Disclaimer: I don't have permission to be writing this, I'm just a fan, I have no money...same old song and dance.
A/N: sorry again for the lack of updates on my other fics, but fragments of this have been sitting around in my computer for some time, and I just strung it all together. Oneshot; enjoy.
Jack Sparrow did not fancy himself a stupid man, even though recent events suggested otherwise. It had been two weeks since he had gotten off the tiny islet on which he had been marooned, and he still didn't have a decent plan on how to get his ship back. Many ideas had come to him; each more wild and less likely to succeed than the next. Formally-Captain Jack Sparrow gazed moodily into his almost-empty tankard, his head still pounding dully from the previous night's revelries. i The Fool in Chains i was one of the cheaper taverns in Tortuga, though it was also one of the seedier for the same reason. The plaster walls were cracked, the scuffed tables dirty, and the stale drink watery, but it was never the less always full of people. A strumpet dressed in a low-cut and rather ugly orangy-pink dress had been eyeing him at his little corner table for the last fifteen minutes, and she was finally sauntering over to him. Jack chose not to look up when she halted in front of him; if he ignored her, maybe she'd go away. "Why're y'all 'lone on sucha perty night, luv? Lookin' fer cump'ny?" Her high, girlish voice was so sickly sweet there was almost an undertone of threat in it, and her thin, stringy white-blonde hair was pulled back in a sloppy bun. Jack refused to look up, but he knew her beady bluish eyes were staring intently at his face, trying to discovery whether or not he had drunken himself into a stupor or was simply stone-deaf. He emptied his tankard of it's watered-down contents, but still didn't acknowledge her presence. After what felt like an age, the woman made an exasperated noise and walked huffily away. "About bloody time," Jack muttered into his tankard. He set it down on the tiny wobbly table in front of him with a soft sigh. He absently twirled a lock of brown-black hair between his fingers, wondering what to do next. i The Viper's Head Inn i , he decided. He vaguely remembered a relative of Ana Maria's friend working there. Or was it a friend of Ana Maria's relative? Oh well, he'd figure it out when he got there. He got up out of his chair and inelegantly swaggered his way to the door, casually stepping over the man who lay spread-eagle and passed out on the floor. Jack had never been able to walk normally; one of his legs was considerably shorter than the other, so he was in a constant, graceless dance. It made him tired, having to constantly lose and find his center of gravity, but he rarely let it make him ill-tempered. As he went out of the door and into the street, the smell hit him; the sweet proliferous bouquet that is Tortuga. The mix was so deliciously familiar that Jack stopped in the doorway, eyes closed, and inhaled. Horses' sweat, man's sweat, low tide, spoiled fish, dog's breath, sweet smoke, sour smoke, gun smoke, sewage, wet straw, fruit nearly rotten, fruit i beyond i rotten, cheap perfume, stale urine, ale, feathers, fire. And if happiness had a smell, that too was in the air of Tortuga. In fact, that was the scent that hovered behind all the other fragrances in the air; or, at least that was Jack's opinion.
"Are ye gonna get outuv de way, or do I hafta push ya?" a gruff voice behind Jack growled. "My apologies," said Jack smoothly as a scraggly man with a stooped back and a drunkenly giggling woman on his arm skulked by him. With that, he adjusted his hat and strode down the street, weaving between loose chickens and the not-so-sober inhabitants of the downtown, trying to pick up the scent that lingered behind the rest.