AN: This is by far the best chapter of this story; it is also, by strange coincedence, the cutest…
The Quack Act
Part III: Of Bread and Pondwater
"So…?" Lord Livingstone anxiously pressed his wife later that evening, when he had eventually emerged from his study. "What do you think?"
Lady Livingstone was silent for a moment.
"You spent all day writing this?" she eventually asked, her voice even whilst she held up the incriminating new speech.
"About that amount, yes."
"Dear God…" Lady Livingstone cursed, dropping the sheet onto the desk with an expression of palpable disgust.
"You don't like it?" Jack fretted. It might seem odd that the man would place so much stock by his wife's opinions, more so in an age where women were considered to be nothing more than children trapped in an adult's body; but those who believed such things clearly hadn't encountered the same amount of strong women that Jack had. (Oh, where to begin? His mother, one of the most shamelessly wanton women to have ever walked the earth? Miss Elizabeth Swann of Port Royal, the confusingly flirtatious true love of one William Turner? Anamaria, the sailor who made him regret ever laying a finger on her bloody boat? His own daughter, who was too many things to list?) Besides, Sierra was surprisingly talented when it came to politics and all matter concerning the English language, he'd discovered, and he was obliged to seek her counsel on more than one occasion, considering how he didn't much care for governing fair Britannia.
It was quite odd and somewhat hypocritical, actually; when Jack had first set out on the account, he'd consoled what little morals he had (for in his youth, Jack did possess something vaguely resembling morals) with the sad but honest truth that the British government was corrupt and unethical and had forced him, amidst countless others, into a life of desperate lawlessness; and in those days, Jack had sworn to himself that if he ever had the chance to change the way things were, then he will. However, now that Jack was given the opportunity to right the British world of its numerous and inconsistent wrongs, he found that he honestly couldn't be stuffed; hence, he allowed his wife to take over, as she found the life of a leisured aristocrat quite boring and stifling and was eager to put her fully capable mind to use, even if it was for something as tedious and unfulfilling as running the country.
"I do hope you'll pardon my language, sweetheart," Sierra was saying, "It's absolute bollocks."
Jack started at her harsh voice and unusually crude words, looking towards her and feeling vaguely hurt.
"Well, rewrite it, then!" he commanded, gesturing at the speech. Sierra crossed her arms and stubbornly shook her head.
"No," she said, quite simply.
Jack merely gaped at her. "No?" he parroted.
"No."
Lord Livingstone decided to try another approach.
"And how am I going to present myself in Parliament if I have a speech that's 'absolute bollocks?'" he challenged her defiantly. "What's wrong with it, anyway?"
"There's nothing wrong with your speech, Jack," Sierra rushed to reassure him. "Your speech is fine—as a matter of fact, it's very moving. Almost inspiring, and certainly very persuasive," she added with a gentle smile that, coupled with her words and true opinion of the entire matter, served to successfully demonstrate her love for her husband in a very sweet and mildly clichéd manner.
"So where did it all go bollocks, then?" Jack asked, apparently oblivious to his wife's subtle and non-verbal declaration of undying love and eternal affection. (What a bastard, Sierra couldn't help but think, and not for the first time wondered why she loved him so.)
"Everywhere. Everything—it's the subject matter of the speech that I think is absolute bollocks, not the speech itself."
Jack frowned at this. "And what's wrong with the subject matter?" he asked in all honest innocence (a rare state for him to find himself in).
Sierra raised her hand to her temples with a sigh that communicated volumes about how exasperating she found her life to any and all persons willing to listen; a depressingly short list of the human race which, unfortunately for Sierra, did not include her husband.
"Jack," she said again, "do you honestly think you'll be able to get away with this proposal? Do you honestly think that the other peers will accept and grant this? And of course, you'll have to take the House of Commons into account…"
Jack waved this last comment away. "No I don't," he scoffed. "The House of Lords have far more power and influence than the House of Commons; even if the Commons don't go for it, it would hardly matter if I've the Lords behind me."
"Jack," Sierra tried again, in all seriousness, "you're proposing a ban on duck ponds. No man in his right mind will ever even consider it."
"And why not, might I ask? It's a legitimate and perfectly reasonable request," Jack sniffed.
"No it's not, it's—Oh Jack, just read it through!" and she flung the speech towards him. "It's absolutely ridiculous—and the suggested methods and punishments are nothing short of preposterous!"
"They are not!" Jack protested indignantly.
"Oh, so your suggestion that 'Duck Smugglers' should be burnt at the stake is not at all ludicrous?" she challenged.
"That was the first draft," Jack corrected, clinging tightly to his duck pond speech. "In the second draft, I amended it to transportation for a minimum of five years."
