Ok, folks. This is actually a one shot that's a tie-in to my first story, 'Inconvenient'. It's a POV on Jack's scars. Please, feel free to read it. And if it interests you, go read 'Inconvenient' and my other long-term fic, 'Caught by the Past'.
Enjoy.
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Life is hard. Life is almost like the sea at times; it can knock and throw you around, and make you bleed. It can cut you so deep that you never recover, or it can simply leave you with a scar.
Scars are a part of life. It's rare to find anyone not of the nobility or upper-class who does not have at least one scar. Grandfather has more than his share, and my brothers have collected their own. It's natural. It's the sign that a body is strong and able to heal.
And yet, it seems different for a woman.
Jack didn't know about my scars. Why should he? The only one he'd ever seen was the mark of my family – and it was designed to be pleasant to the eye. So that night, three weeks after my wedding, I found myself hesitating because of my scars.
"Jack, stop." I felt him pull away. As he did, I let my hands slip from his shoulders. I want to cry out of frustration with myself. I wanted to be with Jack . . . but what if he thought me ugly on account of my scars?
"What is it, love? What're you still scared of?" I couldn't face him; the puzzled tenderness of his voice had me close enough to tears as it was. I'd done enough crying in front of this man. I refused to do more.
"I'm not pretty, Jack."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm not perfect." I risked a look at him – his eyes were full of understanding. And humor. What was so funny? "I have scars, Jack."
"Winnie, darling, everyone as one –"
"There's more than one. I've many. I'm not some gently bred lady who sat around in her house. I broke my leg as a child, and that left a scar. I've been grazed by musket and pistol balls, scraped by sword blades. I have burns. And . . . and . . . I was shot. Years ago. The scar, that scar . . . it's ugly."
At some point my eyes had left his to travel around the room, lighting upon one object after another in agitation. A hand on my chin forced me to look at my husband. He searched my eyes for several moments, and then he sighed and shook his head. He took my hand in his, saying, "Come over here, Winnie." Jack led me to the cabinets that lined the windows of the spacious cabin. Sitting down, he pulled me close until I was standing between his knees. "Scars are a mark of life, Winnie. So you've lived instead of sitting around like some sort of decoration. That's nothing of which you need to be ashamed."
"I know –" He placed a finger over my lips, cutting off my miserable voice.
"You know a lot, I've noticed. But how much of that do you believe?" He paused, as if judging the wisdom of his actions. Settling his mind, he took my hands once again, and brought them to the hem of his shirt. Together, we removed it. I kept my eyes locked on his tan throat, unsure of what was supposed to be happening. "Jack?"
"Take a look, love." He removed the cloths from his wrists and hands, allowing me to see everything from the waist up without hindrance. There on his right wrist was the mark of a pirate, the 'P' that had been branded into his flesh. I traced it with a light finger. "Aye, the stories do tend to exaggerate at times." I met his eyes, then continued with my authorized staring. Above the brand was his personal tattoo – the one that aided in identification. A bird – a sparrow – flying before a setting sun. So much like my own. Further up his arm, past the tattoo and near his shoulder was another tattoo – some kind of Celtic knot-work – and a scar left by a knife.
There were many other tattoos, and I did examine them, but it was the scars I was supposed to be paying the most attention to. My eyes found each of them with horrified fascination: two gunshot wounds on the right side of his chest, badly healed. If they'd been on the other side, I doubted he'd still be alive. There was a burn on the inside of his left arm, a tattoo over his heart, numerous marks where blades had found his skin. Including the bloody scrape I'd just given him. But there were two scars I hadn't seen. "Jack? Where –" His left hand opened so I could study the palm. A long slash ran across it, cutting across the lines that a palm-reader would use to tell his fortune. Will and Elizabeth had matching scars.
I looked up into the partially closed face of my husband. This next question was likely to be personal, and I doubted he'd answer. "And the spot where Barbossa stabbed you?"
His eyes studied mine with an intensity that I'd rarely experienced, but eventually he did answer. "Here." His hand placed my fingertips just below the edge of his breastbone. There's wasn't a scar, but I doubted that being impaled on your own sword was something you soon forgot.
As a reward, or perhaps a concession, to his honesty, I loosened the laces of my gown and pulled down on the right side, revealing my own brand. He turned me to better examine it, tracing the circle that enclosed the bird of prey that was pouncing on a merchant ship at full sail. His touch sent shivers down my spine, and while modesty and a bit of apprehension still gripped me, I was willing to let him take things further. "They don't exactly mention things like this in the stories, do they?"
"No, love. They don't."
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So, there's that. Hope to have another one up soon.
Thank you to all who reviewed the last chapter.