She also recalled one specific morning quite some years ago. She hadn't seen him in about a quarter. Nothing special in itself, but now and then she thought about the way something right beneath her window woke her up that day. It sounded like a stray dog howling.
It was just Sparrow.

At twilight, before sunset still, he seemed to be flushed out of the ocean's loving arms once more. Washed ashore right at her front door just so he could run right back to the water once she let him in again.

"No, you know what? Not again." She whispered down to him from her bedroom window, at least trying not wake up any of her neighbours.

In a very well audible voice he said, "Tara, come on, you –"

"Good heavens, be quiet! It's been months! You can't casually return like nothing's happened!"

"You keep saying that," he meekly tried to whisper this time, "but doesn't it actually work perfectly fine for us ever since –"

"No, it never worked for me! I don't need that in my life, I'm too young and I cook much too well to constantly wait for an unreliable, drunk vagabond like you!"

"You forgot to squeeze devilishly handsome in there …" She groaned and disappeared from the window, so he quickly added, "They say good things come for those who –"

He didn't have to wait for one good thing – several shirts were thrown down at him, and he caught them with his face.

"Those are yours," she hissed down just when he was about to examine them, "washed with my soft and loving hands just for you, you ungrateful, dirty –"

"Now you'll wake up all of Tortuga, darling, let's just carry on inside and –"

"No! I'm too tired to let you in again, it's just not worth the chaos. Off you go, I don't want to have your hands on me ever again!"

That was a lie, he could tell, she even blushed. But still … Never at a loss for words when it came to claiming she wasn't too fond of him.

"Throw a key down."

She frowned, incredulous by the very idea. "Not a chance. Vaya con dios."

"Incredibly bad timing for farewell blessings and separate ways, love."

She looked him up and down, his remorseful eyes as black as they got, and she shouldn't even have asked – but she did. "Why's that?"

"Tiny little … graze …"

"As in graze shot?" She was wide awake at once when he shrugged as though he was a saint. "Maldita seas," she moaned in all her fury, "bloody hell, Sparrow, the door's open!"


She hated him with a passion. And that was exactly what he could work with. What he knew. Old familiar, erratic distance even in the midst of intimacy – the only kind of connection he was able to understand and keep up at the time. Raised by a mother that knew he was clever enough to fight his way through life on his own and usually left by a passive man he could only assume to be his father, he quickly learned not to depend on anybody but himself.
Still now and then, he enjoyed relying on Tara more than he liked to admit. But he never allowed himself to get too attached.

After all, what did love even mean when it was but a word constantly abused by lunatics like his Grandmama, claiming said principle definitely applied after she'd make sure he'd bleed for any act of disobedience as a child? Wasn't it just a worn and cynical phrase with the purpose of catching and binding people to obligingly share misery?
He could never be bound. Life's lessons taught him to avoid that like the devil holy water.

"Yes, water!"

And yet here he was again, genuinely glad to see her. And confused. "What?"

"We'll need hot water, Jack, come on, do your part!"

"I'm not bleeding out, it's not that urgent," he sighed just to be shooed to the stove with resolution again.

"I'm right back," she said while he filled a kettle to warm it up.

And she was indeed, with fresh, white cloth and a suspicious bottle in her hand. Somewhat familiar picture.

"I thought this time, we just burn it," he mumbled, "but guess a drink won't hurt while we're at it, huh?"

"No, I'm not branding your back." She shook her head, visibly worried he'd expect her to. "I can't, don't you make me –"

"I'd really rather avoid a fever and ultimate death, Tara, so do me a favor and just burn –"

"I can't. No."

"You have to."

She looked at him for a couple of heartbeats, then she just removed the whistling kettle from the stove and dipped a cloth into the hot water. "Let me see first, I'll clean it and –"

"Unnecessary if you just burn –"

"Cállate, Sparrow, quítate la camiseta y date vuelta. Ahora mismo."

"When you're mad and speak that fast, I hardly catch a –"

She put her index finger on his lips. "You always claim that, yet oddly enough, whenever you're right behind me, you do understand instructions perfectly well."

He only grinned, putting his shirt aside and turning around for her so she could examine the wound.

"You let this become a habit. I'm not a doctor!"

"Still I like your soft, loving hands."

