Creature of Habit
Author: drolldiadem
Rating: G; maybe PG (for safety)
Pairing: Slight Jack/OC
Genre: Humour, drama, mild angst
Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise, and no profit is being made from the following work.
Summary: After a disillusioning year of stalking the Black Pearl, Jack (in what can only be described as a moment of pure madness) tries his hand at settling down; but first-time fatherhood is difficult enough without the added burden of baby names, not to mention having one's personal safety so compromised that it leads to regularly jumping out of windows... One-shot, pre-CotBP, post-mutiny... A character study of sorts.
Cross-posted to pirategasm, potc_fic and jack_sparrow_oc
Creature of Habit
Jack never could understand women. No matter how many he knew, or how many he actually spoke to, or how long he cowered in a cramped closet whenever their soon-to-be-cuckolded husbands unexpectedly returned to conduct a ninety-seven-minute search for their favourite feathered hat, the dark, arcane mysteries of the female mind remained shrouded in black shadows of the more sinister nature.
Which was why, on this glorious, shining morning, located in one of Tortuga’s quiet, respectable towns three miles and several worlds away from the island’s port proper, he was extremely confused when Beth had rejected each and every single one of his suggestions after hounding him for the past twenty-eight hours or so about this particular matter.
“Jack, be serious,” she chastised, her voice low so as not to disturb the sleeping bundle of rags in her arms. “Do you realise how important this actually is?”
Well, naturally, of course he did, and he’d assured her of the fact many times before, as he then proceeded to remind her whilst secretly marvelling at how she was able to recall how he’d briefly (not to mention drunkenly) abandoned her in favour of Giselle upon the Night of the Missing Haddock in surprisingly high detail, yet could instantly forget his half-sincere, almost-honest declarations of affection for her only half an hour ago.
He was, of course, referring to his daughter, a creature so small and insignificant he found himself wondering if she wasn’t in fact an oversized pixie. And a rather fat one too, judging by her rounded cheeks, although Beth had seemed a little affronted when he’d told her of his observations, and had immediately attempted to crush his cheekbone.
Not that he wasn’t somewhat… fond of the little moving bundle; it had been at his suggestion that the pair had abandoned swaddling the babe altogether. He didn’t like the idea of his daughter being unable to move her little limbs. Actually, the entire concept of swaddling sounded a little too similar to certain aspects of the embalming process for his own taste.
“I want it to be French,” Beth told him confidentially. “French names are always nice, and they sound so elegant…”
Well, in that case, what about Jacqueline?
“For the last time Jack,” Beth warned, her eyes flashing dangerously in a vaguely familiar manner that made his hand immediately reach up to protect his cheek. “We will not give her a name that can be shortened to ‘Jack’. I told you to take this seriously.”
But Jacqueline was a real name, he’d insisted, a legitimate claim which she’d automatically dismissed.
“Of course it is,” she’d retorted, her soft sweet face twisted by an uncharacteristic sneer. “And I’m certain that Jackella, Jackine, Jackalexandra, Jacklexia, Jackera, Jackiette, Jackethany and Jackia are also names you stumble across in everyday conversation.”
He’d forgotten about that last one: Jackia. Hmm. He quite liked the sound of that name, come to think of it. Wasn’t certain where he got it from, though.
“Jack!” Beth hissed, a delicate white hand waving worryingly close to his face. Just as the foreign limb registered in his mind, he’d felt a hard, firm palm slam harshly into his cheek, sending him toppling off of the mattress with a yelp born of pain, surprise, and simple exasperation she’d struck him yet again. Somewhere above him, he heard the small nameless creature let out a cry of concern, followed swiftly by soft, soothing words of meaningless affection.
He’d found it rather odd how declarations of eternal adoration could comfort his daughter when in reality the concern of his own personal welfare was the cause of her distress. Selfish little bint.
But on the bright side, it shut her up.
Beth peered curiously over the side of the bed as soon as she was certain that the little child was asleep. Jack could clearly see from the expression on her face that she was not faintly sympathetic, let alone remorseful.
“Just one name, Jack Sparrow,” she’d muttered through clenched teeth. “One inoffensive, pleasant, realistic name-that’s all that I ask for.”
