Thank you Captain Drew, pirategrrl, Oneiriad, HieiTheDarkGem, ellennar, im-a-daydream-believer, virgo79, Lady Bush, dshael, Savvy-Rum-Drinker, and Lunatic With A Hero Complex, for all your reviews. Love and hugs to you all.
I am so sorry this is taking so long. Anyone who even remembers it, bless your soul. I promise the next one will be up as soon as I can bang it out.
XOXO!!
If I may have it when it's dead—
I will contented be.
If just as soon as breath is out—
it shall belong to me.
-Emily Dickenson
Jack was already out of his bunk, half-dressed, and out the door as the echoes of the first shot were still dying away across the tranquil morning water. His mind still hadn't caught up with the fact that it was supposed to be awake. So it was with sleep-fuzzed, mostly-hungover, and barely-open eyes that he stood that early morning, and considered the business end of the pistol which was shoved under his nose the second he clambered out on deck.
"Mornin' Captin."
Jack tilted his head, peered at the gun. His gaze traveled up the arm to the face, grinning at him in the dim lamplight. The most unremarkable face one could imagine...or fail to imagine, as the case may be, since to this day he couldn't recall what the man had actually looked like, or even his name. (Smith...had it been Smith...?...) He was just one of a small pack of men they'd picked up on their last shore leave blokes who needed some rigging to occupy their hands. Only been with them four days. And now here they were, surrounding him on the deck of his own Pearl, and oh bloody hell please say that ship he could see just over his soon-to-be-Ex-Crewmember's shoulder wasn't what he thought it was.
James Norrington had never felt the need to lock his own bedroom door before. But then, he'd never snuck around his own home with a pistol in the dark before, either.
He eased the door to his bedchamber closed behind him with a soft click, wincing. Even the smallest sound set his tired head to throbbing. He stood in the darkened hall for a moment, fingers tapping idly at the china doorknob, and pondered all the reasons why leaving this room unattended was a bad idea.
He eventually had to shake himself out of it. There were too many reasons. It might take all night, and had better things to do than stand around in a dark hallway for hours, fretting. He could fret just as well on the move. With a sigh, he forced himself to turn and put the blank wood to his back.
He took each stair slowly, afraid that if he went too fast he would upset himself and go head first down into the foyer, and what a brilliant show that would be. The candle he carried before him wobbled in its brass holder, casting uneven shadows against the wallpaper. He'd pulled on fresh clothing, made himself as presentable as he could before deciding that, after two nights without sleep, he didn't give a damn. He supposed that tousled hair and stubble would only make his story all the more believable should company show up at his door.
"Bloody pirates," he murmured and tripped on the carpeting.
Water first, he thought. He was not an expert at nursing, but he had enough common sense to know that Jack should drink something other than liquor. And more bandages. He had a feeling they'd need them before the day was out. But he'd be damned if he could remember where he kept the things...oh, bother. And did they have any—
James came to a stop in his kitchen doorway so abruptly that hot wax splashed against his fingers, but he barely noticed. He stood blinking for a long moment into his dark, pre-dawn kitchen. What used to be his spotless, scrubbed pre-dawn kitchen...but was now a complete mess.
"What the blazes..." He dropped the candle on the first horizontal surface that came to hand and gazed in wonder at the disaster.
The remains of a loaf of bread sat in the middle of the old butcher block table, ripped into bite-sized chunks and scattered. Around it lay half-gnawed pieces of fruit, chewed bits of cheese, and what looked like...crystallized violets? Along the counter, a line of preserve jars were arranged like soldiers on a wall, each with its lid twisted off, as though someone wanted a taste of each one. There was a fine dusting of white over the whole mess. Flour, James realized, from the burst sack that lay limp on the floor near the pantry.
The kitchen window was open.
He had the sudden urge to reach for the pistol tucked into the waist of his trousers, but there was nowhere to aim. There was nothing there, not even a breeze to disturb the hot and stuffy gloom. He was alone.
"WHAT is going on in this house?"
Of course there was no one there to answer.
Suddenly, hatches were flying open here, there, and everywhere. It was only seconds before Jack and his would-be mutineers were surrounded by a forest of cutlasses, pistols, and other various forms of extremely creative weaponry (including a boot with a nail in it and a dead rat).
