because he seemed to remember something not entirely pleasant. "Speaking of honest citizens," he murmured, then, "Marty, get aloft to the nest, and look you to the west. Tell me if you see anything... interesting. Say, Dauntless-shaped."
Marty obediently scampered up the rigging, spyglass tucked into his belt, to the crow's nest and peered into the distance a long while. "Aye," he called down at last. "I see her. In full sail, and bearing straight for us."
Jack closed his eyes whilst muttering something hideous under his breath. When he opened them again to find the entirety of his crew staring at him, waiting for orders, he was all business. "All hands to your posts, ye scabber's dogs!" he said, scarcely raising his voice, but clearly heard nonetheless. "We make for Hispaniola."
"Hispaniola?" Anamaria followed at his heels as he strode toward the helm. "The Spanish are no more pleased to see the likes of us than the English are, Jack," she told him as Janeway drifted along with them, clueless as to which might be the best strategy but terrible interested in their argument anyway. "We'll be swinging in no time."
"Not true," Jack protested. "I have it on excellent authority that there's a cove on the northern coast that very few know about, the Pearl will fit in there, nice and snug. They'll never find us."
"We just have to get there before they catch us," Anamaria intoned darkly, and stomped off to her post as Jack took his place behind the wheel. Feet apart, shoulders back, hair blowing in the wind, he looked every inch the rogue, the scoundrel, the pirate. Janeway found it quite attractive until he looked hopefully in her direction and she realized he'd been doing it on purpose.
"Not that I'm a proponent of violence," she began mildly, "but isn't fighting an option?"
Gibbs stared at her in amazement, and Jack only smiled, as if she'd finally confirmed something he'd suspected all along. "Ah, now, luv, you've just revealed your hand," he told her with just the barest touch of smugness. "If you were any sort of ship's captain at all—even a French one—you'd know all about the Dauntless."
Ah, so the Dauntless was without peer in the Caribbean where warfare was concerned. Jack seemed utterly confident in his ship and crew; for him to back away from a fight must mean that the battle would assuredly not go well for them. "I've told you all I can," she said quietly. "Now, can I please have some clothing?"
Notes:
Early cross-staffs had only two pieces - the staff and one transom. Over time they became more elaborate. After 1650, most "modern" cross-staffs have four transoms of varying lengths. Each transom corresponds to the scale on one of the four sides of the staff. These scales mark off 90, 60, 30, and 10 degrees, respectively. In practice, the navigator used only one transom at a time. The major problem with the cross-staff was that the observer had to look in two directions at once - along the bottom of the transom to the horizon and along the top of the transom to the sun or the star. A neat trick on a rolling deck! The Sextant was the cross-staff's successor, and according to research, did not come into use until the early 1700's (roughly 1730). .
On pouvait presque oublier qu'ils sont les fromage-mangeur singes de surrompre = One might almost forget that they are cheese-eating surrender monkeys.