A thin line between madness and genius

rabid1st shares my new obsession and has pinpointed what makes Captain Jack so grand: the way he moves, the way he talks, he's drugged and sexy and swishy!

Man, this is totally getting me back into the historical romance novel mood. ::eyes plotless wonder with interested speculation::

Huzzah!

Without further ado, may I present:

The Longest Night
by: Circe

Summary: Seven years in the future, Elizabeth finds the man who haunts her dreams. (For that, read: Another patented Circe makes Elizabeth find herself piece(tm).) Spoilers for the movie Pirates of the Caribbean.



She finds him in Tortuga.

The inn near the docks is disreputable, violent, and smells faintly of coppery blood and sex. She’s directed here by several men, and several women. Ask by the water, and everyone’s heard of Captain Jack Sparrow.

She doesn’t inquire as to their business with him, and they hold their curiousity about hers. After all, to the casual eye, she is one of their own: ragged shawl, filthy skirts, breasts served amid a bed of cheap lace like melons on a platter. Rough, country accents, and broken fingernails.

She’s in Tortuga, and it’s like she could have been born there. But she’s only there for him.

Elizabeth Swann Turner pushes her way through the thronging sailors and the cat-calling whores, all the time searching for the face that has haunted her dreams these past years.

“I’m looking for Captain Jack Sparrow,” she tells the man at the bar.

He eyes her carefully. Her voice is suddenly crisp, authoritative — a voice that does not fit with the appearance she presents.

She doesn’t offer coin, not in a place like this. Seven years has taught her much of the world, and if Elizabeth can yet be said to be rash, she’s never been stupid. Instead, she shows him a generous glimpse of her bosoms, the slightest hint of rouged nipple, a promise in her eyes.

Show her the way to Captain Jack Sparrow, and perhaps, if he’s lucky, she’ll show this man a good time.

“Upstairs,” he grunts, and she smiles at him, careful not to display her perfect teeth in this imperfect world.

Her petticoats rustle around her legs as she climbs the rickety stairs. The raucous laughter of the taproom is gradually replaced by moaning and gasping and the whispering of threadbare sheets against bare skin.

She pauses in the corridor, confounded by the closed doors, the rising noise, the sin redolent in the air.

And then—

He’s there in front of her, coming out of one of the rooms, swaying slightly in that way she remembers so well, talking quietly to himself. His hands loop in strange, intricate patterns, and—

He hasn’t seen her yet.

For a moment, a mad instant, she thinks of turning back. Heading down the stairs, and out into the night. Finding berth on another ship and sailing for home. To Port Royale. To her father.

But she’ll never know where that path may have led her, because he’s seeing her now, and kohl eyes widen in recognition, even as arms extend in grandiose welcome.

“Well, now, if it isn’t the lovely Miss Elizabeth.”

There is no surprise, no hesitation despite the change in her circumstances, despite her sudden appearance in his life. And somehow, she herself is not surprised that this is so.

After all, he’s Jack.

It’s then that she becomes agonizingly aware of the crudeness of her dress, the travails of her journey ingrained in dirt and salt across her flesh, and the fact that Jack is wearing only britches with all that lovely beaded black hair.

She doesn’t correct him, though it’s been seven years since she’s been the Governor’s daughter. She merely looks down at her folded hands and wonders what to say.

Long nights before the decision was made — long nights in the planning — long nights in the execution.

And here she is in Tortuga, finally nearing the end of the long night that is her banal existence, and she is speechless in the face of plans fulfilled.

Thin moonlight streams through the casement at the end of the corridor. All around them are the sounds of passion. Jack moves closer until she can smell the spiced rum on his breath and the sweet tang of his sweat.

She catches a flash of his dark, dark eyes. She cannot read them. His head dips towards hers, skating past so he can drop a single word in her ear.

“Dead?”

“Indeed.” She stares straight ahead; voice steady, hands trembling. “Bandits. Two years ago. On the road. Another coach … an attack. He was … helping.” On the road. Not a pirate after all.

There’s a silence between them. She can feel his breath ghosting warm against her cheek. She turns. Inches separate.

“And you’ve come to Captain Jack.” He tilts his head and regards her with a faint smile.

“Yes.”

There’s a sudden noise, and someone bursts out of the room beside them. Quick as anything, Jack has her in his arms, and he’s spinning her hard against the wall.

Bawdy laughter, the creaking of the stairs, and the corridor is once again empty.

She’s trapped in a prison of his arms, hard chest blocking her way. Breathlessly she looks up into his face. “I’ve been looking for you, Jack,” she tells him.

Again, the faintest of smiles; the unreadable eyes.

“And you’ve found him. Captain Jack Sparrow of the Black Pearl. At your service.”

“Are you?”

There’s an eloquent pause. “Am I what?” Puzzlement.

Ah, this is the man she remembers. “At my service.” She can feel the confidence; it’s there, underneath all this grief, and pain, and confusion.

His teeth flash white and gold. He leans in until their noses are touching and the silver rings on his knuckles brush a line across her cheekbones.

“Dunno, luvey. Depends on what you want with old Captain Jack.”

She draws a shaking breath, and a bubble of hilarity within her grows. “Will you take me on your ship?”

“An’ why would I do that?” One hand comes up between them, and she slaps it away, mildly.

Because it’s all I’ve dreamt of since my husband died. Because I’ve lost his love, and I’ll lose myself if I go on the way I’ve been going. Because of a moonlit night, seven years ago, on a white-sand beach. Because I miss it, all of it.

“For old times’ sake.”

He cocks his head. “In my bed?” His lips hover above hers.

“Dunno, luvey.” She imitates his lazy, rolling drawl, and twists away under his elbow, to stand beside him. “Don’t recall that being part of the old times.”

He laughs. “Right, then. But you’ll listen to me, savvy? Part of my crew.” He wrinkles his nose, taking in her dishevelled appearance, blithely unaware of his own dishabille. “An' you’ll find some better gear, heh?”

She’s come to Tortuga looking for Captain Jack Sparrow. And she’s found him.

When dawn breaks, arm in arm they walk, back down to the docks, toward the sea.