Nine years earlier on Tortuga, the backyard of the former Sullivan family had been filled to bursting with debris. It was hard to turn around, but since Tara's father had also passed away, she simply hadn't had the heart to change a thing – and she'd never had an all too urgent reason to do so.

How important could order be on an island that was the cradle of all the founders of chaos in these latitudes?

After the death of her parents, all structure had left her life. The whispers of the night – and nights were long in Tortuga – had always been drowned out loudly enough by her father's benevolent preaching of morals during his lifetime. He had never married her mother, but he'd been there. Every day, even after his wife's death.
As long as she still had him, her kind-hearted Papá, who had promised never to leave her side and was always so keen on protecting her from all worldly foolishness, she was steadfast in her efforts to be a good person.
Just like him.

But then he died, just like her Mamá, after a short, severe illness – something that should never have happened to a good person. And all at once she saw all the cracks in the walls of the house, all the boxes in the backyard, all the horrors of Tortuga.

But if her father, a good man, had lived there, how bad were those horrors really? He had left her in that place that always caused him great fear for his daughter, but this inevitably made her wonder if the dangers that lurked there actually lived up to their reputation …

How bad could Tortuga, and the way people lived there, be? And was it not rather reprehensible to condemn something one did not know?

Equally fragile and built on sand as the rest of the island, and like their little house, her efforts not to indulge became less. With each storm on the harbour that stressed the outer walls and the old roof beyond their limits, it seemed a little bit harder.

Her kind father's echoing whispers grew quieter and soon inevitably faded into the laughter of the alleys. The nights were soon louder. Mainly loud and lively enough to numb her grief in the darkness for a few hours.

She loved Kate, she loved Jean and all her friends, but she still missed the love of her family that she'd grown up with, for too long she'd taken it as a matter of course.

No fleeting night could replace the warmth she so craved, and just when she was about to decide to give up, she'd met Sparrow.

That insane paradise bird …

He really didn't have any fatherly qualities, but when he hugged her tightly to him and was really with her in thought when they spent time, she felt a little more like she did then. Protected. In the right place in the world.
So despite all his absurd words and deeds, she couldn't quite escape his presence. The fact that he was much older than her and all her friends and had already gathered enough experience for seven lifetimes all over the world made her think, at least initially, that he knew what was important in life. She had mistakenly assumed he was an adult.

Her father would have found him impossible, too reckless and impertinent and erratic, and he would have chased him away at any cost, she was aware of that.
But her father was no longer there.
Sparrow was. Now and then, at least …

And paradoxical as it was, he calmed her down. Just as much as he worried her when he was gone again.

In the end, however, the most constant sight in her life was the debris in the backyard.

So that evening nine years ago, Tara's predictable tardiness to Kate's birthday and the new dress that didn't fit because she wasn't very good at tailoring were in competition with said annoying chaos in the yard.

She didn't know what vexed her more, but the mixture was misfortunate.

She could barely put Kate's pastries down as every patch of ground was blocked by boxes or blunt tools, while her dress slipped with every step in places where it very much shouldn't slide –

"Magnificent view."

She was scared out of her wits. Despite that, her reflexes made her vigorously fight an untimely demise – and if Sparrow hadn't been so damn quick, he probably could have written off any thought of starting a family forever.
Not that he ever wanted any.
Or should have one …

"Oi, tranquila – calm down!" he was quick to say in sincere self-awareness at her heavy breathing. "It's just your favorite Jack, I didn't mean to scare you," he hastily followed up. "Bit of a stupid idea to greet you like that, sorry, I'd imagined it differently. Much more charming, frankly, less creepy and bit more like a happy coincidence, you know …"

Her heart was hammering against her ribs and although she wanted to slap him, she was glad not to have some stranger standing in her backyard.
It was Tortuga, after all …

"You?" Nonetheless she sounded angry. "Maldita sea, Sparrow, what was that about? How the blazes –"

"I vow never to frighten you like that again, forgive me!"

"I just died!"

"I can tell, dear, but death suits you hellishly well, I promise."

She took a deep breath and swallowed. Then, with difficulty, she forced herself to acknowledge him.

"Hello," he whispered back. As always, he was kissed by the weather, a true child of sunshine with shadows haunting him. The usual charcoal settled into the fine lines around his eyes and gold crowned his winning smile. As always.

Way too often. And at the same time, clearly not often enough because he regularly dropped off the face of the earth.

"Where the hell have you been?"

"Everywhere," he meekly said. "And nowhere."

She had to try her best not to roll her eyes. "That's not very precise …"

"But I'm here now," he said, gesturing at himself. "Here with you."

"Yes, just like that, after sunset in my backyard. Without knowing whether I still want you here or have time or –"

"Will you make time for me?"

She gave him a mirthless smile. "Why should I, after you just disappeared without a word weeks ago?"

