(no subject)
Title: Drunken Lullabies (Part Two)
Author: lostingreen
Rating: PG
Pairing: Billie Joe/Captain Jack Sparrow, so essentially, Billie Joe/Johnny Depp. Eventually. (Weird, yes. I know.)
Disclaimer: I don't own Green Day or anything to do with "Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl." Billie Joe is a real person, Jack Sparrow is not. The only property that I can claim from this is the occasional original character. There won't be a significant amount of them, and for the most part, they won't last long.
Notes: This little project of mine doesn't have slash in it. Yet. There will be, eventually. But for right now, not so much. There's also no het, either. For right now, it's pretty romance/sex-free.
Thanks to all the feedback I've gotten-I really appriciate it. :)
Part One can be found here.
Hours, it seemed, had passed him by, and yet, Billie still hadn’t managed to make it back to his own time. His hangover, however, felt it appropriate to sneak up on him, and when he least expected it, make a grand reentrance into his life with a hellish nausea, the perfect companion to his bitch of a headache that had yet to go away.
Angelica’s serenading attempts at romance weren’t helping, either.
He groaned from the effort of hauling barrels of unknown substances back and forth. He largely suspected that the rest of the crew, save Angelica, took a sadistic pleasure in his pain. But that was no surprise, considering they weren’t destined for prison (or worse) as soon as they reached shore.
“Billie.” Her screeching, irritating falsetto reached his ears, breaking a nerve or two with its mousy pitch. “Run away with me when we get to shore.” He could feel her whisper, like a lukewarm rain, flowing down the back of his neck. He supposed she meant to send shivers along the way. His apathetic skin both reassured him and proved her wrong.
“I can’t.” He wished he could say something more sufficient. But he was never that skilled at talking with girls. Guys, on the other hand, he could have undressed and bent over with a few well-thought, choice words, as his band members knew quite well.
“Why not?” She pouted, twisting her horrid smile into a grisly, tortured puckering of the lips. Both in manner and expression, she reminded Billie of a toddler with a temper like fire-unpredictably incendiary, and unpleasantly destructive.
Billie sighed. He was fed up. His hangover, like an embittered mistress, seemed determined to follow him everywhere-Angelica’s coy grin and pleading eyes were doing nothing to improve his twitchy, nervous wreck of a mood. What he really desired to do was to hit her, as hard as he possibly could, with a brick known simply as ‘reality.’ It was clear to him from the get go that this girl had never learned the definition of the word ‘no.’
The clash of several shouts and screams shattered his poised words like ice before he even got the chance to speak them.
---
Angelica was on the verge of tears when the bizarre noise filled the temporary silence between them. She wondered what had caused such a ruckus all of a sudden. She attempted to sneer at Billie, the stranger who had, in less than a day, both stolen and broken her heart. Perhaps the chaos above was the announcement of pirates, and one particularly handsome was coming to take her away. Yes, that had to be it.
There was always a happy ending, according to her mother’s stories.
She jumped as the door, which she was standing right in front of, burst open with a malicious, creaking sound. She pivoted herself to come face to face with a sneering, dark-skinned woman, who, judging from her appearance, looked to be a pirate. Angelica cast her own face into a sneer-she was hardly impressed. She bet that harlot couldn’t even wield a sword.
Her confidence was silenced swiftly when the woman withdrew a shotgun, holding it and aiming it with obvious experience glowing in the shape and position of her hands. Angelica faltered, still trying to convince herself that she wasn’t scared.
Unfortunately for her, she couldn’t hide behind that lie forever.
“Give me all of your valuables, and no one gets hurt.” Angelica was caught off guard by the authority in the woman’s voice-she sounded as stern and as strong as any veteran naval officer.
“Who the hell do you think you are? Do you even know who I am? Who my father is?” Angelica spat back, a fierce fear rising in her throat like bile. She realized that, perhaps, provoking this woman wasn’t the smartest of ideas, particularly when she held a loaded gun. But then again, she could always be bluffing.
In the back of her mind, in that minute, rusted corner where once common sense resided, Angelica knew she was making a complete and utter fool of herself. She severely doubted, deep down, that she carried an empty gun.
“If you want to live, I suggest you listen to me.” The other woman replied with a voice of steel. Angelica had to fight not to shiver. She was honestly scared for her life, at that moment, but her stubborn pride refused to let her show it.
Out of curiosity, she glanced over to where Billie was still standing. The idiot. Why didn’t he run when he had the chance? She didn’t think to acknowledge the pallor to his skin, the way it gathered to his cheeks like particles of rain. She didn’t think to think of anything but his eyes, those brilliant, viridian gems of a priceless value.
