Chapter Four
That night, Jack Sparrow slept restlessly, gripped in the throes of evil dreams.
He was a little boy again, and his father was leaving them
'No, Dad, don' go 'way! Don' leave us!' His mother wept, and he clung to her apron, fighting back tears himself, but determined not to show them. Suddenly she burst forth,
'Finn ye can't do this- ye know how Jack needs ye. Begad, he loves ye, as do I. Don't go... please.' Jack nodded, his little boy face serious, biting his lip to prevent it from trembling. His father shook his head
'I'm sorry Nel, truly, but... I've go'a go- m' ship'll be leavin' soon.'
'Finnbarr Robeson, I'd never've thought this of ye!' His mother turned aside then, overcome with emotion.
Wait... his father's name wasn't Finnbarr Robeson, it was Joshua- Joshua Sparrow.
His father bent down, and cupped his small son's chin in his hands, and spoke,
'I love ye, Jack lad- I hope ye still loves me, e'en though I'm leavin' ye. Ye don' know how much yer love means t' me.'
'Aye, I think... I think I may love ye.'
'As I love ye, Jack Sparrow.'
The shabby old room faded in Jacks mind, replaced by roiling seas.
The hot-metal scent of fresh blood was in the air. Rain and hail lashed his face, half-blinding him. The saltwater made his wounds throb. As he struggled to stay aboard his pitiful bit of broken planking, he heard panicked gasping and shouts for help, and then, near him, a shrill wail, which was then silenced. He turned and recognizing the man, gasped.
He dived into the tempestuous black waters, desperately trying to get to his unconscious comrade. He gagged as a wave filled his mouth with seawater, but still fought blindly on, alternately spitting and gasping for air. When he reached him, he grabbed a hold of his waist and dragged him... ashore?
There shouldn't be a shore- they were in the middle of the sea, but whatever, it was a dream.
He laid the man out on the beach under the suddenly sunny sky.
'It'll be all right, mate, 't will, I swear.'
S'pose I'm gonna have to give him mouth-to mouth he thought with sudden relish as he realized, as though for the first time, this man was Finnbarr Robeson. He plugged his nose and bent down, placing his lips upon the motionless ones of the man on the sand. He exhaled, letting his breath flow into Finn's body. He could feel his blood stirring anew, his cheeks pinking up, reviving. He allowed himself a mental sigh of relief, but continued until a tongue snaked its way into his mouth, at which he jumped back and awoke.
"Shit" he breathed to the dark. Moonlight was coming in through the windows of expensive glass he'd indulged his cabin with, striking the plundered carpet, a luxurious oriental affair. He shook his head.
"Ye can' go thinkin' like tha' Jack Sparrow..." What had he been dreaming? Finn as his father, and then saving him from drowning? Then he recalled... in the one dream he'd told him he loved him, and Jack had said the same, and in the last one he'd nearly kissed him. Did this...?
'No, you shuddup, Jack Sparrow. He doesn't like you, an' you don't like him, savvy?'
You know he's queer, you know he fancies you, don't play the fool.
'Well, whether he likes me or no- I certainly don't return the favor. I'm not queer.'
You've bedded enough men it's almost a moot point whether you're queer or not.
'Well... I was drunk then.'
Some excuse, when aren't you drunk?
'Well... maybe I do fancy him, but it's not as if it's going anywhere. He's part of my crew, I'm his Captain, we can't... you know."
Since when does Captain Jack Sparrow get shy?
'Shuddup.'
Why, one might almost think you're getting soft. Perhaps you're in lo- oooo-ve, aye?
'Nobody here is in love. I'm a pirate, I don't fall in love. I reserve myself for one night flings, that's all.'
But that's not all you want, is it? It's certainly not all he wants.
Jack shook his head, willing that annoying little voice in the back of his mind to shut up, he wasn't a schizo.
Or are you?
'Shuddup.'
What was with him? Usually he slept like a log, and if he dreamt at all, they were good dreams; of the sea, or of Scarlet or Giselle. Sometimes both. At once. The only conclusion he could come to? He needed rum, badly.
He got up and walked over to his chest, which contained a change of clothes, a letter from his father, and his sword on top of lots and lots of rum. He dug out a bottle, uncorked it, and took a swig, allowing himself to savor the burn of the intoxicating liquid as it ran down his throat. A warm feeling started in his stomach, comforting, like a fire in the winter, alleviating all his worries.
But only for the moment. Said the voice
'Shut up!'
He held the bottle up to the light and gazed reflectively at the way the amber liquid swirled and changed in the moonlight. Piracy, the Sweet Trade, the Account, the Brotherhood, his Life. All personified in the bottle he held in his hands. It was a beautiful thing to look at and fantasize about, but it took nerves to actually do. It could kill you if you weren't careful, but if you were, it made life all the better for it.
He raised his eyebrows, wondering since when had he become so philosophic. He was Captain Jack Sparrow, he lived in the moment. Things always worked out somehow, so he never bothered philosophizing about them, there was no point.
But there might be a point, one never knows.
Jack took another mouthful, shaking his head and thinking,
'Shuddup.'