He gave her a hurt glare that communicated his resentment of how swiftly she’d dismissed his thoughtful, thoroughly-considered suggestions as ‘unrealistic’, but said nothing, choosing to knit his brow and purse his lips in thought. Occasionally, he’d hummed.
Finally, he’d found it: a simple, pronounceable, monosyllabic word that effectively combined Beth’s French pretensions with his sentimental attachments and spoke of how highly their daughter was cherished.
“We are not naming our daughter after a boat,” Beth snapped.
He’d tried to explain to her that he was using the French word, P-E-R-L-E as opposed to P-E-A-R-L, but Beth was illiterate, and this fact effectively rendered the entire argument worthless. And so it came to pass that the two disgruntled new parents of the unnamed infant settled into an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the sound of their daughter’s slow, steady breathing.
“I suppose she’ll have to go without a name for now,” Beth eventually spoke, her voice both wistful and irritated. Jack immediately leaped upon the opportunity to communicate with this angry young woman in the only true language that all members of the female sex understood:
Utter agreement.
***
“How about Isabelle?” Beth eventually asked thirty-four days later in a manner so detached Jack immediately suspected she’d already decided on the name. “Isabelle is a lovely name, don’t you agree, Jack?”
He immediately knew that, for the sake of his already gratuitously-abused cheek, unquestioning acquiescence would be the correct answer to the extremely delicate query placed before him.
However, there was one slight problem…
“Hello, poppet,” Beth cooed, leaning over the little basket used as the babe’s bassinet. The infant stirred slightly, her blue eyes opening sleepily at the familiar sound of her mother’s voice. Beth drew even closer, her fingers hovering directly above the child, and laughed in delight when a small chubby hand reached up and wrapped about her finger.
“Why don’t you say ‘good morning’ to your papa, Isabelle?” she encouraged gently.
The child blinked in confusion at the foreign word, and stared wordlessly up at the woman in response before turning slightly, as though attempting to find Jack. Beth frowned at the odd behaviour.
“Isabelle?” she asked. The child let out a small whimper, and Beth immediately spun on her heel to clap eyes on Jack, temporarily motionless with one leg out of the window.
“Jack…” Beth spoke suspiciously, and the pirate immediately attempted to cover his escape attempt by rearranging his body in what can only be described as casual. Or at least, that was the desired message; with one leg hanging out of the window, and the other attempting to retain the smallest sliver of balance, the effect was a tad difficult to accomplish.
Beth raised an eyebrow, biting her lower lip in concentration as she attempted to unravel the riddle of Jack Sparrow’s mind. Suddenly, everything clicked together.
Very, very slowly, almost menacingly, she turned back to look down upon the questioning face of the bewildered baby, and uttered the one single syllable that made Jack’s heart freeze:
“Pearl.”
The effect the short word had on the usually restful child was instantaneous: the beginnings of a smile began to form on her innocent little face; her small little arms lifted ever so slightly as she attempted to embrace the speaker; a small, gurgling sound that greatly resembled a giggle issued from between her little lips.
There was no doubt about it; the signs were unmistakable; Beth’s worst fears confirmed.
Jack-Captain Jack Sparrow, pirate, smuggler, brigand, cad, and founder of a short-lived amateur dramatics troupe-had named their poppet, their baby, their perfect, adorable, darling little angel.
Without consulting her.
In that one single instance, Jack knew-oh, how unhappily he knew!-that his testicles would be the first to go. (And that’s only if he was lucky.) For there are some crimes a man may commit against a woman with little fear of retribution. He could murder her, for example, and if he did so properly, the chances of her returning the favour were relatively slim. Or perhaps he could dig up her vegetable garden, provided it was done in the dead of night, when she would either be asleep, or at least unable to identify the culprit come morning. But he may never, never, never name her child-particular her firstborn-without her consent. It was one of those lessons that a man will never truly learn unless he’d accidentally impregnated a woman in the first place, and he made a mental note to pass this advice to his son (if he ever had a son he knew about) in later life.
