This is the beginning of an epic; fifth part.
This is a nice, long chapter.
I bet you thought I forgot about Will and Will & Elizabeth. Nope. Next chapter.
Also, Jack doesn't know that Will saw him kiss Elizabeth. He doesn't know that he's wicked upset. He thinks Will & 'Liz are hunky-dory in loveland. Just to clear that up. Don't want any confusion, y'know.
Keep up the reviews, y'all! Your interest is what keeps me writing. -huggles-
Post Script; forgive any mistakes & typos. I don't have the energy to check it.
"I'll persuade her," he slurred.
The stairs creaked horribly when he put his weight on them. But he was sure they wouldn't give out; he had climbed them many times before. Many times before. Before. In the past. There was no railing; the stairs, decaying pieces of what was clearly driftwood, were wrapped around the thick, twisted tree the ancient house was built around. Very unstable. Did Jack care? Of course not. And anyway, the entire house looked like a stiff breeze would shatter it into a million pieces of crumbling, maggoty wood.
He cast his eyes around the room one final time, before the rotting wooden floorboards of the second tier blocked his vision. They fell first on Elizabeth, naturally and quite despite the voice of reason. She had taken his seat; slouched low, eyes half closed. His crew, despite the continuous buzzing of conversation, looked exhausted beyond reason. Like they'd just come off a storm, pulled hard through a breaker.
Then he realized. She wasn't with Will. She was in his seat. At the head of the table. And there was the whelp. In the corner. Brooding? Very interesting.
But he hadn't time to consider it. Before he knew it his feet were firmly planted on the upper level, the loud thud of his heavy boots echoing off the carved-out walls. Only a few cast bleary eyes towards their Captain as he drunkenly mounted the stairs and disappeared to the place they themselves had dared not go. William Turner was not one of them.
Indeed, she was there. Bent over a thick volume; back turned to the mouth of the stairs. She'd had her fill of sadness and blind despair; she knew that, when grieving, the best thing to do was keep yourself busy. And that was easy. For her.
Yes, she'd heard the commotion downstairs. She knew he was back. Of course, she knew he was back far before. Far before even Elizabeth. She knew things. That was the truth. And she knew he would wind his way upstairs to find her. Eventually.
Blackened eyes flew across pages of lore. Fingers moved back and forth, from her lips to the papers. Deep in thought. Hands fluttered over the sea of jewel colored bottles, pouring one after another into a larger chalice. A flash of light. A plume of ruby smoke, followed by an explosion of black sparks. She absentmindedly pinched out a small fire smoldering warmly at the tips of her untamed hair. It would have burned had she not long since lost feeling in her fingers. Numbness. It was a small price to pay for some of her darker accomplishments. Black magic. It often had undesirable effects on the creator.
Her concentration was quickly broken by the sounds of an ascending visitor. Necklaces and bangles of all shapes and sizes clattered together as she turned to face him.
"Well, be still my heart, if it isn't Jack Sparrow." She swayed towards him, closing the distance in a rustle of her tattered skirts. "I told you. Don't you be messin' around with Davy Jones."
"Tia Dalma." He met her eyes, so similar to his own. But where his were surprisingly sharp and clear, hers were red. And murky. Unfathomable. It came from hours spent in near-darkness, pouring over thick volumes of scribbled writings. And from the herb. She was quite fond of it, truth be told. It was ancient; Chinese, or so he'd heard. And she knew the secrets. Knew how to dry, and chop, and cure. It was all in those weathered pages.
She was dressed as always; a long, grimy gown that would have been gorgeous at once point, long ago. It was tight. Very tight. It gave Jack a perfect view of her rather large chest. It turned him on at a feverish level. He moved closer. He could feel her hot breath on his neck. "I'm here to persuade you," he breathed, eyes angled downwards. He wove a set of dirty fingers between her sundry of large, gaudy necklaces. So many sparkling gems. So much gold. "Beautiful," he mumbled under his breath, eyes fixed on a particularly large sapphire. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, staring at the stone as if it contained a hidden secret.
Their affairs of the past were certainly something to remember. Legendary. And Tia Dalma wasn't like the others. The tavern wenches. The other men's wives. The virgins. The nymphomaniacs. The ladies of court. The destitutes. The delinquents. She wasn't like any of them. She didn't give a damn. She didn't care. She didn't care if Jack came or went. If he was on fire with passion or cold as ice. She didn't care. And that made her so different.
She remembered him coming close. She remembered him swaying against her. She remembered his no-regrets smile. She remembered listening to him plead his case. Time after time. Shag after shag.
Watching him weave his thieving fingers through her precious jewelry, she caught his hand, bringing it up to eye level with a smirk.
"Don't you be tanglin' your fingers in things I don't give you permission to touch, Jack Sparrow." She cackled and swept away, turning her back. "What can Tia do for you?" Her hands wandered back to the phials crowding the scarred table, though she wasn't paying attention to the concoction at this point. She was waiting. Waiting to hear what he wanted this time.
He stepped behind her, looming over her much smaller frame. He had a terrific view of her assets from his position. He felt a tingling through his body he recognized immediately. Animal desire. He came up close. Until he was pressed against her from behind. He lowered his lips to her ear, so close that they just barely brushed against it as he spoke.
"Letmycrewspendthenight?" He spoke so fast his words ran together, one long question. He teased the large rubies dangling from her ear with his dirty fingers, seriously considering easing them out of the hole and pocketing them.
Tia was no fool. Like a loyal dog, Jack would follow. She knew well that she was the perfect release for him. The perfect release for guilt-free Jack Sparrow. She could feel him breathing behind her. Heat on her neck. His lips were wavering dangerously close to her ear. Her hand darted out, seizing his. She turned around, fingers wrapped around his wrist, vice-like.
"I'm telling you, Jack. Don't you be eyein' my jewels." Her nose wrinkled in thought as she slowly released him from her grip. A quirky smile spread across her ink-smeared lips. "You all are most welcome to use my home for a night." She nodded one more time and pressed the palm of her hand against his cheek. And turned back to her book.
Jack was fighting with himself. Hard. He wanted to shag. Needed to shag. And there was Tia. Right bloody in front of him. She was his ticket to a guilt-free release of his lust. True, Tia Dalma was all kinds of bewitching. But his thirst was for Elizabeth Swann.
And what else could he do? She wasn't exactly available. She wasn't at his fingertips. Like Tia was. She could give him something he surely couldn't get from the woman he loved. Not with the whelp around, at the very least. He groaned softly, torn between throwing himself at her and bloody leaving.
Then he did it.
He couldn't contain himself; his desire was too great. It was something he'd been deprived of for a long time, and he bloody needed it. He grabbed her arms from behind, spinning her around to face him.
"What say you to rekindling the flame? I've been at sea a long time." He grinned devilishly, drawing his finger across her collarbone. It bothered him, a stinging pain in his chest, that the woman in front of him wasn't the one he loved. Wasn't Elizabeth. But he needed a shag. Badly. And Elizabeth was taken.
She smirked as his desire peaked and lofted a brow. Tia could sense the desperation in Jack from the minute he stepped over her threshold. She had known. He smelled so thickly of lust it choked her nostrils. But she hadn't said a word.
She was seized from behind. Dark eyes glanced downward to see those familiar, filthy hands. She let him spin her around; she listened to the confession of his need for flesh. Her skin felt white-hot under his fingers. The temptation was most certainly there. But his eyes were confusing. There was something there. Something told her that it wasn't right. That she wasn't right.
She ignored it. He didn't know what he wanted. That was true. His compass wasn't working, after all. But she couldn't read minds. She knew things, yes. But she didn't know what he really wanted. And until she did...
She pressed her lips to his. Quickly.
"Welcome back, Captain Jack." Her hand wrapped around the worn leather of his belt; his assortment of personal effects clamored with the disturbance.
Jack a surge of heat through his body as her lips met his. He let her hands explore his belt. He draped his arms loosely over his shoulders. He felt it unhook and fall to the ground with a loud thud; his sword and pistol were quite heavy. He brought his lips against hers. Fierce with lust.
There were too many thoughts racing through his mind; he could barely process them. Passion. Pleasure. It felt so good. Guilt? Regret? No, no. Don't think about that, fool. Don't think about her. Don't think about her.
"I lost my hat," he mumbled into her neck. He hadn't meant to say it. But it had been the first thing his mind managed to wrap itself around.
Her lips slowly explored inch after inch of still damp flesh around his jaw. She laughing in his ear as the belt slipped to the ground. His spice-and-rum taste was so familiar. Her arms folded around his neck. Her fingers tugged at his matted hair, ushering him blindly backwards to her bedside.
Modest was an understatement. It was, in effect, a creaking wooden frame. Half-decayed, like everything else in the river house. Her blankets were quilted; pieces of fabric that had no earthly business being so were sewn tightly together. Silk and leather. Satin and burlap. Hands tugged him down into her bed.
He let her pull him onto it. Onto her. She was as beautiful as ever; just as he'd left her. Her tanned skin was a perfect match for his own sun-damaged color. Her tattered gown slipped down one dark shoulder. And he saw it. A scar. He traced the thin, white line with a blackened fingertip.
"Remember?" He could. Quite well. He pressed down on her, his tongue exploring her mouth. She tasted of the herb. He loved that taste.
And his chest was still stinging. He ignored it.
Her arms wrapped around him slowly; her fingers ran over his tangled mane. She preened him as if he were a cat. She nodded, her eyes locked on his. She remembered. Her hands clawed up his chest. Her lips pressed harder against his. His hands twisted in her hair. She arched her back. She cackled.
He was just considering how best to shed his clothing when he heard the stairs creaking. They fell silent.
Elizabeth was growing tired with each passing moment. Half the crew was already asleep, heads on comrade's shoulders. He was supposed to be asking whether or not they could stay. And his coming back was not fast enough for any of their liking. She shook her head. She was creaking up the last few steps when she began scolding.
"Jack you have an entire crew down here ready to completely..." She couldn't finish her sentence. Her hands gripped the door-frame so tight her knuckles turned white. She felt a sharp pang in her chest. Her heart was suddenly racing.
Jack Sparrow. On top of Tia Dalma.