Prompt Fic: "Hatchling Rising" PG-13
Title: Hatchling Rising
Author: veronica_rich
Pairing/characters: Elizabeth, with Norrington, Jack, and others, including a couple of OCs. Pairing W/E.
Rating: PG-13 for language and concepts
Summary: This was written in response to a challenge at potcfest - Elizabeth's time in Tortuga before she found Jack. PG-13 or under, please.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Disney, Bruckheimer, and Buena Vista. I own nothing, and am making no profit off of this storytelling.
Warnings: Implied rape. Hopefully, presented "fuzzy" enough to keep an upper PG-13 rating.
Author's notes: Thanks to betas gryphons_lair, metalkatt, yoiebear, and porridgebird - any errors are my own. This was a really difficult story to write; I'm not naturally disposed toward writing a lot of Elizabeth, so I hope fans who like her think I did her justice.
Feedback: Keeps me going ...
“Move along, boy!” The gentleman punctuated his words with a prod of his silver walking stick to the backside of his human impediment. “I say, make room, now.”
For a split-second, Elizabeth Swann paused, bristling. She’d gotten a look at this popinjay and his equally-outfitted companions stepping off at the crowded dock at Turtle Island, loudly asking after a carriage and guffawing at the dirtied, sour-faced sailors weaving around them. When a couple had shoved past them, they’d thought to protest, but as soon as the sailors (pirates, more like) had spun and stared hard at them, they’d quieted like truculent schoolboys. At least they’re not completely foolish, she’d thought.
“Are you deaf and dumb, boy?” Another sharp couple of prods from the business end of the stick. Elizabeth restrained herself from turning to grab the offending object and whacking him over the head with it.
The thought brought to mind an incident a few years back, when she’d been at Fort Charles with Father while Josiah Brown and his apprentice were delivering a cart of tools. The lieutenant on duty had signed for the materials, and the red-coated marines who were supposed to help unload the cart had instead stood by, smirking, while a gangly, rather skinny Will Turner had done all the work himself. Elizabeth remembered getting nearly a full shout out when he’d turned and one of the marines had “stretched” his boot just enough to trip the boy, before her father had restrained her. For his part, Will had calmly pushed himself up, gathered the supplies, and, just as he was about to head inside, “accidentally” let drop a small pointed tool from the packet. As the marine whose toes it had pierced hopped around, Will had apologized profusely, looking properly terrified. When the marines’ and Brown’s backs were turned, however, she’d seen a definite smirk cross his face, before he straightened and carried everything past the unruffled lieutenant.
Instead of turning and introducing the idiot to the business end of his own stick, she grinned and pulled her straw hat lower, trudging on with the press of bodies on either side, since it wouldn’t do to expose her gender just now. The thought of Will induced equal parts melancholy for her ruined wedding, frustration over his location and safety, and a sharp lust for what else she had lost. She’d thought to be flip, reminding Beckett of her loss of husbandly comfort, but it had only reminded her she was still very much the virgin bride seeking her very-nearly husband at sea. To make matters worse, even if she were to find Will out here in the middle of the Caribbean with no chaperone for miles, he’d probably still insist on an “I do” in vows before action.
Ducking away from the sailors she’d followed off the Edinburgh, hoping to lose them for good, Elizabeth cut through an alley and over a couple of streets, ducking into the first place she saw with a bottle and bowl on its shingle. Food and drink had been strictly regulated aboard ship, and she could do with something more substantial, perhaps maybe even some wine.
It wasn’t until she’d taken a seat and looked around that she noticed there were far more women than men, dressed in worn taffetas and ribbons and bodices far too low for her own wardrobe. She wondered briefly, until she saw a couple were chatting up men at a bar, pressing themselves into beefy upper arms and laughing too loudly. She nearly got up to leave, but her stomach growled sharply as the scent of something meaty and rich pierced her nostrils. Well, a bite or two couldn’t hurt, she thought. But then I’ve got to get going; certainly I’m not going to find Will in a brothel. The idea of it incensed her. I’d better not!
It wasn’t long before a young woman approached and leaned across the table. “’Ello, love,” she murmured in a voice Elizabeth thought should be too high for any grown man’s interest, and she struggled to drop her own voice, along with the brim of her hat over her face.
“I’d like a bowl of stew, please.” She fished in her bag, glad she’d had the foresight to sneak back to the smithy before escaping Port Royal and pull up the floorboard where Will was keeping his savings - she figured if they could ever go back, chances were that Father could replace what she’d lifted easily enough. “And some wine?”
The whore’s eyes widened at the shilling she offered for the food. She tucked it smoothly into her bodice and winked. Uneasily, Elizabeth glanced around as she moved off. She’d watched some of the men she knew suss out a room as soon as they stepped into it, and knew it had something to do with familiarizing oneself with one’s possible enemies and allies, but she wasn’t quite sure how it was done. Father had never explained, instead choosing to answer her with reassurances that someone would always watch her back.
Fat lot of good that’s doing for me now. She looked down at the rough carvings on her small table, remembering the gossip among sailors boarding the Edinburgh in Port Royal about the governor now locked in his own gaol. She’d nearly ran for the gangplank - for all his age and being a man, she suspected Weatherby Swann was hardly the type to break out of a cell on his own. But then the thought of Will stopped her - surely, Beckett wouldn’t hang a man as important as the governor, even if he did mean to try to threaten him, but his agents were on the seas and as long as they obeyed Cutler Beckett, they were likely under orders to kill both Jack Sparrow and Will Turner, or any pirate, upon recognition. And despite her own warrant, she had a feeling that standing between the East India Company and either man would keep them alive a while longer, just as it had with James.
She raised her head slightly when the bowl was put in front of her, and a smudged tankard, nodding once to signify thanks. Elizabeth picked up the spoon and thought to eat politely, but another quick glance around told her it would be better to just dig in as she had done at Barbossa’s table. After a quick slug of … well, it wasn’t wine, but it had enough alcohol to torch Fort Charles, for sure - she tore into the bread and stew.
The level in her bowl was at halfway when she felt a hand on the back of her neck and froze, cursing herself for not paying better attention. Just as a sticky wave of toilet water cloyed into her nostrils, she realized someone was trying to sit on her lap! Alarmed, she didn’t adjust to make it easier, but the whore was apparently used to such a reaction. “Now, don’t be like that, guv,” she cooed near Elizabeth’s ear. “Ye gave me a whole shillin’, after all, though I should warn that’s only for th’ basic grunt an’ groan. Might I suggest as ye seem to be flush with a bit more wealth, mayhaps ye’d consider a room for th’ whole night, then?”
Truly, she’d had no idea what the meal itself cost, and at any rate, she’d presumed she would be receiving tuppence for whatever she’d paid over. But “room” caught her ear, and with the warm food settling low in her stomach, all her work onboard ship was catching up with her. Surely finding Will could wait until morning? Stifling a yawn, she kept her voice low and grimaced. “Eh, a room’d be a fine thing, ah …”
“It’s Cordelia, luv.”