How the hell they thought they'd take over a ship with only the three of them, Jack didn't know, but he had to hand it to them. They were either very brave, or very stupid, but they held their ground and their weapons steady in the face of more-or-less certain death. Certain because there was only one thing that could be inferred from finding a gun pointed at your captain's head—the watch was dead, and that was the signing of your own death warrant.
More or less certain, because this was one crew that knew many, many fates worse than death, and could easily hand out all of them.
But no one made a move to jump them. Three men or one, it didn't matter as long as they had Jack point-blank. Only took one shot to relieve a ship of her captain. Only took a split second for a finger to pull a trigger, if the owner of the finger was crazy enough not to care that his life wouldn't last much longer than that.
And...well...there wasn't much to be had in the way of entertainment during the long days at sea. When your captain is Captain Jack Sparrow, you learn to take your amusements where they come. 'Tis all fun and games until someone gets hurt, and then it's usually funnier. Unless limbs start to go missing.
Ignoring the bristling murderous ring hemming him in, the sailor (...blue eyes, Jack could remember blue eyes...) looked down the length of his arm at Jack, and said, "Lower yer weapons, or this man's havin tea an' scones wi' Davey."
Jack snickered.
From the crowd, a voice called, "Go ahead, boyo, more cap'ns where he came from."
Jack said, "Thank you, Ana, luv, you are a dear." Ana grinned.
Meanwhile, the other two mutineers (one tall, one short, both ugly) were obviously having second thoughts about the whole thing. He pitied them, just a little. Must have thought overthrowing a ship would be just a grand adventure. Put a pistol to the Captains head and the rest would just take care of itself. If the man was a good captain, the crew would want to see him saved. If the man was a bad captain, the crew would be more than happy to join in. Simple.
Poor lads. They hadn't counted on getting a mad captain. Notoriously mad. With a madder crew. This fact seemed to be finally sinking in, in fact. The pair of them were looking a bit white about the face area just now, as they glanced about at a wall of tarnished and unsympathetic grins. One of them edged away quickly as Cotton opened his mouth and stuck out what was left of his tongue. "Er...I think that mebbe..."
"Shut up." Their leader (...not Smith...damn, what was the blighter's name...?) tightened his finger on the trigger with an audible creak. His blue eyes, flat and pale, sought out Jack's black. "You'll turn over this ship, or someone dies."
Silence. Then a snort of laughter.
"You outa yer everlovin mind?" From the corner of his eye, Jack saw a small bald head waggling with wheezy mirth. Leave it to Marty to laugh at a man with a gun while holding a rusty dagger. "We give up this ship, he'll skin our wormy hides. Dead or no. Makes no difference t' me."
Shrugging one threadbare shoulder, the man (...Wimbleton?...No, that couldn't be it...) said, "As ye like." He swung his arm and pulled the trigger.
James took a tentative step into the room, and another, leaving footprints on the floury stone floor. He was half way to the water pump before his eye caught something else smudged into the powdery mess atop the kitchen table. It looked like...paw prints?
James heaved a huge breath. If his mind's reaction was anything close to coherent, it would have sounded something like: Ohraccoonsthankgoditsjustbloodyraccoons!
That was it—had to be. Hadn't Mrs. Wembly said something about raccoons digging up the rubbish heap behind her vegetable garden? Damn irritating creatures, always nosing about his back door, scrapping with the alleycats....he must have left a window open, and one got in the house....it was amazing what they could do with those flexible little hands...
The human mind has the uncanny ability to gloss over almost any shock, and what James's mind was most in need of at that moment was raccoons. Large ones. With a fondness for jam, apparently.
It was probably hiding under a chair somewhere, gnawing a hunk of cheese and leaving crumbs all over his floor, and he didn't care one whit, even if it was mad and frothing at the mouth or whatever it was they did when they were mad... He'd chase it off later, (and possibly make an attempt to clean up the mess before Mrs. Wembly saw it and had a nervous fit).
He could only deal with one stray animal in his home at a time.
Yes. Right, then.
Raccoons.
James game himself a little shake and turned himself firmly back to the matter at hand.
He found a large old mug in the cupboard amongst the tea cups and filled it with water, mentally taking stock of what spare supplies for doctoring he might have stashed around his home. Not a terrible lot. One didn't get into many desperate situations while sitting about drinking tea and avoiding all the local eligible daughters and widows. Which was largely what his life on land had consisted of until a certain pirate climbed in his window for no sensible reason.
