A/N: Well, here we are again. Because I have been trying very hard to make progress on a different project, I find progress is to be had everywhere but that particular project. Thus I present you some more pure silliness, with just a hint of darkness, in the form of an update to the long-languishing "Out of Time." Now, in returning to this story, it occurred to me that the wonderful and talented Eledhwen had, some time ago, given me a very good suggestion: i.e. to get rid of the movie references and have the fic stand on its own. Said references really only exist in chapter 2, but in this chapter it's assumed that our heroine does not associate Jack with a fictional character. Meanwhile, I'll be going back to remove the earlier references promptly...all hail the wonderful new Export/Quickedit function.

Enjoy!


Chapter 6: Bath Time

"You promised there'd be rum," said my pirate, plaintively.

"And there will be," I assured him, adding a liberal quantity of vanilla-scented bubble-bath to the steaming tub. "As soon as you're in this tub and the first layer of grime is soaking nicely off you, you'll get all the alcohol you want." I turned to smile sweetly at him. "'Savvy?'"

"You are a harsh mistress, an' no mistake," he sighed. "Positively ruthless. Very well, m'lady." He peered dubiously at the streaming faucet. "Must say, that's a remarkable amount of hot water to be had on short notice. Quite disturbing, in fact...Where does it come from?"

"Pipes," I said succinctly. "Stop stalling, and strip."

His grin was slow, dazzling, and decidedly wicked. "Will you be watchin' me, then?"

"I will not," I said, with all the dignity I could muster. "And you will kindly behave yourself, buddy." My motion as I switched off the water was perhaps more forceful than was entirely necessary. "Or..."

"Or what?" he demanded, and I detected a flash of amusement in his dark eyes. "Or you'll scold me to death, is that it?" I opened my mouth to attempt just that, but he overrode me. "I know, I know, no rum if I don't conduct meself like a gentleman."

"Got it in one," said I. "I'm so glad we understand each other."

He shook his head, looking mournful. "You're no fun at all, Miss Kerr."

"That's right," I said severely. "I'm not. And don't you forget it."

"Still," he mused, "you may be the oddest little bird I've known in three centuries. Are you not even the slightest bit intimidated by the fact that I have all the weaponry, and you are armed only with hot water and tea-kettles?"

I was about to tell him that my sixth-graders were scarier than he was; then I remembered how swiftly and skillfully he had cornered me the night before. "One bottle of rum, coming right up," I said instead, as I shut the door.

In the kitchen, I stood on a chair to take down the Bacardi from the topmost cupboard; sometimes I really hate being short. The truth was, though, that I kept what alcohol I had out of my own reach for two reasons: one, because I didn't anticipate having to take it down except on rare occasions, and two, because it would prevent me from being tempted to take it down on a regular basis.

On second thought, it was a very large bottle. A short search came up with a purple plastic sixteen-ounce tumbler, which I half-filled with rum and a couple of ice cubes. I wasn't about to give him a real glass. I didn't entirely trust Captain Sparrow not to break things, especially if he turned out to be an energetic drunk. After a moment's contemplation, I added a bit of lemon juice for flavor; I had a vague idea that sailors used to drink their liquor with a touch of citrus, something about the virtues of vitamin C.

Peace-offering in hand, I returned to the bathroom door, where I waited until I heard splashes and a muffled curse; satisfied that my guest was safely ensonced in his bath, I knocked lightly. "Captain Sparrow?"

"Aye, lass, come in." He sounded resigned. "There're more'n enough blasted bubbles; I assure you that your delicate sensitivities will not be offended."

"That was the intent," I said smugly. Still, I poked my head around the door with some caution, and was relieved to see that he had spoken truthfully; only his head was visible among the mounds of white foam. Biting my lip to keep from laughing at the incongruity of this vision and the mulish expression on my victim's face, I held out the tumbler. "Your drink, as promised."

"Thank the powers!" He snatched it from me with one sudsy hand, downing half of the contents in one gulp. Then he grimaced, viewing it, and me, suspiciously. "What is this stuff? Not real rum, surely?"

"Of course it is!" I said, more than a little offended. "And it's not cheap, either, so don't give me that look."