“What might be the price difference?”
“Another shilling ought to cover it.” She giggled.
Elizabeth chewed at her lower lip, trying to ignore the weight of the slightly-larger girl perched on her slim thigh. “What about just for the room, and excluding the company?” she tried to gruff.
“Oh, come now, ye don’t mean to put me off on someone else an’ leave me cold for the night, now do ye?”
She was chewing at Elizabeth’s earlobe by now, and she inched sideways out of it. “I’m tired and … and filthy, and I’d really prefer just a room. And a bath,” she added. She forced herself to give Cordelia’s leg a pinch, knowing she would clear out as soon as she could, come first light. “Maybe after breakfast?”
The woman sighed and extracted herself from Elizabeth’s lap. “Fine, but if I’ve t’ find another set of arms for th’ night, don’t expect me to bathe an’ smell pretty for ye again on th’ morrow!” she snapped, extracting a key from her bodice and stretching out her hand. “Second on right, top of th’ stairs.”
Elizabeth exchanged a shilling for the key, stifling the urge to argue for a cheaper rate based on the whore’s morning threat-promise. She wanted to keep her head down, her mouth shut, and remain as forgettable as possible while she finished her stew and semi-potable drink. She lingered for a while after eating, letting the place fill up so she could sneak upstairs the easier. She watched the “ladies” move around, making contacts, testing the waters, doing their jobs. Her eyes widened as one disappeared beneath a fellow’s table on her knees; she quickly looked away, remembering the book of lewd drawings she’d pilfered from a vendor in the market and hidden in her shawl when she was fourteen. The thought heated her, and she pressed her knees together, wondering if Will had ever heard of such a position.
She caught herself when she realized she was nearly giggling, and instead, coughed and puckered her mouth in a frown. She stood, making her way along the bar, head down. When she was sure nobody else would be coming along to offer their way into her breeches (what a surprise they’d get!), she hurried up the stairs. A turn of the key and a few good shoves of her shoulder on swollen wood got her into the room a moment later. It was plain and without a lamp, but she didn’t care - she crossed to the small bed, tossed her bag on the floor, toed off Will’s old buckled shoes, and lay down, baggy wool stockings curled over her ankles … and barely had time to worry for the morning as she dropped off into a hard sleep.
*****
Her feet were on the floor with the shriek next door, before she was even awake enough to identify the sound that had brought her out of deep slumber. She shook her head, blinking, and reached up to rub the furrow between her brows. Whatever was in the mattress was a far cry from her own thick bed and more uncomfortable than even a ship’s narrow hammock. It was still dark outside, and she stood, stretching and twisting as she crossed to the small, dirty window to try to get some clue as to the hour.
Another yell made her whip her head around toward its direction, and she could actually feel herself growl. She’d paid for this space, and while it might not be the governor’s best guest room, Elizabeth believed she deserved a less noisome experience than whatever … fun, was going on in the next bedroom. She certainly hoped Will didn’t expect her to be that loud when they had relations. Pleasant associations crept into the fore of her mind as she stared out at the road below, people’s raucous laughter muffled by the glass, their whirling, stumbling staggering entertaining her despite herself. This was more like her romantic visions of piracy - sailing to wherever one wanted, meeting new people, having a jolly time with friends in various ports before taking back to the open sea to feel the spray in your face and the wind in your hair. Her literary fantasies far outweighed the horrors she’d felt at being kidnapped aboard the Black Pearl, and the daily chores without end on board the Edinburgh.
She squinted, peering at the street below as two familiar figures came into her pane of vision. She got the heels of her hands beneath the bottom window and pushed, fighting the same problem of swollen wood as with the door, in this humidity, cursing to herself as time and visibility lapsed. It finally came up with some creaking, and she knelt, sticking her head outside and nearly yelling with recognition. It was Jack and Mr. Gibbs!
Elizabeth could not believe her luck. She figured they wouldn’t hear her with all the noise below, so she pulled back inside and hurried to the bed, pulling on Will’s overlarge shoes and tucking the cloth in each around her toes to compensate for size. If she made it down to the road in time, she might be able to catch up and quiz them on Will’s success at finding them.
“NO!” The yell was loud and distinct enough to pierce the wall intact, and Elizabeth looked up. “STOP IT! GET IT AWAY!” Her heart jumped to triple-time, clogging her throat, but she grabbed her bag, prepared to ignore her conscience. She was nearly at the door when another jagged, pained cry assailed her ears.
“Well, damn it.” She fished around in her bag, fingers closing around the grip of her sword she’d also taken from the smithy. Her father had not wanted it in his home, so she always left it with Will at the end of their fencing lessons. He’d made it light to fit her smaller hand and muscles, but she knew it would be sharpened and resist much damage. She tightened her hold on it, simply hoping she was ready to face a real opponent after only ten months’ teaching.
Now there was sobbing, and it was enough to deliver Elizabeth from her fear into annoyance and anger, both for the girl or woman and her own interrupted sleep. She left her room, steeled herself, and marched down the hallway. Using the flat of her sword, she whapped the door a few times. “LEAVE!” came a distinctively male voice.
“NO! HELP!”
“SILENCE!”
The door was locked. She jiggled the knob, frustrated, and realized it would be too heavy for her to try to knock open. A flash of inspiration made her pull her own room key from her tiny vest pocket and insert it. She felt a click as it worked, and suddenly part of her anger was transferred to the whore from earlier - or perhaps the madam deserved the blame. Glad I wasn’t transporting the Crown Jewels, she thought wryly, suddenly seeing being awakened early as a blessing in disguise for what coins she had left.
She expected to find some fat, dirty sailor forcing his substantial weight on a slight girl. She didn’t anticipate the dandy from the dock to be kneeling naked on the foot of the bed, nor the whore who’d rented her the room - Cordelia, that’s it - to be tied to the iron headboard, face red and raw from crying. She really didn’t expect what the man was doing to her - namely, using his walking stick as a substitute for what would have been more appropriately himself, rather enthusiastically.
Nauseated, Elizabeth gritted her teeth and raised her sword. “Stop that!” she demanded. “Get away from her!”
The man looked up, a murderous expression, and nearly went back to what he was doing before doing a double-take. Only then did she realize she must’ve left her hat on the bed and her hair had fallen down. He chuckled. “Much as I love a bargain, I do fear you’ll have to wait your turn under me.” He turned his attentions back to Cordelia.
That did it. Elizabeth had just enough sense in her rage to realize that running a blade through likely gentry would go worse on her, coupled with her warrant and escape. Instead, she drew her arm around and whacked him on the back of the head with the flat of her blade. The shock of impact reverberated through her slim arm and shoulder, and it was enough to make him drop the cursed stick and fall against the wall. However, it wasn’t enough to knock him out, and he pulled himself upright, turning a murderous glare her way.
He was grabbing for his stick, and perhaps more than being attacked, the idea of having that thing touch her again drove Elizabeth on. “You want it, bit-” was as far as he got before she gripped the sword hard, driving her fist at him and using her pommel to clock him in the jaw. Will’s advice of There’s more than one way to use a sword echoed somewhere in the back of her brain as he slid away and down, thick as a sack of bricks.
