|
CHAPTER 6 - Memories and Nightmares We cannot learn without pain. –Aristotle * * * * “Remind me again; who’s bright idea was it to dress up as a couple of whores and then get a drink at the bar?” you ask contemptuously. “Yours, genius. I just bought the costumes, remember?” Angelica reminds. “Well, if you hadn’t bought them, we wouldn’t be wearing them.” You huff, pulling your skirt up higher as you run. “Oh sure, blame it on me. Just because your idea went sour you-” “Alley left!” you cut in, side stepping into dark passage to avoid whomever it is up ahead. “Next time we’re dressing up as fat old men.” You remark, hurrying behind an abandoned fruit cart. Angelica laughs and sits down against the alley. “Touchy, are we?” she gibes. You shoot her a scathing look. “All right, agreed. No more whores. We’ll try gypsies next time.” She jests. You roll your eyes. “Oh how inconspicuous. Why don’t you dress up as Queen Cleopatra and I’ll dress up as Queen Hera and we can see how many free drinks we get then?” you spit sarcastically. “Why don’t you be King Tut? I mean, you act like a mummy anyway.” She says, sticking her tongue out at you. “That was lame.” You say raising an eyebrow. You thought you had taught her sarcasm and cynicism better than that. Angelica wrinkles her nose and sticks her tongue out again. She better be careful, or next time you’ll be ripping it off… Say, that’s not a bad idea… “Hold on, I’ve got an idea.” You say, pulling a pair of pants out of your saddlebag. You put them on and rip your skirt off, leaving only the top of it. Taking some of the skirt material, you throw it over your shoulders to make a poncho. “Geli, put up your hair in a bun and rip off the top layer of your skirt so it’s not blue anymore. Oh, and give me your sash.” You say, grabbing the cloth from her hand. You wrap the sash around your head like a turban and unclasp your necklace, throwing it in your pocket. Smiling at Angelica, you proclaim “Voila!” and hurry to the edge of the alley again. Looking around, you turn back to the alley and notice your shoes and the remnants of your skirt. Thinking quickly, you bundle up the shoes in the cloth and cradle it in your arms like a baby. “Here, take this, carry it like it’s an infant or something.” You instruct, handing her the baby and pulling a stick of eyeliner out of your bag. You smudge some of the eyeliner on your index finger and smear it on your upper lip, creating a mock mustache. “Okay, now remember, we’re a happy couple taking a baby out for a stroll.” You whisper to her. “We look like a bunch of rejects from a Sigfried and Roy show gone terribly wrong.” She says blankly. “Shut up. At least we don’t look like sluttish Dolly Partons anymore.” You hiss, waiting for the couple of really old guys to go by. “No, you looked like a Dolly Parton, not to mention that sluttish Dolly Parton is redundant.” She corrects. “I loathe you.” You say, pulling her arm and yanking both of you into the street. “What happened to ‘a happy couple’?” she jokes. “I have every right to hit you this very moment.” You warn. “Shutting up-” “That’s what I thought.” After weaving your way through countless people, quite a few of them who eye your fake mustache, you successfully make it to the docks and your ship. Climbing aboard, you and Angelica pull up the ramp and prop it against the side of the ship. “We’re setting sail!” you call, making your haste to the helm. One crewmember gives you a look, but quickly revises her self and gets back to work. You must cut a pretty intimidating figure… * * * You blearily open your eyes into the complete darkness surrounding you. The images of your dream slowly float back to you. That was about four years ago, wasn’t it? Hmm… You roll over on your back and a wave of panic hits you like a ton of bricks. This wasn’t your room. This wasn’t your bed. Slowly, very slowly, the previous day’s events begin to etch themselves like a storyboard back into your mind, namely your sleeping arrangements with Jack. Calming down, you wonder how long you’ve been asleep. As you look around the room, now that your eyes have adjusted to the darkness, you can tell that Jack isn’t lying beside you as you’d hoped, nor is he in the room. But quietly, off on the other side of the door you can hear light footsteps. In a wave of sheer instinct, you roll back over on your side and draw your hands up near your face, so that you appear to be sleeping. Why was playing opossum such a natural reaction during the night? All of your thoughts fade as you hear the door open and a faint light plays across your closed eyes. You hear Jack close the door and his boots scuff the floor as he crosses to the other side of the room. You can almost feel his eyes on your back as you listen in agony. You silently ponder if a long number of hours have passed since you went to bed and Jack had just stayed up later for the hell of it or if your dream had only lasted an hour or so. The latter, probably… Feigning a weary stir, you roll to your other side, effectively burying your face in the pillow so Jack can’t see your eyes. You can hear his movements halt and you’re very glad that he can’t see your face, because, at the moment, it’s burning with discomfiture knowing that all of his attention is on you. After a few seconds you hear him move again and move your arm sneakily by your head with a weary sigh, and again you can tell Jack has stopped. Luckily your face is hidden, or he would’ve seen you biting your lower lip to curb the grin that developed when you imagined what he must look like, standing there all apprehensive as to whether you’ll wake up or not. But, fortunately, you hear him move yet again as you adjust your head so that you can just see a little sliver of the rest of the room, which is revealed to you in a dim glow of candlelight. Jack is standing there, with his back to you, and beginning to tug off his shirt. Oh no. You don’t know how long you’ll be able to resist a half naked man lying next to you, especially one as delicious as Captain Jack Sparrow. You close your eyes and say a silent prayer, asking God or whoever was up there at the moment to give you the strength to make it through the rest of the night without jumping the man about to climb his lovely shirtless self into the bed next to you. When you open your eyes again, there is no longer any candle light and you feel a weight shift on the bed. You can hear him sliding something off and bite your tongue with another silent prayer that it’s not his pants. Luckily you hear the same sound and a thud and realize it’s his boots. If you weren’t faking slumber, you’d breathe a sigh of relief. A naked him that close to you, at night, in his cabin? Yeah right! Like that would ever last long. The bed moves yet another time and your eyes close on the off chance that if he’s face-level with you he might be able to see your face through your arm. You feel the sheets slide up your shoulder farther and now you’re certain that he’s done moving. Crap, now you’ve got to move and it’s not going to be very inconspicuous if you do so just as he finishes changing. Wow, this is going to be a long night. After a few minutes, you’re pretty sure Jack’s too close to sleep to notice whether you’re moving unconsciously or not and turn on your other side. You can hear an unconscious snort from Jack and stifle a giggle, knowing he’s fast asleep. Strange, even you’ve never fallen asleep that fast. Well, not that you can remember anyhow. You silently yawn and close your eyes, hardly noticing if there is any change in the darkness or not. After a few minutes, of which you’re completely oblivious to, you fall asleep again, except this time the dreams aren’t so pleasant… * * * “To conjugate verbs in the future or conditional it is necessary to note these rules. The future is an actual tense while the conditional expresses a state of potentiality. Future verbs are translated with shall and will while the conditional is translated with would. The two are taught together because of the following things they have in common…” Your attention wanes, and wanders from the teacher to the classroom around you and the people in it. Mickey, strangely enough, is sitting behind the teacher’s desk, cleverly disguised as her aide. You sit up straighter under his gaze and he subtly communicates that you need to blend in and not blow his or your cover. Or, as you soon observe, Angelica’s. She’s sitting in the second row, ignoring the teacher and passing notes to a boy behind her. The said student sits to your left and one row in front of you. You frown; why did he look so familiar? The boy, or young man actually, turns slightly to his left, mumbling something quietly to the boy next to him. The second you see his face, never mind that he turned round to glance at you, you know who it is. Alberto Francis. Oh, how you despise him. He turns around in his seat as the teacher begins passing out the class work for the day. Alberto takes this opportunity to rise from his seat and make his way to you. He stops on your right, just level with your ear, facing the students behind you, while setting a note on your desk. You can hear the predatory, not to mention sickeningly vindictive, tone in his voice as he whispers harshly, “I’ve told you once; there is no trust in this business. Women, above all, will be the ends of any pirate, you silly little girl.” He stands up and returns to his seat while your eyes unwillingly seek out the folded paper, willing your reluctant hands to open it. Something in you screams against it as the paper settles to lie flat on your palm. You can’t help but shiver, as you take the edge in your right hand and tilt the note so that you can read it. ‘Albert,’ is written in distinctly messy handwriting. Your eyes flicker around the room. ‘The bird’s flying from the nest. She’ll be gone for a long while. If you’d like to hear what I’ve got planned, write back. Trust me, it’ll be worth your while.’ The note ends there, not signed but you know who wrote it. Angelica. This was the note she had been passing; this is what was going on. You stand up to confront her and give Alberto a good piece of your mind, but as you do, a bell rings. Suddenly, you find yourself in a hallway, desperately trying to get to your next class. It seems as if the entire crowd of other students is going the opposite way from you. A few of them you recognize, a good number you do not. You can see some of your crewmembers, some people who hate you, and some of the people aboard the Pearl. They’re all ignoring you, shoving past you and knocking you around like a ping-pong ball or something. You suddenly feel like a kicked puppy, unwanted and dejected. You finally manage to get through the bulk of the crowd, and see Jack, towards the end of the mass. Or at least, you thought you did. He’s gone in the blink of an eye as a bell rings again, and once again, you find yourself in another classroom. Mickey’s not in this room but Angelica and Alberto are, leaving you to wonder what happened to him. Surely he wouldn’t leave you all alone? Didn’t he know about all that was going on? Your thoughts are interrupted as a teacher begins talking, though what he’s saying doesn’t quite make sense to you. Maybe if you could find your textbook… “To find the amount of force or distance multiplied by a given machine, it is necessary to discover the mechanical advantage. To do this, you must find the ratio between the input and output forces. If the mechanical advantage is greater than one the input force is multiplied. To increase distance or speed, it is necessary that the mechanical advantage be less than one.” You search frantically for your textbook, but find no means of it. Giving up, as the search is useless, you stare at the old-fashioned chalkboard, determined not to look at either Alberto or Angelica. Which, of course, would be a lot easier if they hadn’t come to stand right in front of you. Sensing danger, you stand up and take a step back. “Arianna?” The teacher calls, and you look warily at him, hesitant to look away from Angelica and Alberto. “Miss Heron, since you’re already out of your seat, could you take this attendance to the office?” he asks, holding out a folder. You gladly step around the pair in front of your desk and take the folder from the teacher. The next thing you know, you’ve delivered the letter and are none to keen to head back to class. Figuring you must, you trudge to the stairwell and start up, pausing to look at the school mascot painted on the wall. It’s an Indian warrior, one with a very short loincloth and bulging muscles. You had often made fun of him, when you were still at school, with… someone. Who was that? Gods, you couldn’t remember. Something about compensation and steroids… Damn it, you couldn’t remember. Soon, you find yourself in front of the classroom again, but this time only Alberto and Angelica remain. You step in warily, not quite trusting of the situation. “Ari.” Angelica acknowledges curtly. “Geli.” You mimic suspiciously. “Geli, what’s going on here?” you ask, not really sure if it’s the best way to approach the situation. “Look at it this way, your body’s become part of a permanent outplacement, we’re going in a different direction, we’re not picking up your options. Take your pick. I’ve got more.” She says mockingly. You’ve never seen her like this. She only ever quoted Emperor’s New Groove when she was happy. Something is terribly wrong… “Oh, and by the way Ari, Good night…” Alberto adds snidely, leveling a handgun at your chest while Angelica simply smiles. You hear the bullet fire and feel a biting pain course through your body as it tears through your chest. Oh God, you were dying. You were dying and you couldn’t do anything about it. You look down as your blood starts to seep out and pour onto your hands, bringing you to your knees so fast the room begins to spin. Angelica and Alberto are there, not saying anything, but just looking at you with wide grins on their faces. Your blood has now spilled over onto the floor and is seeping into your pants, making them stick nauseatingly to your skin. You hold your cold hands against your chest as the pain begins to numb and your head becomes cloudy. Your head feels like its underwater, or you’ve been holding your breath for a long time. At least your chest was warm, that was good, wasn’t it? If you could stay warm, keep from bleeding the maybe you wouldn’t die… * * * You jerk awake, startled by the sudden darkness around you. Were you in Heaven? Hell? It takes only a few seconds for you to comprehend that you’re in Jack’s cabin aboard the Black Pearl and not in some school from twelve years ago. Your hand uneasily moves to your chest where you can feel your heart pounding. Luckily, it’s only warm from the blankets and not blood. Since when did you have such gory dreams? You had had dreams in which you could feel what you imagined as pain, sure, but never one so vivid. Maybe it was just because Angelica was so evil in it. Why would you dream about Angelica being so evil? Maybe your subconscious was upset with her in a way your conscious mind couldn’t comprehend… Maybe you shouldn’t have had so much wine before going out in the hot sun… Finally waking up enough to take in more than where you are, you notice how close you are to Jack. Actually, the two of you are touching. Legs, but nonetheless. You slowly, and quite reluctantly, draw away from him, out of good propriety. Not to mention you kind of want to get up. Slipping the covers off of just your body and move carefully off the bed, so not to wake Jack. Apparently you needn’t worry about that too much, as Jack hasn’t ever moved yet. Recovering your spot, you tiptoe away from the bed, your eyes never leaving Jacks sleeping form. He doesn’t move as you inch towards the door, nor when your hand touches the knob. But, of course, that’s just not your luck, because the second you get the door open, a loud creak emits from it, causing Jack to stir. He rolls over, now facing your side of the bed and stills again with a sigh. Biting your lip, you open the door further and luckily Jack doesn’t stir this time. Apparently he’s a heavy sleeper. You step out, the dear Captain still undisturbed, and close the door behind you. Now if you could only find something in here to make you fall asleep again… * * * * An hour and a half later, you’ve made it about halfway through a very old translation of some of Nostradamus’ predictions. It’s actually pretty interesting, despite the occasional incapability to make sense. Then again, you didn’t take Latin or philosophy, so the translations seem a bit rough to you, but no more so than Don Quixote did the first time you read it. You couldn’t quite figure how the damn things were numbered, so you went through just looking for things that sounded like major events. He was a pretty straightforward man when it came to his predictions, or at least most of them. The Epistle to King Henry II was plain and simple. But some of the other writings, namely from Century X, which you had figured to be the 21st century, were unclear as to their meaning. You did however recognize his writing on September 11th, or what would soon be twisted to fit September 11th. The present time together with the past You remember them showing it on the history channel one day, how September 11th was to be predicted long before. That was probably what stood out clearest in your mind, the image of the face in the smoke. You had never stayed on the channel long enough to see how it would decipher out… Your musings are cut short as a door creaks open loudly. Your head snaps to the bedroom, to find Jack standing there looking at you with a sleepily confused look on his face. If he asks who you are, you may have to kill him, no matter how good he looks standing there with no shirt… Okay, no drooling, you already promised your self that. It’s only now that you realize what you must look like. You’re sitting, in your pajamas nonetheless (well, sort of), on one of the chairs with both feet propped up on the edge of the table and a book resting on your thighs. Yeah, this would confuse most people in the middle of the night, you think. “I uh… I couldn’t sleep.” You explain sheepishly. Jack smiles boyishly, and chuckles lightly. “I honestly thought ye weren’t real fer a minute there.” He admits. “Right now or before you saw me?” you ask, not quite sure what the statement was referring to. “Before I came out here.” He