"Funny sort of rum, then," he grumbled. "No texture at all, an' no bloody flavor. And it's clear." He considered it. "Still, got a nice bite to it, so it's better than nothing, I suppose..."

"I certainly hope so, because it's the only kind I have." I pulled the shower curtain closed with a snap. Now that he couldn't see me, I gathered up his discarded clothing, wrinkling my nose at their odor of unwashed pirate. The garments were so stiff with ground-in dirt, tar and salt they could almost have stood up of their own accord. "There's a bar of soap on the shelf," I informed him loudly, by way of cover. "I suggest you use it."

"God's teeth, woman! Ain't a whole bloody tubful enough?"

"Isn't enough," I corrected automatically, the English teacher in me asserting herself. "And no, it's not."

"Leah, darlin', you'll be the death o' me." But the rum was having its desired effect, and far more quickly than I had expected; perhaps modern distillation produced a stronger proof, or perhaps his two hundred years trapped in a bottle had adversely affected his tolerance, because his words were becoming mildly but noticeably slurred. "Don' think I've seen this much soap in me entire life."

"I don't doubt it," I retorted, and left him to it.

I wanted to burn the clothes; but the incinerator was on the other side of the complex, and I didn't want to leave Jack Sparrow alone in the apartment even for a moment. Barring the mischief he might get up to, he could easily hurt himself. So I merely consigned shirt, breeches, and coat to the washer--I was lucky enough to have my own laundry room in my place, although it was more like a laundry nook--added two capfuls of laundry detergent, turned the settings to "hot" and "heavily soiled", and hoped the things would fall to pieces by the end of the cycle. The hat...I examined it distastefully, unsure of what to do with it. He couldn't wear it out in public here, that was for damn sure, but he seemed really attached to the thing, and I had an inkling that he might not be too thrilled if I threw it away or destroyed it in the washer. Still, it seemed to be made of soft leather, so perhaps it would stand up to a vigorous cleaning. I left it atop the dryer for now.

"Oh, good," he said, upon my return to the bathroom. His arm snaked around the curtain, holding out the purple cup. "Bloody empty."

"That was quick," I said. "How's the soap coming?"

A noise of industrious scrubbing. "No need to be stingy, love. Come, let's have us another."

Well, such was our agreement, I supposed. I took the cup, and was about to close the door again when he said, "An' have one yourself, Missy. Could only do you good, y'know. You seem a bit uptight this mornin'."

"No thanks," I said. "It's too early for me." And I added to myself on a stern undertone: "And I don't drink." At least, not anymore...

I didn't think Captain Sparrow had heard that last part, until I came back with the refilled drink and he asked me, quite seriously, "So you're a teetotaler, are you--? No, let me guess," he said, "you think rum is a vile drink that turns even the most respectable of young ladies into perfect Jezebels. Am I right?"

What an odd way of speaking he had sometimes. "In a way, yes," I said shortly, handing in the cup.

"Should try it sometime," he said, accepting his bribe with great appreciation. "You might like it."

I sighed. This was not a conversation I wanted to have just now. "I have tried it, Jack. And liked it. Liked it too much, in fact." Had he known it, he was at least partially, if indirectly, responsible for my getting clean. After the strange events in New Orleans, and my increasingly troublesome dreams, it had occurred to me that perhaps I should stop screwing with my brain cells.

That, and I'd almost lost my job after partying too hard on too many weeknights and dragging myself in to work still smelling of alcohol.

"Ah! So that's the way of it," Jack said cheerfully. "Truth be told, there's some who've said the same about me. I don't see the problem, meself."

"You wouldn't," I said ruefully. "You're a pirate. Pirates are supposed to be drunken scoundrels. Isn't it in the job description, or something? 'Prerequisites: Must be bloodthirsty, amoral, and obsessed with treasure. General lawlessness preferred. Alcoholism encouraged. Please apply within.'"

"You've a funny way of putting things," he said, unconsciously echoing my own thoughts of a minute ago. "I don' know about the 'bloodthirsty' bit, now. Not all of us kill for pleasure, though I've known a good number that did."

"Really." I picked up his sword and pistol gingerly, trying to be as silent about it as possible. "Next you'll be telling me there's such a thing as a noble pirate, and you're one of them."

