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INCULCATED GAUCHERIES Author: nicole297 Disclaimer: Since when do I own ANYTHING? Oh, wait I own an ‘I [heart] pirates’ wristband. But nothing else! Not even myself. I sold my soul for a… well; you don’t need to know about that. Summary: You are a barmaid living Tortuga. And guess what? You're not angsty! You aren't bitter or wishing for a better life or a new home. What happens when you meet Jack Sparrow? [One-shot; could evolve into a story if I get the time] * * * * * One-Shot: Table Three You smile at Tony as you grab a tray with five ales sitting on top of it, and turn around, careful not to spill anything. Tony eyes you warily, but you ignore him; you know what you’re doing. You’ve made it halfway across the bar floor when you hear a loud crash, and look hesitantly at your tray, knowing your overdue for a break. You smile victoriously as you see everything just fine on your hand. “It wasn’t me!” You turn and yell over the ruckus. Problem being, when you turned your hand jerked slightly, sending one of the mugs of ale crashing to the ground. “Nevermind.” You say quietly. “Elena can clean up both, seein’ as she was the firs’ te open ‘er mouth!” a voice yells over the crowd – your boss, Victor. “Crap.” You mumble under your breath. It never failed, at least once a week you’d break something. It was habit: if someone heard breaking sounds, hand a broom to Elena. It wasn’t like you were terribly clumsy; you just weren’t good with glass objects over an extended period of time. You ignore the broken glass and take the glasses to the table, smiling at the men apologetically. Promising them another drink to be right out, you take the tray back to the bar and ask for two extra ales. Those you took by hand, carefully stepping over the remnants of the earlier mug and setting them at the table. Truth be told, you didn’t much care who got the extra drink, so long as they didn’t complain. Sighing, you bend down and pick up the larger pieces of glass into the apron on your dress. After getting most of the pieces you can see you walk over to a waste bin and dump the glass in. A few pieces are stuck in your apron and as you brush them off one cuts you on your right hand, just below your ring finger. It bleeds a bit, nothing to run to a doctor for but enough to see, and stings slightly. You wipe off the pooling blood on the underside of the hem of your skirt and then walk over to Victor, who is standing at the bar near a group of three mugs. “Do we have anything for a cut? The glass, it-” you begin, but he cuts you off. “No, an’ ye don’ nee’ it anyway.” “Well, I didn’t want to bleed on any of the drinks, I’m sorry for worrying about the service around here.” You huff. Victor must be really stressed; he wasn’t usually like this. Not so rude, at least. “Ye’ll manage. Now take these drinks o’er te table three. Don’ break ‘em this time, neither.” He says, sounding very mean. “I won’t.” you roll your eyes, picking up the three mugs without a tray. ‘Much easier without the tray.’ You noted. You can’t help but wonder who’s sitting at table three. ‘Table three is usually for- ah. Captain Jack Sparrow is sitting at table three.’ That made sense. You reach the table and carefully set them down and help slide them to their places, the biggest mug going to the Captain, of course. “Thank you, love. You are a doll.” The Captain says sincerely. You smile at him and nod. “You’re welcome.” You say, and turn to leave. “Hey, wait!” Jack calls, and you turn. “Come here.” He says quietly, like he wants something from you. “Yes?” you ask, a bit apprehensive. “Here, hold on a moment.” He says, taking his sash in his hand and tearing off a piece at the tip. He hands it to you and you look from the three-inch long, one-inch wide cloth to him. Realization hits you and your realize it’s meant as a bandage for your cut. You smile slyly at him. “How did you know…” you trail off, trying to remember how loud you had been talking. “I overheard ye talkin’ with the man o’er at the counter.” He answers. “Thank you.” You say gratefully. You wrap the cloth around your finger, tying it in a knot. It almost looks like a ring, the way it was bunched up at the bottom of your finger. Smiling widely at him, overly appreciative, you turn around and head back off to work. “Don’t be bleedin’ on any man’s mug from now on!” he calls after you and you laugh and wave at him over your shoulder. You don’t care what anyone else said about him; Jack Sparrow was all right in your book. THE END |