But back to the present: the now. Well then. Oh dear. Oh deary, deary dear; how would he, Captain Jack Sparrow, pirate, smuggler, brigand, cad, and temporary jester at the court of Honolulu-ak-Messamin-Xhar IX, crawl his way out of this one? Perhaps he would pull out his pistol-the silver-inlaid pistol with the shot he’d always meant for Barbossa, and thus would never use-and keep it aimed at the mother until he’d tied her into the chair, where he would leave her until Beth agreed that Pearl was a more than acceptable name, and Jack was therefore a creature of divinity for choosing it, so she will bake him his favourite pie for supper that night; or perhaps he would smile dashingly, take her hands, and woo her into realising that Pearl was a lovely name, the loveliest name she could ever have hoped for, and he was very handsome and clever and divine for suggesting it, therefore she will bake him his favourite pie for supper that night; or perhaps he would dramatically fall to his knees, beseeching her in French (or, more likely, insulting her, as Beth couldn’t understand a word of French) to take his arms, his legs, his back, but please, please, please, don’t use his genitals as filling for what used to be his favourite pie for supper that night.
In reality Jack did none of these: he simply jumped out of the window.
There were a few yelps of surprise as Jack landed into a conveniently-passing cart full to the brim with-as luck would have it-hay, but the majority of the populace paid him no heed. After all, this was Tortuga: stranger things have happened than panicked men falling out of the sky to land in a large pile of hay.
Wrinkling his nose in distaste at finding he’d landed facedown in a stack of scratchy yellow grass, Jack sat up, blowing the dried vegetation out of his mouth, and shook his head, his hands expertly locating and removing the bold strands that dared to intertwine with his own rebellious locks. When he was done, he dared glance up at the room he’d so recently vacated.
Beth stood framed at the window, looking down at him with narrowed eyes, and Jack felt a horrible jolt of fear as he realised that if the sparks flying from her eyes travelled any closer, the entire cartload of hay would indubitably catch fire. Hesitantly, he waved; she responded by slamming both wooden shutters shut without so much as a word of farewell.
With a sigh Jack resigned himself to fate, accomplishing this by flopping back onto the hay with the aforementioned sigh of resignation. Idly, he wondered if he would be welcomed back into her lodgings that night. After a year of chasing, he had found himself no closer to recapturing his Pearl, and so had decided to settle down on Tortuga with a particular wench who’d caught his eye in the hope that an opportune moment would eventually present itself, but when Kitty had violently expressed her displeasure at finding him in bed with her sister, he wisely chose to drop both (literal) femmes fatales in favour of the (supposedly) gentler Beth.
Less than a year later found Jack struggling to support them both, as Beth obviously couldn’t harvest the fields, one of her many occupations, that year, being too big with child to be of any use. Nor could she any longer work at the Royal Star as serving-wench; the barkeep had dismissed her when he had discovered that she was carrying Sparrow’s spawn, for the tavern catered to the struggling but respectable sort Beth had mixed with before Jack had accidentally docked on the wrong side of the rock.
Thoughts like these always made Jack sit back and wonder if he truly did love Beth, like he’d always told her he did. The arrival of the little girl who was called Pearl seemed only to cement his growing suspicion that his bond with Beth was one of guilt-tinged responsibility, rather than genuine passion. Oh, she was beautiful enough, as the thirty-eight-day-old bundle who was now named Pearl existed as testament to. Hell, even with her rounded face, loose stomach, and less elastic breasts, Beth still possessed a certain charm that whilst no longer be obvious, still persisted. And she was a sweet enough girl, he’d grant; she might not attract woodland critters for miles around with her childlike voice, or hand out alms to the homeless, or comfort desolate widows who had yet to hear their husbands’ generous wills, but she was as friendly and affable and polite as one of her background can be.
Why she didn’t make his heart stop and blood sing, why her face didn’t pervade his dreams every night, why his nose wasn’t filled with the milky scent of her skin, and all those other symptoms that were said to accompany True Love was therefore something that Jack could not understand. Because that was what happened, wasn’t it, when one fell in love, was in love? And surely there were plenty of women worse than Beth to be ensnared by? (Jack knew for a fact that there were; he’d bedded most of them.)
So why did he only look at her with an affection that was slightly stronger than a friend’s, but weaker than a brother’s? Why did his daughter, his second Pearl, excite a stronger sense of protectiveness yet weaker pull of affection than her mother? (He supposed that thirty-eight days was a little too soon to judge, but so far the babe had done nothing but cry and whine and successfully draw Beth’s attention away from Jack, the self-centred little bit.)
Jack made a noise that would have been a groan had it been audible, and pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes. As a sailor, he rarely had the option of indulging in the study of his feelings, and when he did, discovered them to be so muddled and convoluted that it was easier not to bother with them at all. And besides, he had already endured several sleepless nights due to Pearl’s annoyingly nocturnal feeding habits, so it was therefore easier to sleep and not attempt to sort through his various emotions, or worse reflect on the itching in his limbs that was his body’s way of telling him to return to the sea; and as if these weren’t enough to contend with, there was also his worryingly empty purse…
It didn’t concern him a mite that he was still riding in a complete stranger’s hay-filled cart; even though he had had little opportunity, when he had jumped out of the window, to grab his pistol or sword or old compass his distant da’ had given him as scant compensation for a childhood devoid of a father. What little he had left in his purse was now in Beth’s keeping, and would no doubt go towards the ingredients required for that night’s meal, which probably wouldn’t be his favourite pie at all, but salted fish and a handful of potatoes; bit of carrot, if she was lucky. But Jack wasn’t concerned that he had neither weapon nor coin; either could easily be stolen from a passing drunkard if-and here Jack propped himself up on one elbow, hand raised to tilt his hat back as he studied the road they were travelling on-if they, the cart driver and he, were travelling to the Tortugan underbelly Jack had very good reason to believe they were travelling to.
Yawning, Jack settled back into his sleeping position once more. When the time came to disembark, the cart driver would no doubt pull him out of the cart with much cursing of the woman whose loins had birthed his nigh-daily hitchhiker; Jack would apologise profusely with much gesturing of hands and disarming grins; he would then not pick his unwilling accomplice’s pocket-he’ll probably need another free ride come tomorrow, when he and Beth inevitably squabbled over some other insignificant detail regarding the sole product of their loins-and saunter off, pick a passing drunkard’s pocket with ease, cheat at cards, down a pint or five (he’d want to stay sober when he wobbled back to Beth’s abode), and return to the dwelling that was not his home, lie beside the woman that was not his wife, and complete one more day in the life that was not his own. He would then dream of salt air, of distant lands and swaying ground and thunderstorms, of wood that splintered and rope that burned. In the morning he would awaken, resolve renewed, only to have it shattered as he looked across at Beth and the baby, taking in their identical eyes and twin smiles, and he would think to himself, Another day; another day can’t hurt… But another day would soon pass, and he would be no closer to returning to sea.
And he knew all this; knew that this cycle would continue, so easily breakable and yet so enduring, his legs growing less and less accustomed to the sea with each dawn that broke, his calluses fading as sleights of hand and cards fast became his sole source of income. He knew his impatience with Beth was wearing thin; more than once he had heard her sniffle in those nights she believed him to be asleep, more than once he had caught her with a desolation in her eyes that not even her child’s demi-giggles could chase away. He wanted desperately to leave her, leave them; and yet he hesitated. There would certainly be financial benefits if he’d heeded the ocean’s siren song, he’d reason silently as he watched the mother suckle her newborn; and he was almost certain the ubiquitous melancholy that had bright, shining Beth in its grip following the babe’s birth would lift if he left. Space was what she needed-or was that what he needed? No, no; Beth would be far happier seeing Jack two or three times a year, when he would deposit discs of gold into her white hands and set about the house doing repairs Beth herself could not accomplish and her landlord refused to fund; tiling the roof, mending the door, repairing the window, bits and pieces of carpentry and the like. And as for Pearl… Well, Jack knew from experience that pirates didn’t make good fathers.
But, but… But what about Beth? What about her beauty, and her vulnerability as a new, nervous mother, and the men that wouldn’t hesitate to exploit the former, or latter, or both? What about Pearl, born ten days too soon; Pearl, of whom the midwife had muttered under her breath, “She ain’ts gots longs, that’s fer sure,” after patiently answering Beth’s many questions regarding the babe’s health, and what to do now that the worse was over? (For a child who ain’ts gots longs, she was holding up remarkably well, the darling little bint.) And what about the landlord, who had made no qualms in suggesting that Beth could pay half her rent in other ways, smacking his lips and leering at both her and the child, regardless of Jack’s tightened jaw and readied pistol? And what about the ten million other reasons he could think of to remain on terra firma, playing the dual roles of loving husband and doting father, whose scripts he had never read?
But there will always be a But, whenever he yearned to escape: But Beth, but Pearl, but everything.
But for now, he slept.
Rating: G; maybe PG (for safety)
Pairing: Slight Jack/OC
Genre: Humour, drama, mild angst
Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise, and no profit is being made from the following work.
Summary: After a disillusioning year of stalking the Black Pearl, Jack (in what can only be described as a moment of pure madness) tries his hand at settling down; but first-time fatherhood is difficult enough without the added burden of baby names, not to mention having one's personal safety so compromised that it leads to regularly jumping out of windows... One-shot, pre-CotBP, post-mutiny... A character study of sorts.
Cross-posted to pirategasm, potc_fic and jack_sparrow_oc
Creature of Habit
Jack never could understand women. No matter how many he knew, or how many he actually spoke to, or how long he cowered in a cramped closet whenever their soon-to-be-cuckolded husbands unexpectedly returned to conduct a ninety-seven-minute search for their favourite feathered hat, the dark, arcane mysteries of the female mind remained shrouded in black shadows of the more sinister nature.
Which was why, on this glorious, shining morning, located in one of Tortuga’s quiet, respectable towns three miles and several worlds away from the island’s port proper, he was extremely confused when Beth had rejected each and every single one of his suggestions after hounding him for the past twenty-eight hours or so about this particular matter.
“Jack, be serious,” she chastised, her voice low so as not to disturb the sleeping bundle of rags in her arms. “Do you realise how important this actually is?”
Well, naturally, of course he did, and he’d assured her of the fact many times before, as he then proceeded to remind her whilst secretly marvelling at how she was able to recall how he’d briefly (not to mention drunkenly) abandoned her in favour of Giselle upon the Night of the Missing Haddock in surprisingly high detail, yet could instantly forget his half-sincere, almost-honest declarations of affection for her only half an hour ago.
He was, of course, referring to his daughter, a creature so small and insignificant he found himself wondering if she wasn’t in fact an oversized pixie. And a rather fat one too, judging by her rounded cheeks, although Beth had seemed a little affronted when he’d told her of his observations, and had immediately attempted to crush his cheekbone.
Not that he wasn’t somewhat… fond of the little moving bundle; it had been at his suggestion that the pair had abandoned swaddling the babe altogether. He didn’t like the idea of his daughter being unable to move her little limbs. Actually, the entire concept of swaddling sounded a little too similar to certain aspects of the embalming process for his own taste.
“I want it to be French,” Beth told him confidentially. “French names are always nice, and they sound so elegant…”
Well, in that case, what about Jacqueline?
“For the last time Jack,” Beth warned, her eyes flashing dangerously in a vaguely familiar manner that made his hand immediately reach up to protect his cheek. “We will not give her a name that can be shortened to ‘Jack’. I told you to take this seriously.”
But Jacqueline was a real name, he’d insisted, a legitimate claim which she’d automatically dismissed.
“Of course it is,” she’d retorted, her soft sweet face twisted by an uncharacteristic sneer. “And I’m certain that Jackella, Jackine, Jackalexandra, Jacklexia, Jackera, Jackiette, Jackethany and Jackia are also names you stumble across in everyday conversation.”
He’d forgotten about that last one: Jackia. Hmm. He quite liked the sound of that name, come to think of it. Wasn’t certain where he got it from, though.
“Jack!” Beth hissed, a delicate white hand waving worryingly close to his face. Just as the foreign limb registered in his mind, he’d felt a hard, firm palm slam harshly into his cheek, sending him toppling off of the mattress with a yelp born of pain, surprise, and simple exasperation she’d struck him yet again. Somewhere above him, he heard the small nameless creature let out a cry of concern, followed swiftly by soft, soothing words of meaningless affection.
He’d found it rather odd how declarations of eternal adoration could comfort his daughter when in reality the concern of his own personal welfare was the cause of her distress. Selfish little bint.
But on the bright side, it shut her up.
Beth peered curiously over the side of the bed as soon as she was certain that the little child was asleep. Jack could clearly see from the expression on her face that she was not faintly sympathetic, let alone remorseful.
“Just one name, Jack Sparrow,” she’d muttered through clenched teeth. “One inoffensive, pleasant, realistic name-that’s all that I ask for.”
He gave her a hurt glare that communicated his resentment of how swiftly she’d dismissed his thoughtful, thoroughly-considered suggestions as ‘unrealistic’, but said nothing, choosing to knit his brow and purse his lips in thought. Occasionally, he’d hummed.
Finally, he’d found it: a simple, pronounceable, monosyllabic word that effectively combined Beth’s French pretensions with his sentimental attachments and spoke of how highly their daughter was cherished.
“We are not naming our daughter after a boat,” Beth snapped.
He’d tried to explain to her that he was using the French word, P-E-R-L-E as opposed to P-E-A-R-L, but Beth was illiterate, and this fact effectively rendered the entire argument worthless. And so it came to pass that the two disgruntled new parents of the unnamed infant settled into an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the sound of their daughter’s slow, steady breathing.
“I suppose she’ll have to go without a name for now,” Beth eventually spoke, her voice both wistful and irritated. Jack immediately leaped upon the opportunity to communicate with this angry young woman in the only true language that all members of the female sex understood:
Utter agreement.
***
“How about Isabelle?” Beth eventually asked thirty-four days later in a manner so detached Jack immediately suspected she’d already decided on the name. “Isabelle is a lovely name, don’t you agree, Jack?”
He immediately knew that, for the sake of his already gratuitously-abused cheek, unquestioning acquiescence would be the correct answer to the extremely delicate query placed before him.
However, there was one slight problem…
“Hello, poppet,” Beth cooed, leaning over the little basket used as the babe’s bassinet. The infant stirred slightly, her blue eyes opening sleepily at the familiar sound of her mother’s voice. Beth drew even closer, her fingers hovering directly above the child, and laughed in delight when a small chubby hand reached up and wrapped about her finger.
“Why don’t you say ‘good morning’ to your papa, Isabelle?” she encouraged gently.
The child blinked in confusion at the foreign word, and stared wordlessly up at the woman in response before turning slightly, as though attempting to find Jack. Beth frowned at the odd behaviour.
“Isabelle?” she asked. The child let out a small whimper, and Beth immediately spun on her heel to clap eyes on Jack, temporarily motionless with one leg out of the window.
“Jack…” Beth spoke suspiciously, and the pirate immediately attempted to cover his escape attempt by rearranging his body in what can only be described as casual. Or at least, that was the desired message; with one leg hanging out of the window, and the other attempting to retain the smallest sliver of balance, the effect was a tad difficult to accomplish.
Beth raised an eyebrow, biting her lower lip in concentration as she attempted to unravel the riddle of Jack Sparrow’s mind. Suddenly, everything clicked together.
Very, very slowly, almost menacingly, she turned back to look down upon the questioning face of the bewildered baby, and uttered the one single syllable that made Jack’s heart freeze:
“Pearl.”
The effect the short word had on the usually restful child was instantaneous: the beginnings of a smile began to form on her innocent little face; her small little arms lifted ever so slightly as she attempted to embrace the speaker; a small, gurgling sound that greatly resembled a giggle issued from between her little lips.
There was no doubt about it; the signs were unmistakable; Beth’s worst fears confirmed.
Jack-Captain Jack Sparrow, pirate, smuggler, brigand, cad, and founder of a short-lived amateur dramatics troupe-had named their poppet, their baby, their perfect, adorable, darling little angel.
Without consulting her.
In that one single instance, Jack knew-oh, how unhappily he knew!-that his testicles would be the first to go. (And that’s only if he was lucky.) For there are some crimes a man may commit against a woman with little fear of retribution. He could murder her, for example, and if he did so properly, the chances of her returning the favour were relatively slim. Or perhaps he could dig up her vegetable garden, provided it was done in the dead of night, when she would either be asleep, or at least unable to identify the culprit come morning. But he may never, never, never name her child-particular her firstborn-without her consent. It was one of those lessons that a man will never truly learn unless he’d accidentally impregnated a woman in the first place, and he made a mental note to pass this advice to his son (if he ever had a son he knew about) in later life.
