Disclaimer: So not mine. As if.

A/N: Don't worry, you fans of "Choices"...I would never abandon my baby. This is just for kicks. It writes itself much faster than the other one...probably because Leah's voice is basically mine. Like I said, don't know where I'm going with it, except wandering around San Diego with Jack on my arm. Hehehe.


Chapter Two: Time Will Tell

"Of all the bloody--"

In the space of an instant, the man had closed the space between himself and my bed--and me!--and clapped his hand over my mouth, effectively cutting off my terrified scream for help. I kicked out at him viciously, fear lending me strength, a hundred horrible possibilities running through my head of why he was here and what he was going to do to me.

He swore fluently, and suddenly I felt the hard, cold circle of a gun barrel at my temple.

I went still. I think I was crying a little. I was sure I was about to be raped and probably murdered, too.

"That's better," he said, voice grim. His palm was still pressed to my mouth, his grip firm but not altogether ungentle. "I have no intention of hurting you, if I can help it, love." He lowered the gun. "Now will you be a sensible lass, and try not to scream the bloody roof off, please?"

His thick accent sounded decidedly British, and back-alley British at that. I was trying to see his face in the dark, but all I could distinguish was the fact that he had a lot of hair, and a lean build. And he didn't smell very good.

I nodded under his hand; he hesitated. Then he released me, but not without a warning waggle of the gun in my direction, and stood back from me a little.

"What do you want?" I whispered.

"Information, my dear, nothing more."

"Information?" I peered at him. He sounded serious. "What are you, an escapee from a bad spy movie?"

This question gave him pause. But then he said, "Where are we?"

Escapee from a psychiatric ward, more like.

"In my house," I said, sarcastically. "Perhaps you hadn't noticed."

"Which is...where, exactly?"

This was ridiculous. Perhaps I was still dreaming. I wished fervently that I would wake up soon. The alarm would go off, and I would open my eyes to a glorious Saturday morning in which no strange, criminally insane men with dubious personal hygiene would consider invading my room. This thought comforted me greatly.

"San Diego?" I said, trying to humor him.

He lifted his shoulders in an eloquent shrug.

"California? The United States of America?" For good measure, "Planet Earth?"

"America," he said. He seemed somewhat satisfied by that, rolling the word over on his tongue thoughtfully.

I sighed. "Yes. America. Can I turn on the light, or are you going to shoot me for it?"

He waved assent...at least I hoped it was assent...apparently distracted by the oh-so-amazing information I had imparted. I reached over and switched on the lamp. He let out a sharp exclamation, and stumbled backwards away from me, covering his eyes.

"Bloody hell, woman, that's bright!"

"It's only sixty watts," I told him, impatiently.

He squinted at me, appearing utterly mystified. I almost felt sorry for the guy. There was obviously something not quite right about him...missing a few screws, or maybe just not very smart. He was dressed very oddly, that was for sure. Looked like he was on his way to a costume party, with that red scarf, the gun, the sword hanging from his belt, and the colonial-era style of his clothing...

Actually, he looked like he'd stepped out of the pages of a history book.

All right, he looked like a fucking pirate, for Christ's sake. And I was pretty sure that the dreads were not extensions. He was slightly dirty and fairly ragged-looking, with blackened fingernails, stained clothing, and much-scuffed boots, and various odds and ends cluttering his hair.

And his goatee was braided.

He met my measuring glance, and I found I'd stopped breathing. His eyes, rimmed with what looked like grease-paint, were very deep and not quite black, the color of dark chocolate, and his gaze was extraordinarily arresting. He stared me down for a second, and flashed a predatory grin, full of...no kidding...gold teeth.

"Like what you see, lass?"

"Not particularly," I retorted. "Aren't you leaving yet?"

He shifted, swaying a little. Dear God, I thought, he must be drunk as well as crazy.

"Now, that presents a bit of a problem," he said slowly. "Seeing as I don't know how I got here in the first place."

"Shit, what do you know about yourself...anything? You know your name, by any chance?"

"Of course I do," he said, disgusted. He made a sweeping bow. "Captain Jack Sparrow of the Black Pearl, at your service, missy."

"Oh, God," I moaned, clutching my head. "This has got to be a dream."

Jack was now pacing the room, a bit unsteadily.

"I'm inclined to agree with you, love," he conceded. "Something's not quite right, that's plain."

He peered doubtfully at my stereo, and reached out a tentative finger toward it.

"Don't touch that!" I snapped. "You might break it."

He snatched his hand back, looking guiltier than I would expect for a full-grown, armed pirate confronted with a scantily clad, bed-head-afflicted, weaponless young woman.

"Sorry, ma'am."

"Y'know," I said, reflectively, "I guess you couldn't break it though, could you? You're only a figment of my imagination, after all."

He wheeled on me. "I am not a...whatsit--"

"Figment," I said, no longer frightened of him in the slightest.

"I'll have you know, missy, that I am no figment!"

"LSD flashback?" I suggested, sweetly.

He glared. "I can assure you definitively that I am not."

"You don't even know what that is."

"Be that as it may, I think I know what I am and am not," he declared.

"Whatever. You didn't even know what state you were in until I told you!"

He rubbed his hand across his face, looking rather fatigued, and sat down at the end of the bed. "A rather confused one, I must admit, lass..."

I laughed at him outright.

"What?"

"Nothing, Jack. Nothing."

"Captain," he growled, predictably. "Captain Jack, and don't you forget it."

"Captain Jack," I agreed. This was turning out to be quite a nice change from my usual dreams. Weird, yes, but at least there were no skeletal opponents in this one...

