Title: Of the Sea
Rating: PG-13, R if mostly un-described nudity offends you.
Chapter Title: 8. Bootstrap
Summary: Jack and Matt go drinking, and Jack makes his decision. Upon returning home, Matthew thinks of an old friend.
Timeline: Tuesday, May 17, 1675
Author: Cicatrix (Marin K.)

"At long last! My second love," Jack proclaimed, staggering down the gangway onto the pier, "Tortuga!" Matthew smiled, rolled his eyes. "Y'ever been t'Tortuga, mate?"

"Jack?"

"Mm-hmm?"

"I lived here. For nearly six years. Remember?"

"I love this place, mate. Only place on land that's really worth getting off the Pearl to spend a few hours with." Jack waved his arms illustratively, and Matt just nodded. Jack pointed at the sign of the Faithful Bride, upon which was painted a cutlass and a bouquet of white roses. "There! My wife!" Matthew winced noticeably, though Jack had his back turned and could not see the expression.

"Let's go this way," he said, taking Jack's arm and attempting to pull him in the opposite direction. Jack resisted, his brows knitting in confusion. There was a slight pout to his lower lip.

"Why?"

"I'm not well liked by some of the regulars there, so if it's all the same to you, I know another place. Let's go there instead," Matt pleaded. If worse came to worst, he would leave Jack and go alone, but he enjoyed the company.

Jack stopped suddenly, peering curiously at the young man. Matthew seemed genuinely worried about going into the bar. "Let's make a deal," he said, a mischievous tone to his voice.

"What's that?" came the wary response.

"If I go with you to this other bar, you have to tell me what happened that causes you to avoid the Faithful Bride."

"How about I don't tell you, but I pay for the drinks?" Matthew offered hopefully, a convincing grin on his lips.

"Agreed!"

He was relieved. He knew the way to Jack's heart; that was certain. He didn't enjoy directly lying to the man, but he couldn't risk that anyone in the Bride would recognise him as Raven. It wasn't uncommon for men to be forced to leave a certain bar due to strenuous relations with other patrons, and it was a story easily bought. He pointed in their new direction, a small pub called the Horse and Groom. It was his second favourite in the town, but he couldn't risk his identity, even if The Faithful Bride was the best tavern this side of the equator.

What Matt really wanted was to go home, to strip off the clothes and the bandages, to tend to the bruises, to cook his own meal, and crawl into his own bed, however dusty, and go to sleep. But there were other things to attend to first. He smiled at the barmaid who served their rum, and she smiled in return.

She was a saucy wench with a pretty face and pleasant curves, her blonde curls tied up in a piece of cloth. Her eyes were a brilliant blue, bright with laughter, and her skin a perfect hue of sun-tanned gold. She wore a bodice of forest green over a chemise that fell revealingly off one shoulder, a long skirt falling about her ankles.

"Name, sir?" she asked in a honey-smooth voice, looking expectantly at the oldest of the pair.

"Jack," he responded, and then indicated his companion, "and he's Matthew."

She smiled sweetly, "'Course, I alr'dy know 'is name." Truly, she knew him best as Richard, but she understood his tendency to change names. She slid into the seat beside him, draped an arm around his neck. He grinned at Jack, who arched a brow.

"We're old friends," Matt informed him. She nibbled his ear. I'm sure she thinks one day I'm actually going to sleep with her, instead of just asking her to pretend that I already have, he thought with a slight chuckle, giving an imperceptible shake of his head. She crawled into his lap, and he offered her some of his rum. When she shook her head, he took a draw from it himself, mumbling something to the effect of 'your loss.'

"What's your name, miss?" Jack asked in between gulps his own drink.

"Emma," she purred to him. He grinned at her, and Matt winked broadly across the table.

"Emma's a good girl," he praised, and pushed her off his lap, "which is why she has to go tend to her other customers over there." He pointed towards another table, where a small group of men were watching expectantly, waiting for their drinks. She whimpered.

"But Matt, you're my favourite!"

