Entry tags:
PotC fic: Keepsakes (Jack/OFCs, PG-13, 3/5)
Title: Keepsakes
Author:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
shyaway
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jack/various OFCs
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean and its characters belong to Disney.
Summary: Five women reflect on what Jack Sparrow left behind, with laughter and regret, with gratitude and dislike...
Louise had much to thank him for. Every time she remembered how much he had improved her life, she thanked the Lord and blessed the day that she had met – him. She wished that she had asked his name.
The encounter had in fact taken place in the evening. She had been serving drinks in a tavern. That was not her preferred source of income, especially when one considered the less than stellar reputation of that particular drinking establishment; she had gone to the town with hopes of finding work as a seamstress, which indeed she had, but not enough. The sewing work that she could get did not earn her enough to live on, so at length she reluctantly took employment in a tavern. It was owned by a man about whom the kindest thing she could say was that he was not quite the laziest sluggard in Saint Malo.
She had very quickly realised that there was much more to be earned from the tavern's patrons that tips for serving drinks. The typically-inebriated clientele were easily pleased by any passably pretty face. It wasn't long before one of them propositioned her. Louise refused his advances. The man offered her money. Remembering that she had barely enough to pay that month's rent, Louise's principles had been shaken, but mindful of her chastity and her immortal soul, she again declined. The man went away.
The next month she found she could not pay her rent. Panic-stricken by the thought of homelessness, she gave way to the next drunk to offer payment in exchange for getting his hands up her skirt. That didn't yield enough for the rent. Doing it again did.
So it went on. Sewing work was hard to come by and she could not always make ends meet with her barmaid wages. When that happened she always had recourse to the lust and purses of the tavern customers. Just to enable her to pay for her next meal.
Whore was a word that she preferred not to say to herself.
---
As it happened, she was in reasonably good funds when she met him. If she had been looking for a benefactor, the arrival of the flamboyantly-dressed stranger would have attracted her interest straightaway. A man attired so extravagantly would likely be free with his money. This impression of him grew stronger when, approaching the bar, he illustrated his request for beer by fluttering his fingers as if he were bestowing largesse.
Louise filled a tankard and set it down before him. He produced a coin from somewhere about his person with a magician's flourish, his expression remaining serious, even sad. It was not unusual for there to be depressed patrons. Every night men came in to drown sorrows of one kind or another, and they frequently ended up relating their troubles in excruciating detail to Louise, or indeed anyone else who would listen. Her usual prurient curiosity was soon sated. She had no particular desire to learn what ailed this one.
To her surprise, he didn't want to talk. He sat at the bar and sipped at his drink grave-faced. The tavern was quiet that evening, so Louise occupied herself by ferreting out a broom and sweeping the floor. That quickly grew boring. She ceased her activity and put the broom back. The innkeeper wouldn't notice whether or not the floor was clean, anyway.
No one seemed to require refills. The few customers were nursing their drinks in keeping with the general air of sullen despondency that the stranger's arrival had only exacerbated. Louise drummed her fingers on the well-worn counter. The stranger glanced at her. Their eyes met briefly and she noticed how deeply-tanned he was. A sailor, she decided, judging by his rolling stride, who had spent much time in tropical climes.
Seamen often had interesting stories to tell, and even yet another claim to have seen a mermaid would be better than this interminable silence. "What brings you to Saint Malo?" she asked. "Business or pleasure?"
He made a wry half-smile into his tankard. "Not exactly the former and certainly not the latter." His speech revealed an English accent. "As a matter of fact your fine town is not my destination. I'm just passing through."
"My loss," she said reflexively, having learned that a little trite charm could be a useful thing. "Well, where are you going and what takes you there? Are you going north across the Channel or west into the Atlantic?"
"I'm about to brave the bone-chilling stretch of water that is the Channel."
"So you're going home."
"You could put it like that."
How cryptic, Louise thought. The man's roundabout answers were much more engaging than the leaden silence that she had had to endure so far that evening, so she pressed on. "I'll wager you're coming back from somewhere hot and faraway."
"Aye, and I'm going somewhere cold and rainy."
"England?" she prodded.
"Mmm."
"I see." She pondered. Sailors were usually glad to go home after a long absence, but this man looked anything but cheerful. Slouching over the counter, mug in hand, there was a tautness about him that suggested he was subject to an unaccustomed strain. The dark circles around his eyes bore testament to the lack of sleep – or was that smudged kohl? It was hard to tell in the flickering candlelight. Whichever it was, he did look bone-weary.