Breathing heavily, she looked to Cordelia, who was crying quietly now, small, pained moans in between. She was bleeding on the sheet, and Elizabeth closed her eyes, paradoxically trying to block out the image and steel herself for looking at it again. When she did look, she realized she was in no position to help this girl - she knew nothing of medical training, and as guilty as she felt for it, she had to get going to find Jack and Gibbs. “Just a minute,” she promised the girl, when she could speak again, turning for the door. “I’ll be right back.”
Out in the hallway, she knocked at the door across the way. When she heard nothing, she moved to the next. At the fourth door at which she knocked, she was greeted with a feminine, “Go ‘way!” Elizabeth only pounded harder, with the flat of her free hand, until an irritated redhead yanked the door open, pulling a dressing-gown around her body. “What in the blaz-”
“You have to help!” Elizabeth grabbed her arm and pulled her along, yelling, “Apologies!” at whomever might be in her bed.
“Now just wait here, dolly!” The redhead tried to resist, and she had pretty good strength, but Elizabeth shook her head frantically, finally remembering the girl’s name again.
“Cordelia’s hurt badly. You have to come!”
Whether it was the words or her attitude, she seemed to get through to the redhead, and the woman followed as they both hurried back to the room. Once inside, she seemed to quickly assess what had happened, and shook her head. “I coulda told her this one was gon’ be mess and a handful.” The redhead sighed and approached the bed. “Now Delia, shh. Shh, girl. You don’t wan’ wake him up again, now do you?” The blonde tried to speak, but could only shake her head and cry some more.
The redhead glanced back at Elizabeth and then the doorway. “Shut the door,” she ordered, waiting for Elizabeth to return before speaking. “Get his shoes and stockings off; I’ll get her free of these knots.”
“Me?” She heard her voice squeak. She’d only touched one semi-naked man, and she preferred to keep it that way.
The older woman rolled her eyes, muttering “children.” Elizabeth stiffened in offense, but said nothing else as she set to her task one-handed, refusing to put down her sword around this jackass, even unconscious. By the time she finished, Cordelia was untied, and sitting up against the wall, albeit wincing and biting her lip. The redhead had bunched up a bed sheet and pressed it between the girl’s legs, gently putting the girl’s own hands on it. “Here, hold it in place. Press down a bit on it, fine?” She leaned across the bed and pulled the rope from where it had been woven through the bars of the headboard, then stood and turned to Elizabeth, actually grinning. “Now we give this ‘gen’leman’ a bit of his own salt.”
“All right.” She steeled herself for more.
“Don’ you worry. I’ll tie him up; you check ‘is pockets.” She nodded toward the man’s finery, tossed on a nearby chair. “Seein’ as you knocked ‘im cold and saved Miss Delia here, only fair you ought to be first.”
She nearly protested that she didn’t need money, but her eyes fell on the man’s body, and she noticed how slender he was. She did empty his pockets, then, but only to hold up each item of clothing and eye it critically. Sturdy breeches, a fine maroon waistcoat and greatcoat, and best of all, a pair of thick black boots that looked to be in her size range. She frowned at the wig and plumed hat, wrinkling her nose at the impracticality. An idea seized her. “What’s your name?” she asked the woman, looking over at her.
“Scarlett.” She finished tying a knot, then asked the obvious that had been forgotten in their mutual emergency. “You didn’ come for a job here, did you?”
“No!” She cleared her throat, not wanting to insult Scarlett. “I mean, no - I’m looking for someone.” She caught the woman’s eyes on her boy’s clothes. “Scarlett, may I ask as to the … um, type of client you are … entertaining, this evening?”
Scarlett took a moment to shove one of the man’s silk stockings into his mouth, then pushed herself off the bed and faced Elizabeth. “Why?”
She held up the man’s finely-stitched velvet greatcoat, the silk shirt - she was already wearing Will’s spare Sunday shirt - and the impractical hat. “Is he dressed as well as all this?” she wondered.
Scarlett’s mouth twitched, a twinkle in her eye. “What might you be in the market for, milady?”
Forty-five minutes later, Elizabeth was back outside, her step far more sure in the leather boots than Will’s shoes; she figured he wouldn’t be too heartbroken that she’d arranged to “lose” them to the popinjay, who’d been left in the back alley tied up, wearing nothing but those shoes, a balled-up stocking, and his strategically- and painfully-placed walking stick. Cruel it might have been, but she’d been sadistically pleased to help drag him down the back outside steps anyway. With the baldric of the captain Scarlett had been diddling, as well as his older, faded brown greatcoat over the fine waistcoat and his tricorn pulled down over her braid, not to mention a few coins in her pocket - she’d given the bulk of the tormentor’s money to Cordelia, along with her old clothes and advice to sail straightaway as a “cabin boy” to Port Royal and look up Estrella for help finding a respectable job - Elizabeth felt much more ready to take on those between her and Will and her father. She had likely come out better in her trade with the captain than he had, thanks to Scarlett’s deft negotiations.
She systematically started wandering into every tavern she passed, doing a quick sweep before leaving and moving on to the next. It wasn’t until she reached one with a rooster and cat on the sign (and bearing a name she would never be able to repeat to her father) that her search bore fruit. Yelling, crashing, and general mayhem made her push inside past those who were streaming out - she tried to look at them all as they fled, but was busy fighting for a spot until she spotted James Norrington, whereupon she went dead still. Joseph, Mary, and Jesus, she thought, wondering when her thoughts had fallen under Joshamee Gibbs’s narration. What is this?
It was hard for her eyes to take in, but indeed, it was James, disheveled and ragged and waving a sword in one hand and a bottle in the other. She didn’t have time to wonder on his circumstances, as she spotted a couple of unmet swords from the corner of her eye. She pulled her own and defended herself by instinct, first against one opponent and then another, appreciative at last for Will’s later lessons involving him with a sword in each hand, moving quickly and forcing her to pretend she was fighting two opponents simultaneously - it wasn’t just the same, but at least she wasn’t unprepared.
She heard a thud behind and whirled to see a man on the floor. Her eyes traveled to the rail above, and her heart leapt into her throat as she spotted Jack. Now all she needed to do was get out of here and wait for him to exit the back way, where he seemed to be headed.
After a couple more minutes of fencing and delivering a couple of kicks to distract her opponents, Elizabeth found herself near the center of the room, and spotted a clear path to the door.
“Come on, then! Who wants some?”
She glanced around at the familiar, but slurred, voice. James was not far behind her, waving his sword threateningly, challenging … well, as best as she could tell, the room at large. “Form an orderly line, and I’ll have you all, one by one!” Sailors and various ne’er-do-wells closed in on them, looking greedy and angry, and she wondered if any were pirates who might recognize their nemesis. Angry murmurings told her this was very possible, and dread settled low in her gut as he shouted, “C’mon, who’s first?”