That night, Jack Sparrow slept restlessly, gripped in the throes of evil dreams.
He was a little boy again, and his father was leaving them
'No, Dad, don' go 'way! Don' leave us!' His mother wept, and he clung to her apron, fighting back tears himself, but determined not to show them. Suddenly she burst forth,
'Finn ye can't do this- ye know how Jack needs ye. Begad, he loves ye, as do I. Don't go... please.' Jack nodded, his little boy face serious, biting his lip to prevent it from trembling. His father shook his head
'I'm sorry Nel, truly, but... I've go'a go- m' ship'll be leavin' soon.'
'Finnbarr Robeson, I'd never've thought this of ye!' His mother turned aside then, overcome with emotion.
Wait... his father's name wasn't Finnbarr Robeson, it was Joshua- Joshua Sparrow.
His father bent down, and cupped his small son's chin in his hands, and spoke,
'I love ye, Jack lad- I hope ye still loves me, e'en though I'm leavin' ye. Ye don' know how much yer love means t' me.'
'Aye, I think... I think I may love ye.'
'As I love ye, Jack Sparrow.'
The shabby old room faded in Jacks mind, replaced by roiling seas.
The hot-metal scent of fresh blood was in the air. Rain and hail lashed his face, half-blinding him. The saltwater made his wounds throb. As he struggled to stay aboard his pitiful bit of broken planking, he heard panicked gasping and shouts for help, and then, near him, a shrill wail, which was then silenced. He turned and recognizing the man, gasped.
He dived into the tempestuous black waters, desperately trying to get to his unconscious comrade. He gagged as a wave filled his mouth with seawater, but still fought blindly on, alternately spitting and gasping for air. When he reached him, he grabbed a hold of his waist and dragged him... ashore?
There shouldn't be a shore- they were in the middle of the sea, but whatever, it was a dream.
He laid the man out on the beach under the suddenly sunny sky.
'It'll be all right, mate, 't will, I swear.'
S'pose I'm gonna have to give him mouth-to mouth he thought with sudden relish as he realized, as though for the first time, this man was Finnbarr Robeson. He plugged his nose and bent down, placing his lips upon the motionless ones of the man on the sand. He exhaled, letting his breath flow into Finn's body. He could feel his blood stirring anew, his cheeks pinking up, reviving. He allowed himself a mental sigh of relief, but continued until a tongue snaked its way into his mouth, at which he jumped back and awoke.
"Shit" he breathed to the dark. Moonlight was coming in through the windows of expensive glass he'd indulged his cabin with, striking the plundered carpet, a luxurious oriental affair. He shook his head.
"Ye can' go thinkin' like tha' Jack Sparrow..." What had he been dreaming? Finn as his father, and then saving him from drowning? Then he recalled... in the one dream he'd told him he loved him, and Jack had said the same, and in the last one he'd nearly kissed him. Did this...?
'No, you shuddup, Jack Sparrow. He doesn't like you, an' you don't like him, savvy?'
You know he's queer, you know he fancies you, don't play the fool.
'Well, whether he likes me or no- I certainly don't return the favor. I'm not queer.'
You've bedded enough men it's almost a moot point whether you're queer or not.
'Well... I was drunk then.'
Some excuse, when aren't you drunk?
'Well... maybe I do fancy him, but it's not as if it's going anywhere. He's part of my crew, I'm his Captain, we can't... you know."
Since when does Captain Jack Sparrow get shy?
'Shuddup.'
Why, one might almost think you're getting soft. Perhaps you're in lo- oooo-ve, aye?
'Nobody here is in love. I'm a pirate, I don't fall in love. I reserve myself for one night flings, that's all.'
But that's not all you want, is it? It's certainly not all he wants.
Jack shook his head, willing that annoying little voice in the back of his mind to shut up, he wasn't a schizo.
Or are you?
'Shuddup.'
What was with him? Usually he slept like a log, and if he dreamt at all, they were good dreams; of the sea, or of Scarlet or Giselle. Sometimes both. At once. The only conclusion he could come to? He needed rum, badly.
He got up and walked over to his chest, which contained a change of clothes, a letter from his father, and his sword on top of lots and lots of rum. He dug out a bottle, uncorked it, and took a swig, allowing himself to savor the burn of the intoxicating liquid as it ran down his throat. A warm feeling started in his stomach, comforting, like a fire in the winter, alleviating all his worries.
But only for the moment. Said the voice
'Shut up!'
He held the bottle up to the light and gazed reflectively at the way the amber liquid swirled and changed in the moonlight. Piracy, the Sweet Trade, the Account, the Brotherhood, his Life. All personified in the bottle he held in his hands. It was a beautiful thing to look at and fantasize about, but it took nerves to actually do. It could kill you if you weren't careful, but if you were, it made life all the better for it.
He raised his eyebrows, wondering since when had he become so philosophic. He was Captain Jack Sparrow, he lived in the moment. Things always worked out somehow, so he never bothered philosophizing about them, there was no point.
But there might be a point, one never knows.
Jack took another mouthful, shaking his head and thinking,
'Shuddup.'