"Oh!" Sierra snapped, throwing up her hands in frustration. "Honestly, sometimes I don't know why—"
"Whatever the rest of that question is, let me assure you now that the answer is the sweet, simple, 'because you love me.'"
Sierra had the urge to call him a number of unpleasant and rather uncivilised things; however, knowing that he would remain mostly unaffected by such uncouth nouns, she merely settled for crossing her arms and yelling "Quack!" just because she wished to irk him. Jack's face paled considerably at this, but otherwise he showed no signs of being affected.
"Why are you doing this? Because of what happened at Rochester's? If that's the case, then let me tell you, Jack, that no one but me, you, Pearl, Beckham and Paul know about that unfortunate incident, and I can assure you that it'll remain that way."
"It's partly to do with that night at Rochester's…" Jack confessed. "That was the spark that set this entire affair alight, if that makes any sense at all."
"A little. Oh Jack, why? How could one night have affected your perspective so greatly?"
"It wasn't just one night," Jack confided, turning away from her and strolling to look out of the darkened window. "Darling, I've a long and unpleasant history with ducks; a war which has lasted a lifetime, and now, at long last, I've the weapons, the stratagems, with which to triumph. Can you, in all good conscience, and with your love for me as great and unconditional as you claim, even consider snatching my victory away when it's so close at hand?"
"My God," Sierra said, and Jack was surprised to hear her sounding breathless. Frowning, he turned back to see that she had flicked open a fan and was now waving it most violently before her spectacularly heaving bosom (something which Jack didn't find at all mesmerising, honest). "I'm sorry," she said in that same breathy voice. "It's just that you're so eloquent… And your voice when it's seething with hatred is just so… I'm sorry," she said again, and he could see, even in the dim candlelight, that she was blushing. Smirking, he watched from afar as her rapidly swelling chest slowed, and she lowered her fan, self-consciously reaching up to adjust her hair and clearing her throat embarrassedly.
"Quack," she said playfully. Her obsession with the word was rather endearing. "So… ducks, eh? Surely you don't hate all ducks?" she persisted.
"I do," Jack informed her gravely. "I despise all ducks with a burning hatred rivalled only by my uncontrollable passion for you."
Sierra coughed suddenly, and he could have sworn that he heard her mutter "What passion?", two suspiciously close incidents that brought a frown to his face. Audibly, she said, somewhat meekly, "Even rubber ducks?"
Rubber? Jack frowned in confusion before shaking the odd word away. In all of their time spent together, he had noticed how she would occasionally say an odd word or phrase he'd never heard, but had never thought much of it. These little inconsistencies of hers had faded over the years, but they had been known to crop up every now and again.
"I think this duck phobia—loathing—enmity—thing—is very unhealthy, you know," Sierra commented thoughtfully, and Jack scowled at her. "I think that you need some counselling so that you might reconcile with the ducks. Do you think that if we bought a duckling as a pet, you'll grow to love it?"
Jack's temper was very thin by this point; who was this woman, to tell him what he did and didn't feel towards ducks? She was his wife, his legal property—she should really be supporting him, pledging her undying allegiance to his cause, not contradicting him.
"I don't want your ducks!" he snapped childishly at her. "I hate your ducks! I spit on your ducks! I damn your ruddy ducks, be they rubber or no!"
Sierra flinched at her husband's uncharacteristic truculence, and Jack immediately felt a pang of regret shoot through him. But then her surprise passed, and she merely looked exasperated once more.
"Jack…" his wife groaned, "If you decide not to support Lord Hardwicke in Parliament come Thursday and instead go ahead and propose this duck pond ban, then that's completely up to you. But can you please tell me one thing?"
Jack raised an eyebrow as a way of silently asking her to continue.
"Why are you so scared of ducks?"
Jack's jaw clenched at this, and he turned away; the question she had asked was rather personal, and one which he had no desire to answer. And yet… And yet, a part of him did wish to tell her, to share the deeply buried pain he'd been carrying within himself for nearly four decades, and so he told her.
When Jack had been a young lad, you see, he had had unlimited access to a duck pond. Ever since he was a tiny babe, he would twist in his mother's arms, his chubby little fingers reaching out playfully towards the winged creatures gliding so elegantly on the water, leaving hypnotic ripples in their wake. Oh, how he longed to play with them; to splash about in the pond, to swiftly dip his head as he picked up the floating pieces of bread flung to him, to preen his own feathers! For you see, at one point in time, Jack Sparrow's greatest aspiration in life was to be a duck. (This would then mutate into a desire to become one with the playful sparrow, which would then combine with the obsessive compulsion to seek fortune, fame, and adventure on the high seas, but that's slightly irrelevant to this tale.)