"I know I am love, but y'gotta work or y'll get booted. Much as y'know I adore you, I know I gotta share, and you know that too," he pushed her away, patting her lightly on the behind. She slapped his hand playfully.

"None of that now," she said. "Later."

"'Course, darling." Both men watched her stroll across the floor to take orders from her other customers. Jack still had the same grin on his face. Matt turned back to face him, his expression changing dramatically. "Jack."

"Aye?"

"You make your decision yet?"

"About?"

"... Crew?"

"Oh. Aye."

"Out with it then."

"If I'm going to be your captain, you have to treat with me with more respect than that, sailor."

"But you're not my captain until you say the word. So out with it."

There was a moment in which they just looked at each other. Silently, Matt was praying. Please let me stay, he thought, I've never actually wanted to be a part of any crew in particular, but I want this. I want it so much it hurts. Tell me I've proved I can do it. Say it, Jack... Damn it all!

"Aye."

"Aye?"

"Aye. You're me crew now, but y'gotta keep yer part o'the bargain. How long y'staying for?" A thousand possible answers sprung to his lips. Forever. Until death take me. Until I go to Davy Jones' locker. Until I go to Fiddler's Green. Why did he want to stay on that ship so badly? He didn't know. For two weeks, he'd been on the Black Pearl, and in that time he had come to love her as no other ship he'd yet sailed, and he respected her crew, and as for her Captain...

Instead he said, slowly, "Can I get back to you on that in the morning?" Jack nodded, and Matt smiled slightly.

"You said you had a place here," Jack said, more a question than a statement.

"Aye."

"Where is it?"

"Rather not say. Place's my own, prefer t'keep it t'myself, no shipmates, if y'll understand." Matthew's home was the only sacred place he had, the one place that was his alone, where he was not required to pretend to be anyone else. He didn't particularly want to risk that someone might decide to stop by and 'visit'.

"Aye," he said, and nodded. Matt's smile widened slightly.

It was late before Matt finally dragged himself from the table. He dug a handful of silver coins from his pocket, put them one by one on the table, along with the gradually increasing pile of mugs and bottles. "Tell Emma I had to go, won't you? She'll be disappointed, but I need t'be going." Jack nodded, but he seemed to be asleep. Matthew sighed. We whistled to get the girl's attention, and waved his goodbye. She smiled, though she seemed a bit sad. He prodded Jack, who groaned.

"Me rum," he mumbled.

"Yours, fine. Get up, y'lazy arse." His captain didn't move, although he opened his eyes and looked up sleepily. Matt hauled him to his feet, although Jack was more dead weight than anything else. His knees shook as he tried to hold himself upright. Drunken slob, Matt thought, draping Jack's arm around his shoulders. It took an hour for Matt to half walk half drag Captain Jack Sparrow back to his ship. He left the man in Cotton's care, and began the long walk home.

Home was a simple affair: a small, two-story house with a room on each floor. The small, square windows were boarded up, to prevent thieves from taking advantage of the owner's extended absences. The brass key fit into the lock with a gentle click, and the door creaked open. The air inside was stale and dusty, but Matthew barely noticed. He fumbled around in the darkness for a candle, for flint and tinder. The small flame flickered off the walls, as Matthew made his slow way up the stairs.

He peeled off his waistcoat, shirt, boots and breeches, threw them haphazardly to the floor. With his hand, he brushed the dust off the mirror in the corner, staring at himself, at the white bandages which bound his chest. Reaching behind his back, he located the knot that held the strips of cloth in place, sighing with relief as they unraveled and fell to the floor.

Sometimes Miriam forgot she was a woman, forgot about the gentle rise and fall of her breasts, the very slight curve of her hips, the softness of the skin on her stomach and thighs that was untouched by the rigors of her life at sea. She ran her hands down her sides, feeling the places where her body curved, if only slightly, finally letting her arms fall at her sides. How long had it been since last she had worn a dress? She could not remember if she was considered beautiful, and when she looked at her dirty reflection in the mirror, she wondered what men would think if they saw what was under the cloth.