If he’s out cold, they can’t do much to him, she concluded, grabbing for his bottle and, for the second time that day, knocking a man in the side of the head. James slumped to the ground, and the crowd went quiet, confused now that the object of their bloodlust was in no fit shape to satisfy it. Setting her expression into one of annoyance and defiance, she growled out, “I just wanted the pleasure of doing that myself!” Cheers erupted, and she was roundly toasted on high. She received them with a satisfied smile, inwardly crumpling in relief - the gambit had had no guarantee of success.
She bit off her protest as a few of the ruffians came forward a moment later and circled James, bending to lift and carry him toward the back. Instead of trying to stop them and reversing what little standing she now had among their number, she followed along and waited until they had thrown him into the pigpen and gone back inside.
“James Norrington,” she sighed, bending to help him up. She nearly looked away at the sudden, sober shame in his eyes, but instead, asked, “What has the world done to you?”
Replying nothing, he accepted her help just long enough to stand and trudge their way out of the muck. “Where are you staying?” she asked; again, he said nothing, studiously ignoring her as he started to lurch away. “James, please.”
She almost wished she’d said nothing when he turned to look at her again - there was no shame this time, just a finally-controlled anger. “Where are you going to go?” she wondered.
To her surprise, he smirked, an ugly expression that, despite the mud and straggly wig and clothes and his spitting mud, did nothing to mar his handsome face. I really need to be married, she thought, rather inappropriately. I don’t care what Will’s protests are when I find him, or if there’s not a minister for three days. “Shouldn’t you be back home helping polish your husband’s sword?”
The insinuation, as much as the attitude, surprised her, but she braced herself. Foregoing her usual Beg pardon? she answered, “How many times must I apologize, James?” He waved her off, starting away, and she followed. “Where are you going?”
“Why, to the docks, of course,” he half-slurred, still trying to expel mud as he spoke. “I’ve signed on to a grand vessel, Mrs. Turner!”
She rolled her eyes and plodded along with him for a few more steps. “It’s still Miss Swann,” she finally explained. “Our wedding - it was interrupted by the arrival of East India marines.” When he stopped, appearing interested, she continued, hoping an explanation might help fix the rift that had kept them at a polite, barely-speaking distance for the few months before he’d sailed from Port Royal, not to be heard from again. “The company’s representative, Lord Beckett - he had warrants for Will’s arrest, for helping Jack. And mine. And yours!”
“I did nothing to help that slippery flotsam,” he protested, spitting out more mud.
She arched an eyebrow. “Are you referring to the ‘slippery flotsam’ who captains the ship you’re going to sign onto?” She sighed. “You did the right thing, James - we all did. Jack’s a good man, and he didn’t deserve to hang. At least not for what happened with the Isle de Muerta.” When he gave her a baleful look, but didn’t interrupt further, she gestured that they should keep walking. He fell in step and she caught him up on some broad goings-on in Port Royal since he’d left, including Will’s elevation to journeyman and the less cheerful news of her father’s imprisonment, the only part of the story that seemed to pull a reaction from James, who frowned and pressed his lips together, but still said nothing.
It wasn’t too long before they were near the docks, and straining her eyes a little, Elizabeth could pick out the Pearl. By a stroke of luck, she spotted the familiar gait of Jack Sparrow, and hurried to catch up. “Captain Sparrow!”
He glanced back, never breaking stride. “Come to join me crew, lad? Welcome aboard.”
Lad? Join your crew? You don’t even recognize me, after I helped keep your throat from the noose and condemned myself to death? Elizabeth’s mouth twitched, but she only replied, “I’m here to find the man I love.” Maybe bringing up the person who literally risked his life will remind you, instead.
It did bring Jack up short, but he only replied, his back still imperiously to her, “I’m deeply flattered, son, but my first and only love is the sea.”
“Meaning William Turner, Captain Sparrow,” she gritted, satisfied at last to see recognition in his eyes when he turned to face her.
He regarded her with a slight curl to his lip as he murmured her name, then he turned back to Gibbs with a quick whisper before addressing her again. Cockily, he said, “You know, these clothes do not flatter you at all. It should be a dress or nothing; I happen to have no dress in my cabin.”
She didn’t have the patience or the inclination to parry this time. “Jack,” she said, curtly. “I know Will came to find you. Where is he?”
He sighed, the sympathetic mask falling into place - she’d seen it before, on that island, several times, but notably just before he’d tried to coax her into getting friendly in the sand. “Darling, I am truly unhappy to have to tell you this” don’t believe it, don’t believe him, he’s lying through that gold tooth “but through an unfortunate and entirely unforeseeable set of circumstances that have nothing whatsoever to do with me” oh God, what would close his mouth and make the words stop? “poor Will has been press-ganged into Davy Jones’s crew.”
She blinked; well, she hadn’t seen that coming. “D-Davy Jones?”
James had finally caught up and was coughing … something unattractive over the side of the dock. “Oh, please,” he gasped, hauling himself upright to address Jack. “The captain of the Flying Dutchman?”
Jack frowned at him. “You look bloody awful. What’re you doing here?”
“You hired me,” James sneered. “I can’t help it if your standards are lax.”
“You smell funny-”
“Jack!” She’d had enough of this nonsense, out of both of them, but especially from Sparrow. The look in his eyes when she’d mentioned Will hadn’t been surprise, but sly and - unless she was mistaken - perhaps even guilty. Anger boiled in her chest. “All I want is to find Will.”
He made a face, then made as if to turn away - then stared at her. Hard. “Are you certain? Is that what you really want most?”
“Of course,” she answered, trying to keep a civil tone.
He took her arm and led her a little distance away. “Because I would think you’d want to find a way to save Will, most.”
“And you’d have a way of doing that.” It wasn’t a question, precisely. From their brief prior contact, and reading enough stories of his escapades, exaggerated or no, she realized Jack was going into what she called “politician mode.” She’d seen it plenty of times in her father and his London colleagues; this was negotiation.
“Well.” He placed his hands together and watched her carefully, gauging her willingness to believe, in return. “There is a chest …”
As he nattered on, she listened just enough to pick up details, the rest of her brain dedicated to figuring out the best way to play Jack Sparrow. She’d been hopeful to catch up with him, assuming that if he’d come across Will, they would both be waiting for her. After the way Will had risked his neck for him on the day of his hanging, and her willingness to lend her own name to his defense and escape, she had figured Jack Sparrow owed them something. She had not counted, however, on his refusing to honor her idea of his obligation.
Somewhere in the middle of Jack’s salesmanship, James’s voice interrupted. “You don’t actually believe him, do you?” He sounded concerned, and she realized he was trying to protect her.
Bless you, she thought, looking over at him. But it’s too late to pretend you can help me any longer, James; I have to do this myself. She thought back to the island, back to the one weakness she knew the pirate possessed: The absolute certainty that no matter how long it took, nobody was resistant to Captain Jack Sparrow’s charms. She’d used it to rescue Will once; really, there was no reason it shouldn’t work twice on a man unwilling to give up his games.
