The Locked Door

Lucinda watched Mister Teague leave, suffering from the nagging sense of déjà vu all the while. She didn't blame him though—as soon as Agatha had caught up to the strolling pair she had quietly inserted herself between the two and had begun frowning at near everything they wanted to talk about. To his credit, Mister Teague had played nice for a few minutes, but had soon made his excuses to be quit of the two ladies, and it was with a curiously heavy heart that Lucinda watched him go.

"What a strange man," Agatha shook her head and chuckled.

Lucinda raised a brow. "That didn't stop you from inviting him to the celebration I still haven't agreed to."

"As a way of offering my thanks," Aggie countered. "You have to admit, proper or not, he was a great help to us back at the dressmaker's." She sent a sidelong glance at the younger woman. "And I couldn't help but notice how well the two of you seemed to match one another."

"Oh Aggie, no," Lucinda groaned. "Mister Teague is an interesting man, mind you, but I already said that I enjoy being a widow, and I meant it. Don't you dare start playing matchmaker with me."

"You're twenty-three and high-strung, Lucinda," her companion sighed. "It would take an unconventional man like Mister Teague to weather that—but if you say you want to be left alone, than that is what I shall do. Besides, it's not as if we know anything about the man anyway."

And yet, Lucinda couldn't help but feel like she did know him. Every once in a while, the man had made a gesture or used a phrase that had been oddly familiar to her, but she couldn't figure out why. If he reminded her of someone, she could not think of them and it was driving her mad.

In fact, she spent the better part of the day going quietly insane as she tried to fathom her erstwhile companion. His memory haunted her all throughout the remainder of the afternoon, refused to leave her during supper, and downright teased her when she was trying to sleep. She supposed the trouble all came from the fact that she was a woman now rather than a girl, and Mister Teague was a decidedly memorable man.

Lucinda could admit that she had never looked for love in a man, and had therefore never felt the need to admire a man as anything more than temporary company. But Mister Teague had simply demanded attention, and she had been more than willing to give it. In a sinful way, she had admired his body—even under the guise of his markedly bland clothing, he had radiated power and appeal—and in an intellectual way, she had enjoyed his quick and often biting wit. But there had been the aftertaste of violence and danger hanging around him; though he tried very hard to hide it, she knew that he was ruthless in his own way. And there was something else there that she wasn't seeing, the echoes of something she was meant to understand but didn't.

Or, perhaps, wouldn't.

He had retreated to the Pearl for some rest and to make sure that his bartered supplies had made it onboard. For once, everything had gone off without a hitch, and so it was a very relieved and grateful Jack Sparrow that went to sleep that afternoon.

He awoke again in the depths of night, probably around one or two in the morning, seeing as it was Mister Cotton who was on watch. The old mute wandered up and down the quarterdeck, his parrot clicking softly and fluffing its feathers against the chilly seaward breeze. Jack was just about to take another moment to enjoy the fact that he was a Captain in truth again—that he had the Black Pearl and was sailing like any good pirate should—when he noticed that he and the watchman were not alone.

Anamaria was leaning against the railing, her dark eyes turned forlornly toward the island. There was a sadness in her expression and it seemed painfully out of place to him, given her usual gruffness.

Quietly, Jack came to rest next to her. He had an uneasy understanding with his Quartermaster—she did not attack him, and in return he pretty much gave her control of the quarterdeck. They stayed out of each other's lives as much as possible but, as Captain, he would not ignore suffering. "Thirsty for dry land?" he asked after several silent moments.

She nodded her head, pulling a strand of raven hair out of her face. "Aye."

"You can go out as soon as the current landing party comes back," he reminded her.

"Not this island, Captain Sparrow," Anamaria laughed bitterly. "This one, I won't risk."

"No," he replied, suddenly remembering the slave auctions he had witnessed, "I s'pose I don't blame you."

Life was becoming increasingly difficult on land for Anamaria. Though much of the New World was still a little lawless, the slave trade was booming and no one seemed to care that she was a free woman.

She sighed, a broken-hearted note in her voice. "It's happening all over the Caribbean—there are fewer and fewer islands I can set foot on unless we're raiding them."

"It's a good thing you turned pirate then, isn't it?" he asked lightly.

"Aye," she actually smiled for once, however short-lived. "But I don't think I'll ever stop wanting my shore leave."

Jack nodded. "It's a painful thing to be caught between desires."

Her head finally perked up and she turned to look at him. "I think I hear a story in there somewhere."

"Any pirate will tell you that his first and only love is the sea," he told her seriously, gesturing out to the still waters around them. "They are all lying. Most men have themselves a sweetheart somewhere."

Anamaria's eyes widened in disbelief. "Do you have a sweetheart, Captain?"

Jack laughed, although it was more at himself than her question. "Unfortunately, at this moment, I think I may have two. And neither of them are accessible."

"Oh?" Feminine curiosity was suddenly lacing her voice, which was startling because one usually forgot that she was, in fact, a woman.

"I met a Lady today," he sighed, turning his gaze to the sleeping Tamarind Bay, "a sweet young thing that made me want."