answers, approaching you with a lethargic trod. “What, you thought I was a dream?” you joke. “I suppose so, yes.” He answers, drawing up a chair next to yours. You really hope he doesn’t notice you’re blushing. He thought you were a dream… as in ethereal? Maybe you were taking this too far. “What’re ye readin’?” he asks, squinting in the darkness at the book in your lap. Well, you had lit a candle so it wasn’t all that dark. “Nostradamus. I was just seeing if I recognized any of his prophecies.” You answer carelessly. “I thought you ‘didn’t do a lot of history’.” He says accusingly. “So I lied.” You shrug. Damn, how did he remember what you said? “Don’t lie to make me feel better.” He states. All right, not only does he remember what you said, he remembers why you said it as well. “I wasn’t doing it to make you feel better, I was…” you trail off, unable to come up with a good contradiction. “You were…” Jack mocks with a triumphant grin. “Doing it to make you feel better.” You mumble, defeated. Glancing over at Jack, you see his smile hasn’t faded yet. “You know, I do believe you owe me a bottle of rum, Captain.” “T’was a third of a bottle.” He states quickly, still grinning. Damn rum hog. “Wipe that smirk off before I show my true colors and start sneaking it under your nose.” You threaten jokingly. “Don’t you dare.” He warns, apparently taking you serious. “I wasn’t going to, hon. I was kidding.” You defend. “Wha’ did ye just call me?” he asks curiously, forgetting about the rum momentarily. “I dunno, what?” you answer, thinking back. “Oh, hon?” you ask, grasping your earlier statement. “Ye called me hon?” he says disbelievingly. “I’m sorry, Captain, it’s just something I used to say a lot. Old habits die hard, ya know.” You explain. “Yer old captain let ya call ‘er hon?” he queries. “Seeing as I knew her since I was eight years old, yeah.” You say, stretching and sitting up straight. “She still had a higher rank than ye, no matter how long ye knew her.” He argues. You raise an eyebrow. “Yes,” you say shortly, “I let her be Captain by choosing to be quartermaster and I showed her respect in front of the crew, if that’s what you’re all up in a fuss about. But I ran the show, she just got the glory. I had a lot of fun, did the dirty work, and pissed a lot of people off. She came along for the adventure and sailed the ship, putting in more than her two cents at time, to be fair. But I was the one working my ass off for her dream.” You finish huffily. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t know ye were so touchy about it.” He placates, backing away as you begin to stand up. “I’m not touchy, I’m tired. And being tired makes me arg-ume-na-native,” You finish with a yawn. “Then why are you still up?” Jack asks condescendingly. Cheeky blighter… “I’m going to bed right now. Again.” You announce sourly. “I’ll come with ye.” He adds cheerfully. You roll your eyes and set the book on the table. After blowing out the candle, you let Jack head in first and close the door behind you. You’re quite surprised as you step into the room, due to how bright it seems. It takes you a few seconds to realize Jack lit another candle in here. He climbs back under the covers and blows out the candle as you stand on the edge of the bed. Strange, this seemed like on of those mushy romance novels with the stereotypical names like ‘Midnight Lover’ or ‘Unbridled Passions’… Ew… Not the time to think about bad romance novels. You climb into bed and roll onto your side again, never quite realizing how tired you actually are. You do however notice, before you drift off to sleep, something warm at your middle, right across your waist. The feeling is a nice one, though, and you don’t take much heed to it as your eyes slowly close of their own accord… Cast me gently * * * * * “Sunday morning rain is falling * * * * * CHAPTER 7 - Wrecking Defenses “On the back of every right there's a wrong looming” * * * * Meanwhile, uh, somewhere in the Caribbean... “What is that disgusting reek?” a feminine voice called to her partner as they stalked along the shadows. The night air was chilly, especially for the tropical location, and it was starting a heavy mist for good measure. “What?” he called back. Apparently the damp cold was weighing on the man’s nerves. “That smell- it’s awful!” she explained. “You mean to tell me you’re smelling something strange in the middle of the seventeenth century, which you brought us to, I might add, and you’re complaining about it?” he asked, irritated. “It’s not like I’d ever been to the seventeenth century, how was I supposed to know it smelt like shit?” the young girl defended. And it was true, she had never known what time-traveling would lead her into. “Oh, I don’t know, common sense? Did you ever read about hygiene of the 1600’s? No! Because there wasn’t any!” the man exclaimed, turning to face her. “All right, all right.” She placated. “Now shut up, before we look any more suspicious.” He said, turning once again. “Whatever.” She responded, rolling her eyes. “...” Silence, for a moment. “D’ya think you could give me a hand with this trunk?” she said, struggling to pull the large wooden box along behind her. “You brought a trunk?” he inquired condescendingly. “You expect me to spend how many years in the seventeenth century and never listen to my CD player again? Or never watch my movies? Or read a good book? Or-” “Fine, I got it. Idiot, what if somebody looks through the trunk? How are you going to explain the technology in there?” he soon changed tone, realizing what the thing could lead to. “That’s why it has a lock on it.” She answered sing-songily. “And to think I believed you capable of-” he began, but quickly stopped. “Of what?” she asked curiously. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter.” He quickly mumbled. “I think it does.” She argued. “Well I say it doesn’t,” he whispered back harshly. “As Captain-” “You were never my captain, chica, and we’re here.” He cut in harshly, his temper flaring. No words were spoken between the few for a while, to be sure. * * * * You shift slightly in the strange light that befalls your not-yet open eyes. ‘God-blasted, what is that?’ you ask yourself, trying to fall back asleep. You begin to drift off before a single thought evades you from sleep. ’Warm...’ You muse happily and snuggle farther under the blankets. Only then does it cross your mind why you would be so warm. Cocking your head slightly, you chance to open your eyes. Oh, wow, it was bright. You close your eyes for another minute, with the hope they’ll stop stinging. After a few seconds you try again, and your worst thoughts are confirmed. Sometime during the night, Jack had cozied his self up to you. Well, it’s not really a bad thought, just a little too... tempting. And you mean that with the most humble and chaste of ideas, of course. Figuring it best not to wake Jack, you try to fall back asleep, let him wake up first and draw away from you. ‘Less awkward that way, anyhow...’ “Yer quite a nice snuggle thing, ye know that?” Your eyes fly open, and without thinking, you jerk your head to look at Jack. He’s smiling in a very brazen way, though his eyes are closed. Damn him. Sighing in defeat, you roll your eyes and let your head fall back onto the pillow. Oh, he was good. But two can be cheeky. “So I’ve been told.” You mumble groggily. You hope there isn’t harm in Jack thinking you some loose woman, because that wasn’t the most innocent statement you’ve ever made. “And who was that by?” he asks, more as a throwaway question. In other words, he’s trying to distract you so you don’t notice his hand slipping down towards your hip. “Ya better put that hand back where it was or I’ll have to turn over.” You warn. Sure he was a warm, sexy pirate Captain, but that didn’t mean he could feel you up! At least not yet… “And wha’ would ye be doin’ when ya turn over?” Jack asks coyly, stopping his hand where it was. You have to bite your cheek not to laugh, even if it was meant to be suggestive. “Nothing you’d like, I’ll assure you of that.” You answer shortly. It was hard to be cross with a man like Jack Sparrow. Especially when they’re all nice and toasty, like he is right now. There’s an enjoyable silence for a moment after your answer. On a whim, you ask a question you’ve been wondering for a while since you got here. “Umm…” “Yes, darling?” Jack asks detachedly. Apparently he’s more interested in warming up your side. Not that you’re complaining… “What exactly is today?” you ask, trying not to hum in contentment. “Wha’ do ye mean?” he asks back playfully. “I mean, what day of the week, month, year… one of those would be nice…” you respond. If you didn’t know better you’d say he was prolonging his answer. “I believe today woul’ be Sunday, August…3rd, of 1684. And, if I might add, it’s a very good day as well.” He says and you can feel his breathing around your neck. “And, if I might ask, why is it a very good day?” you inquire jokingly. “If ye must know, I suppose it’s because I woke this morning with a lovely little bedmate all snuggled up to me, and no one screaming ‘Captain’ at the top o’ their lungs outside me door.” He says matter-of-factly. Hey, wait a minute… “Excuse me, Captain, but I do