This thought brought me up short.

Those dreams. Now this.

I shook my head, and swung my legs over the side of the bed.

"Have a care for your feet, love," Jack said at once. At my questioning look, he jerked his chin at the carpet. "You've glass all over your floor."

He was right. I drew in a sharp breath at the sight of the shards of the deceased bottle, and the quantity of sand strewn around them, completely forgetting to notice the way the pirate at the end of my bed was eying my exposed thighs--I was only wearing boxers--and low-cut tank top.

A wild, completely illogical idea was forming in my brain. Yes, I was finally making all the connections. Yes, I know it took me forever to come upon. But it was so...far-out. So insane. Nonetheless, I couldn't escape it, because I'd remembered that design.

The one that depicted a sparrow in flight.

I'd looked down in my dreams, often enough, and seen it etched into the skin of my own wrist...

I leaned down and picked carefully through the bigger pieces, until I found the one I wanted. Turned it over, ran my fingers over the engraving as I had once before. Then I scooted myself over to Jack.

He raised a suggestive brow at me, or perhaps at my cleavage, I wasn't exactly sure which.

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, honey, as if. You'd have to shower multiple times before I'd so much as consider it. Let me see your right hand, please."

He offered it obligingly. With only a smidgen of hesitation, I took his wrist, and rolled his shirt sleeve up to his forearm. His skin was warm. He certainly didn't feel like a figment.

And there it was. Same bird, same setting sun, same ocean. Only the tattoo had better detail. I let out a long breath.

He regarded me quizzically. "What is it, lass?"

I wordlessly handed over the piece of glass. He frowned at it. "That's interesting."

Well, it was something, anyway.

"Ja--Captain," I said, then stopped. How was I to say this? "What's the last thing you remember, before you ended up here?"

"A woman," he answered, instantly. "A gypsy maid in a red dress." His brow furrowed. "Don't recall exactly, now that I'm reflectin' on the matter. Don't recall her being especially pleased with me, either." His smile was wry. "Can't think why not, really..."

"And then what?"

Something flashed behind his eyes, uncertainty or pain, so fleeting I thought I must have imagined it. "A bloody bright light," he said finally. "And then," waving a hand at my room, "this."

At his words, my mind presented me with the image of blinding white light, followed immediately by perfect darkness. And I knew, suddenly, whose dreams I had been dreaming, for the past month or so.

I put the thought aside. First things first.

"Come on," I commanded him, tugging at the tattooed wrist.

He followed me out to the kitchen, docile enough, although I suspected his cooperation had something to do with the fact that he got to look at my ass the entire way. I flipped on the overhead light and he startled just as he had at my room lamp, fingers clutching nervously at my arm. Of course. If he really was from the 17th century, electric lights would be completely alien, and possibly scary, to him. I contemplated trying to explain the concept to him, but decided it would probably only confuse him more at this point. Plus, I didn't really understand the concept as well as I should have. Literature major, me.

"Sit." I pointed to the table, and he did, still glancing wildly around in search of the lanterns, or gas lamps, or candles, or whatever it was that he thought was illuminating the room.

"No offense, madam, but I must say this house is the strangest I've ever seen."

I gave a short laugh. "Well, it's not much of a place, I have to admit. No offense taken, my friend."

Filling the kettle, I set it to boil on the stove. This night required hot cocoa, summer be damned. I would be far too keyed up to sleep without something warm in my stomach. If, in fact, I really was awake at present.

"Want anything, Captain?" I had a hard time not cracking up, calling him that. It sounded far too formal and distinguished for such a disreputable-looking guy.

He perked up a little. "Wouldn't happen to have any rum lying about, would you, darling?"

"Sorry, no. I'm fresh out of liquor."

As a matter of fact, I did have a big liter jug of Bacardi, up in the top of one of my cupboards, and since I'm not a big drinker, as a rule, it was more than half full. But no way was I about to tell Jack that. Alcohol is expensive, goddamnit, and I wouldn't have put it past him to finish the bottle in one sitting.

"Water, milk, or hot chocolate, those are about your choices," I told him.

He grimaced, dismissing these options with a gesture of disdain. Plopping down at the table across from him, I slouched low in my chair and regarded him thoughtfully as I waited for my water to boil.

"So, Captain Jack Sparrow," I said at last. "You asked me where you are. But did you think to ask when you are?"

He dragged his attention away from his apparently fascinated perusal of my refrigerator door...I did have a number of joke magnets up there as well as a couple sets of magnetic poetry, so I suppose he was finding it interesting reading. Most people do. I was just surprised he could read in the first place.

"When?" He looked puzzled. "Right then...when am I?"

The kettle screeched. I ignored it for the moment, leaned forward to catch his gaze and hold it.

"It's the year 2003, Jack."

I rose, turned off the stove. He was sitting very still, but judging by the closed look on his face and the mixture of comprehension and disbelief in his dark eyes, he had processed my statement admirably quickly.

I poured the packet of cocoa into a mug, added the water, stirred, and waited.

He stood up in one fluid motion, reminding me of a spring uncoiling. And suddenly, he frightened me again.

"Lying's a sin, darling," he said casually, but his fingers danced restlessly across the hilt of his cutlass. "There's a lot of folks try to put ol' Jack on, y'know, thinkin' I'm naught but a fool, and a daft one at that." A few steps, and he was looming over me. I wouldn't have expected him to move like that, so efficiently, his position calculated so that when I turned, I found I had nowhere to go.

"So," he said, voice low, dangerous. "Just what is it you're playing at, then?"