"I didn't get to say goodbye, Tara," he asserted in his best possible feigned regret, "I didn't know that day I wouldn't be around in the evening myself."

"How could you not know?"

He glanced up at the sky, sighing. "You know me, love. I don't plan things out, I just make it up as I go along."

"That's what you want everyone to believe, yes. But you do plan." She tapped him on the head without inhibition. "You're clever, Sparrow. You know exactly what you're doing!"

"You've always been fond of that in other respects."

"But not when I have to spend weeks wondering if you're still alive!"

"I'm immortal in a way, darling," he replied with a wink, "just don't worry –"

"I didn't say I was worried!"

"Were you not?"

She hesitated, just for a second. "No …"

"Good." He tried hard not to laugh. "But then why the reproachful face, huh?"

She put her hands on her hips and sighed. Her father was probably turning in his grave. "You can't just come and go as you please, Sparrow. I'm busy."

"Ah?"

"Yeah," she grumbled.

"And with what?"

Questioning games he could play like a toddler, even if he was almost a decade ahead of her.

"Not with you," she eventually replied.

"But you could have both," he began to ramble. "Keep you busy with whatever you want to keep yourself busy, and besides, me. I can make it all up to you right now, before you're busy, or of course any time afterwards. Or I can come with you to keep you busy because depending on the nature of said business, it might be –"

"It's Kate's birthday. This is her night."

"Hooray, I love birthdays, drinks all around!"

"You can't come, Jack. She hates you."

He screwed up his face in mock-regret. "For your sake? Are you always complaining about me?"

"Jack –"

"It's all right, love, I'm used to it and won't take it personally, aye?"

"You probably should."

No sense of guilt flashed in his smile. "More importantly, when do you want me to come back?"

She groaned from the depths of her soul and yet thought about it.

Yet a little too long and too thoroughly for his liking. She didn't know just how much she'd turned his head, how much she'd wrapped him around a finger.
And she hated when he left, but she let him.
That was why they functioned without any rule that would ruin everything. That was why, for her alone, he tried to follow the best guidelines he'd ever known.

"Tara, I've missed you," he urged, so absurdly serious, "when shall I come back?"

She cursed herself for it, but she wanted to believe him.
And she stupidly wanted for him to come back, too.

"Not before midnight …"

"Fine." He nodded at once. "For you, I'll turn night into day."

"Or you turn night into day for another out of sheer boredom –"

"What are you thinking?" he interrupted her. "I'm standing in your backyard, aren't I? Pretty messy it is, though, if I may say so …"

"Well, instead of making a mess yourself as per usual, you're welcome to take care of that condition in the meantime."

"Who knows," he mumbled, "you might not even recognise this place when you get back."

She almost had to laugh. "You always promise more than you can hold. Hence I don't think so."

He winked. "Yet I can hold a lot, you remember that, don't you?"

"Whatever …" She was aware of the warmth in her voice as she said, "You're alive."

"Yes, more than ever! Will you be alive with me?"

The question sounded so terse, and yet it summed up what he meant to her.

She cautiously nodded, though she had a queasy feeling bubble up that he would be nowhere to be found when she returned anyway.

He stole a kiss from her – as if they'd never been apart – then he said, "Hurry up a bit for me, will you?"

"I won't," she lied, "you never hurry for me either."

"Touché."

"You actually waited for me," she stated well past midnight when she returned. She would have liked to have the confidence not to sound so surprised about it, but he was unpredictable after all.

That was basically why she'd wanted to stay with Kate. To postpone the disappointment that his volatility often brought along.

But that evening it had obviously not been necessary …

And he was only too happy to bask in her surprise. "Well sure, you've been waiting for me, too, aye?"

"For weeks?" She snorted. "No. I don't do that anymore …"

"Why not, love?"

"Because my life doesn't revolve around you." She took a deep breath and glanced around the dark backyard. "You're too erratic for that," she added, though suddenly it didn't seem to fit the picture that presented itself to her at all. "What happened here?"

"I had some time on my hands, as you know." He clasped those very hands behind his back and showed her around. "Moving the boxes – and I don't want to know what the hell is in there – took me back to my woeful episode in the Navy, but other than that it wasn't too bad. You really ought to grind the tools, though. Not even angry spirits would take them to a mutiny on the Day of the Dead."

"Day of the Dead?" She raised her brows. "Like an Englishman!" she scolded, "say it in Spanish!"

"Day of the Dead?"

"Yes! I only recently told you how it's celebrated in Venezuela, didn't I?"

"I remember," he admitted, "and I came to the conclusion that worshipping death is quite pagan and thus in conflict with your oh-so-sacred Catholicism."

"Just speak Spanish for me, Jack, nothing more, nothing less …"

"Día de los Muertos."

She gave him such a pretty smile. "It does sound awful, though."