Obviously he would need to start keeping himself better prepared. For what, he had no idea. But when it came to Jack, anything was possible...
He left the destroyed kitchen behind without a backward glance and was halfway across the foyer and heading for the stairs, deep in thought, when the soft creak of neglected door hinges caught him up.
He knew that sound.
"Oh, bloody hell, now what?"
Please...let it just be a rabid raccoon. Please.
You are loosing your mind, do you know that?
"That is very likely," James growled, and turned towards the sound.
He moved so fast half of them hadn't even realized what had happened until it was done.
The pistol jerked, the shot rang out, and Jack was standing in front of a vastly confused Marty with blood oozing from between his fingers as he clutched his shoulder. The only sound was the clatter of the empty gun hitting the deck as (...O'Reilly? O'Malley? Something with an O, wasn't it...?) reached for the second shoved in the top of his boot.
Jack commented, "OUCH!!! That HURT you complete BASTARD!"
Marty reached up to grab his captains elbow, steadying him as he swayed a bit on his feet. "Hell, Jack, you didn't have to do that. Think his aim was off a lil', you know?"
"He weren't shootin at you, you bloody fool." Marty looked round to see Ana standing just behind them, white-lipped with fury, clutching her sword, fairly radiating fury in small black waves.
"Now, what did you want to do that for Cap'n? I was just trying to do ye a favor. Women aboard a ship's bad luck, you know that."
Jack quickly twisted his head and caught Ana's eye. Warning. "You're not going to kill anyone, are you?"
The man snapped, "I guess that would be up to us, now, wouldn't it?"
Jack snapped right back. "Excuse me, was I talking to you?"
Ana drew a long breath, and let it out slowly. She stood in the middle of a small clearing. The rest of the crew had edged away from the rage they felt rising from the lady pirate's small body in black waves. No," she said finally, perfectly calm. As serene as anyone had ever seen her. "No. Not...just...yet."
He smiled and said, softly, "Good girl," knowing full well that no other man alive could say that to her without having to have someone cut their food up for them in the future.
(...O'Smith?...O"Wimbleton?...blast!!...) interrupted the moment by calling everyone's attention to the British ship that had spent the past few busy minutes maneuvering itself nearly into firing range. "So ye won't give up the ship for yer captain, and ye won't give up the ship for each other. Which just about makes you the most insane pack o' dogs I ever laid eyes on. But I'll give yeh a third option. Give up the ship, or we fire another shot as soon as that bonny ship there is in range, straight through her bonny hull? How's that sound?"
There was a blank moment of silence while the crew tried to comprehend how the shooting holes in an enemy ship was a bad suggestion. What did a pirate say to a plan like that, after all? Yes, please? Do we get to loot it first? A collective smirk made its way around the circle, and if their captain and their captain's first mate didn't join in, no one noticed.
"Why should we care, aye?"
"Ain't the biggest ship on the water, is she?"
"We'll sack'em like we done before and we'll sack'em again just to be sure they sunk."
To which O'Mutinous Bastard With A Gun (...there, that would do...) replied, "Well, your Cap'n here might be of a different opinion on that when word gets back to his pretty Navy pet. Wouldn't like that, would yeh, Captain?"
There was another moment of silence, much longer than the first.
Jack felt the weight of his crew's eyes on him, and had the sudden urge to sink down to the deck. He was getting tired. Tired of standing here with a pistol between his eyes. Tired of this idiot and his two assistant idiots. Tired of the speculation and assumption and rumor and hearsay and supposition and damn well tired of this ship 'o fools who weren't quick enough to see that their captain was mad enough to go drinking with a bloody Commodore of the British Royal Navy, let alone mad enough to try an bugger one.
Anyway.
"Gibbs."
"Aye, Cap'n?"
"I want everyone below, now. Off the damn deck. I have something to discuss with our friend here."
The man holding the gun leered. He had the unimaginative leer of your average small-minded, unimportant bottom-feeder. It was a shame he hadn't let it slip until now. If Jack had come on deck with his sword, the silly wanker would be in ribbons already. But he didn't have his sword. And the silly wanker in question knew about—and his arm hurt and the world was starting to spin about and that was never helpful fuck...
Gibbs was staring at him as though lobsters had suddenly begun to crawl out of his ears. "Don't think you want to be doin' that, Jack."