"Hah! Not noble. That's a lot of sodding nonsense." He chuckled. "But there's some who've called me a good man, love, pirate or no."

"You've killed, though." I kept my tone neutral, and the implements of death at arms length. I don't really like firearms. Adri took me to a shooting range once; she did her level best to teach me how to hit a target, but I jumped so violently every time my gun went off that she declared, between snorts of laughter, that I was a danger to myself and others. I had heartily agreed. "You must have."

"Aye," Jack said. "But only when it was necessary, y'see. Not because I liked it."

For some reason, maybe because of the way he said it--heavily, almost as if he were admitting a weakness--I believed him. But I still took the weapons with me. He had been right when he pointed out that I was practically defenseless and he, armed to the teeth, and I intended to even the odds--

"By the way, Miss Kerr?" drawled Jack's voice from the bathroom. "I'll thank you to have a care with my effects."

Shit. I should have known; he had ears like a bat. "I didn't want them to rust, is all," I called back to him. "Steam will do that, you know."

A moment passed; I held my breath. "Damn thoughtful of you," came the reply, and I relaxed, until he added, "Of course, they've borne much worse, y'know. Very humid place, the Caribbean, and even the best-made ship can be dreadfully damp." He paused; I thought he might be laughing at me. "Just put 'em with my hat, there's a good girl."

I did so, hurriedly. So much for my clever plans...As I stood in the laundry nook, contemplating my next move, the faint sound of singing reached my ears.

"We're devils and black sheep and really bad eggs--"

My curiosity getting the better of me, I emerged cautiously from the nook and listened, bemused.

"Drink up me hearties, yo ho!"

"I believe, Captain Sparrow," I said to the empty kitchen, "that you have had more than enough rum for one morning."

When I had tucked the Bacardi away in the back of its cupboard and returned my improvised step-stool to its place at the table, I went into my bedroom, where I opened my bottom bureau drawer, rummaging through its contents until I found what I wanted: a pair of men's jeans. Luckily, my last ex-boyfriend, while being next to useless in practically every other regard, had the foresight to leave a change of clothes at my place, and had yet to return in the wake of our breakup to retrieve his belongings. This had annoyed the crap out of me, until just now.

I held up the jeans, assessing them. Jason was a big guy, so Captain Sparrow would definitely need his belt. But they were the right length, at least, and slim build or no, Jack certainly wouldn't fit into any of my pants. I added an old Tool t-shirt that had always been too large for me and carried the ensemble out to the bathroom.

"We pillage, we plunder, we rifle and loot--Mistress Leah! This bathing business isn't nearly so horrible as I'd imagined. Though this water is quite fearfully scented...I shall smell like a bleedin' fop for days, I should think."

"One can only hope," I said tartly. "Vanilla's a perfectly acceptable masculine scent, you know." Then I smiled in spite of myself. "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself, Captain. When you're done, there's a towel on the rack for you. Take your time."

With that, I retired to the living room and waited. Not for long. Presently a dreadlocked and disheveled head appeared around the door, frowning like a thundercloud.

"What," it demanded ominously, "have you done with me britches, woman?"

I turned a page of my magazine, attempting nonchalance. "They're in the wash," I said calmly.

"An' my coat?"

"That too. It needed it, believe me. Badly."

"Oh, Lord," he moaned. "Not good...lassie, you'll ruin it! Don't you know it takes at least a month's wear before clothing is properly broken in an' comfortable?"

"Nonetheless," I said, and turned another page. "You'll find clean things on the counter by the sink."

He glowered, but withdrew. After a few minutes, he reappeared, arms folded, wearing Jason's jeans and a challenging expression. No shirt. The ensemble looked good on him. Much better than it had ever looked on Jason, that was for damn sure.

"Not bad," I said; then I noticed something else. "My God, Jack! Is that a scar?"

"Oh, this?" he said sardonically, dropping his arms so I could fully see the dark, knotted marks on his chest. "Two scars, in fact. Or did you mean these?" And he extended his left forearm to display pale burn-tracks where some hot liquid, perhaps, had trickled across his skin.

I had risen, dismayed, and crossed the room, forgetting to be wary. I touched his other wrist, the one that bore the sparrow tattoo, tentatively. "And you've got a brand, too," I murmured. "'P' for Pirate?"

"Aye," he said, surprising me by submitting to my examination. "Courtesy of the bastards of the East India Company. Damn lucky that one didn't go on my forehead." His lips twisted in a mirthless smile; he didn't seem in the least bit drunk, anymore. "Was only a lad at the time, and the man who did it said he didn't want to disfigure my pretty little face. Thought he'd keep me, y'see..."

I did see; all too well, in fact. The look of horror must have been plain on my face, for he said, in a gruff voice, "No worries, miss. Was a good long time ago, an' I survived all right, didn't I? But there you are: that brute was what they call 'honest,' but his was a blacker soul than many a pirate I've sailed with. Now then--" he was clearly ready to change the subject-- "What say you? Do I pass muster?"

"Wellll..." I said reluctantly. "Not quite yet, Captain Sparrow. The thing is, you're still fairly...unusual-looking. It's the hair, I'm afraid. And the chin-braids definitely have to go."

"My beard? My hair?" It was his turn to stare at me in horror. "Please tell me you're joking, m'lady."

"Sorry, Jack."

"No," he said. "I won't do it. The hair stays, and that's final. No arguin'."

"We won't have to cut it short, or anything," I said, arguing anyway. "Just...the dreads have to come out. And the beads and, er, things...And it could use a shampoo, or three." And a fine-toothed comb, I added mentally.

"Bollocks," he growled. "I've about had enough o' your meddling, Miss Kerr, and I ain't letting you near my hair. Savvy?"

"Come on, Captain," I pleaded. "This isn't for my own amusement, you know. You're in a different kind of world than what you're used to, now, and you've got to adapt to it. This is about survival, Jack. Something I gather you know quite a bit about..."

"I don't think you quite understand." He leaned against the doorframe, looking more than a little weary. "These--" and he tugged at the dangling beads-- "They're all I have left, love. Lost my ship, my crew, my blasted world, as you've so eloquently pointed out, and now ye'll take me trinkets, too?" He shook his head, setting the trinkets in question rattling against one another. "They're part of who I am. Without 'em, I could be anybody...just an ordinary chap. Without 'em, there's no Captain Jack Sparrow."

"The costume doesn't make the man," I said softly. "And somehow I doubt that you could be anyone but Jack Sparrow. As for ordinary...you couldn't be ordinary if you tried, my friend."

"That's...not entirely true." He shifted, almost uncomfortably, studying his now-clean (or mostly clean) fingernails. "I'll let you in on a secret, lass. I wasn't always Jack Sparrow. I invented him, and then I became him. And before that--" he shrugs. "I was as you say. Ordinary. Without trying a great deal, either."

I found I could take this extraordinary revelation in stride; it was minor, after all, compared to the incredible fact of his continued presence in my heretofore supremely ordinary life. Plus, it explained a lot--his shifts in diction, his deliberate flamboyance, and that subtle air he had of not being exactly what he seemed.

"In that case," I said, "you're used to changing your stripes, as they say. Just think of this as another disguise. If you became Jack Sparrow once, it shouldn't be too hard for you to do so again, you know."

He was silent for a space, gazing off into the middle distance; then he heaved a sigh. "All right," he said. "I can tell you'll give me no peace til the thing's done, so let's get it over with. 'Lay on, McDuff!' I must be drunker than I thought," he reflected, "else I'd never have told you so much about my personal history. 'Twas maybe two living who knew it in my own time, even, and they'd been my good mates for years before I confided in 'em."

"People tell me things," I agreed. "I guess you could say it's a gift."

"Or a curse, eh?" He tilted his head at me; his smile was real this time, a brilliant flash of gold and white. "'A little learning is a dangerous thing...'"

"'Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring?' Maybe so," I said with an answering grin. "Still, I tend to find it more useful than not."

He eyed me speculatively. "Aye, I'm sure you do, at that."

I ignored this, giving him a gentle shove back toward the bathroom. "Now, let's see what we can do with that hair of yours, Captain."

And for a wonder, he obeyed, though he hummed what sounded like a gallows dirge under his breath as he went.