believe you would be the one snuggled up to me…” you trail off accusingly. Trying to blame this situation on you? You think not. “Excuse me, missy, but I’d think you’d like t’ reevaluate the distance from yer side o’ the bed to yer little onesies before ye go accusin’ little ol’ me.” He advises. Oh Damn. He’s right. You’re a good two feet from your edge and well into Jack’s territory. As much as you’d like to argue, you know if Jack had pulled you this far, you’d have woken up. All conclusions lead to the fact you scooted over to his side. Great. Just peachy. Now he thinks that you really like him and meant more by… Okay, so you aren’t that upset, and you do really like him, but still. As we’ve well established, you don’t enjoy playing around with your virginity. At least not if you’d be giving it up willingly. Jack’s boldness has only grown with your silence and he tries to slide his hand down your hip again. “Up.” You say humorlessly. “What?” Jack asks, stopping confused. “You need to get out of bed.” You state. Somehow, the reality of how bad an idea letting him cuddle up to you has just caught up. “And why woul’ I wanna do tha’?” he asks. “Because somebody has to go be Captain. Not to mention that I’d like to get up sometime too.” You explain. “Well then, after you, milady.” He says, pulling the covers off of most of you and turning over so that his back is turned to your form. Sitting up, you throw your legs over the edge. Getting up is never a problem for you, unless, of course, you’re in your own bed or cozy with a handsome pirate Captain. Looking over your shoulder, you notice Jack hasn’t budged since he rolled over. “Aren’t you coming?” you ask pointedly. “Oh yes, in a while. You go ahead.” He says, smiling at you over his shoulder. Apparently, you’ve hurt his feelings, seeing as that smile wasn’t very sincere. “Don’t you play cold shoulder with me, mister.” You warn. “Are you insinuating somethin’?” he asks, turning again to look at you. “No, I’m flat out saying, I did nothing offensive. Why are you acting like a said ‘shove off you stupid asshole’?” Somehow, that came out a bit more rudely than you meant it to. “If ye aren’t keen to the fact, love, I’ll enlighten ye. Ye’ve only been ‘ere a day. How do ye know what I usually act like? And, actually, I was enjoyin’ the comfort of me bed further before I had to go and guide the Pearl into port, seein’ as we dock today, savvy?” he contradicts, raising an eyebrow for effect. Damn that quick little mouth of yours. You should’ve asked if anything was wrong, not accused him of being cold-shouldered. Oh, wow. You hate awkward moments like this. After a while you think you’d learn to think before you speak. ”Oh.” You say sheepishly. “Never mind.” You add, standing up and walking over to the dresser at the side of the room. “And just what do ye think yer doin’?” Jack asks you. “I was getting myself a shirt. Would you rather I distract the crew by walking around without a shirt on?” “What’s wrong with the one ye’ve got on righ’ now?” he asks suspiciously. “Well nothing, except… Well, I just slept in it and I’d like a different shirt. May I get a different shirt?” you try to appease. “I suppose ye could.” Jack answers, sitting up and stretching. You immediately turn back to the dresser, not only to retrieve a new shirt, but also to alleviate the desire to hop back in bed with Jack. You had kind of forgotten he wasn’t wearing a shirt with the entire blanket covering him. You almost outright laugh when you remember thinking he was going to be sleeping without –anything- on. That would’ve been a sight for sore eyes right about now. Though the sight is filed away in your memory bank… A sudden burst of shouts breaks overhead, accompanied with hurried footsteps. Well, this was familiar. Apparently human reaction to seeing port hadn’t changed in four hundred years. Well, now that you think about it, it wasn’t exactly four hundred years. More like three hundred and thirty. Which is closer to three hundred. Well, you never did finish Algebra… You pull out the shirt Jack had lent you yesterday, and turn around to find him half-dressed and pulling on his belt. Looking around the room, you see no hiding spots. Jack is facing his dresser, and you’re chary to look at him, seeing as all bets are that he’s looking at you. You retreat to the other side of the room and face the opposite wall so you back is facing him. You successfully pull on the shirt and take off the under one without revealing anything other than the back of your waist before realizing you’ve forgotten your bra. Turning around, you’re glad to find Jack’s still turned around, messing with some trinket on his… well, the thing he… the over-the-shoulder weapons belt-thing. You kneel down, pulling your shoe out from underneath the bed, along with your bra. As unpractical as it may be, you still have to wear it, for your own peace of mind. Sitting on the floor, the entirety of your torso is hidden from Jack’s view, and you slip the bra on under your shirt with a certain practiced ease. Looking up, you notice Jack’s done dressing and looking at you with a curious expression. “Lose somethin’, love?” he asks humorously. “Uh, no… I was just getting my shoes.” You cover, holding up a sneaker. You’d rather he not know all about what you were wearing under your blouse. Or, rather, his blouse… “What on earth are you doing on the floor?” he asks, still quite, or so it seems, befuddled. You pause, the time change maybe makes it unusual to put one’s shoes on while sitting on the floor. “I’m putting them on while sitting down… There not exactly easy to put on standing up.” “Ah.” Jack answers, then pauses for a moment. “Why didn’ ye sit on the edge of the bed?” “Because my shoes were down here and if I do that, I have to get back up twice. Once from the floor, and once from the bed.” You answer, pulling on your shoes and standing up. “What are we waiting for?” “Wha’?” he asks, looking over at you. “You’re not on deck yet? I thought we were navigating into port today. Why’re we still down here?” you explain perkily. No need to be grumpy if you just woke up with Jack Sparrow, is there? “I don’t know…” Jack drawls out, taken slightly aback by your sudden eager personality. Quite a strange little turn-table you were turning out to be in his eyes. “Well, come on.” You say, striding over to the door and opening it for him with a lavish manner. “After you, Captain, I insist.” “No, m’dear, ladies first.” He smiles, walking to the end of the bed and waiting for you to exit. “Pardon me, but I believe rank is before beauty.” You say amicably. This time, you were willing to spend all day on this. “Are you slighting me on my beauty?” he asks with a frown. You hold a long pause. “Nooooo…” you draw out, thinking about it good and hard. “I just wouldn’t think of the word beautiful to describe a pirate.” You lie. Okay, so you would call him beautiful, just not to his face. “Then wha’ word would ye use?” he asks with a suave smile, swaying over to stand in front of you. “Uh…” you say, trying very hard not to sound intimidated. Or worse, swoon-y. ‘Think, think, think…’ Well, sexy, for one, but you can’t say that. Oh… “Handsome?” you spit out with a hopefully appeasing tone. There was only so long you can stall without sounding like you’re stalling, a lesson well remembered. Jack simply quirks a smile, a strangely self-pleased one, and leans a bit closer to you. “Thank ye, love.” “You’re welcome…” you say, slightly confused by his sudden close-proximity. Not that you really mind. If you’ve ever been slightly uncomfortable by any kind of sexual tension, it was now. The fact that the man you’re feeling this way about is one of the sexiest you’ve ever seen, much less met, isn’t helping either. Coughing or rubbing your nose is always a good way out of these kind of situations… ‘Oohp.’ That is, if he doesn’t kiss you on the cheek and walk out the door. ‘Whoa. Did that actually happen?’ you think to yourself. You look over to Jack who is standing in the main of his cabin as casually as you can. Well, it probably would be more casual if you weren’t raising an eyebrow. “What’re ye waitin’ for?” he asks mockingly, like nothing ever happened. “Santa Clause.” You say sarcastically, closing the door. “What?” “Never mind, never mind…” you mumble. ‘What the hell is he playing at?’ * * * * * CHAPTER 8 - Dangerous Discoveries “We all dream; we do not understand our dreams, yet we act as if * * * * Playing at, indeed. Jack’s been standing at the helm, guiding the ship into port. Normally, you would see nothing wrong with that- if he didn’t keep glancing over at you. Granted, you’re glancing as well, but you’re the one who just got dropped onto a boat with the sexiest man you’d ever seen. Now he’s become the sexiest man you’ve ever met. But none the less, it’s a bit unnerving when he keeps looking at you. Sighing, you put down the rope you’d been attempting to tighten – never mind that it was tight already – and head over to the ever-dashing Captain Sparrow. If you don’t stop adding your little endearing adjectives as prefixes to Captain, you’re going to end up spitting one out and causing yourself more embarrassment than it’s worth. “What port was this, again?” you ask squinting at the horizon. “Or did you say?” “I didn’t say. And this is Puerto Fumar.” He announces, gesturing to the rapidly approaching city. Sadly for him, you understand Spanish. And quite well. “The name of this place is Port Smoke?” you nearly laugh. “They honestly call this place the smoking port? Wow, and I thought San Antonio was bad.” “The islands’ main export is tobacco. And, ‘holy Anthony’?” he asks raising an eyebrow. You shrug and look back to the harbor which, as you approach, seems to be covered in a cloud. Maybe it was more aptly named than you had thought. * * * * By the time the Black Pearl has docked, you are fully convinced that this city has well-earned its own name. You’re actually afraid to see what the bars look like, for once. If you’re inhaling this much second-hand smoke on the docks, you might as well grab a cigar yourself and get it over with. Jack seems less than deterred by the hovering ‘fumar’, judging by his deep inhalation at the end of the boarding, or should you say, unloading, plank. He turns and smiles at you, “Don’t you just love the smell of port in the morning? The air, the sea, the blasted dirt everywhere… Now come on, before the crew loses their sea legs.” He waves you on, as though you’re the one holding him up. Somehow you get the feeling he may intend to drop you at this stop if you don’t stay close. Trudging on up the street behind Jack, you get the eeriest feeling you’re being stared at. Not surprisingly, as you look around you find random strangers passing odd glances at your legs and then frowning. It’s about that time that you realize how due past you are for a change of pants. Hurrying to catch up with Jack, and by coughing most of the way, you manage to get his attention. “If I might, uh, request, I think it’s time I find new pants. These are drawing unwanted interest.” “Well, you’re always welcome to borrow mine, darling.” He smirks, stopping to face you. You stop as well, and are, in turn, nearly run over by a young man, fourteen or so, who seems to have been so fascinated by your shoes that he hadn’t paid attention to your sudden lack of movement. He mutters an apology and proceeds on around you, stealing a look over his shoulder every few feet. “I’d rather have a pair of my own, if you don’t mind terribly. And possibly a new pair of shoes.” You state. “Shoes, as well? Do ye really need ‘em?” he asks, reluctantly adding up what those would cost him. You simply hold out a finger after the boy who just ran into you and quip, “Case and point.” Jack rolls his eyes, mumbling under his breath. “Bloody expensive little-” “Thank you.” You cut him off quickly. He looks up behind you and turns you around, ushering you in before you even get a chance to see where you’re going. It’s a strange place to identify, especially when you’re inside it. The walls are lines with odd trinkets, most of them strangely-crafted knives and swords with extremely odd handles. But amidst these rest clocks and necklaces, a few powder barrels, and even what seems to be a satin purse. If you didn’t know better, you would think you were in some sort of a Pawn shop. This, in all reality, could be possible. You snicker slightly as a store sign flashes into your mind: YE OLDE PAWN SHOPPE, archaic lettering and all. Jack waves to get your attention, and you follow him past a curtain and into what now appears a quaint little tavern, only there are a lot less people in this bar than you’re used to seeing. The people who you see are apparently not the ones who Jack is looking for, as he passes right by them without so much as a second glance. Reaching the bar, he leans over and whispers something to the bartender, who nods, then disappears into what you can only assume as a kitchen or brewery. You however, are less interested in the bartender and more focused on the small group of men huddled near where you came in. In fact, you are so interested in those men, that you don’t even know what the bartender gave Jack before he grabs your hand, heading back towards the curtain. But, despite his best attempts, it seems the huddle of men have something to discuss with Jack. Or, at least, the Antonio Banderas look-alike who called out “Sparrow” as you passed does. Turning, Jack eyes the man apprehensively, drawling out a “hm?” in response. The man is very obviously Spanish, and has a very well-groomed beard and mustache, especially for someone in this kind of a port. “What are you doing back ‘ere?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. Jesus Christ, he even talked like Antonio. “Simply taking care of some business, Mister…” he trails off, obviously unaware of the man’s name. “Pussino. I was in that card game a few months ago where you so graciously lightened all of our pockets. Will you be staying for another, Capitán?” “No, I’m afraid we won’t be staying for the night, perhaps another time. Come on, darling.” He adds to you, acting slightly antsy. One of the men makes a sound of disappointment, giving you just enough time to glance at Señor Pussino’s feet. As you had hoped, he was wearing boots. “So sorry,” Jack apologizes over his shoulder as he nearly drags you out of the tavern and back through the Pawn Shoppe. As soon as you’re both outside again, you begin to laugh, as composedly as you possibly can – so not to draw more attention than you have already. “What, may I ask, is so dreadfully funny?” he sneers, apparently thinking it’s him you’ve found humor in. Gasping through laughs, you manage to choke out, rather quietly three words- “Puss. In. Boots.” Jack chuckles slightly and shakes his head. You’re certain he’s laughing because of another connotation, but you manage to walk along with him, further into the port and soon, find that coughing from over-exposure to second-hand smoke may un-enhance the hilarity of even the most undertone of jokes. Your next stop is at a ‘YE OLDE RETAILE SHOPPE’, much to your delight, where you find a pair of pants, obviously made for younger men, as they don’t fall in the right way to be tucked into boots, and a stout pair of, well, boots. After profusely thanking Jack as you leave the shop, he threatens to cut off your tongue and throw the boots into a nearby well, granted that you don’t shut up. You quickly take his advice and sigh as you realize you’re not heading for the Black Pearl yet. Jack stoops into yet another building, this time a bar – and one quite crowded, compared to the last. But once again, the company he intends to meet is not to be found among the throng of customers, but instead up the back stairs and in one of the upstairs rooms. He traipses along the hallway, carefully eyeing all the doors to his left. You follow him; pants and boots tucked under your arm, and continue throwing wary glances to the floor. You knew that wood floors came to squeak under good use, but this was the kind of squeaking that was accompanied by the planks sinking ever so slightly under your foot. And needless to say, it was making you uneasy. After a long walk to the second-to-last room of the hallway, Jack raps briefly on the door he deems to hold whatever acquaintances he was looking for. The door opens slowly, revealing a short, grey-haired man, not unlike Mr. Gibbs. Only, judging by his next words, you’d say he was an Englishmen. “Ah, Sparra’, good te see ya, again, mate.” He cries in a stout cockney accent, opening the door, and welcoming Jack as an old friend. Jack looks back down the hallway, and nods you to go into the room ahead of him, watching the far-end stairway like a hawk. No pun intended, of course. The room, as you notice is heavy with the smell of ale, something you would think hard to detect, given the city’s certain smoke crisis. A table rests in a corner of the room, nearly covered with mugs, empty or not, as though they were a table cloth. You hear the door click behind Jack and turn to find the Englishmen looking at Jack and then to you and then back at Jack, his eyebrows raised in blunt questioning. You idly wonder if he doesn’t deem you welcome during their little discussion, whatever it’s going to be. After about four seconds of Jack trying to figure how to explain you, his sentences punctuated with pauses, you break in. “Captain, do you think there might be a place around here, where I could change into these?” you say, holding aloft your new duds. “Privately, I mean.” You add quickly. “Well, I believe tha room nex’ to this one,” the Englishmen begins, pointy a beefy thumb to the wall on your right, “is empty at the momen’. Yer welcome te change over there, missy.” He smiles. You smile back in gratitude, or at least that’s the kind of smile you’re going for, and look over at Jack. He shrugs and opens the door for you. You walk out, sending a doubtful glance to Jack, who seems all to eager to close the door behind you. You really don’t want to change in a room that’s not occupied by anyone you know. Reluctantly, you open the door anyway, which creaks something awful – worse than the floor, actually – and head inside. It’s slightly darker than the Englishmen’s; given this one had the curtains closed and has a slightly mustier smell. Almost the smell of wet, rotten wood. Closing the door behind you, you find that hardly any light is to be