With that, she gave Jack a little smile. “How do we find it?”
Author: veronica_rich
Pairing/characters: Elizabeth, with Norrington, Jack, and others, including a couple of OCs. Pairing W/E.
Rating: PG-13 for language and concepts
Summary: This was written in response to a challenge at potcfest - Elizabeth's time in Tortuga before she found Jack. PG-13 or under, please.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Disney, Bruckheimer, and Buena Vista. I own nothing, and am making no profit off of this storytelling.
Warnings: Implied rape. Hopefully, presented "fuzzy" enough to keep an upper PG-13 rating.
Author's notes: Thanks to betas gryphons_lair, metalkatt, yoiebear, and porridgebird - any errors are my own. This was a really difficult story to write; I'm not naturally disposed toward writing a lot of Elizabeth, so I hope fans who like her think I did her justice.
Feedback: Keeps me going ...
“Move along, boy!” The gentleman punctuated his words with a prod of his silver walking stick to the backside of his human impediment. “I say, make room, now.”
For a split-second, Elizabeth Swann paused, bristling. She’d gotten a look at this popinjay and his equally-outfitted companions stepping off at the crowded dock at Turtle Island, loudly asking after a carriage and guffawing at the dirtied, sour-faced sailors weaving around them. When a couple had shoved past them, they’d thought to protest, but as soon as the sailors (pirates, more like) had spun and stared hard at them, they’d quieted like truculent schoolboys. At least they’re not completely foolish, she’d thought.
“Are you deaf and dumb, boy?” Another sharp couple of prods from the business end of the stick. Elizabeth restrained herself from turning to grab the offending object and whacking him over the head with it.
The thought brought to mind an incident a few years back, when she’d been at Fort Charles with Father while Josiah Brown and his apprentice were delivering a cart of tools. The lieutenant on duty had signed for the materials, and the red-coated marines who were supposed to help unload the cart had instead stood by, smirking, while a gangly, rather skinny Will Turner had done all the work himself. Elizabeth remembered getting nearly a full shout out when he’d turned and one of the marines had “stretched” his boot just enough to trip the boy, before her father had restrained her. For his part, Will had calmly pushed himself up, gathered the supplies, and, just as he was about to head inside, “accidentally” let drop a small pointed tool from the packet. As the marine whose toes it had pierced hopped around, Will had apologized profusely, looking properly terrified. When the marines’ and Brown’s backs were turned, however, she’d seen a definite smirk cross his face, before he straightened and carried everything past the unruffled lieutenant.
Instead of turning and introducing the idiot to the business end of his own stick, she grinned and pulled her straw hat lower, trudging on with the press of bodies on either side, since it wouldn’t do to expose her gender just now. The thought of Will induced equal parts melancholy for her ruined wedding, frustration over his location and safety, and a sharp lust for what else she had lost. She’d thought to be flip, reminding Beckett of her loss of husbandly comfort, but it had only reminded her she was still very much the virgin bride seeking her very-nearly husband at sea. To make matters worse, even if she were to find Will out here in the middle of the Caribbean with no chaperone for miles, he’d probably still insist on an “I do” in vows before action.
Ducking away from the sailors she’d followed off the Edinburgh, hoping to lose them for good, Elizabeth cut through an alley and over a couple of streets, ducking into the first place she saw with a bottle and bowl on its shingle. Food and drink had been strictly regulated aboard ship, and she could do with something more substantial, perhaps maybe even some wine.
It wasn’t until she’d taken a seat and looked around that she noticed there were far more women than men, dressed in worn taffetas and ribbons and bodices far too low for her own wardrobe. She wondered briefly, until she saw a couple were chatting up men at a bar, pressing themselves into beefy upper arms and laughing too loudly. She nearly got up to leave, but her stomach growled sharply as the scent of something meaty and rich pierced her nostrils. Well, a bite or two couldn’t hurt, she thought. But then I’ve got to get going; certainly I’m not going to find Will in a brothel. The idea of it incensed her. I’d better not!
It wasn’t long before a young woman approached and leaned across the table. “’Ello, love,” she murmured in a voice Elizabeth thought should be too high for any grown man’s interest, and she struggled to drop her own voice, along with the brim of her hat over her face.
“I’d like a bowl of stew, please.” She fished in her bag, glad she’d had the foresight to sneak back to the smithy before escaping Port Royal and pull up the floorboard where Will was keeping his savings - she figured if they could ever go back, chances were that Father could replace what she’d lifted easily enough. “And some wine?”
The whore’s eyes widened at the shilling she offered for the food. She tucked it smoothly into her bodice and winked. Uneasily, Elizabeth glanced around as she moved off. She’d watched some of the men she knew suss out a room as soon as they stepped into it, and knew it had something to do with familiarizing oneself with one’s possible enemies and allies, but she wasn’t quite sure how it was done. Father had never explained, instead choosing to answer her with reassurances that someone would always watch her back.
Fat lot of good that’s doing for me now. She looked down at the rough carvings on her small table, remembering the gossip among sailors boarding the Edinburgh in Port Royal about the governor now locked in his own gaol. She’d nearly ran for the gangplank - for all his age and being a man, she suspected Weatherby Swann was hardly the type to break out of a cell on his own. But then the thought of Will stopped her - surely, Beckett wouldn’t hang a man as important as the governor, even if he did mean to try to threaten him, but his agents were on the seas and as long as they obeyed Cutler Beckett, they were likely under orders to kill both Jack Sparrow and Will Turner, or any pirate, upon recognition. And despite her own warrant, she had a feeling that standing between the East India Company and either man would keep them alive a while longer, just as it had with James.
She raised her head slightly when the bowl was put in front of her, and a smudged tankard, nodding once to signify thanks. Elizabeth picked up the spoon and thought to eat politely, but another quick glance around told her it would be better to just dig in as she had done at Barbossa’s table. After a quick slug of … well, it wasn’t wine, but it had enough alcohol to torch Fort Charles, for sure - she tore into the bread and stew.
The level in her bowl was at halfway when she felt a hand on the back of her neck and froze, cursing herself for not paying better attention. Just as a sticky wave of toilet water cloyed into her nostrils, she realized someone was trying to sit on her lap! Alarmed, she didn’t adjust to make it easier, but the whore was apparently used to such a reaction. “Now, don’t be like that, guv,” she cooed near Elizabeth’s ear. “Ye gave me a whole shillin’, after all, though I should warn that’s only for th’ basic grunt an’ groan. Might I suggest as ye seem to be flush with a bit more wealth, mayhaps ye’d consider a room for th’ whole night, then?”
Truly, she’d had no idea what the meal itself cost, and at any rate, she’d presumed she would be receiving tuppence for whatever she’d paid over. But “room” caught her ear, and with the warm food settling low in her stomach, all her work onboard ship was catching up with her. Surely finding Will could wait until morning? Stifling a yawn, she kept her voice low and grimaced. “Eh, a room’d be a fine thing, ah …”
“It’s Cordelia, luv.”
“What might be the price difference?”