"And I like your mouth, whenever it's shut."

"I have a slightly different recollection of that, but – ah!" He moaned in pain.

She'd slipped, accidentally … "I'm sorry. Did that hurt?"

He took in a deep breath, screwing up his face. "I missed you, too …"

"Liar."

"Pirate."

She forced herself to go through the Ten Commandments in her head to make sure she'd not just strangle him. He already suffered from the graze … He knew no better.

She cleaned around the shot with hot water, then she got to the wound itself with alcohol. She had no idea what she was doing, but she tried her best.

And he didn't exactly enjoy the burning pain, but he felt he was in good hands.
It just seemed awfully right to have Tara take care of him while cursing him out again. She never said it, that she loved him, he just knew. She put up with his nonsense, even though he'd repeat playing catch with her in a rush to shake off feelings of responsibility whenever they arose.

He caught himself being ever less invested in anyone else, though, Tara was quite a lot to frequently apologise to after all. Yet given his reputation and the way their relationship had begun, it was a shame she didn't quite believe that. Her usual assumptions got more and more incorrect, but that way, it didn't even matter.
And ultimately, that was nobody's fault but his.

"Jack," she soon sighed, startling him out of his reveries. By now, she'd really only call him Jack whenever something was heavy on her heart, "that doesn't look too bad, I think it'll heal. Let's try a tight bandage."

"And change that constantly?"

"Yes please, give it some time."

"I just so happen to never have any time at hand."

"No, Sparrow." She circled around to look at him. "You don't take your time."

He knew exactly what she was getting at. He'd also noticed that he kept sabotaging his own happiness by running away from it – since he just couldn't trust a good thing to last. He knew life, and he knew himself, after all, eventually he'd spoil it …

"Take my time for what?" He couldn't help but smile as he examined the tiny freckles on the face that kept frowning at him. "Savoring you?"

"That, obviously." She held his gaze. "But also letting yourself heal."

She looked so good by his side, but even on his best behaviour he was the worst man to ever be with her. On his conditions only, he tried to give her his all, and it was one of those few moments where he also realised how cruel that was.

"I know we can't carry on like this." He immediately corrected, "well, I could, but … you cannot. Can you?"

For a moment there, he thought he could see how much he meant to her, how much she cared, but she only brushed it off, saying, "Vaya con dios, I meant that."

"Why did you leave your door unlocked? It's Tortuga, after all."

She hated how much she craved his presence, how she'd lost her heart to him when all he ever did was fly away when she longed for him the most.
She had no intentions of replying.

"You knew I'd be back."

She'd indeed thought it was about time, but rather she'd choked on her own tongue than admit that.

"I was waiting for Katie."

He gave her a lopsided smile. "When's she coming?"

"En serio, vete al diablo …"

He touched his heart in mock-regret, his eyes wide and pain written all over his features. "As though you meant that!"

Pretending she didn't even want to trust him was her only way of tolerating him back in her life over and over again, despite the mess he brought along. He wasn't sure how to handle her love, so he'd frequently resort to those self-destructive patterns he'd learned to abuse over the years.

He loved her a bit more each time he came back, even if he didn't realise it. She, on the other hand, loved him differently. More cautiously. Hurt … And so neither of them could ever be too happy in the other's presence.

And that was a lot that was wrong about them.

"You may stay for one night."

"Make it a month, Tara. Let's heal, shall we."

"Just because you need to? I'm supposed to welcome you right back into my life just because –"

"I know you deserve more. I know." He really did, a guilty conscious piercing through him for once. "You could be married. You could have beautiful children by now –"

"But I had to meet you. Yes. That's the problem. You are the problem."

"I'm used to being called that ever since I can remember, I may only assume it's why I'm so numb hearing it."

"But I'm not numb at all. We're no good. I expect too much, and you give too little."

"Just expect a little less, and I'll give more. Aye?"

Whenever she let on how much she liked having him around, he gave her plenty of reasons to curse him out for good instead. And each time she was so fed up with him she wished she'd never see his insolent face again, he snuck back into her life with the best of intentions.

Because he would miss her fury, the way she'd listen, the way her skin felt on his.

Just not for too long. Only for a good while.


Dear KatJ10, thanks a lot for your kind feedback, I hope you'll also like what's still to come :)