found, which suits you just fine at the moment – for changing, at least. You slip off your old clothes, noting how cold the floor is under your thin socks which are already stiff with grime after only two days. Your new pants, which you’re pretty certain are actually ‘breeches’, turn out to be slightly itchy at the hem around your waist and calves. Sucking it up, you pull on your new boots, which are surprisingly comfortable. You had thought, given the fact that the leather in the century doesn’t go through all the processes it does in the future, they would be stiff and tight or something. But then again, the fact that they were second-hand may have something to do with that. Rolling your pants up, and setting them on the floor, you creep over to the wall you suppose to be shared with the room Jack is currently holding negotiations in. But in all your stealth, your night vision fails, which you are alerted to as your shin connects with a large, box-like item. You realize it’s some kind of a chest after groping in the dark to rub your sore leg. Feeling your way around it, you make it to the wall without any more self-inflicted injuries and press your ear to the wall in hopes of eavesdropping. No use in sugarcoating the obvious truth, eh? Much to your dismay, however, it seems that their conversation is nearly over. “And you’re sure it’s in the second one?” “Yes. Certain.” “Well, then. I suppose that’s all, no?” “All ya needed to ask me, in any case. Care fer a drink, Jack?” “I would, mate, I really would. But the little dame in the next room isn’t exactly something te be left alone, ye understand.” You smirk into the dark. It’s so good to know that you can double as an excuse to leave. At least he hasn’t called you a bed-warmer. “Yeh, she seemed a bit frail.” Suddenly, you’re not liking Jack’s little friend anymore. “I wouldn’t call her frail, just not very… sharp.” Jack states, close enough to being in your defense to satisfy you. You don’t mind people questioning your intelligence, that’s almost an advantage, but suggesting you were weak of character or body, well that’s just rude. You hear chairs scraping against the wooden floor, a peculiar sound considering you hadn’t really noticed any chairs. Then again, they could have been hidden behind or beneath all of the mugs of liquor the man kept at hand. You pull back from the wall, your curiosity having waned with the fact that you need to grope along the floor to find your jeans and sneakers, oh joy. Dropping to your knees, you splay out your fingers and come across your jeans and shoes. You stand up quickly, and make for an exit just in time as Jack opens the door. The light causes you to blink and uncomfortably shift the clothes in your hand. “All done, love?” Jack asks, and as if on cue your shoe drops to the floor. “Yep.” You say, and stoop down, grabbing your shoe. “Was that the noise we heard?” he asks, as if he knows what you had been up to. “Uh, no. I accidentally bumped into that chest over there looking for a place to…” your sentence trails for a moment as you stand looking at the chest. “Sit down.” You finish, turning completely to look at the chest in the light. It’s almost exactly like the one Angelica had on board the Liberator, only it looks dirtier. Looking over at Jack, you see he’s pursed his lips in a faint curiosity. “The chest just looks like one I’ve seen before.” You wave it off. Striding past you, Jack slyly suggests that the two of you find out what was on the inside. You roll your eyes, but don’t protest because you’re just as curious as Jack seems to be. But as he eyes the lock curiously, you notice that it’s the same lock as the one on Angelica’s chest in her room. He looks up at you, and you raise your eyebrows in turn. “What?” you ask. “Well, I was jes’ wondering if you might display yer superior pirate knowledge of the future and pick this little ol’ lock.” He says, as if he actually wanted to measure talent. You stoop down as Jack moves aside and pull up the lock, now realizing that it was the same lock. “Do you have a barrel pin?” you ask. Somehow, you doubt people in this century carry around safety pins or paperclips. The pin and you easily open it, having opened the same lock more than once. A thought suddenly crosses your mind as you hand the pin back to Jack. What if Angel had been transported here when you had? Your thought however is interrupted as Jack tosses you the lock and opens the chest, revealing items that are quite familiar to you. Extremely familiar… * * * * * CHAPTER 9 - Incipient Wounds “Good judgment is once again proving to me * * * * The first thing you spot is Angelica’s brush. It was always the last thing she packed because, by the time she had packed everything else, it was the only useless thing left in her room. She rarely brushed her hair, and you had always been just fine with that. A book, your book of magic spells lies next to it – an antique you had picked up on one of the Keys, automatically assuming it a fake. Of course, you had really only liked the leather-bound cover and bronze adornment. A CD player with a case, yours as well is stacked neatly against the side. You wonder why Angel had brought so much of your stuff with her. Normally, you would be ecstatic to have any of your amenities back from the twentieth century, but somehow your dream from last night is still weighing heavy on your mind. It’s not that you think Angelica and Alberto would ever make an alliance, but the fact that Angel would bring you here and not tell you is odd. Obviously, if she had time to pack it wasn’t an accident. Maybe she had intended on it being a surprise, but that doesn’t seem likely. Angel’s family had been devout Catholics, and she had never really gone against that. You wouldn’t expect her to start in on magic spells and some voodoo mumbo jumbo all of the sudden. Jack’s hand drags you out of your musings as he reaches over to grab the book. You slap his hand away without even thinking twice. You do, of course, slightly regret it as he frowns at that back of your head, or so you think and mutters “what was tha’ for?” You turn and look at the doorway a moment, where a slightly bewildered Englishmen still stands looking at the odd pair he’s just been acquainting with. Ignoring Jack for a moment, you look directly at the man in the doorway. “Did you happen to see who was staying in this room?” “A girl, a bit younger than ye, perhaps. Black hair, tan skin, funny lookin’ clothes.” He states, fumbling for a description. You can’t help but smile as he goes through. It was definitely Geli all right. Glancing at Jack, you see that he’s noticed your smile, and realize that you’ve now got quite a bit of explaining to do. “Her nose was wide, and she wore a lot of rings, and I think one of her eyes was bigger than the other, the right-” “That’s enough. I’ve got quite a clear mental picture, thank you.” You cut him off. You had noticed the eye thing, actually. “Uh, well. You know how I told you…” You begin to explain to Jack. Sadly, the Englishman cuts you off this time. “Hey, that’s not all. There was a man with her.” Your heart stops. All you can hope for is a really vague description of a flamboyant gay man. “Real…” he trails off, searching for a word. “Funny, odd, strange…” you offer. “Nah… serious lookin’. Frowned a lot. Tall. Dark hair, curly. Tan, well-built. Looked like some sort of-” “Pirate.” You finish glumly for him. You’ve just noticed a shirt thrown lazily on the bed, and since he rarely changed when you saw him, you knew it was Alberto’s. But this didn’t make any sense. Why would Angel and Alberto form an alliance? Surely she wouldn’t have packed if she had been kidnapped. “That’s it!” he smiles. “You know them? Friends of yours?” he inquires and you wonder if curiosity struck him or he decided to make small talk. “Sort of.” You answer nonchalantly and pick up the leather book. The spine folds open easily and from between the eager pages falls some kind of a placeholder. Sighing, you look over at the beds, a neat and prim one and a messy one. Angel had never been one for organization except when it came to planning. Had you been gifted with foresight when you fell here? Why were you dreaming of the past as well, then? You flip through the pages, eyes searching for any clue as to what brought you here, yet you are keenly aware to the uncomfortable silence behind you. The thought plagues your mind that the accursed pair could return any moment. Heaving the courage, you close the book and stuff it into Jack’s unsuspecting hands. You pick up the CD player and case, place it on top of your clothes, and continue to rifle through the chest. A good third of its contents belonged to you, yet they were things you had left behind. The suitcase that now lies at the bottom of a very rusty airplane at the moment only held clothes and a well-edited manuscript: “The Way Things Were”. You were never going to see that again, literal or metaphoric. Maybe you had left so much to force your own return. Maybe you hadn’t ever really wanted to leave. Maybe deep down you saw this coming. Anger flares up in you suddenly as you realize – she had hugged you before you left! The insincerity of the embrace nearly makes you sick. Before