“Another shilling ought to cover it.” She giggled.
Elizabeth chewed at her lower lip, trying to ignore the weight of the slightly-larger girl perched on her slim thigh. “What about just for the room, and excluding the company?” she tried to gruff.
“Oh, come now, ye don’t mean to put me off on someone else an’ leave me cold for the night, now do ye?”
She was chewing at Elizabeth’s earlobe by now, and she inched sideways out of it. “I’m tired and … and filthy, and I’d really prefer just a room. And a bath,” she added. She forced herself to give Cordelia’s leg a pinch, knowing she would clear out as soon as she could, come first light. “Maybe after breakfast?”
The woman sighed and extracted herself from Elizabeth’s lap. “Fine, but if I’ve t’ find another set of arms for th’ night, don’t expect me to bathe an’ smell pretty for ye again on th’ morrow!” she snapped, extracting a key from her bodice and stretching out her hand. “Second on right, top of th’ stairs.”
Elizabeth exchanged a shilling for the key, stifling the urge to argue for a cheaper rate based on the whore’s morning threat-promise. She wanted to keep her head down, her mouth shut, and remain as forgettable as possible while she finished her stew and semi-potable drink. She lingered for a while after eating, letting the place fill up so she could sneak upstairs the easier. She watched the “ladies” move around, making contacts, testing the waters, doing their jobs. Her eyes widened as one disappeared beneath a fellow’s table on her knees; she quickly looked away, remembering the book of lewd drawings she’d pilfered from a vendor in the market and hidden in her shawl when she was fourteen. The thought heated her, and she pressed her knees together, wondering if Will had ever heard of such a position.
She caught herself when she realized she was nearly giggling, and instead, coughed and puckered her mouth in a frown. She stood, making her way along the bar, head down. When she was sure nobody else would be coming along to offer their way into her breeches (what a surprise they’d get!), she hurried up the stairs. A turn of the key and a few good shoves of her shoulder on swollen wood got her into the room a moment later. It was plain and without a lamp, but she didn’t care - she crossed to the small bed, tossed her bag on the floor, toed off Will’s old buckled shoes, and lay down, baggy wool stockings curled over her ankles … and barely had time to worry for the morning as she dropped off into a hard sleep.
*****
Her feet were on the floor with the shriek next door, before she was even awake enough to identify the sound that had brought her out of deep slumber. She shook her head, blinking, and reached up to rub the furrow between her brows. Whatever was in the mattress was a far cry from her own thick bed and more uncomfortable than even a ship’s narrow hammock. It was still dark outside, and she stood, stretching and twisting as she crossed to the small, dirty window to try to get some clue as to the hour.
Another yell made her whip her head around toward its direction, and she could actually feel herself growl. She’d paid for this space, and while it might not be the governor’s best guest room, Elizabeth believed she deserved a less noisome experience than whatever … fun, was going on in the next bedroom. She certainly hoped Will didn’t expect her to be that loud when they had relations. Pleasant associations crept into the fore of her mind as she stared out at the road below, people’s raucous laughter muffled by the glass, their whirling, stumbling staggering entertaining her despite herself. This was more like her romantic visions of piracy - sailing to wherever one wanted, meeting new people, having a jolly time with friends in various ports before taking back to the open sea to feel the spray in your face and the wind in your hair. Her literary fantasies far outweighed the horrors she’d felt at being kidnapped aboard the Black Pearl, and the daily chores without end on board the Edinburgh.
She squinted, peering at the street below as two familiar figures came into her pane of vision. She got the heels of her hands beneath the bottom window and pushed, fighting the same problem of swollen wood as with the door, in this humidity, cursing to herself as time and visibility lapsed. It finally came up with some creaking, and she knelt, sticking her head outside and nearly yelling with recognition. It was Jack and Mr. Gibbs!
Elizabeth could not believe her luck. She figured they wouldn’t hear her with all the noise below, so she pulled back inside and hurried to the bed, pulling on Will’s overlarge shoes and tucking the cloth in each around her toes to compensate for size. If she made it down to the road in time, she might be able to catch up and quiz them on Will’s success at finding them.
“NO!” The yell was loud and distinct enough to pierce the wall intact, and Elizabeth looked up. “STOP IT! GET IT AWAY!” Her heart jumped to triple-time, clogging her throat, but she grabbed her bag, prepared to ignore her conscience. She was nearly at the door when another jagged, pained cry assailed her ears.
“Well, damn it.” She fished around in her bag, fingers closing around the grip of her sword she’d also taken from the smithy. Her father had not wanted it in his home, so she always left it with Will at the end of their fencing lessons. He’d made it light to fit her smaller hand and muscles, but she knew it would be sharpened and resist much damage. She tightened her hold on it, simply hoping she was ready to face a real opponent after only ten months’ teaching.
Now there was sobbing, and it was enough to deliver Elizabeth from her fear into annoyance and anger, both for the girl or woman and her own interrupted sleep. She left her room, steeled herself, and marched down the hallway. Using the flat of her sword, she whapped the door a few times. “LEAVE!” came a distinctively male voice.
“NO! HELP!”
“SILENCE!”
The door was locked. She jiggled the knob, frustrated, and realized it would be too heavy for her to try to knock open. A flash of inspiration made her pull her own room key from her tiny vest pocket and insert it. She felt a click as it worked, and suddenly part of her anger was transferred to the whore from earlier - or perhaps the madam deserved the blame. Glad I wasn’t transporting the Crown Jewels, she thought wryly, suddenly seeing being awakened early as a blessing in disguise for what coins she had left.
She expected to find some fat, dirty sailor forcing his substantial weight on a slight girl. She didn’t anticipate the dandy from the dock to be kneeling naked on the foot of the bed, nor the whore who’d rented her the room - Cordelia, that’s it - to be tied to the iron headboard, face red and raw from crying. She really didn’t expect what the man was doing to her - namely, using his walking stick as a substitute for what would have been more appropriately himself, rather enthusiastically.
Nauseated, Elizabeth gritted her teeth and raised her sword. “Stop that!” she demanded. “Get away from her!”
The man looked up, a murderous expression, and nearly went back to what he was doing before doing a double-take. Only then did she realize she must’ve left her hat on the bed and her hair had fallen down. He chuckled. “Much as I love a bargain, I do fear you’ll have to wait your turn under me.” He turned his attentions back to Cordelia.
That did it. Elizabeth had just enough sense in her rage to realize that running a blade through likely gentry would go worse on her, coupled with her warrant and escape. Instead, she drew her arm around and whacked him on the back of the head with the flat of her blade. The shock of impact reverberated through her slim arm and shoulder, and it was enough to make him drop the cursed stick and fall against the wall. However, it wasn’t enough to knock him out, and he pulled himself upright, turning a murderous glare her way.
He was grabbing for his stick, and perhaps more than being attacked, the idea of having that thing touch her again drove Elizabeth on. “You want it, bit-” was as far as he got before she gripped the sword hard, driving her fist at him and using her pommel to clock him in the jaw. Will’s advice of There’s more than one way to use a sword echoed somewhere in the back of her brain as he slid away and down, thick as a sack of bricks.
