Pairing: Young Jack, Young Scarlett
Word Count: 389
Prompt: Cat
A/N: I toy with this pairing every once in a blue moon :)
~o~
The windows of Faithful Bride tavern shone through the darkness in patches of lustrous light, looking like foxfire in the falling rain. How well behaved she was that day. She cleaned the wine mugs, scrubbed tables and the long countertop, swept the tavern floor without being asked, and tacked oilcloth over broken windows that had been shattered by pistol fire.
Life was repetitively dreary; the men in seaside taverns all looked the same to her – with their long braided hair and ragged beards, belligerent from drink and fighting.
They habitually called her name, "Scarlett, come 'ere, darling! Scarlett, sing me a song! Scarlett!" A pinch here, a grab there, and a shilling made for her hospitality. Eventually, those sea-weathered faces blended into one another in the wee hours of the morning.
Replacing mugs in the bullet-marked cabinet, Scarlett silently compared the pirates she served to plagues of locust. She often thought of the trials of her profession and the teachings of turning the other cheek.
Love had no place in a wench's life. Lust was all she would ever know, which was fine by her. Love and romance simply weren't things she was at all interested in and sex became nothing more of a bodily nuisance that had to be dealt with. It was a philosophy that worked well for her, thus far.
Though she couldn't help the excitement that came with the news of his return – the young newcomer – a former naval officer turned pirate, armed with a reputation that had certainly preceded him. Quickly, his name became a byword among pirates for good fortune. Men flocked to him for his stories of grandeur, while women competed for his affection with ruby red lips and fine garments.
Scarlett observed him with the tawny-haired tavern wench he often frequented, laughing when the woman asked him questions about whether the stories were true, that he had committed treason. He smirked, looking like a cat that just swallowed a canary. Pressing up against her bosom, he purred a sly response in her ear, and she looked as if she loved the way he made her feel – what a fine act.
Yes, for one more night, he would grace her with his presence. Perhaps, for a moment, she may even own him, but everyone already knew - nobody truly owned Jack Sparrow.