She never aspired to be a criminal, but at that moment, she wanted nothing more than to be able to steal those pretty jewels away from him. He had no heart-it was hardly fair that he’d been graced with such an ethereal beauty.
She was so distracted with the panicking man behind her, she never noticed the exasperated sigh.
Nor did she, in her voluntary blindness, hear the pull of the trigger or the violent blast of a bullet released.
---
Billie was paralyzed with palpable fear. If one reached out, they would be able to stroke the trepidation, coming off him in waves, like the smoke of a forest fire. One wrong move was all it would take. Just one miscalculated notion. He had never been particularly fond of guns to begin with, considering his little mugging mishap some odd years ago. Watching that brat die, as much as she deserved it, triggered in him an instinctive sickness, an invisible disease coursing through his bloodstream like venom.
He kept still, like a graveyard statue, solemn and observant. He had no idea as to what that strange (and very much dangerous) woman had in mind for him.
He watched her she watched him. It was a surreal sort of experience, observing as she sized him up, measuring his worth in bullet holes and diamonds. He wanted to run so very badly-but he knew better than that. To flee would be to signal the shot of his own premature death.
“What’s your name, boy?” She nearly whispered to him. He was uneasy with the angle of her eyes, the calculating, frost washing over him in one tidal wave of judgment. As she spoke, he could feel his throat tense up, anticipating the absolute worst. The pessimist in him was inclined to agree with his stiffened limbs-best not to make a move before he was told.
The silence passed in increments of minutes, as the chaos above them ensued. Billie cringed to think of what a massacre must be taking place on the decks, a bloody destruction taunting him through mere possibility.
He was drawn from his thoughts suddenly by the sensation of cruel metal against his skin. He gulped audibly, fearing what would be coming next.
“Answer me, or I’ll make what happened to your little friend over there look like child’s play.” She growled, impatient.
Her words were more than enough inspiration for Billie to speak.
“Billie Joe.” He replied, his voice subdued with tension and anxiety. He hoped he’d given a satisfactory answer. He’d really rather not be on the receiving end of a bullet…
A few more moments of silence, and then she was in control again.
“Come with me.”
---
Jack blessed Anamaria’s instinct, as precise and distinct as ever. The Divine Grace, or so it was called, was really not a ship to behold. It had been easy, anchoring themselves onto the deck and claiming control over the less-than-impressive vessel. But for its small size, the Divine Grace packed quite a bit of treasure.
He stood regal among his men, looking very much like the king he fancied himself to be with the golden crown hanging loose upon his head. He’d claimed more than enough treasure for himself at that point, and so he faded to the background, watching as his men ravaged what remained of the luxurious boat.
He pondered, for a moment, as to the struggle of the passengers. It had been rather easy, subduing them all. Everyone on board seemed plagued with a misery, a loneliness and exhaustion that came with being out at sea too long. If you were a landlubber, that was. Jack would never understand that feeling.
He was musing over whether or not he should leave the servants behind, all of whom appeared underfed and overworked, when Anamaria burst out from the lower cabins, an anxious look smeared across her face. Jack was curious as to what caused the rush in her step, when he saw that she wasn’t alone.
Shoved before her, she led along an interesting-looking young man, strangely garbed in mostly black. His somewhat lengthy hair, black and glimmering underneath the pressing gaze of the sun, clung to his face with sweat, signs of obvious labor. He was pale looking with some sort of fright; Jack could recognize the symptoms-from the slight quiver of his lean body to the timid look in his, scanning around like a trapped rabbit. Interestingly enough, from his distance, Jack could distinguish the familiar strands of ink patterned in arranged designs-the man was tattooed, much like any member of his crew. Then there was the matter of his outfit. It was highly unusual to find a person outside of a funereal garbed in nearly all black-Jack figured it was because the other man was in perpetual mourning, an eternal grief for something lost that could never come back.
Though Jack couldn’t put his finger on it, he felt that something was off. There was more than met the eye to that stranger, a trait hidden even from the naked eye.
“Captain? What should we do with him?” Anamaria inquired, disrupting his thoughts. Clearly, she sensed that something was off about the man as well.
Jack, to be perfectly honest, didn’t have an answer for her. He was torn between the idea of the mysterious origins of the stranger and whether or not he was as he seemed-youthful, scared, like an intimidated mouse. He kept his gaze on him, taking note of the green of the strangers eyes-they were startling, filled with an extraordinary grace, much like divine intervention. Jack was certain he’d need some sort of prayer to protect himself from them-there was an unburied treasure within the other man, of that, he was sure.
The only problem he had was identifying the crisis within himself. Like his beloved rum, his confliction was but a gradual intoxication, a rich, burning venom, like the kiss of Tortuga’s finest ‘pleasurable company.’
---
Billie felt as though he were caught in a noose, hanging in the silence. He had only the brute, cold metal surface of the gun to answer to, at the moment. He didn’t dare to trust himself to speak-danger enveloped him like a thick fog, a wavering constraint further illuminating his solitude adrift at sea. He was so very unfamiliar with what he faced-he was unarmed, defenseless, and almost certainly condemned to die, before he was even born.
His fear so clearly defined, he knew he had no where else to go, nothing else to do but plead for some sort of minute mercy, the chances of which were about the same as a crystalline winter’s survival in the incendiary gambles of hell. Fascination, however remote it was among the trepidation and anxiety, drew him to the obvious captain, a man of a surprisingly small stature, and clouded brown eyes.
Billie couldn’t help his curiosity-he was mesmerized. The pirate flaunted ebony dreadlocks beneath a tri-corner hat, a style reminiscent of Billie’s earlier days in music. His skin, toned by direct sunlight and the bittersweet imprint of days in salt water, glowed, radiating a gentle tan color. Skintight cloth clung to him with all of the determination of a reluctant child, accentuating his lean body in shades of fabric and leather.
He was handsome in a rebellious sort of way-as if he were taunting the standards of society with his obscene beauty. Really, if anything, it wasn’t something Billie expected of one so caught up in a lifestyle of decadence and debauchery.
His breath caught in his throat as the man finally spoke, tense with expectation and…attraction?
“Sort out the rest of the survivors-leave them to the sea, or, if they so choose, take ‘em aboard.” His voice, soft, yet demanding, rang out against the late day, breaking like the morning tide to reach every able ear of every able body.
He continued to bore holes into Billie with the piercing blade of his gaze.
“As for that one,” he nodded in the direction of Billie, “Ana, leave him with me.” The dark woman, who Billie now knew to be Ana, curtly tilted her head up and down, a swift and decisive agreement.
Billie felt his heart drop onto the deck of the ship as he was shoved forward, one more piece shattering with each reluctant step forward.
Author: lostingreen
Rating: PG
Pairing: Billie Joe/Captain Jack Sparrow, so essentially, Billie Joe/Johnny Depp. Eventually. (Weird, yes. I know.)
Disclaimer: I don't own Green Day or anything to do with "Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl." Billie Joe is a real person, Jack Sparrow is not. The only property that I can claim from this is the occasional original character. There won't be a significant amount of them, and for the most part, they won't last long.
Notes: This little project of mine doesn't have slash in it. Yet. There will be, eventually. But for right now, not so much. There's also no het, either. For right now, it's pretty romance/sex-free.
Thanks to all the feedback I've gotten-I really appriciate it. :)
Part One can be found here.
Hours, it seemed, had passed him by, and yet, Billie still hadn’t managed to make it back to his own time. His hangover, however, felt it appropriate to sneak up on him, and when he least expected it, make a grand reentrance into his life with a hellish nausea, the perfect companion to his bitch of a headache that had yet to go away.
Angelica’s serenading attempts at romance weren’t helping, either.
He groaned from the effort of hauling barrels of unknown substances back and forth. He largely suspected that the rest of the crew, save Angelica, took a sadistic pleasure in his pain. But that was no surprise, considering they weren’t destined for prison (or worse) as soon as they reached shore.
“Billie.” Her screeching, irritating falsetto reached his ears, breaking a nerve or two with its mousy pitch. “Run away with me when we get to shore.” He could feel her whisper, like a lukewarm rain, flowing down the back of his neck. He supposed she meant to send shivers along the way. His apathetic skin both reassured him and proved her wrong.
“I can’t.” He wished he could say something more sufficient. But he was never that skilled at talking with girls. Guys, on the other hand, he could have undressed and bent over with a few well-thought, choice words, as his band members knew quite well.
“Why not?” She pouted, twisting her horrid smile into a grisly, tortured puckering of the lips. Both in manner and expression, she reminded Billie of a toddler with a temper like fire-unpredictably incendiary, and unpleasantly destructive.
Billie sighed. He was fed up. His hangover, like an embittered mistress, seemed determined to follow him everywhere-Angelica’s coy grin and pleading eyes were doing nothing to improve his twitchy, nervous wreck of a mood. What he really desired to do was to hit her, as hard as he possibly could, with a brick known simply as ‘reality.’ It was clear to him from the get go that this girl had never learned the definition of the word ‘no.’
The clash of several shouts and screams shattered his poised words like ice before he even got the chance to speak them.
---
Angelica was on the verge of tears when the bizarre noise filled the temporary silence between them. She wondered what had caused such a ruckus all of a sudden. She attempted to sneer at Billie, the stranger who had, in less than a day, both stolen and broken her heart. Perhaps the chaos above was the announcement of pirates, and one particularly handsome was coming to take her away. Yes, that had to be it.
There was always a happy ending, according to her mother’s stories.
She jumped as the door, which she was standing right in front of, burst open with a malicious, creaking sound. She pivoted herself to come face to face with a sneering, dark-skinned woman, who, judging from her appearance, looked to be a pirate. Angelica cast her own face into a sneer-she was hardly impressed. She bet that harlot couldn’t even wield a sword.
Her confidence was silenced swiftly when the woman withdrew a shotgun, holding it and aiming it with obvious experience glowing in the shape and position of her hands. Angelica faltered, still trying to convince herself that she wasn’t scared.
Unfortunately for her, she couldn’t hide behind that lie forever.
“Give me all of your valuables, and no one gets hurt.” Angelica was caught off guard by the authority in the woman’s voice-she sounded as stern and as strong as any veteran naval officer.
“Who the hell do you think you are? Do you even know who I am? Who my father is?” Angelica spat back, a fierce fear rising in her throat like bile. She realized that, perhaps, provoking this woman wasn’t the smartest of ideas, particularly when she held a loaded gun. But then again, she could always be bluffing.
In the back of her mind, in that minute, rusted corner where once common sense resided, Angelica knew she was making a complete and utter fool of herself. She severely doubted, deep down, that she carried an empty gun.
“If you want to live, I suggest you listen to me.” The other woman replied with a voice of steel. Angelica had to fight not to shiver. She was honestly scared for her life, at that moment, but her stubborn pride refused to let her show it.
Out of curiosity, she glanced over to where Billie was still standing. The idiot. Why didn’t he run when he had the chance? She didn’t think to acknowledge the pallor to his skin, the way it gathered to his cheeks like particles of rain. She didn’t think to think of anything but his eyes, those brilliant, viridian gems of a priceless value.
She never aspired to be a criminal, but at that moment, she wanted nothing more than to be able to steal those pretty jewels away from him. He had no heart-it was hardly fair that he’d been graced with such an ethereal beauty.
She was so distracted with the panicking man behind her, she never noticed the exasperated sigh.
Nor did she, in her voluntary blindness, hear the pull of the trigger or the violent blast of a bullet released.
---
Billie was paralyzed with palpable fear. If one reached out, they would be able to stroke the trepidation, coming off him in waves, like the smoke of a forest fire. One wrong move was all it would take. Just one miscalculated notion. He had never been particularly fond of guns to begin with, considering his little mugging mishap some odd years ago. Watching that brat die, as much as she deserved it, triggered in him an instinctive sickness, an invisible disease coursing through his bloodstream like venom.
He kept still, like a graveyard statue, solemn and observant. He had no idea as to what that strange (and very much dangerous) woman had in mind for him.
He watched her she watched him. It was a surreal sort of experience, observing as she sized him up, measuring his worth in bullet holes and diamonds. He wanted to run so very badly-but he knew better than that. To flee would be to signal the shot of his own premature death.
“What’s your name, boy?” She nearly whispered to him. He was uneasy with the angle of her eyes, the calculating, frost washing over him in one tidal wave of judgment. As she spoke, he could feel his throat tense up, anticipating the absolute worst. The pessimist in him was inclined to agree with his stiffened limbs-best not to make a move before he was told.
The silence passed in increments of minutes, as the chaos above them ensued. Billie cringed to think of what a massacre must be taking place on the decks, a bloody destruction taunting him through mere possibility.
He was drawn from his thoughts suddenly by the sensation of cruel metal against his skin. He gulped audibly, fearing what would be coming next.
“Answer me, or I’ll make what happened to your little friend over there look like child’s play.” She growled, impatient.
Her words were more than enough inspiration for Billie to speak.
“Billie Joe.” He replied, his voice subdued with tension and anxiety. He hoped he’d given a satisfactory answer. He’d really rather not be on the receiving end of a bullet…
A few more moments of silence, and then she was in control again.
“Come with me.”
---
Jack blessed Anamaria’s instinct, as precise and distinct as ever. The Divine Grace, or so it was called, was really not a ship to behold. It had been easy, anchoring themselves onto the deck and claiming control over the less-than-impressive vessel. But for its small size, the Divine Grace packed quite a bit of treasure.
He stood regal among his men, looking very much like the king he fancied himself to be with the golden crown hanging loose upon his head. He’d claimed more than enough treasure for himself at that point, and so he faded to the background, watching as his men ravaged what remained of the luxurious boat.
He pondered, for a moment, as to the struggle of the passengers. It had been rather easy, subduing them all. Everyone on board seemed plagued with a misery, a loneliness and exhaustion that came with being out at sea too long. If you were a landlubber, that was. Jack would never understand that feeling.
He was musing over whether or not he should leave the servants behind, all of whom appeared underfed and overworked, when Anamaria burst out from the lower cabins, an anxious look smeared across her face. Jack was curious as to what caused the rush in her step, when he saw that she wasn’t alone.
Shoved before her, she led along an interesting-looking young man, strangely garbed in mostly black. His somewhat lengthy hair, black and glimmering underneath the pressing gaze of the sun, clung to his face with sweat, signs of obvious labor. He was pale looking with some sort of fright; Jack could recognize the symptoms-from the slight quiver of his lean body to the timid look in his, scanning around like a trapped rabbit. Interestingly enough, from his distance, Jack could distinguish the familiar strands of ink patterned in arranged designs-the man was tattooed, much like any member of his crew. Then there was the matter of his outfit. It was highly unusual to find a person outside of a funereal garbed in nearly all black-Jack figured it was because the other man was in perpetual mourning, an eternal grief for something lost that could never come back.
Though Jack couldn’t put his finger on it, he felt that something was off. There was more than met the eye to that stranger, a trait hidden even from the naked eye.
“Captain? What should we do with him?” Anamaria inquired, disrupting his thoughts. Clearly, she sensed that something was off about the man as well.
Jack, to be perfectly honest, didn’t have an answer for her. He was torn between the idea of the mysterious origins of the stranger and whether or not he was as he seemed-youthful, scared, like an intimidated mouse. He kept his gaze on him, taking note of the green of the strangers eyes-they were startling, filled with an extraordinary grace, much like divine intervention. Jack was certain he’d need some sort of prayer to protect himself from them-there was an unburied treasure within the other man, of that, he was sure.
The only problem he had was identifying the crisis within himself. Like his beloved rum, his confliction was but a gradual intoxication, a rich, burning venom, like the kiss of Tortuga’s finest ‘pleasurable company.’
---
Billie felt as though he were caught in a noose, hanging in the silence. He had only the brute, cold metal surface of the gun to answer to, at the moment. He didn’t dare to trust himself to speak-danger enveloped him like a thick fog, a wavering constraint further illuminating his solitude adrift at sea. He was so very unfamiliar with what he faced-he was unarmed, defenseless, and almost certainly condemned to die, before he was even born.
His fear so clearly defined, he knew he had no where else to go, nothing else to do but plead for some sort of minute mercy, the chances of which were about the same as a crystalline winter’s survival in the incendiary gambles of hell. Fascination, however remote it was among the trepidation and anxiety, drew him to the obvious captain, a man of a surprisingly small stature, and clouded brown eyes.
Billie couldn’t help his curiosity-he was mesmerized. The pirate flaunted ebony dreadlocks beneath a tri-corner hat, a style reminiscent of Billie’s earlier days in music. His skin, toned by direct sunlight and the bittersweet imprint of days in salt water, glowed, radiating a gentle tan color. Skintight cloth clung to him with all of the determination of a reluctant child, accentuating his lean body in shades of fabric and leather.
He was handsome in a rebellious sort of way-as if he were taunting the standards of society with his obscene beauty. Really, if anything, it wasn’t something Billie expected of one so caught up in a lifestyle of decadence and debauchery.
His breath caught in his throat as the man finally spoke, tense with expectation and…attraction?
“Sort out the rest of the survivors-leave them to the sea, or, if they so choose, take ‘em aboard.” His voice, soft, yet demanding, rang out against the late day, breaking like the morning tide to reach every able ear of every able body.
He continued to bore holes into Billie with the piercing blade of his gaze.
“As for that one,” he nodded in the direction of Billie, “Ana, leave him with me.” The dark woman, who Billie now knew to be Ana, curtly tilted her head up and down, a swift and decisive agreement.
Billie felt his heart drop onto the deck of the ship as he was shoved forward, one more piece shattering with each reluctant step forward.