you even really comprehend it, you’re picking up what you had pulled out including your clothes and stuffing them back in the trunk. Closing the lid huffily, you turn to meet stale air. The Englishman had left the doorway sometime during your musings to go God knows where and Jack had begun to flip uninterestedly through the pages of the book. You set your face determinedly and point to the chest. “I’m taking it. If there’s anything valuable in it, it’s yours, deal?” Jack looks at you with raised eyebrows. “Your trunk, I’d assume?” “It is now.” You state, pulling up one handle. It takes you about three seconds to realize that you’re not pulling the damned thing anywhere on your own. You appeal to Jack with a gesture to the other end. He frowns slightly, apparently dissatisfied with your inability to pull your own weight, but takes the other end anyway. Grunting a little, you lift it up along with him and nod towards the door. “Your little friend left?” you inquire, as you shuffle towards the door. “Acquaintance, and yes. Drunken fool, that one.” He admonishes, and you bite your lip. Most people would probably say the same thing of your present company. The two of you squeeze through the door and manage to make the close turn in the hall easier than you had expected. Then again, it wasn’t like you were maneuvering a mattress or something massive like that. As you move your way down the hall, you become quite keen to the fact that you got the better end of the deal. Jack sadly, is the one who will have to walk backwards down the stairs the way you’re currently positioned. You smile in a sincerely apologetic manner when he sighs, making the same realization. But the captain seems to be proving himself quite the worthy fellow as time goes on and he takes the first five or so steps without hesitation. Footsteps soon echo from the bottom of the stairs, causing your heart to pound like mad. Fortunately, it’s only a couple of local girls, the colorful kind, and they seem to like Jack. He doesn’t seem particularly loathing toward them, either, as he lightens his hands with a curt smile. The problem with this would be, that, you can’t quite hold onto the chest by yourself, and in result the handle nearly pulls itself out of your hand. You let go before you tumble down the stairs along with it, leaving it to slide into Jack’s legs, knocking him well off balance. You smile ill-courteously toward the girls as they turn from the top of the stairs to find what all the commotion was about. Or to get a good second look at Jack… They hurry about their way, probably unnerved by your insincere manner, and you descend down the few steps to a rather unhappy pirate captain. Offering a hand, you smile apologetically, yet can’t help but chuckle a little. Your acrimony is slowly ebbing away with each passing moment. You manage to curb your amusement long enough to help Jack up, which is surprisingly easy considering the fact he has at least two inches on you and your sure a good twenty pounds, ego or otherwise. He keeps one leg propped up to prevent the chest from sliding down anymore steps. “Jealous, are we?” he drawls out, brushing previously unnoticed dirt from the breast of his coat. You’re starting to miss your own something awful. “Of what, falling down the stairs?” you begin, but quickly speak again before Jack gets the chance to make any kind of commentary on your statement. “No, actually, I had a bit of trouble holding onto the chest by myself when your arm went limp at the sight of the tramps flouncing up the stairs.” “Pardon me?” he asks tritely, communicating through tone that you not suggest him weak in any phrase of matter. “Never mind, can we get on with this? I’d like to get down the stairs sometime today.” You sigh, goaded. “But of course.” Jack says, forcing a smile despite your slightly vexing tone. Your good mood was waning quickly. You pick up your end, as Jack does his, and the two of you manage getting down the stairs this time. As inconspicuously as you can, you weave through the crowd, heading straight for the door. And you would have made a clean run, too, if a voice floating in the musty air hadn’t stopped you dead in your tracks. Turning slightly, much to Jack’s bewilderment, your eyes, almost of their own accord, search out the voice’s owner. It doesn’t take long to find him, either. He was sitting there, with her, talking in a slightly hushed tone, the same on from your dream, not fifteen feet away from you. Luckily, they don’t see you, as you are close enough to make out a few of the words. That would be, if anger wasn’t boiling in you just looking at them. Your eyes are steaming, seeing the pair through a haze, not unlike the heat that appears over the hottest of fires. A lifetime seems to pass, and you’re not even sure if you’re still breathing when you finally turn to Jack. Being the moderately intelligent man he is, he seems to have caught onto what was wrong. “Where?” is all he says to you, and even if he doesn’t know who it is, or why it is so upsetting, he seems to understand your consequential reaction to it all. You shake your head, not quite ready to ‘share your pain’; it was your own burden, after all, for now anyway. “Let’s just go. I’m sure your crew is getting impatient. I would hate for them to spout land legs on my account.” You say, making a very directory move toward the door. Jack follows, hesitating a few seconds to mull over the tables. No one really stands out to him, except for a tired-looking pair, but he doubts they would be any kind of mass-conspirators. A few odd minutes later, and a good number of odd looks, the two of you arrive back at the ship, with you ready to weigh anchor as much as anyone. Jack doesn’t even bother to help you drag the chest into his room before instructing his crew. He walks it over to the door, nonetheless with you, but drops it there and moves up the stairs to the helm. “Men! Weigh anchor, we’re off to our rewards!” He calls, and then looks down to you. You, however, don’t even notice. The gravity of your current situation had managed to break its dam in your mind, flooding you with mixed thoughts and what seems to be thousands of feelings. You drop your weight on top of the chest, making your weakness seem only momentary exhaustion as you stare out at the Black Pearl’s crew. Oh God, what have I done? * * * * * *Author’s Note: Two things have been altered. They should have been this way originally, but they skipped past editing. Or, rather, I skipped editing. In chapter two, “If only you cared less about your virginity!” Should be followed by the line, “In this century anyway…”. I don’t know why it wasn’t because that was in the handwritten version. And, in chapter six, “Alberto Francis” should be “Alberto Falliano.” I’ve always had that as the last name, in my mind, at least, for as long as I can remember, so again, it doesn’t add up to me. My typing mind must have been off. Also, this chapter’s language is a bit coarse. A few people could be offended, I’m not sure. If you like, I’d say this is an R chapter, but only for language. No smut. Yet… Onto the next chapter, I’m sorry for the delay. * <-- Understatement of the year. CHAPTER 10 - The Line Blurred “Oh, oh, look what you’ve done, - Jet, ‘Look What You’ve Done’ You had given up praying to God a long time ago. Of course, that had never stopped the two of you from talking. Looking back on it now, you had done most of the talking. In fact, you had always gotten the distinct feeling God was laughing at you. Whatever was going to happen was already preordained, so what good was praying? Whatever happened, God decided a long time ago whether or not to help you. All he could do now is watch and be entertained. But then again, if the bounds of reality could be crossed, who was to say the rules of life couldn’t be broken? Your mind at the moment, however, couldn’t be farther from God. Set in its ways, it begins to conjure memories, memories you’d much rather not relive. The crew of the Black Pearl tightens the sails and continues with their menial chores, completely oblivious to the fact that, with each tug and pull, each pound and thump, your heart and mind pound harder and faster in unison. And with each beat, each pulse that you can feel coursing through your entire body, a new flash etches itself across your vision, burning like a lit match against the back of your eyes. Your mom standing in the darkened doorway of your room the morning you left, the plane taking off, leaving home behind to look like an ant farm, the sight of your first Caribbean sunset, the bullet hole of the first shot ever fired at you, Angel’s false tears the previous morning, your own bruised and bleeding body after a hefty beating – and there it is. The memory you hate most, right there, tattooing itself back into your mind. “Darling, are you all right?” Jack’s quiet voice saves you from your own dwelling. You look up, all of the cunning of guise you ever had, washed away with the last of your trust. You damn yourself for not being able to disguise your mental bruises and curse your psyche even more for not caring. “As well as my life’s going, yeah.” You lilt out, sarcasm running rampant. Standing up, you kick the chest pointedly with your heel. “I, uh, can’t carry this down the stairs myself. Not without damage to one of the three.” “Of course,” Jack smiles, managing a mildly convincing false sincerity even in the face of your hostility. Resuming your previous positions, you find that it’s your turn to go down the stairs backwards. You have no serious qualms about this, because it gives you a good reason to avoid eye contact with Jack as you turn to make sure your steps aren’t misplaced. You reach the bottom of the steps and Jack lets his end down, nearly jerking yours out of your hand. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts.” Jack says simply, turning to go. Before you even realize what you’re doing, the words spurt out of your mouth, “Please don’t.” Jack turns a little to look at you, his eyebrows raised. “My thoughts aren’t exactly something I want to be left alone with right now.” You elaborate. His eyes look straight into yours a moment, flicker down, and then look back at your face. “I’m fine, really.” You assure. “Then why are you breathing like if you stop the very air’ll betray you?” he counters. Your lips purse a moment before responding. “It could all turn into carbon dioxide any moment, ya know,” you retaliate. Jack simply smiles at your stubbornness; a look you’ve long since grown accustomed to, and shakes his head. - - - It was a little known truth that Angelica Delos Santos never much liked stairs. In fact, one might go so far as to say that she hated them. A bad incident in her childhood, which resulted in many broken bones, had only added injury to insult. However, her hatred of stairs had never prevented Angelica from getting where she was supposed to be. So, like the trooper she was, she pushed her personal discrepancies aside and trudged up the stairs behind her new colleague. She had been stuck in the seventeenth century for only two days and already she was missing elevators. Of course, the only person who had ever been aware of her distaste for the wooden obscenities was all too far from where she was now. And for this, Angelica was very glad. Something in the pit of her stomach told her that her quartermaster’s presence at the time being would certainly have undesirable effects, most of them levied towards her. Alberto Falliano, the tall Italian man in front of her, most likely had the same feelings, and most likely would never make them known. Little had been said between them over the past week, though they had spent most of it in each other’s presence. Indeed, neither had been anxious to say more than what would be done, and even with that Angelica had needed to initiate the conversation herself. But now, now they would talk, and there was much to be said. They had begun a conversation in the main room of the tavern adjoined to the hotel, in which they were staying, and discovered there were too many eager ears about for them to continue the tête-à-tête. Opening the door, Alberto entered the room without so much as an offer to Angelica to go first. Angelica didn’t think twice of it. She knew of Alberto’s negative opinions on most matters, like chivalry, but also knew him for the ambitious and able man he was. That had always been the difference between her and Arianna. Once Arianna had seen the bad in people, she rarely ever forgave, especially if she had suffered personal injury. Not that she had suffered any real injuries, to Angelica’s knowledge, from Falliano. “Are you sure nothing would prevent you from acquiring the ship?” Alberto’s voice pestered Angelica out of her thoughts. “Of course not. If I was sure, would I have needed accompaniment?” Angelica frowned back, slightly annoyed by the question. Being slightly oblivious to Alberto’s rapidly changing tone and temperance would lead Angelica into a lot of mishaps, and she would not know that until it was too late. But for the time being, something much more intriguing had arrested her attention – her missing trunk. “Did you move my trunk?” she asked, slightly suspicious of her new partner. He hadn’t liked the fact that she had brought her trunk in the first place, so it was only natural to think he might’ve removed it from her possession. “No…” Alberto snarled through gritted teeth. “Is it missing?” he asked, emphasizing each word in his anger. “Uh…” Angelica laughed, quite certain that the next few minutes in Mr. Falliano’s company, might not be the most enjoyable. Mounting rage was not something hard to recognize, especially when it came to Alberto Falliano. “I suggest you find it.” His words may have only been warning, but his tone was livid. Angel turned instantly to where the trunk had rested and frowned at the only thing left in its stead – a small folded piece of paper. The one that had held her place in the Book of Spells that Arianna had so carelessly left behind, to be precise. Picking it up, she unfolded it halfway, read the first line in her own handwriting – an unimaginative “The bird flies the nest in a week”. Frowning, Alberto strode to her side and snatched the paper from her hand. He simply snorted. “I knew you’d fuck this up. One fucking thing you had to get right, and could you do that? I’ll be damned if you could.” The paper crumbled in his hand and made a deafeningly quiet sound as it hit the floor. “She’s here. You brought her here with us.” He finished, turning back around to face Angelica, who was forcing a nervous smile. Years spent with Arianna had made her sensitive to harsh swears in such a mild predicament. Or, at least, it was mild so far compared to former escapades. “Uh, crap?” she offered, trying to think of how she had managed to “bring” someone who was in another country at the time the spell was performed. Arianna hadn’t even contributed any personal items to the ritual. “We’ll just have to kill her when we see her.” Alberto resolved. “Don’t you mean if, if we see her?” Angelica had never been much for needless bloodshed, and when that bloodshed was meant to include her former quartermaster, she was keen to avoid it at all costs. “Oh, we’ll see her, believe me.” Angelica couldn’t help but wonder if the room had gotten colder. - - - Jack had sent you back to work down in the kitchen with Randall, who found your lack of speech a bit odd, but graciously kept his concern to his eyes and not his mouth. After peeling what you’re sure is an entire barrel of potatoes and attempting lamely to keep the cooking fire kindled, you snag a hardening roll and bid Randall a quiet goodbye. If Jack had noticed your absence at the crew’s meal, he didn’t say anything of it to you. You had spent the entire time going through the chest in Jack’s cabin. A few times you had nearly stormed up the stairs to throw some of the items overboard. Her laptop was tucked carefully in between her huge CD case and a beaten Calvin and Hobbes comic book. You would have gone through her documents if you thought your mind was focused enough to even begin guessing her password. Most of the contents were things you hadn’t really ever cared about – CDs you never listened to and movies you hadn’t liked the first time around. There were, however, a few things you deemed useful, even back in the hotel room. Tampons, for one, would come in handy. So would the unopened toothbrush and surplus of secondhand medicinal drugs. You weren’t however, in the best of moods just yet. As dark falls on the Pearl, you hear many of the crew heading below deck and resurface, spotting only Jack and Marty on your crossing to the railing. Jack, out of the corner your eye, signals Marty to take over the wheel. The dwarf has to walk nearly to the stairwell to see the rest of the ship, then trots back to the wheel and holds it in place for a few more minutes before repeating the same procedure. The whole thing seemed a bit comical, but you were afraid of how harsh your laugh would sound now. You strike a match from a box in the chest, letting it slowly burn as closely to your fingers as you can withstand and then let it fall into the ocean below. Each time, the match goes out before it gets close enough to the dark water to reflect. Occasionally, a single match catches in the waning sliver of moon reflected upon the slowly rippling surface. "You dun’ really ‘preciate things from yer own time, do ye?" says a voice from beside you. "I don't appreciate a lot of things right now." You don’t look at Jack, but you can see peripherally that he’s leaning with mild curiosity over the edge of the ship to see your handiwork. “And one of them things ain’t rum, is it?” he asks and you can see something glittering in the hand he’s extended towards you. Turning your head, you see it’s not the third of a bottle he promised you, but rather a full bottle. “I thought you said only a third, Captain.” “Circumstances ‘ave changed. Seems to me that ye could use a bit more of a pick-me-up than a third of a bottle. ‘Owever, if I’m wrong, I’m more than ‘appy te finish this meself.” He says, shrugging and turning away from you. Smiling a little, you grab the bottle out of his hand. What doesn’t kill you now can only help ease the pain, right? “Damn.” Jack mutters, but unenthusiastically. You’re more than certain that he has another bottle stashed either somewhere on his person or at least nearby. TBC... |