Fic: Twenty Paces
Title: Twenty Paces
Author: celticbard76
Word Count: 975
Characters: Beckett, Sparrow and two unnamed OCs
Pairing: None.
Rating: PG
Summary: The answer to the infamous question, what manner of mark did Jack leave on Beckett?
Author’s Note: Another one-shot spawned from my boredom. As always, feedback is highly treasured. I have no beta for this fic, (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy! Oh and to all my fellow Americans, Happy 4th of July!
“Honestly, lad, I don’t know why you’re so put out.”
Cutler Beckett ignored Jack’s devilish smile and the way his eyes twinkled as he gazed out over the snowy field. His blood was boiling despite the chill and the wind that flung tiny chips of ice into his face. He turned to his second, gloved hand extended and expecting a pistol.
“You should have never insulted me so.”
“All this fuss over a little joke.” Jack adjusted his hat, brushing the snow from his black sleeves with an elegant hand. “Really, lad, don’t you think you might be overacting?”
Beckett sniffed, his nose numb and nearly frostbitten. “A gentleman has the right to demand satisfaction.”
“And I’m not a gentleman.” Jack was pacing by the coaches, his high boots kicking up the slush as he swaggered. “So as I see it, this duel is illegal. Can’t you just have one of your servants beat me with a cane?”
“No.” Beckett shrugged out of his greatcoat and his skin prickled at once. The grey sky was only just touched with pink at the horizon. Dawn would come late, as it always did in the last days of December. “Take up your pistol, Jack. I should like to conclude this business before breakfast.”
“Unless I kill you first.” Jack rolled his eyes and reluctantly reached for the pistol handed to him by a scrawny looking second. “Are you sure you don’t wish to call this off? I won’t say anything.”
“We’ll fight to the first blood.” Beckett paced, his boots crushing a thin layer of ice that lay over the snow. His legs felt decidedly heavy and he glanced back at Jack who was lightly fingering his weapon.
Beckett growled, his face flushing. He should have never invited the young privateer to Lord Blake’s Christmas frolic and he should have never left him alone near the punch bowl for so long. And of course, he should have never introduced Sparrow to the young Miss Sarah Blake. Beckett shuddered, wishing he had been more tactful and circumspect. Perhaps then he would still be warm in his bed, sleeping until the New Year without a care in the world.
Jack whirled about, his long coattails swinging back and forth like a cheeky robin’s feathers. “Look, I’m sorry, lad,” he said, a sigh pushing past his thin lips. “I’ll never speak to Miss Blake again, for what it’s worth and I’ll even apologize to her, if you wish. Now that’ll be a first, don’t you think?”
Beckett turned his back on the man, watching as the seconds placed two swords at a certain measured distance to mark the determined field of honor. “I don’t believe young Miss Blake expects an apology, nor did she request one. In fact, I should rather think I deserve your remorse.”
“It was all in jest, all in innocent jest.”
“Not quite so innocent.” Beckett glanced once over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing, his face tightening. “You should have never chosen my height as a topic for mirth.”
“Well, if I recall, it wasn’t your height per say, more your size.”
Beckett’s hand clenched over his pistol and he fought the wild temptation to shoot Jack dead where he stood, damning the proper rules of the duel. “I had thought to avoid that particular term,” he said in a dangerously calm voice.
Jack raised his dark brows. “Prude.”
“Never mind.” Beckett waved one arm and the seconds retired to the shadows of the coaches. “Take your place, now. Twenty paces and no trickery.”
“Twenty paces?” Jack looked skeptically at the field of honor, now stained and ravished by boot prints.
“Backs together,” Beckett snarled. He walked to the very center of the field and with an arrow-straight back, awaited Jack.
Another sigh sounded or perhaps it was the rising wind. Jack pressed his back to Beckett’s
“I’m giving you one last chance, lad,” he said in a whisper. “Be a gentleman, won’t you?”
Beckett ignored the jab and took one sure step forward. Jack seemed to hesitate, but soon, the muffled stride of his boots could be heard. Beckett fought the urge to quicken his pace and he could not help but feel that he was walking the very path to his grave. Jack was a better shot and not one to abide by any rules. To him, first blood was just the same when it spurted from the head as opposed to the arm. Beckett swallowed once, his vision blurred by dripping sweat. One finger perched and paused over the trigger.
The sword was inches away, sticking out from the ground like a dead man’s fingers. Beckett turned about prematurely, damning the consequences and searching for Jack amidst the now blinding wind. Snow billowed about and he squinted.
Jack was standing casually on his side of the field, his pistol cocked and aimed. “You forgot, lad,” he said with a taunting smile, “I have longer legs than you. Thirty paces would have been better.”
And before Beckett could react, a report ruptured the still air. He recoiled, the ball hitting his wrist and grazing the bone. Blood blossomed and dripped down to the virgin snow. Beckett collapsed, biting back a cry. Blast!
“Easy, lad!” Jack was at his side then, pulling him up into an awkward sitting position. The seconds were dashing across the field towards them, curses and shouts for the surgeon echoing over the dawn.
Jack slapped Beckett on the shoulder, causing a shudder of pain from his wounded companion. “Satisfied now?”
“Thoroughly,” Beckett muttered through clenched teeth. Snow had begun to fall and the flakes whipped before his eyes in a pleasant dance misted by pain.
Jack rolled up his shirtsleeve and inspected the broken flesh. “Now that’ll leave a mark,” he said with a cluck of his tongue.