Jack turned his head as far as he dared (...didn't this bastard's arm ever get tired?...) "Mr. Gibbs, I know it may not look much like it, but I am STILL captain of this ship and if you do not do as I say RIGHT THIS BLOODY MOMENT you'll damn well regret it!!"
Gibbs winced. "AyeAye SIR!!" He holstered his pistol, pulled his flask from his pocket, and roared, "YOU HEARD'IM!!! ALL HANDS BELOWDECKS BEFORE I KICK YER SORRY ARESES." Taking a healthy swig, he spat it at the feet of the mutineer that he'd called crewmate for all of four days. "An' no offense to you mate, but I hope ye die horribly."
James rarely used the parlor. For as long as he could remember, the door hinges had squeaked, but he'd never got around to remedying it. No reason to care one way or another if they squeaked when it was almost always kept locked. It should have been locked tonight. There should be no squeaking of hinges.
He'd begun to reach for the pistol before he even thought about it, but stilled himself. All he needed now was to find Jack wandering about in the dark and threaten to shoot him. Again. Pulling out weapons when no weapons were needed had already caused him enough guilt for one night. Even so, he had to press one palm against his thigh to control the urge. "Jack, is that you?" Nothing but empty silence greeted his words. The air was thick, heavy, swallowing up his voice as he spoke. He felt as though his head were wrapped in cotton wool. Just the heat, he thought, making his body feel dumb and slow. Hopefully the effects hadn't already spread to his brain.
The parlor door was open, just a crack.
"Jack?" Frowning, James reached out and nudged it open, a bit, then a bit more. The room beyond was black and still. No light shone in the large bay windows to illuminate
the spare but elegant furniture that he never used and the wide stone fireplace that never had to be lit.
Just for good measure, he whispered, "Hello?"
There was a clunk, and then a soft rumble as something small and hard rolled across the hardwood floor and out of the dark, bumping to a stop against the toe of James's shoe.
Frowning, James bent and picked it up, turning it in his fingers. A marble of some sort?
He tilted it this way and that. Rolled it to catch the light. And staring up at him suddenly was a pale blue eyeball, wide and blank.
"God!" His hands, arms, whole body convulsed in shock and disgust, and the thing fell to the floor with a loud crack and rolled away.
"'Ere now, that's mine!!"
James's head snapped up, and he found himself nose to nose with a very familiar corpse... though didn't he recall that last time they'd made each other's acquaintance, the thing had been wearing a dress...?
There are more than a few individuals in the world who can claim to be particularly familiar with particular corpses, and James was not particularly happy to be one of them.
He'd be proud later to say he didn't scream. He didn't even think. He'd already brought up his pistol, taken aim, and shot the thing straight through its empty eye socket in the time it took the mug to hit the floor and shatter.
He didn't know what he expected it to do then. Certainly not call him a bastard and slam the door in his face, which is just what it did.
James stood there, pistol in his hand, and blinked. Once. Twice, Three times. And then adrenaline shot through his body as though he'd dreamt of falling. Oh hell. Jack!
He spun towards the stairs, and almost pistol-whipped the small, very disgruntled housekeeper lurking just behind him.
"AAHHHHHH!!!"
"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!"
"MRS. WEMBLY!!!"
"SIR!!!"
"I DO APOLOGISE!!"
"JUST DON'T SHOOT ME, SIR!"
The crew slunk back down the hatches to the quarters from whence they came, glaring bloody murder and muttering curses in at least six different languages. It was rather touching, Jack thought, that they'd pull out the entire repertoire just for him.
O' Mutinous Bloke From Tortuga (...he'd really need to find the man a proper nickname at this rate...) i motioned sharply to his pair of nervous sidekicks. "You two. Back to the guns."
The more nervous, and maybe most sensible, of the two didn't seem to fond of this plan. Jack grinned sweetly, giving them the full tour of all his gold teeth. The man swallowed. "Eh...boss, I'm thinking ye might want to—"
Their leader snapped, "I didn't ask yeh to think, I asked yeh to go man the guns. NOW."
Jack watched them scurry off. Then it was just a sailor, a captain, and a pistol.
"Now, then." The man lowered his gun finally from between Jack's eyes and grinned. His teeth were much too straight. Weren't right, for a pirate to have such good teeth. Should've seen that from the beginning... "Didn't want to say so in front of yer crew, but the way my lads n' I see it, any man who's daft enough to go swivin' the Navy can't be all that hard t'get rid of."