But back to the present: the now. Well then. Oh dear. Oh deary, deary dear; how would he, Captain Jack Sparrow, pirate, smuggler, brigand, cad, and temporary jester at the court of Honolulu-ak-Messamin-Xhar IX, crawl his way out of this one? Perhaps he would pull out his pistol-the silver-inlaid pistol with the shot he’d always meant for Barbossa, and thus would never use-and keep it aimed at the mother until he’d tied her into the chair, where he would leave her until Beth agreed that Pearl was a more than acceptable name, and Jack was therefore a creature of divinity for choosing it, so she will bake him his favourite pie for supper that night; or perhaps he would smile dashingly, take her hands, and woo her into realising that Pearl was a lovely name, the loveliest name she could ever have hoped for, and he was very handsome and clever and divine for suggesting it, therefore she will bake him his favourite pie for supper that night; or perhaps he would dramatically fall to his knees, beseeching her in French (or, more likely, insulting her, as Beth couldn’t understand a word of French) to take his arms, his legs, his back, but please, please, please, don’t use his genitals as filling for what used to be his favourite pie for supper that night.
In reality Jack did none of these: he simply jumped out of the window.
There were a few yelps of surprise as Jack landed into a conveniently-passing cart full to the brim with-as luck would have it-hay, but the majority of the populace paid him no heed. After all, this was Tortuga: stranger things have happened than panicked men falling out of the sky to land in a large pile of hay.
Wrinkling his nose in distaste at finding he’d landed facedown in a stack of scratchy yellow grass, Jack sat up, blowing the dried vegetation out of his mouth, and shook his head, his hands expertly locating and removing the bold strands that dared to intertwine with his own rebellious locks. When he was done, he dared glance up at the room he’d so recently vacated.
Beth stood framed at the window, looking down at him with narrowed eyes, and Jack felt a horrible jolt of fear as he realised that if the sparks flying from her eyes travelled any closer, the entire cartload of hay would indubitably catch fire. Hesitantly, he waved; she responded by slamming both wooden shutters shut without so much as a word of farewell.
With a sigh Jack resigned himself to fate, accomplishing this by flopping back onto the hay with the aforementioned sigh of resignation. Idly, he wondered if he would be welcomed back into her lodgings that night. After a year of chasing, he had found himself no closer to recapturing his Pearl, and so had decided to settle down on Tortuga with a particular wench who’d caught his eye in the hope that an opportune moment would eventually present itself, but when Kitty had violently expressed her displeasure at finding him in bed with her sister, he wisely chose to drop both (literal) femmes fatales in favour of the (supposedly) gentler Beth.
Less than a year later found Jack struggling to support them both, as Beth obviously couldn’t harvest the fields, one of her many occupations, that year, being too big with child to be of any use. Nor could she any longer work at the Royal Star as serving-wench; the barkeep had dismissed her when he had discovered that she was carrying Sparrow’s spawn, for the tavern catered to the struggling but respectable sort Beth had mixed with before Jack had accidentally docked on the wrong side of the rock.
Thoughts like these always made Jack sit back and wonder if he truly did love Beth, like he’d always told her he did. The arrival of the little girl who was called Pearl seemed only to cement his growing suspicion that his bond with Beth was one of guilt-tinged responsibility, rather than genuine passion. Oh, she was beautiful enough, as the thirty-eight-day-old bundle who was now named Pearl existed as testament to. Hell, even with her rounded face, loose stomach, and less elastic breasts, Beth still possessed a certain charm that whilst no longer be obvious, still persisted. And she was a sweet enough girl, he’d grant; she might not attract woodland critters for miles around with her childlike voice, or hand out alms to the homeless, or comfort desolate widows who had yet to hear their husbands’ generous wills, but she was as friendly and affable and polite as one of her background can be.
Why she didn’t make his heart stop and blood sing, why her face didn’t pervade his dreams every night, why his nose wasn’t filled with the milky scent of her skin, and all those other symptoms that were said to accompany True Love was therefore something that Jack could not understand. Because that was what happened, wasn’t it, when one fell in love, was in love? And surely there were plenty of women worse than Beth to be ensnared by? (Jack knew for a fact that there were; he’d bedded most of them.)
So why did he only look at her with an affection that was slightly stronger than a friend’s, but weaker than a brother’s? Why did his daughter, his second Pearl, excite a stronger sense of protectiveness yet weaker pull of affection than her mother? (He supposed that thirty-eight days was a little too soon to judge, but so far the babe had done nothing but cry and whine and successfully draw Beth’s attention away from Jack, the self-centred little bit.)
