When I least deserve it (Ana/Patrick)
He comes from the green-tinted, tempestuous see like every curse, like every gift. There is no ship - struggling or sinking - in sight and no drifting wood or floating cargo leaves a breadcrumb trail for them to follow. It’s as if he’d come out of nowhere, only held afloat by Calypso’s whims. He is weak, malnourished, and feverish and Anamaria is almost tempted to throw him back into the raging water in fear of what illnesses he might be carrying in his shaking body.
“Take him below,” she tells two of her men and starts yelling orders to the rest of her crew through the raging wind.
***
He sleeps through most of the next few days and even when he wakes briefly he’s delirious from fever. Anamaria only goes to see him once to see if he can be questioned, otherwise leaves him to Amanda’s care. The young girl she picked up in Tortuga a few weeks ago seems surprisingly apt at nursing her patient out of his fever but it still takes over a week before he’s strong enough to even speak.
“That explains it,” he says weakly as Ana steps into the cabin still reeking of illness.
“What?” she narrows her eyes, unsure what to expect.
“Only a lady would have considered helping me,” he smiles and there’s a flicker of charm behind his worn expression that makes Ana’s skin curl in warning.
“I wanted to throw ya back at first,” she says. “And I ain’t no lady.”
His lips twitch in amusement and he soon drifts back to sleep.
***
“What’s yer name?”
He freezes at Ana’s question, spoon hovering mid-air, one drop of the cook’s fairly inedible but hot soup falling back into the bowl.
“I have no name.” His voice is carefully controlled, eyes not meeting hers but staring at the cracks of the old, wobbly table she’s been meaning to throw out for months.
“If ye don’t want to tell me, just lie,” she laughs lightly. “Amanda has.”
The icy, razor sharp look he gives her sends chills down Ana’s spine but she doesn’t back off.
“You’ve been callin’ a name. Was it yer own? J-”
In a split second he’s on his feet, turning the table over with great clatter as plates and cutlery fall to the ground. The sudden deadly silence after his outburst is more frightening than any storm, still Ana’s palm itches to strike him just to show that she can. But the desperation behind his carefully restrained voice stops her.
“I have no name, Ana.”
***
“What happened to yer ship?”
He pretends not to hear her over the sound of drunken singing around the fire just a few metres away.
“Come on, give me something,” she smiles, leaning forward, her long black hair pooling in her lap. He leans against the trunk of an old tree, sipping his rum slowly - it takes all of his strength not to down it in one gulp and demand another and another and…
“There was no ship.”
“There must‘ve been, ye were in the middle of the bloomin’ ocean.” He gives her a look she can’t for the life of her interpret and she has to look away, a shiver running down her back despite the warmth of the night.
“How did ye get into the water then?” she insists ignoring the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“I fell.”
“Fell?” she asks back, not quite believing him.
An all too easy smirk.
“Fell, jumped, was pushed - what’s the difference now? I’m here.”
***
She comes to him that night, just off the shores of Tortuga, naked, wanting, beautiful, long hair floating around her like a black veil of mourning. He doesn’t move as she kneels down next to his bed, dark fingers tracing invisible lines on his chest. A shiver runs down his spine when she places that first scourging kiss over his heart and his fingers tangle almost involuntarily in the strands of her hair. But when her hand slips under the sheets he suddenly grabs her wrist hard enough to bruise.
She just smiles and captures his lips in a bruising kiss. He could easily push her away, he could tell her to stop, put an end to this, he swears he will… in a moment… he will… and then they both fall and maybe in the morning they won’t know if they jumped or were pushed by invisible hands.