"You're awful, too," he assured her. "Do you happen to have anyone on hand?"

She considered this for a moment, and by now she had known him long enough to guess that he was taking steps backwards. "A reaper or mutineer?"

He eyed her at inappropriate length, then specified, "A blacksmith?"

"For tools? As it happens, no."

"You should know to associate with people who can be of use to you." He was all too cocky when he added, "I, for one, am of great use in every situation in life. Like an ace up your sleeve."

"Keep telling yourself that." As she started to move, he could still see her smirk. "I can't believe it," she then said under her breath as she glanced across the backyard. "You've cleaned all this up since I left? I hate to admit it, but that's really nice of you …"

"And lo and behold!" He spread his arms. "You're glad to have me back, too."

"A tad, perhaps." His pouting look made her laugh. "Why yes, all right … Even if you only cleaned up to hear that – of course I am …"

"Now that you're finally being honest, tell me – who did you comfort yourself with? With no blacksmith, got it, but –"

She clicked her tongue and was already walking away from him. "Your questions are far too intrusive, Sparrow, even earlier."

"I really rather hoped you'd see that I'm just curious and worried about you."

"Thank you so much for the backyard, I'll return the favour, but for the record!" She turned once more and held her raised index finger under his nose. "You're not worried, you're being possessive. It's not good. It isn't even when you're also obliging, which you are very much not –"

"I very much am!" he protested. He wrinkled his nose. "I always come back to you."

"Like a hungry stray dog, yes. Thank you very much."

"You're welcome. Will you also return a favour for that?" Her look downright warned him, so he lamely followed up, "After all, stray dogs are pretty loyal if you treat them right, aye?"

"No one treats you better than I do," she retorted, close to his face until he was almost tempted to kiss her. "And yet you lie all the time, just disappear –"

"You know it, with any other person in the world, it would be too much of a chore for me to even face accusations." He looked at the scattered freckles on her face in the glow of the flickering lights of the alleys. And he wasn't lying. "It almost is with you, too, but alas … I can't quite help it."

"Words, words," she sighed, holding his gaze. "And then weeks of silence."

"You're being really harsh on a marauder who's been cleaning up your backyard in silent atonement and can't possibly know any better."

"You just don't want to."

He sweetly winked. "I want you."

She deliberately let silence get loud, but to her own annoyance it only made it clear to herself that she had other ideas running through her head, too …

"Did you at least have fun with Kate?" he then asked, ever so casually. "How old is she now?"

"As old as I am. And therefore significantly younger than you."

"Less wise, some would say."

She pushed him aside a little more and walked towards the house. "But some wouldn't know you, the walking opposite of wisdom … Come on in!"

"A few hours ago you still called me clever," he reminded her, already catching up.

"Those are two different things."

"Like skirt and corset?" he suggested. "And while we're on the subject – nice dress!"

She cast a reproving glance over her shoulder as he too had taken the stairs to the house. "Not a good subject, it doesn't even fit properly."

His face remained indifferent. "Like that would bother me."

"Stop it already. Please – stop saying what you think I want to hear all the time!"

"Why? Don't you?"

"No because it's …" She puffed out her cheeks, then snorted. "Because it's dishonest!"

"But a dishonest man you can always trust to be dishonest."

He looked so innocent and yet pushed her into the house as though he was determined to sin. He closed the door behind him, then calmly examined her gown again. "No really … unconventional cut, thin fabric. Would be a shame if it got dirty or tore, wouldn't it?"

"How would that happen?"

"Be creative while you think about it."

She rolled her eyes in wary amusement. "Because now all of a sudden you have a taste for order, you mean?"

He shrugged. "I can help you take it off as a precaution if you like."

Her lips were dry, she wet them with her tongue, then said, "Maybe later."

His look was downright questioning, to her secret delight.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. Nothing at all."

"Cough it up, Sparrow. Or wait … No, it's all right. You don't have to say it." Almost laughing, she asserted, "You think you're coming here and the first thing we do is the first thing we did when we met, right?"

He shook his head as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

"Yes, that's exactly what you thought."

"Well, I'm a creature of habit, thought we had that in common."

"Only because I didn't know what to expect." She couldn't help teasing at that. "You were like a walking enigma. I wanted to know what you were going to do with me, but by now … I know."

Supposedly touched, he backed away. "Are you insinuating heavy-handed predictability on my part right now?"

Her silence spoke volumes.

"Oh, who would have thought? Has the lady been bored lately?"

"I just suspect that after all these weeks, you're merely looking for a quick –"

He raised his index finger. "We have the whole night."

She stared at him blearily, always reading between the lines with him. "Are you going to be gone tomorrow?"

"No," he said. "I'm not. And I'll say goodbye this time, too. I promise."

"Don't promise anything," she sighed, "that you can't keep."