Jack made a noise that would have been a groan had it been audible, and pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes. As a sailor, he rarely had the option of indulging in the study of his feelings, and when he did, discovered them to be so muddled and convoluted that it was easier not to bother with them at all. And besides, he had already endured several sleepless nights due to Pearl’s annoyingly nocturnal feeding habits, so it was therefore easier to sleep and not attempt to sort through his various emotions, or worse reflect on the itching in his limbs that was his body’s way of telling him to return to the sea; and as if these weren’t enough to contend with, there was also his worryingly empty purse…
It didn’t concern him a mite that he was still riding in a complete stranger’s hay-filled cart; even though he had had little opportunity, when he had jumped out of the window, to grab his pistol or sword or old compass his distant da’ had given him as scant compensation for a childhood devoid of a father. What little he had left in his purse was now in Beth’s keeping, and would no doubt go towards the ingredients required for that night’s meal, which probably wouldn’t be his favourite pie at all, but salted fish and a handful of potatoes; bit of carrot, if she was lucky. But Jack wasn’t concerned that he had neither weapon nor coin; either could easily be stolen from a passing drunkard if-and here Jack propped himself up on one elbow, hand raised to tilt his hat back as he studied the road they were travelling on-if they, the cart driver and he, were travelling to the Tortugan underbelly Jack had very good reason to believe they were travelling to.
Yawning, Jack settled back into his sleeping position once more. When the time came to disembark, the cart driver would no doubt pull him out of the cart with much cursing of the woman whose loins had birthed his nigh-daily hitchhiker; Jack would apologise profusely with much gesturing of hands and disarming grins; he would then not pick his unwilling accomplice’s pocket-he’ll probably need another free ride come tomorrow, when he and Beth inevitably squabbled over some other insignificant detail regarding the sole product of their loins-and saunter off, pick a passing drunkard’s pocket with ease, cheat at cards, down a pint or five (he’d want to stay sober when he wobbled back to Beth’s abode), and return to the dwelling that was not his home, lie beside the woman that was not his wife, and complete one more day in the life that was not his own. He would then dream of salt air, of distant lands and swaying ground and thunderstorms, of wood that splintered and rope that burned. In the morning he would awaken, resolve renewed, only to have it shattered as he looked across at Beth and the baby, taking in their identical eyes and twin smiles, and he would think to himself, Another day; another day can’t hurt… But another day would soon pass, and he would be no closer to returning to sea.
And he knew all this; knew that this cycle would continue, so easily breakable and yet so enduring, his legs growing less and less accustomed to the sea with each dawn that broke, his calluses fading as sleights of hand and cards fast became his sole source of income. He knew his impatience with Beth was wearing thin; more than once he had heard her sniffle in those nights she believed him to be asleep, more than once he had caught her with a desolation in her eyes that not even her child’s demi-giggles could chase away. He wanted desperately to leave her, leave them; and yet he hesitated. There would certainly be financial benefits if he’d heeded the ocean’s siren song, he’d reason silently as he watched the mother suckle her newborn; and he was almost certain the ubiquitous melancholy that had bright, shining Beth in its grip following the babe’s birth would lift if he left. Space was what she needed-or was that what he needed? No, no; Beth would be far happier seeing Jack two or three times a year, when he would deposit discs of gold into her white hands and set about the house doing repairs Beth herself could not accomplish and her landlord refused to fund; tiling the roof, mending the door, repairing the window, bits and pieces of carpentry and the like. And as for Pearl… Well, Jack knew from experience that pirates didn’t make good fathers.
But, but… But what about Beth? What about her beauty, and her vulnerability as a new, nervous mother, and the men that wouldn’t hesitate to exploit the former, or latter, or both? What about Pearl, born ten days too soon; Pearl, of whom the midwife had muttered under her breath, “She ain’ts gots longs, that’s fer sure,” after patiently answering Beth’s many questions regarding the babe’s health, and what to do now that the worse was over? (For a child who ain’ts gots longs, she was holding up remarkably well, the darling little bint.) And what about the landlord, who had made no qualms in suggesting that Beth could pay half her rent in other ways, smacking his lips and leering at both her and the child, regardless of Jack’s tightened jaw and readied pistol? And what about the ten million other reasons he could think of to remain on terra firma, playing the dual roles of loving husband and doting father, whose scripts he had never read?
But there will always be a But, whenever he yearned to escape: But Beth, but Pearl, but everything.
But for now, he slept.