Breathing heavily, she looked to Cordelia, who was crying quietly now, small, pained moans in between. She was bleeding on the sheet, and Elizabeth closed her eyes, paradoxically trying to block out the image and steel herself for looking at it again. When she did look, she realized she was in no position to help this girl - she knew nothing of medical training, and as guilty as she felt for it, she had to get going to find Jack and Gibbs. “Just a minute,” she promised the girl, when she could speak again, turning for the door. “I’ll be right back.”
Out in the hallway, she knocked at the door across the way. When she heard nothing, she moved to the next. At the fourth door at which she knocked, she was greeted with a feminine, “Go ‘way!” Elizabeth only pounded harder, with the flat of her free hand, until an irritated redhead yanked the door open, pulling a dressing-gown around her body. “What in the blaz-”
“You have to help!” Elizabeth grabbed her arm and pulled her along, yelling, “Apologies!” at whomever might be in her bed.
“Now just wait here, dolly!” The redhead tried to resist, and she had pretty good strength, but Elizabeth shook her head frantically, finally remembering the girl’s name again.
“Cordelia’s hurt badly. You have to come!”
Whether it was the words or her attitude, she seemed to get through to the redhead, and the woman followed as they both hurried back to the room. Once inside, she seemed to quickly assess what had happened, and shook her head. “I coulda told her this one was gon’ be mess and a handful.” The redhead sighed and approached the bed. “Now Delia, shh. Shh, girl. You don’t wan’ wake him up again, now do you?” The blonde tried to speak, but could only shake her head and cry some more.
The redhead glanced back at Elizabeth and then the doorway. “Shut the door,” she ordered, waiting for Elizabeth to return before speaking. “Get his shoes and stockings off; I’ll get her free of these knots.”
“Me?” She heard her voice squeak. She’d only touched one semi-naked man, and she preferred to keep it that way.
The older woman rolled her eyes, muttering “children.” Elizabeth stiffened in offense, but said nothing else as she set to her task one-handed, refusing to put down her sword around this jackass, even unconscious. By the time she finished, Cordelia was untied, and sitting up against the wall, albeit wincing and biting her lip. The redhead had bunched up a bed sheet and pressed it between the girl’s legs, gently putting the girl’s own hands on it. “Here, hold it in place. Press down a bit on it, fine?” She leaned across the bed and pulled the rope from where it had been woven through the bars of the headboard, then stood and turned to Elizabeth, actually grinning. “Now we give this ‘gen’leman’ a bit of his own salt.”
“All right.” She steeled herself for more.
“Don’ you worry. I’ll tie him up; you check ‘is pockets.” She nodded toward the man’s finery, tossed on a nearby chair. “Seein’ as you knocked ‘im cold and saved Miss Delia here, only fair you ought to be first.”
She nearly protested that she didn’t need money, but her eyes fell on the man’s body, and she noticed how slender he was. She did empty his pockets, then, but only to hold up each item of clothing and eye it critically. Sturdy breeches, a fine maroon waistcoat and greatcoat, and best of all, a pair of thick black boots that looked to be in her size range. She frowned at the wig and plumed hat, wrinkling her nose at the impracticality. An idea seized her. “What’s your name?” she asked the woman, looking over at her.
“Scarlett.” She finished tying a knot, then asked the obvious that had been forgotten in their mutual emergency. “You didn’ come for a job here, did you?”
“No!” She cleared her throat, not wanting to insult Scarlett. “I mean, no - I’m looking for someone.” She caught the woman’s eyes on her boy’s clothes. “Scarlett, may I ask as to the … um, type of client you are … entertaining, this evening?”
Scarlett took a moment to shove one of the man’s silk stockings into his mouth, then pushed herself off the bed and faced Elizabeth. “Why?”
She held up the man’s finely-stitched velvet greatcoat, the silk shirt - she was already wearing Will’s spare Sunday shirt - and the impractical hat. “Is he dressed as well as all this?” she wondered.
Scarlett’s mouth twitched, a twinkle in her eye. “What might you be in the market for, milady?”
Forty-five minutes later, Elizabeth was back outside, her step far more sure in the leather boots than Will’s shoes; she figured he wouldn’t be too heartbroken that she’d arranged to “lose” them to the popinjay, who’d been left in the back alley tied up, wearing nothing but those shoes, a balled-up stocking, and his strategically- and painfully-placed walking stick. Cruel it might have been, but she’d been sadistically pleased to help drag him down the back outside steps anyway. With the baldric of the captain Scarlett had been diddling, as well as his older, faded brown greatcoat over the fine waistcoat and his tricorn pulled down over her braid, not to mention a few coins in her pocket - she’d given the bulk of the tormentor’s money to Cordelia, along with her old clothes and advice to sail straightaway as a “cabin boy” to Port Royal and look up Estrella for help finding a respectable job - Elizabeth felt much more ready to take on those between her and Will and her father. She had likely come out better in her trade with the captain than he had, thanks to Scarlett’s deft negotiations.
She systematically started wandering into every tavern she passed, doing a quick sweep before leaving and moving on to the next. It wasn’t until she reached one with a rooster and cat on the sign (and bearing a name she would never be able to repeat to her father) that her search bore fruit. Yelling, crashing, and general mayhem made her push inside past those who were streaming out - she tried to look at them all as they fled, but was busy fighting for a spot until she spotted James Norrington, whereupon she went dead still. Joseph, Mary, and Jesus, she thought, wondering when her thoughts had fallen under Joshamee Gibbs’s narration. What is this?
It was hard for her eyes to take in, but indeed, it was James, disheveled and ragged and waving a sword in one hand and a bottle in the other. She didn’t have time to wonder on his circumstances, as she spotted a couple of unmet swords from the corner of her eye. She pulled her own and defended herself by instinct, first against one opponent and then another, appreciative at last for Will’s later lessons involving him with a sword in each hand, moving quickly and forcing her to pretend she was fighting two opponents simultaneously - it wasn’t just the same, but at least she wasn’t unprepared.
She heard a thud behind and whirled to see a man on the floor. Her eyes traveled to the rail above, and her heart leapt into her throat as she spotted Jack. Now all she needed to do was get out of here and wait for him to exit the back way, where he seemed to be headed.
After a couple more minutes of fencing and delivering a couple of kicks to distract her opponents, Elizabeth found herself near the center of the room, and spotted a clear path to the door.
“Come on, then! Who wants some?”
She glanced around at the familiar, but slurred, voice. James was not far behind her, waving his sword threateningly, challenging … well, as best as she could tell, the room at large. “Form an orderly line, and I’ll have you all, one by one!” Sailors and various ne’er-do-wells closed in on them, looking greedy and angry, and she wondered if any were pirates who might recognize their nemesis. Angry murmurings told her this was very possible, and dread settled low in her gut as he shouted, “C’mon, who’s first?”