"No one here's swivin the Navy," Jack snarled. (...Hell, it's hard enough to get the bleedin fool to have a drink let alone have his clothes off...) "And I'll say this once so you'd better listen with both ears. If you've laid a hand on him, I'll kill you. If you've even thought about lay'n a hand on him, I'll kill you. Just may kill you anyway, for talkn about him like that."
"You will, hm?"
"Havn't decided yet."
The pistol was back, pressing hard into the thin flesh at his temple. "With what, exactly?" The man looked Jack up and down. "For the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow, can't say I'm much impressed, matey. Prancing about with lobsterbacks is bit daft even fer a daft pirate. Actually thought buggerin' one would save yer neck in the end, eh?"
Jack could feel himself shaking with rage...and something else. He'd been an idiot. All this time he'd been slinking around like a lovesick puppy...like...like WILLIAM for Crissake...crawling into windows and playing Chase The Naughty Pirate Like You Actually Want To Hang'm...and he never once thought about what it would be like the first time someone tried to use it against him.
Against them. Jack ground his teeth. He was a bloody selfish bastard sometimes, wasn't he?
"I could have done any of ye, y'know. Any time."
"So why didn't you?"
"Well, it just never seemed like...what you always wanna be callin it, Captain? 'The opportune moment'?"
"That would be it....An what, pray tell, constitutes the opportune moment in your mind, sir?"
"Why, you an me, Captain. Out here, alone. With no one to interfere. Just like this."
"That, sir, is a very good idea. I have to say, I never suspected you for a moment."
"Didn't you, now?"
"Actually. On second thought. Wait..."
"Aye?"
"I lied."
He looked for a moment as though he meant to open his mouth and respond, but then the blue eyes widened, blank and pale, and his mouth went slack just in time for the sword that had run so neatly through the back of his skull to emerge, splattering Jack with a new coat of blood.
Jack opened his mouth, but nothing came out except, "Ugh."
The gun clattered to the deck, and the body slumped forward, to its knees, to the floor, the blade slipping free of its mooring. Jack looked up to find Ana clutching the hilt as it dripped onto the deck. She was breathing hard, pale gray under her tan.
"Thought he was supposed to be mine?" Jack said.
She replied, "I lied."
"Oh. Well, that's okay then." Jack scraped one hand across his forehead, dragging off the ever-present red scarf and using it to wipe the gore from his face. "What about the other two?"
"Deader'n doornails, Cap'n." Gibbs appeared around the corner, Marty in tow, wiping a dagger clean on his breeches. "All's well that ends well, eh?"
And from across the pearly dawn waters came the roar of British cannon fire.
Jack said, "Except for the part where they shoot at us."
Trust the bloody stupid Commodore to hide his bloody stupid sword.
Jack swayed drunkenly around the room, searching for something, anything he could use as a weapon. There wasn't much to see. The commodore's sleeping chamber was bare and simple, save for a few books and odds and ends that Jack paid no mind to, as they couldn't slice through anything or hurl lead shot. Useless.
He cursed in English, in Spanish and French, and promptly tripped over the rug and landed flat on his face.
"Looking for this, Jack?"
Craning his neck, he studied the scuffed boots planted just in front of his face where there had been only floor a split-second before.
And far above that, the familiar face of Bootstrap Bill Turner. Who was dangling his sword off one fingertip in an extremely unsafe manner. And smiling. The utter bastard.
Panting, Jack wheezed, "Well, I'll be buggered."
To which his obviously-dead but infuriatingly whole and healthy-looking mate replied, "Not anytime soon if you don't get yer skinny arse out of this house."
TBC...
Authoress: WOO!! Another chapter!! I DID IT !!!
Muse: Yeah. Finally.
Authoress: Oh, excuse me? Like you helped very much.
Muse: Damn straight I did.
Authoress: Yeah? How?
Muse: Well, you know the Monkey?
A: Of course I know the Monkey, he's—actually, where is the Monkey? I havn't seen him in awhile.
M: Heh.
A: Muse...what did you do to the Monkey...?
M: Tied him up in the closet...
A: What?? For how long!!?
M: Er...about three days now...
A: That's cruel!!
M: SO? He's undead! It's not like he needs to eat!
A: That's true...
M: I thought he could use some quiet time.
A: You know what? You are my hero.
M: You're welcome.