"But you already have yourself a lass," Anamaria supplied knowingly.

"That I do," he smiled, "but I'm not always sure that it would be wise to go after my girl. So I sit and I want and I stare at things I can't have and it's killing me."

She shook her head in that feminine way that implied all men were daft. "Then just find your lass and be done with it."

"S'not that easy," Jack replied, running a hand over his face. "You see this is where the story comes in—my lass is high born and I haven't seen her in eighteen years."

"Eighteen years?" She laughed, a rich sound that would have been lovely if it weren't at his expense. "You're nothing but a schoolboy with a crush!"

"Painfully true," he nodded, "aside from the schoolboy part and the crush."

Anamaria cast a sideways glance at him, the disbelief back in her eyes. "The only thing I've ever seen you love, Captain Sparrow, is this ship," she said slowly. "I thought you were incapable of loving anything else."

A wicked, somewhat nostalgic smile curled his lips. "You've never met my Lucy."

She rolled her eyes. "There's nothing more disgusting than a man in love." Finally, she straightened up from the railing, waving her hands at him as she did so. "Off the ship with you."

Jack's smile melted into confusion. "What?"

"It was bad enough when you were hell bent for leather over reclaiming the Black Pearl," Anamaria replied, starting to push him toward the remaining dinghy. "Craving makes you more unpredictable than usual, which is a horrifying notion, and I've no desire to live through that again. Mull it over or find yourself some distraction, but either way you aren't coming back until your head's on straight again."

"I've only just come back," he protested as she pushed him into the tiny boat, "and it's my ship!"

"You knew what you were getting into when you signed me aboard, Sparrow," she smiled wickedly at him. "You've no one to blame for this but yourself."

He narrowed his eyes at her, but a smile teased the corners of his lips. "See if I ever try to cheer you up again!"

"Perhaps, Captain," she said just before she cut the line holding the dinghy in place, "it's you who needs cheering up more than me."

Jack's stomach turned at how frighteningly insightful Anamaria had gotten, although dropping twenty feet into the ocean may have enhanced the feeling somewhat.

Captain Teague was not a man given to indecision or inaction, but he found himself contemplating both. And that was the problem with being retired—he didn't know where his boundaries were meant to be. He had stepped off his ship, stepped out of his life, and devoted everything to being the Keeper of the Code. It was a fine calling, to be sure, and Shipwreck Cove was nothing if not interesting, but something just wasn't sitting right with him.

Did the Pirate Codex have to stay in Shipwreck Cove? The Brethren Court hadn't met in decades, and it would be easy enough to make it back, should the current Pirate Lords ever want to assemble. There was absolutely no reason he had to confine himself and his crew to this place.

That was it, wasn't it? Teague was being overwhelmed by restlessness. He'd felt a change in the wind recently—a strange, subtle murmuring that made his bones ache and his heart feel sick. Something was about to happen, something that wasn't supposed to, and he knew, somehow, that it had everything to do with his thickheaded boy.

He'd left Jackie alone these past few years, as much as he'd been able to; they'd never really seen eye to eye and it had put more strain on their relationship than was necessary. Teague could admit that he had made a lot of mistakes where the boy was concerned, but that didn't mean he'd ever give up trying to raise the kid. And if his boy was about to make a stupid mistake, it was his right as a father to be there to correct it.

Mind made up, Captain Teague informed his aging crew that they were pirates, and pirates did not retire. If the Code needed keeping, then there was nowhere safer than their ship.

Now all he had to do was find his stubborn Jackie and straighten out whatever mess the boy had gotten himself tangled into.

Jack shook the compass in frustration, hoping that would jog it out of giving such erratic answers. He had thought, after being thrown off his own ship for the second time since making port, that he would discover why the compass had brought him to Nevis once and for all. Much to his increasing annoyance, the needle seemed to lose its way once he was on land—it had led him through a maze of streets, from one end of Tamarind Bay to the other, through no less than three different inns, the dressmaker's for some unholy reason, and then to the row of manor houses. Upon arrival of that final destination, the bloody stupid instrument had decided it would be fun to spin around uselessly, and so Jack shook it, but that didn't seem to help matters.

With a sigh, he lowered his hand and contemplated the extravagance around him. He wouldn't lie, there was much to be desired in this part of the town, but what was he meant to find here that was so special? It was at times like this that he almost wished he were a child again—things had at least been clearer then.

The compass jolted dead North. Eyes narrowed, Jack studied the temperamental little box in his hand; it had picked a gravely suspicious time to start behaving.

Still, he wasn't one to second-guess fortune; dead North was the gaudy home he'd spied the previous morning. It was early enough that even the servants might still be sleeping; he could just pop in, take a look around, swipe anything of interest, and then be on his merry way. Not a bad morning for a pirate, really.

Jack went around to the back of the manor, sneaking in through a kitchen window. The house was dark inside, and silent as the grave. He was perfectly alone, which was a good start for petty thievery.

"Lost your way, boy?" a low, wheezing voice asked.

Jack winced, not as alone as he had thought. He turned toward the voice, wincing again when a lantern was suddenly lit.