The bruises were fading on her flesh now, and the cuts and scratches, but still they pained her. They made her feel ugly, marred, somehow inherently flawed. She wondered if remembering how she'd received them would make them feel less... conspicuous, less wrong. Yet, no matter how she tried, she could not remember. The hours were slates of empty darkness and persistent silence.

She furrowed her brows, tried to remember the last compliment she had received that hadn't been, "You're a good man." Her mother used to call her an angel, despite the fact that she had never listened to a word of advice her mother gave her. She had learned her sewing, her needlepoint, her cooking, all the while thinking that it would be useful to mend a sail or man the galley. Writing was useful to send letters home about her adventures, reading because she could read about pirates, math to count the treasures she would plunder.

When had a man last called her beautiful, and not been a drunk fool trying to seduce her in the tavern? She struggled to remember. It was Bootstrap, she decided, he'd been her family, after hers had died. It had been eleven years, since he'd set sailed to seek the lost treasure of the Isla de Muerta, since last she'd seen him.

"Raven," he whispered, and she stared at him with pale eyes, electric blue and bloodshot from crying, and her black hair blowing about her face in the wind. "Don't cry, darling." She wished she could stop, but she couldn't. He hugged her, and she buried her face in his chest, breathed deeply the odour of salt and sweat that was his. She knew, vaguely, that she must smell like rum and ale from serving it all last night.

"You're leaving, Bootstrap. I always cry when you leave," she murmured. But this time was worse. Why couldn't she escape the horrible, sinking feeling that he wouldn't return, that this would be the last time they stood on pier that led to the Black Pearl, and to his departure?

"It's bad luck," he said, "do you want to give me bad luck?" He was lying. It was bad luck to talk to a red-head, bad luck to throw stones or wear a dead sailor's clothes, bad luck to see a dog near a fishing tackle. She knew all about bad luck. Crying wasn't bad luck. She shook her head, reached into a pocket. She fished from it a pair of gold earrings and a feather. She pressed them into his hand.

"For good luck, then."

He held her at arms length and smiled slightly. "Your father would be proud of you, Raven." She smiled vaguely. "You take care of yourself while I'm away, alright? I want you to be here when I get back."

She didn't voice her fears, just swallowed her tears and nodded. "I'll miss you, Boot."

"I'll miss you too, kid." They stood in silence a moment, clasping each other's arms. Anyone would have thought them father and daughter, or perhaps older brother and younger sister, and so they had been for the past two years, since her father had died. She sighed, turned her face away, and looked out to sea. "Look at me, Raven," he said, and she obeyed, "you're beautiful, you know that? Even when you cry, you're the prettiest girl in this whole place, but you're even prettier when you smile." She tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace. He brushed away her tears with callused fingertips. "I'll be back before you know it, don't worry."

"Why do you have to leave?"

"Gotta go with Jack. He'll get into trouble without me."

"What about me?"

"You can take care of yourself. Jack's bound to do something... stupid."

"If you say so."

From afar, a voice called. She recognized it: Jack's voice. She'd never talked to him, Bootstrap wouldn't let her. He said Jack was a good man, but that she should keep her distance; he might get her into trouble. She didn't want to talk to him, because she didn't like him. Whenever he left, Bootstrap left too, and then she was alone again, with a bunch of drunken fools in the Faithful Bride.

"I have to go now. Wait for me?"

"Of course. The second I hear the Black Pearl has been seen on the horizon, I'll be here waiting. I'll be here."

"That's a good girl. I'll be seeing you." He hugged her one last time, and turned, and walked away. She smiled vaguely.

"I hope so," she whispered to his receding back, crossing her arms across her chest. She stood there until the Pearl disappeared over the horizon, and he was forever gone.

Yes, eventually Bootstrap Bill Turner became another empty place in her life, a father or brother or friend whose space could not be filled. Gone to the deeps, forever, to Davy Jones' locker, with a canon tied to Bootstrap's bootstraps. You're beautiful, you know that? Even when you cry, you're the prettiest girl in this whole place, but you're even prettier when you smile. She smiled in the mirror, ran her hair through her cropped locks. Once, they had been so long. He had called her Raven then, for her hair was as dark and full of luster as a raven's wing.

"You said you'd be back, Boot," she whispered to no one, "told me to wait for you. And so I did. It was a year later that I heard where you had gone: to the bottom of the ocean. Still I waited. Ten long years I waited for new of the Black Pearl, hoping beyond hope that she would return to Tortuga and you would be with her. Eventually, I heard she had docked. I was in town at the time. You were not there, I watched from afar, watched every sailor file off that ship. And you were gone."

She had blamed Jack Sparrow, for ten years she blamed him for the death of William Turner, until he saved a young man called Matthew Brown from the ocean deeps and offered him a place on his ship. Why does Matthew love that ship? she wondered, Is it because Bootstrap's boots once caused those revered planks to creak, because every place Matt sits or walks or lays down, Bootstrap was once there? Can I not let go? But she could not. Why bother? She had released her mother's ghost, from all but the dusty contents of a large chest. She had released her father's anger, though the pain still lingered. Was that not good enough? No.

It was not good enough. Miriam Sharp still clung to her ghosts, to her mother's needlepoint and father's sails, to Bootstrap's ship. To see his son had been a shock, to see the face she remembered as so youthful, so naïve, suddenly so much older, married to a beautiful woman. She told him half-truths about his father, because he needed to know that his father had loved him, she knew Jack would not be the type to deliver the message.

For years she had avoided the man, because Bootstrap said he was trouble. She'd never understood why it was alright for Bootstrap to associate with him, but why she had been forbidden from so much as serving the man a drink. But he'd been insistent, and she had obeyed, until Fate had forced him upon her. I'm sorry Bootstrap, she thought, but it is Her choice, not mine. She hoped she was forgiven.

She'd told Will that she didn't want Jack to know because it gave her something to bargain with. It was true, but she didn't think she wanted Jack to know about their friendship at all. For one, if he knew, he would know that she was a woman, a common bar-wench, no pirate. I am a pirate, she thought fiercely, have I not proven that much? She shook her head. She did not want him to know who or what she was, but mostly she just didn't want him to know that they were connected by more than chance, by more than the sheer luck of the draw. She didn't want him to know that she probably would have ended with seeking him out anyway, because she needed to know what he knew about old William Turner, didn't want him to know the real reasons behind her bargains with her past.

She sighed, turned away from the mirror. She crawled into her dusty bed and pulled the covers over her head and closed her eyes. To not dream for once would be a blessing, to forget that she had ever felt pain or loss or remorse, that she might wake in the morning and sink seamlessly back into her role in the theatre that her life had become.

Author's note: Longest chapter yet now. More about Miriam's past, though this time she isn't talking to anyone but herself. Originally, she was going to be connected to Will/Jack/Elizabeth through Elizabeth's mother, but I thought the connection with Bootstrap was more interesting, and provided an interesting link between her and Jack. Something about this chapter, I really like. I think it's my favourite yet, probably because you get to see her as a woman, and just her being herself. I think her 'seduction' of Emma is great. Emma may or may not have a larger part in the story later. I'm beginning the introductions of my original sub-characters now, there'll be another in the next chapter, methinks. By the way, the bar, "The Horse and Groom" is a tribute to Douglas Adams' The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

Review responses:

Reese Sparrow: Thanks. Poor Miri, doesn't get to be herself very often.

Lady Maewan: You're far too kind. Yeah, there are some spelling errors. I know where a lot of them are, but I'm so tired and such I never get around to fixing them. I have a hard copy with a bunch of the mistakes highlighted in blue, but I haven't got around to fixing and uploading the corrections. I get confused when I write sometimes, and mix up the genders when I'm not trying to mix them up.

DaydreamBeliever14: It's on the way. Promise!

pingpong5: I heart this chapter, and you're too sweet. Thank you.

heather321: Thanks! I plan to.