One fine summer's day, his mother, sweet and doting creature that she was, had reached down to clasp her son's little hand, and told him that today was the day when he would at last be allowed to feed the ducks; and with these words, she had, it seemed to young Jack, magically conjured a large stump of stale and unappetising (to humans) bread from what appeared to be thin air. Jack's youthful round face had lit up at such a prospect, and he had gladly accepted the bread, skipping out of their home (for the young Jack did skip) and thinking all the way to the duck pond about what a wonderful and loving mother he had. (In truth, his mother had merely wanted Jack to stay away from the house for a long enough time so that she might indulge in a most indecent affair with a well-endowed stable boy on the dining-room table, but that is also slightly irrelevant to this tale.)
Jack had been so happy that day, and had you seen him, then you would agree that he had made a very pretty and most adorable picture. This was a time before the rum, women, murders, and general lawless depravity associated with piracy had left its mark on Jack Sparrow; this was a time when Jack Sparrow was barely six-years-old, when his smile had been free of all arrogance, when his sparkling innocence and sweet sincerity shone brightly through his large brown eyes, and he'd not a care in the world, and noticeably far fewer taxes and social obligations than he did now.
(Actually, it's probably a very good thing that you can't picture a youthful Jack Sparrow skipping on his merry way to feed the ducks, for if you could, you would be so greatly overcome by his utter adorability, that you would squeal, and pick him up, and cling to him in a crushing embrace, and then he would choke to death, and we would never have Captain Jack Sparrow, the legendary pirate of the Caribbean, and you would not be at all interested in this flashback because there would be no childhood behind the legend, for there would be no legend, and therefore no interest in the childhood of the legend, and… Sorry, I seem to have gotten slightly carried away here.)
And so, there we have it; a youthful Jack Sparrow innocently anticipating feeding the ducks, whom, if you remember, he idolised with a rather unhealthy and faintly disturbing passion. The young Jack had stood by the pond, waiting patiently for all the birds to notice his petit presence; and sure enough, one by one, the birds became aware of the bread tucked under the little boy's arm, and paddled over respectively. Jack had grinned at this, and had ripped off a rather large clump of bread, watching with delight as the hungry birds all dived for the white clump until it had disappeared. Pleased with himself, he had thrown another piece, and another, and another, until very soon, all the birds were in a feeding frenzy, and had taken to flapping their wings and quacking to one another in excitement.
Then Jack had noticed how, near the back of the gluttonous flock, there lingered a small duck excluded by all the other birds, watching forlornly as its companions gouged themselves on this most charitable feeding ritual. Overcome with pity, he had thrown a piece of bread towards this pathetic creature, only to watch in dismay as another duck reached up and caught it expertly in its beak. So, he'd stepped a little closer to the pond, and cautiously attempted a further throw. Once again, a bird closer to the boy had caught it; scowling at the unfairness of it all, Jack had edged closer still, and closer, and closer…
And before he knew it, Jack had fallen into the duck pond with an undignified and terrified yelp. At first, the birds had panicked, and had all flapped away, unnerved by his thrashing and screaming; the pond was not what would be considered as deep, but it was deep enough for the young Jack Sparrow to fear for his life and drop his bread. The starving birds had seen this, and had immediately abandoned all their fears for the small human creature in their pond in favour of his loaf, and had suddenly gathered around the slowly drowning Jack, occasionally pecking the child by accident. This obviously didn't help calm young Jack Sparrow in the slightest, and his fear merely escalated.
Luckily for Jack, his sweet mother, having concluded her lewd business with the well-endowed stable boy to both of the participants' satisfaction, had chosen to follow her son and watch him feed his ducks; on seeing her cherub splashing most inelegantly in the duck pond, she had picked up her skirts and flew towards Jack as fast as her legs could carry her, had plunged into the pond, waving the ducks away, wrapped her arms about her little boy's waist, pulled him tightly towards her, and never once worried about what would become of her lovely gown as she climbed back onto land and lovingly (not to mention somewhat guiltily) comforted her sobbing child. And that was how Jack's lifelong phobia of ducks came into being.
"…And to this day," Jack was telling his wife embarrassedly, "I have made a point of avoiding all contact with ducks unless absolutely necessary. Do you know that throughout my entire life, I've never once even eaten duck? That's how deeply my scars run, Sierra."
Sierra was silent for a moment, marvelling at the entire story related to her. And then, without any prior warning, she flung her arms about his neck and buried her face into his shoulder.
"My God," she squealed as he awkwardly returned the embrace. "Are you actually capable of not being utterly and undeniably adorable?"
TBC