The man revealed by the flames looked one solid cough away from the grave. He was ancient and wizened, bent at an uncomfortable angle. But his pale eyes were clear and clever, peeking out from a face that had more wrinkles than shape, and topped by a shock of pure white hair. He was dressed in the finery of a well-employed butler, and held himself with all the self-importance that such a position called for.

Knowing he was caught, the pirate tried to smile charmingly—it wouldn't do for this wraith of a man to wake the rest of the house. No, it would be better for everyone if he just beat a hasty retreat; he could always come back later, after all. "I was just leaving," he said brightly.

But he'd done no more than turn around before the butler spoke again. "Don't think I don't recognize you, beggar boy," the old man wheezed.

Jack froze, his world suddenly upside-down. He'd buried that past down deep, yet this old fool knew. How?

He turned abruptly, rounding on the butler, and it was there, as he stared into those accusing blue eyes, that Jack found a familiar face. "Henry," he breathed. The old bastard was still alive—which was a miracle in and of itself, because he'd already been ancient eighteen years ago—but his presence meant something much more significant.

Jack looked to the ceiling, imagining the rooms above—if Henry was down here, then one of those rooms could hold, "Lucy." He practically growled her name.

He would never remember dodging past the butler, dashing down the hall, or mounting the stairs two at a time. One moment, he was in the kitchen, the next he was wandering the second floor. All of the doors on the second floor were wide open, save for one. His Lucy was behind that door, he knew, but it was locked. Ordinarily, it wouldn't have been a problem—bedroom latches weren't that hard to break, after all—but he could hear footsteps catching up to him. He could overpower Henry, no question, but if the man had gotten reinforcements? That was dodgy, and he didn't want his reunion with Lucy colored by such paltry desperation.

Jack leaned close to the door, unknowing whether the room's occupant could hear him. "Soon, love," he whispered lowly, then turned and ran out of the house as quickly as he could.

Lucinda startled awake and stared blearily around her bedroom. Had she just heard someone speak?

"Lass?" someone hollered through the door.

She frowned. "Henry?"

"Are you all right, lass?" he asked, sounding panicked.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Lucinda had never feared for the clarity of Henry's mind before, but she was beginning to now. What terror was the man expecting to befall a young, sleeping widow? "Is something the matter?"

There was a weighty pause from the other side of the door. "No," he finally replied, a forceful note in his voice. "Nothing at all, Miss."

Jack wandered the streets for hours, running his fingers over the compass wonderingly. For so many years his thoughts had lingered on his fair young Lucy, and the compass had never picked up on that before. But then, before he hadn't felt as though he were properly situated to impress his Little Lady. Apparently, he was now, or so the compass thought.

A smile split his face—rational or not, his Lucy was here, on Nevis, within easy reach. How was he meant to contend with that thought? All he wanted to do was find the blasted woman and steal her away! But the nervousness was setting in already, the worry that she would be content with her life here or that she would not greet him as warmly as he wanted to greet her. He needed to know more, needed to get information somehow.

And that was precisely when he spotted the lovely Miss Maplethorpe. Heedless of the fact that he was more or less dressed as himself rather than Mister Teague, Jack made his way over to the young Miss—perhaps she would know something of his Lucy.

Lucinda stood before the merchant's stall in amazement. It was a small establishment with an odd assortment of items, but she always found the most curious things there and so she came back, week after week, to see what the merchant would have for sale. This week was mostly glass baubles and small trinkets, but a lone necklace caught her eye. The jewels were most likely fake, but it was still very pretty and it would match one of the dresses she had ordered yesterday.

"I'll take this one," she told the merchant, already reaching for her coin purse. She nearly screamed when a hand fastened tightly about her wrist, but instead she turned quickly to face her attacker.

Much to her relief, it turned out to be Mister Teague, only he didn't look half as respectable today as he had yesterday. Today he looked more like a gentleman of fortune, what with all his mismatched clothes, bandana and tri-cornered hat, and the assortment of trinkets held around his waist by a long sash. His dark eyes were darting between her and the coin purse she held and, at first, she thought he was wondering—as many people often did—why a woman of her station didn't have something newer or more fashionable. But as the disbelieving look in his eyes slowly faded away, she knew that wasn't it.

She pulled her wrist away from him, then looked between Mister Teague and the coin purse. It wasn't until his eyes finally lit with comprehension that Lucinda finally realized what he was seeing that she wasn't.

He reached for her again but she stepped away, her breathing suddenly labored as her gaze narrowed upon his hauntingly familiar, chocolate-colored eyes. In one, painfully stark moment of clarity, she could see what she had missed yesterday, could connect the familiar coloring and mannerisms to a boy she knew only too well.

Eyes narrowed, reeling from the sudden realization, a single question burst from her lips. "Sparrow?"

A/N: For some reason or another, Captain Teague has decided to return to the story. I swear, it's like the characters all give me a nice tip of the hat, and then do whatever the hell they feel like.

I did not write a single part of this chapter in order. I hate it when that happens; it makes everything seem disjointed.

Please Review!

Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean.