POTC: Sunrising
Title: “Sunrising”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: G
Summary: Jack can be a hopeless romantic when it comes to ships. The fall of the Wench, the rise of the Pearl. [Jack Sparrow, Bill Turner; pre-CotBP]
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean belong to Disney.
A/N: This can be read as a follow-up to Win-Win or as a stand-alone. It’s basically just a piece of warm, sweet nothing. XD
SUNRISING
“That her? She doesn’t look like much.”
“Does anything? Anyhow, the fact of the matter is that’s not her, dear William. That’s some colonial lumber I wouldn’t bother with if me life depended on it. Now that over there is her.”
“Always knew yer daft, Jack, but this goes beyond all edges of reason.”
“Why, thank you!”
Bill stares up along the charred side of the ship, the expression on his face far from enthusiastic. He has always been too sober-minded for his own good, but that is precisely why Jack needs him now. Despite his gleeful certainty, he needs an expert opinion on how bad things really are, and if there is an expert on bad within reach, it would be Bill.
“I hate to break it to yeh,” Bill utters in a voice that suggests he is anything but, “this old tub ain’t going to buoy up. Ever. Deal with it, Jack. The Wicked Wench is done with.”
She looks like a skeleton, for Christ’s sake! She may have been as pretty as Jack has described, but what Bill sees before him is a blackened carcass that stands no chance against a wee bit of weather. The foremast looks like it may collapse any minute. Scraps of dirty ragged sails billow ominously in the wind. She inspires terror that makes any man in his right mind think to the bottom of the ocean, a place one would hardly wish to acquaint himself with voluntarily; and suddenly Bill can see where Jack is going with this. Not too bad a quality for a pirate ship. Then again, in her current condition the Wicked Wench is pitiful rather than terrifying.
Jack slings his arm around Bill’s shoulders and winks at him slyly.
“But isn’t it maddeningly flattering that I’ve come to you with this? You can hold me accountable on first occasion.”
Bill rolls his eyes. If there is anything a man should avoid, it is playing games on Jack Sparrow’s terms.
“I don’t suppose you recall, but I happen to have a son back home. And I do plan to see him one day.”
“I’m sure you’d also love to bring your whelp some presents.”
Tempting indeed. But not so tempting if he goes down with this tub.
“She’s stronger than she looks, Bootstrap,” Jack says in a suddenly earnest voice. “Not unlike a certain gentleman of fortune who used to be a bored, downtrodden merchant when I met him.”
At that, William Turner gives up and lets himself be swayed. No use going against the tide when the tide is Jack.
And perhaps Jack has a point. A piece of driftwood would do if Jack wanted it to do.
Bill surveys the Wench critically. Dull golden spots shoot through the scorch-marks like forest glades; Bootstrap finds himself calculating whether it would be easier to scrape off the hardened soot layer or to paint straight over it. He chuckles. Jack has a way of getting under people’s skin. Here he is already deep in thought about this blasted wreck of a ship.
Jack insists they paint the hull black after all the necessary repairs are done. Bootstrap drags some of his oldtime debtors (it is amazing how much you can ask of some people for a bottle of rum) down to the cove to help with the carpentry. After a while, he feels rather involved in the restoration process as well, and not even Jack’s overt enthusiasm, clearly a harbinger of ill tidings, can dampen his spirits.
“That whelp of yours then,” Jack prods while they hammer the day away, “whatsis name again?”
“William.”
Jack snorts. Bill almost expects to hear a disparaging comment on his deplorable lack of imagination, but Jack remains oddly civil. Not for the first time Bootstrap begins to wonder what this service has done to him. The Jack he knew was never keen on keeping his mouth shut for too long; perhaps a tad more sea breeze would stamp this alienation out of him. Be that as it may, right now Bill appreciates his non-interference.
“When will you be flying back to your lovely damsel then?”
“With all due respect, Jack,” Bill says dryly, “yer not interested. Why ask?”
“I like to be prepared when my mates choose to hang a millstone about their necks.”
Bill fails to hold back a smile. Jack squints at him, his eyes dark, unreadable, and magnetic.
“But then there is the call of the ocean to consider. So tell me, Master Turner: when we depredate, pilfer and plunder, and otherwise dishonour ourselves to our hearts’ desire, what is it that you’re going to do? Should I expect dear William Junior to join my crew as a cabin boy in a few years?”
Bill’s face darkens. That is not the fate he would wish for his son. He rarely regrets his decision to engage in piracy. There is not other path for him; otherwise his blood begins to boil. But his son should not be held responsible for the sins of the father.
Bill’s gaze drifts towards the ugly, disfiguring “P” brand on Jack’s forearm. He has not got one yet because he has never been apprehended; the day he receives his mark he will know there will never be a return journey for him.
* * *
“What will you say now?”
“You never told me how you raised her from the ocean floor in the first place. The truth, Jack.”
“I struck a bargain with Davy Jones.”
Bill rolls his eyes. The Wench is rocking gently on the waves, splendid black canvas flowing from the masts. Jack scrutinizes her with the look of a man whose bride has been brought back from the dead. He finds it entertaining to tell the truth because nobody believes it anyway.
“To the Wicked Wench then,” toasts Bill, holding up a bottle of rum.
“To the Black Pearl, mate,” Jack corrects him.
They knock their bottles against each other and have a drink. The rum is fiery and sticky; it spreads importunate warmth through William’s body and evokes visions of farther shores and foreign sunrises, the colour of the waves so far up North that ice floes drift all around the hull, columns of smoke over the mountain tops, and treasures, treasures aplenty.
“Damn you to hell, Mister Sparrow,” he grins. “I’m in for whatever ye have in mind!”
Jack gives him that mesmerizing half-smile of his, eyes squinted merrily. The Black Pearl, Bill repeats to himself. Quite an alluring name. Jack can be a hopeless romantic when it comes to ships. It has an interesting ring to it. The Wicked Wench was just that, a wench, a flirt, the start of the road; the Black Pearl is a lady, a bride, a touch of destiny. For all he knows, Jack could really have struck a deal with the sea devil for her. With Jack, you can never be too sure.
Jack finishes up half of the bottle, then throws up his hand and smashes the bottle against the board. Streaks of amber liquor run down the fresh layer of black paint. At this very moment, they know for certain what the Black Pearl means for both of them: never having to sail under false colours again.
“On the wheel then, Mister Turner!” exclaims Jack. “New horizon is waiting.”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: G
Summary: Jack can be a hopeless romantic when it comes to ships. The fall of the Wench, the rise of the Pearl. [Jack Sparrow, Bill Turner; pre-CotBP]
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean belong to Disney.
A/N: This can be read as a follow-up to Win-Win or as a stand-alone. It’s basically just a piece of warm, sweet nothing. XD
SUNRISING
“That her? She doesn’t look like much.”
“Does anything? Anyhow, the fact of the matter is that’s not her, dear William. That’s some colonial lumber I wouldn’t bother with if me life depended on it. Now that over there is her.”
“Always knew yer daft, Jack, but this goes beyond all edges of reason.”
“Why, thank you!”
Bill stares up along the charred side of the ship, the expression on his face far from enthusiastic. He has always been too sober-minded for his own good, but that is precisely why Jack needs him now. Despite his gleeful certainty, he needs an expert opinion on how bad things really are, and if there is an expert on bad within reach, it would be Bill.
“I hate to break it to yeh,” Bill utters in a voice that suggests he is anything but, “this old tub ain’t going to buoy up. Ever. Deal with it, Jack. The Wicked Wench is done with.”
She looks like a skeleton, for Christ’s sake! She may have been as pretty as Jack has described, but what Bill sees before him is a blackened carcass that stands no chance against a wee bit of weather. The foremast looks like it may collapse any minute. Scraps of dirty ragged sails billow ominously in the wind. She inspires terror that makes any man in his right mind think to the bottom of the ocean, a place one would hardly wish to acquaint himself with voluntarily; and suddenly Bill can see where Jack is going with this. Not too bad a quality for a pirate ship. Then again, in her current condition the Wicked Wench is pitiful rather than terrifying.
Jack slings his arm around Bill’s shoulders and winks at him slyly.
“But isn’t it maddeningly flattering that I’ve come to you with this? You can hold me accountable on first occasion.”
Bill rolls his eyes. If there is anything a man should avoid, it is playing games on Jack Sparrow’s terms.
“I don’t suppose you recall, but I happen to have a son back home. And I do plan to see him one day.”
“I’m sure you’d also love to bring your whelp some presents.”
Tempting indeed. But not so tempting if he goes down with this tub.
“She’s stronger than she looks, Bootstrap,” Jack says in a suddenly earnest voice. “Not unlike a certain gentleman of fortune who used to be a bored, downtrodden merchant when I met him.”
At that, William Turner gives up and lets himself be swayed. No use going against the tide when the tide is Jack.
And perhaps Jack has a point. A piece of driftwood would do if Jack wanted it to do.
Bill surveys the Wench critically. Dull golden spots shoot through the scorch-marks like forest glades; Bootstrap finds himself calculating whether it would be easier to scrape off the hardened soot layer or to paint straight over it. He chuckles. Jack has a way of getting under people’s skin. Here he is already deep in thought about this blasted wreck of a ship.
Jack insists they paint the hull black after all the necessary repairs are done. Bootstrap drags some of his oldtime debtors (it is amazing how much you can ask of some people for a bottle of rum) down to the cove to help with the carpentry. After a while, he feels rather involved in the restoration process as well, and not even Jack’s overt enthusiasm, clearly a harbinger of ill tidings, can dampen his spirits.
“That whelp of yours then,” Jack prods while they hammer the day away, “whatsis name again?”
“William.”
Jack snorts. Bill almost expects to hear a disparaging comment on his deplorable lack of imagination, but Jack remains oddly civil. Not for the first time Bootstrap begins to wonder what this service has done to him. The Jack he knew was never keen on keeping his mouth shut for too long; perhaps a tad more sea breeze would stamp this alienation out of him. Be that as it may, right now Bill appreciates his non-interference.
“When will you be flying back to your lovely damsel then?”
“With all due respect, Jack,” Bill says dryly, “yer not interested. Why ask?”
“I like to be prepared when my mates choose to hang a millstone about their necks.”
Bill fails to hold back a smile. Jack squints at him, his eyes dark, unreadable, and magnetic.
“But then there is the call of the ocean to consider. So tell me, Master Turner: when we depredate, pilfer and plunder, and otherwise dishonour ourselves to our hearts’ desire, what is it that you’re going to do? Should I expect dear William Junior to join my crew as a cabin boy in a few years?”
Bill’s face darkens. That is not the fate he would wish for his son. He rarely regrets his decision to engage in piracy. There is not other path for him; otherwise his blood begins to boil. But his son should not be held responsible for the sins of the father.
Bill’s gaze drifts towards the ugly, disfiguring “P” brand on Jack’s forearm. He has not got one yet because he has never been apprehended; the day he receives his mark he will know there will never be a return journey for him.
* * *
“What will you say now?”
“You never told me how you raised her from the ocean floor in the first place. The truth, Jack.”
“I struck a bargain with Davy Jones.”
Bill rolls his eyes. The Wench is rocking gently on the waves, splendid black canvas flowing from the masts. Jack scrutinizes her with the look of a man whose bride has been brought back from the dead. He finds it entertaining to tell the truth because nobody believes it anyway.
“To the Wicked Wench then,” toasts Bill, holding up a bottle of rum.
“To the Black Pearl, mate,” Jack corrects him.
They knock their bottles against each other and have a drink. The rum is fiery and sticky; it spreads importunate warmth through William’s body and evokes visions of farther shores and foreign sunrises, the colour of the waves so far up North that ice floes drift all around the hull, columns of smoke over the mountain tops, and treasures, treasures aplenty.
“Damn you to hell, Mister Sparrow,” he grins. “I’m in for whatever ye have in mind!”
Jack gives him that mesmerizing half-smile of his, eyes squinted merrily. The Black Pearl, Bill repeats to himself. Quite an alluring name. Jack can be a hopeless romantic when it comes to ships. It has an interesting ring to it. The Wicked Wench was just that, a wench, a flirt, the start of the road; the Black Pearl is a lady, a bride, a touch of destiny. For all he knows, Jack could really have struck a deal with the sea devil for her. With Jack, you can never be too sure.
Jack finishes up half of the bottle, then throws up his hand and smashes the bottle against the board. Streaks of amber liquor run down the fresh layer of black paint. At this very moment, they know for certain what the Black Pearl means for both of them: never having to sail under false colours again.
“On the wheel then, Mister Turner!” exclaims Jack. “New horizon is waiting.”