If he’s out cold, they can’t do much to him, she concluded, grabbing for his bottle and, for the second time that day, knocking a man in the side of the head. James slumped to the ground, and the crowd went quiet, confused now that the object of their bloodlust was in no fit shape to satisfy it. Setting her expression into one of annoyance and defiance, she growled out, “I just wanted the pleasure of doing that myself!” Cheers erupted, and she was roundly toasted on high. She received them with a satisfied smile, inwardly crumpling in relief - the gambit had had no guarantee of success.
She bit off her protest as a few of the ruffians came forward a moment later and circled James, bending to lift and carry him toward the back. Instead of trying to stop them and reversing what little standing she now had among their number, she followed along and waited until they had thrown him into the pigpen and gone back inside.
“James Norrington,” she sighed, bending to help him up. She nearly looked away at the sudden, sober shame in his eyes, but instead, asked, “What has the world done to you?”
Replying nothing, he accepted her help just long enough to stand and trudge their way out of the muck. “Where are you staying?” she asked; again, he said nothing, studiously ignoring her as he started to lurch away. “James, please.”
She almost wished she’d said nothing when he turned to look at her again - there was no shame this time, just a finally-controlled anger. “Where are you going to go?” she wondered.
To her surprise, he smirked, an ugly expression that, despite the mud and straggly wig and clothes and his spitting mud, did nothing to mar his handsome face. I really need to be married, she thought, rather inappropriately. I don’t care what Will’s protests are when I find him, or if there’s not a minister for three days. “Shouldn’t you be back home helping polish your husband’s sword?”
The insinuation, as much as the attitude, surprised her, but she braced herself. Foregoing her usual Beg pardon? she answered, “How many times must I apologize, James?” He waved her off, starting away, and she followed. “Where are you going?”
“Why, to the docks, of course,” he half-slurred, still trying to expel mud as he spoke. “I’ve signed on to a grand vessel, Mrs. Turner!”
She rolled her eyes and plodded along with him for a few more steps. “It’s still Miss Swann,” she finally explained. “Our wedding - it was interrupted by the arrival of East India marines.” When he stopped, appearing interested, she continued, hoping an explanation might help fix the rift that had kept them at a polite, barely-speaking distance for the few months before he’d sailed from Port Royal, not to be heard from again. “The company’s representative, Lord Beckett - he had warrants for Will’s arrest, for helping Jack. And mine. And yours!”
“I did nothing to help that slippery flotsam,” he protested, spitting out more mud.
She arched an eyebrow. “Are you referring to the ‘slippery flotsam’ who captains the ship you’re going to sign onto?” She sighed. “You did the right thing, James - we all did. Jack’s a good man, and he didn’t deserve to hang. At least not for what happened with the Isle de Muerta.” When he gave her a baleful look, but didn’t interrupt further, she gestured that they should keep walking. He fell in step and she caught him up on some broad goings-on in Port Royal since he’d left, including Will’s elevation to journeyman and the less cheerful news of her father’s imprisonment, the only part of the story that seemed to pull a reaction from James, who frowned and pressed his lips together, but still said nothing.
It wasn’t too long before they were near the docks, and straining her eyes a little, Elizabeth could pick out the Pearl. By a stroke of luck, she spotted the familiar gait of Jack Sparrow, and hurried to catch up. “Captain Sparrow!”
He glanced back, never breaking stride. “Come to join me crew, lad? Welcome aboard.”
Lad? Join your crew? You don’t even recognize me, after I helped keep your throat from the noose and condemned myself to death? Elizabeth’s mouth twitched, but she only replied, “I’m here to find the man I love.” Maybe bringing up the person who literally risked his life will remind you, instead.
It did bring Jack up short, but he only replied, his back still imperiously to her, “I’m deeply flattered, son, but my first and only love is the sea.”
“Meaning William Turner, Captain Sparrow,” she gritted, satisfied at last to see recognition in his eyes when he turned to face her.
He regarded her with a slight curl to his lip as he murmured her name, then he turned back to Gibbs with a quick whisper before addressing her again. Cockily, he said, “You know, these clothes do not flatter you at all. It should be a dress or nothing; I happen to have no dress in my cabin.”
She didn’t have the patience or the inclination to parry this time. “Jack,” she said, curtly. “I know Will came to find you. Where is he?”
He sighed, the sympathetic mask falling into place - she’d seen it before, on that island, several times, but notably just before he’d tried to coax her into getting friendly in the sand. “Darling, I am truly unhappy to have to tell you this” don’t believe it, don’t believe him, he’s lying through that gold tooth “but through an unfortunate and entirely unforeseeable set of circumstances that have nothing whatsoever to do with me” oh God, what would close his mouth and make the words stop? “poor Will has been press-ganged into Davy Jones’s crew.”
She blinked; well, she hadn’t seen that coming. “D-Davy Jones?”
James had finally caught up and was coughing … something unattractive over the side of the dock. “Oh, please,” he gasped, hauling himself upright to address Jack. “The captain of the Flying Dutchman?”
Jack frowned at him. “You look bloody awful. What’re you doing here?”
“You hired me,” James sneered. “I can’t help it if your standards are lax.”
“You smell funny-”
“Jack!” She’d had enough of this nonsense, out of both of them, but especially from Sparrow. The look in his eyes when she’d mentioned Will hadn’t been surprise, but sly and - unless she was mistaken - perhaps even guilty. Anger boiled in her chest. “All I want is to find Will.”
He made a face, then made as if to turn away - then stared at her. Hard. “Are you certain? Is that what you really want most?”
“Of course,” she answered, trying to keep a civil tone.
He took her arm and led her a little distance away. “Because I would think you’d want to find a way to save Will, most.”
“And you’d have a way of doing that.” It wasn’t a question, precisely. From their brief prior contact, and reading enough stories of his escapades, exaggerated or no, she realized Jack was going into what she called “politician mode.” She’d seen it plenty of times in her father and his London colleagues; this was negotiation.
“Well.” He placed his hands together and watched her carefully, gauging her willingness to believe, in return. “There is a chest …”
As he nattered on, she listened just enough to pick up details, the rest of her brain dedicated to figuring out the best way to play Jack Sparrow. She’d been hopeful to catch up with him, assuming that if he’d come across Will, they would both be waiting for her. After the way Will had risked his neck for him on the day of his hanging, and her willingness to lend her own name to his defense and escape, she had figured Jack Sparrow owed them something. She had not counted, however, on his refusing to honor her idea of his obligation.
Somewhere in the middle of Jack’s salesmanship, James’s voice interrupted. “You don’t actually believe him, do you?” He sounded concerned, and she realized he was trying to protect her.
Bless you, she thought, looking over at him. But it’s too late to pretend you can help me any longer, James; I have to do this myself. She thought back to the island, back to the one weakness she knew the pirate possessed: The absolute certainty that no matter how long it took, nobody was resistant to Captain Jack Sparrow’s charms. She’d used it to rescue Will once; really, there was no reason it shouldn’t work twice on a man unwilling to give up his games.
With that, she gave Jack a little smile. “How do we find it?”