"No, you'll know when I set sail. But darling, don't worry …" He grinned, and it was only in parts self-deprecation. "You'll not only be calling my name before we say our goodbyes."

She had to laugh out loud, it caught her cold, and he laughed along. "I'll tell you what," she then said under her breath, "after that brazen innuendo, I'll say any name before yours, you bet I will."

"Are you certain? Since not anyone, me however, indeed, has been to Colombo recently …"

She was already standing with her back against the wall in the middle of the dilapidated hallway, his face close to hers, when she asked, "Where's that?"

"Sri Lanka, south of India." He looked up at the ceiling, almost amused, and it too was cracked. "Crazy port, love, really crazy …"

"If you say so."

"Oh yes …"

She narrowed her eyes in mock-annoyance. "So you had fun?"

"What are you trying to say? By now I only wear myself out when I'm with a Venezolana who doesn't even care about me. And won't call my name, though I've badly missed her."

"I'm sure you miss someone refusing to call your name everywhere."

"No, just here … I keep coming back to you. Don't you see? Highly dangerous."

Tara lifted her chin, not taking her eyes off him. "Others would find exactly that normal. Not dangerous."

"What's even normal …"

"Well," she whispered, "you wouldn't know, since you're a bit crazy." He merely shrugged until she added, "Probably like the things that happen in Colombo's port."

He could grin dirty like no other, and that hubris was a part of him like the sun belonged to the Caribbean. "Interested?"

"I'm afraid so," she admitted. "Since you're here …"

"You missed me, too," he suggested.

"Just stop talking. Are you hungry?"

He chuckled. "Your questions are obvious, too."

"No, I mean – really hungry? You look hungry, I am too."

Standing before him like a celestial apparition, she was casually asking that. "You wouldn't really cook in the middle of the night?"

"Only something fast," she said, "but you need to wash while I do –"

"Remember, that's what the yard is cleaned up for."

"I know, yes, but you must wash the other one off you. The sea …" She bit her lips for a moment. "And then, as promised, I will return the favour."

"Will I call your name?"

"For the cooking, perhaps." She took a deep breath, then she just said it. "It's good to see you. I'm glad you're here."

For a moment he fell oddly silent. Oddly serious. As familiar as family. "You know – if I knew what love was, I'd probably have to say I love you now."

It made her swallow and keep quiet, for a moment at least. For she herself knew well what love was. And she felt it for him without any doubt. "I don't know if that's flattering or worth a slap in the face –"

"You told me not to talk too much anyway. I'll just be silent as the grave from now on, aye?"

"Aye." Her father was probably turning in his grave once again, even if it wasn't yet Día de los Muertos. "Good plan."

"South of India, apparently that's where people can pick up some really crazy tricks."

"Now it's like you were there, too."

"Yet it's only you here." She watched the pale light of the window, reflecting the restless ocean on her sheets. Hopelessly wrinkled they were, and no longer quite white, but at least no longer cold and lonely. They represented the kind of chaos she could appreciate.

And he didn't even avoid her deep gaze, not the way he often did in all the hustle and bustle. Finally, it also encouraged her to ask the question that was bothering her more and more.

"What are we, Jack?"

"There, at last," he mumbled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "My name …"

Bloody hell.
She didn't even go into it, his thoughtful touch was far too beautiful.

"What am I to you?"

He promptly leaned over her and smiled as if there was nothing else to say. "Does it matter? As long as we –"

"Yes, it does to me. Every time you just disappear, it gets worse."

"Come on, love, like you're that squeamish …"

She sighed. "What do you mean now?"

"You don't even want me here all the time. Imagine how much you'd have to scold me. I'd be unbearable. Why don't you ask the other one? The sea…"

"You always twist words as you need them, but I'm telling you right now –"

"I was supposed to keep quiet earlier, remember?"

Tensely she paused until he continued.

"We are here. We're alive. No bullet wounds, no chains. I can feel your heartbeat, you can feel mine. We have it all …"

She saw it in his eyes. He meant it, every word. It was his truth, the way he loved her most sincerely. But to her it sounded like lies.

"Today, yes," she said, "but tomorrow –"

"Tomorrow I might hang, darling." He pointed to his forearm, the burn scar as smooth as ever. Apparently unconcerned, he lifted her chin to regard her intently. "So I'm glad that right now, at this very moment in history, I have your beautiful sight before me and all is well. Savvy?"

"Jack, damn you," she moaned in exasperation, "you don't understand me …"

He, unlike her, was extremely pleased. "There. Again."

"Tonto …"

"I know what that means by now."

"Good. Finally."

He smiled wryly and pulled her into his arms before closing his eyes again. And for him, that made the world complete, for the moment.

Until his first love, the sea, began to whisper to him again.

Dear ella, I'm so glad you liked it again, I hope this flashback was also a bit of fun. Thanks so much for reading along and all your kind comments ^-^