One-shot: Lack of Direction
Title: Lack of Direction
Author: stealmybike
Pairing: Jack, multiple Jacks, and Jack’s conscience. (Jack mania!)
Rating: G
Word Count: 637
Disclaimer: Regrettably, I own nothing.
A/N: My response to the potc100 prompt: North. I had a lot of fun writing this - seeing that it’s my favorite thing to write.
“Remove the gaskets, let go of the clew lines and the buntlines, Mr. Sparrow!” Jack shouted as he walked assertively amongst a brigade of long haired, tattooed rogues.
“Captain Sparrow, do we have our heading?” Mr. Sparrow inquired, walking swiftly behind his captain.
“Aye, son. West,” Jack replied with haste, making his way up to the Black Pearl’s quarterdeck.
“Are you certain, Captain? You didn't even look at your compass,” replied his timid replica.
“If you hadn't noticed, Mr. Sparrow, we are without said compass. But, with my innate sense of direction, we'll be able to get ourselves out of this mess,” Jack assured, licking his index finger sloppily between his lips, holding it out before him to measure the wind.
“What the hell am I doing? There’s no bloody wind,” he thought, placing his hand back on his waist.
“Hoist the yard, you scabrous dogs!” Jack ordered, adjusting his frock coat.
“Might I inquire as to why we are heading west, sir?” Mr. Sparrow pried.
“Are you questioning my judgment, Mr. Sparrow?” Jack questioned, turning to glare at the deckhand, feeling a spark of anger ignite within him.
“No, not at all, sir,” Mr. Sparrow assured, waving his arms out to his captain. “All I meant was, without a compass and all - how would you know which direction, is indeed, the right one?”
Jack stood for a moment, licking his teeth gingerly. “Do you have any suggestions, lad? If not, then I have a suggestion for you --”
“Aye, sir?” Mr. Sparrow raised his brow, awaiting his orders.
“Shoo,” Jack stated, waving Mr. Sparrow off to the side so he could take his place at the helm.
“Well, er … what about north?” Mr. Sparrow coyly suggests, ignoring his captain’s previous request.
“What about it?” Jack inquired, wrinkling his nose as he placed his hands upon the wheel’s smooth pegs, monitoring the vigorous activity on deck while drumming the edges of his fingers lightly.
“Well, why not place it in the hat for consideration?” queried Mr. Sparrow timidly to his captain’s back.
“You know, my compass never pointed north,” Jack observed, in his defense. “Don’t you have something else to do?”
“Well, perhaps, it would have - if you had it, of course - now that you’re here,” Mr. Sparrow persuaded. “Seems like a viable heading to me -- if you were asking me, of course,” he concluded. “Don’t want to look like we’re shooting cardinal directions out of our arse, do we?”
Jack pondered for a moment, letting his eyes wander beyond the Pearl, peering out empathically over the white abyss before him, unable to fathom that he no longer felt the creek of the Pearl beneath him, shifting from tide to tide with utter grace and ease. She was no longer living and neither was he. He was a man missing his purpose - a man detached by his inability to feel the license to do as he pleased, the freedom of nature and the dancing of wind that traveled elegantly upon the sea, seeping through his tangled locks. He longed for the sprinkles of sea mist upon the apples of his cheeks - he longed for the turbulence of life in a sea of bland disdain.
“The young lad makes a good point, mate,” a small voice validated in his ear.
“Aye, but it’s really all a matter of perspective, if you ask me,” another voice retorted quickly.
“Perhaps, a matter of semantics,” the first voice suggests.
“Or, perhaps, it is a matter of not having a bloody compass?” Jack snapped; placing his hands on his hat as he slightly shook his head to relieve himself of the insatiable racket.
“Mr. Sparrow,” Jack turned. “Brace the fore --” he paused, turning full circle, coming to the realization that his once bustling ship was now sparse of any human activity but his own.
“Fine -- I’ll do it meself, you’re all bloody useless.”
Author: stealmybike
Pairing: Jack, multiple Jacks, and Jack’s conscience. (Jack mania!)
Rating: G
Word Count: 637
Disclaimer: Regrettably, I own nothing.
A/N: My response to the potc100 prompt: North. I had a lot of fun writing this - seeing that it’s my favorite thing to write.
“Remove the gaskets, let go of the clew lines and the buntlines, Mr. Sparrow!” Jack shouted as he walked assertively amongst a brigade of long haired, tattooed rogues.
“Captain Sparrow, do we have our heading?” Mr. Sparrow inquired, walking swiftly behind his captain.
“Aye, son. West,” Jack replied with haste, making his way up to the Black Pearl’s quarterdeck.
“Are you certain, Captain? You didn't even look at your compass,” replied his timid replica.
“If you hadn't noticed, Mr. Sparrow, we are without said compass. But, with my innate sense of direction, we'll be able to get ourselves out of this mess,” Jack assured, licking his index finger sloppily between his lips, holding it out before him to measure the wind.
“What the hell am I doing? There’s no bloody wind,” he thought, placing his hand back on his waist.
“Hoist the yard, you scabrous dogs!” Jack ordered, adjusting his frock coat.
“Might I inquire as to why we are heading west, sir?” Mr. Sparrow pried.
“Are you questioning my judgment, Mr. Sparrow?” Jack questioned, turning to glare at the deckhand, feeling a spark of anger ignite within him.
“No, not at all, sir,” Mr. Sparrow assured, waving his arms out to his captain. “All I meant was, without a compass and all - how would you know which direction, is indeed, the right one?”
Jack stood for a moment, licking his teeth gingerly. “Do you have any suggestions, lad? If not, then I have a suggestion for you --”
“Aye, sir?” Mr. Sparrow raised his brow, awaiting his orders.
“Shoo,” Jack stated, waving Mr. Sparrow off to the side so he could take his place at the helm.
“Well, er … what about north?” Mr. Sparrow coyly suggests, ignoring his captain’s previous request.
“What about it?” Jack inquired, wrinkling his nose as he placed his hands upon the wheel’s smooth pegs, monitoring the vigorous activity on deck while drumming the edges of his fingers lightly.
“Well, why not place it in the hat for consideration?” queried Mr. Sparrow timidly to his captain’s back.
“You know, my compass never pointed north,” Jack observed, in his defense. “Don’t you have something else to do?”
“Well, perhaps, it would have - if you had it, of course - now that you’re here,” Mr. Sparrow persuaded. “Seems like a viable heading to me -- if you were asking me, of course,” he concluded. “Don’t want to look like we’re shooting cardinal directions out of our arse, do we?”
Jack pondered for a moment, letting his eyes wander beyond the Pearl, peering out empathically over the white abyss before him, unable to fathom that he no longer felt the creek of the Pearl beneath him, shifting from tide to tide with utter grace and ease. She was no longer living and neither was he. He was a man missing his purpose - a man detached by his inability to feel the license to do as he pleased, the freedom of nature and the dancing of wind that traveled elegantly upon the sea, seeping through his tangled locks. He longed for the sprinkles of sea mist upon the apples of his cheeks - he longed for the turbulence of life in a sea of bland disdain.
“The young lad makes a good point, mate,” a small voice validated in his ear.
“Aye, but it’s really all a matter of perspective, if you ask me,” another voice retorted quickly.
“Perhaps, a matter of semantics,” the first voice suggests.
“Or, perhaps, it is a matter of not having a bloody compass?” Jack snapped; placing his hands on his hat as he slightly shook his head to relieve himself of the insatiable racket.
“Mr. Sparrow,” Jack turned. “Brace the fore --” he paused, turning full circle, coming to the realization that his once bustling ship was now sparse of any human activity but his own.
“Fine -- I’ll do it meself, you’re all bloody useless.”