Perhaps he was going home to his wife. He might have stayed away so long that he expected her to be angry instead of pleased to see him. "Are you going to see a woman?"
"That's it," he said, his words more slurred than one beer could account for. "I'm goin' to fin' a lady called Mrs Bootstrap."
What peculiar names the English had. "I expect she's waiting for you."
The change in his expression was almost imperceptible, but she saw a cloud settle on his face. "Not for me."
Louise decided that she didn't want to hear any particulars. She had a feeling that there would be no joy in the tale of this Bootstrap woman. The man's gloom was contagious enough as it was. She had started out the night by being bored; she didn't want to end it with a bout of melancholia. She racked her brains for a happier topic. Shameless flattery should work.
"I bet you're the captain of a huge ship, with lots of brave men under your command."
His smile was sardonic. "You'd think that, wouldn't you."
Louise sensed she'd blundered. His ironic expression twisted into a grimace and he took another swallow of beer, then set the empty tankard down regretfully. "Let me get you another," Louise offered, trying to make amends for having made a faux pas that she didn't understand. "On the house," she added. There were advantages to having such a neglectful employer. One was that she could give drinks away with impunity, and he would never notice. The man accepted and drank it more quickly than he had the first. He still looked as though he'd lost his last friend in the world.
Instinctively, Louise reached out and squeezed his hand. It was hot to the touch, and calloused and scarred like a peasant's, yet somehow as elegant as an aristocrat's. She spent a moment tracing the veins and bones with her own work-roughened thumb. What he really needed was human contact, so to speak, and she had a feeling that providing it could be quite pleasant - especially if her initial impression that he would be generous with his money was correct. True, she normally did it only when money was more than usually tight, but there was no harm in earning a little extra at other times as well, was there? She caught the eye of the beefy lad employed with the hope of keeping brawls to a minimum, something their boss would hardly be bothered to do himself, and gave him a conspiratorial wink. He responded by grinning salaciously, nodded, and moved over to take charge of the bar. Louise turned her attention back to the dark-eyed stranger, whose hand she still held. She stroked his palm.
"You need someone to take your mind off your troubles," she said. There was a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he recognised the line for the solicitation it was. Probably it was one that he had heard many times in the past. No matter. He accepted the invitation.
---
Louise was constantly astonished by what men would pay for. Squashed between him and the wall in the dingy alley, listening to his breathing slowing, she was just thankful that he hadn't hurt her.
He planted a final kiss on her neck. "Thank you," he said.
She nodded. She was still never sure what to say to them afterwards. There was one thing that always had to be said, though; she requested her fee.
He started feeling through his pockets with an expression of much deeper concentration than seemed to be required. As one pocket after another left him empty-handed, Louise felt her stomach begin to knot.
"Aha." He pulled out some gold – but it was jewellery, not coin. "Oh." He did some more delving. Annoyed, she stepped closer, ready to search him herself, and gasped as he pulled out a second piece of jewellery. There was just enough light from the tavern kitchen window for her to make the items out. They were both necklaces. The first was a light, gold chain with a small pendant; the second was a rope of large red jewels – rubies, she supposed, never having seen any before. It was old-fashioned but undoubtedly worth a fortune.
He passed the smaller one to her, but hesitated just before placing it in her hand. The pendant glittered in the faint light. Louise caught sight of the pearls set into the gold.
He withdrew his arm and looked between the two necklaces, then met her eyes. "Which one do you want?"
Louise could not believe her ears. Had this man really just offered her her pick of them? Why was he finding the decision so difficult? Obviously it was in his best interests to give her the less valuable pearls, and keep the rubies … the sale of which, were it hers to sell, would secure her for life. Of course she wanted the rubies. And yet, she didn't dare say it. She had heard of men who found it amusing to raise a whore's hopes and then dash them cruelly, and though this man didn't strike her as such a type, she was quite certain that no one prepared to give away such riches could be entirely sane. Best to avoid aggravating him.
"You choose," she said, mouth dry.
He spread his hands and looked between them again. He made another move to give her the pearls, paused, sighed, and handed her the rubies. "May you have joy of them, mademoiselle," he muttered.
---
She did. She took the necklace and ran before he could change his mind. That night was spent trying her new riches on before the mirror, pretending that she was the fine lady that they must have belonged to. She briefly entertained the fantasy that they had been made for a lady who had died of smallpox on the eve of her wedding to a rich, kind man – no, not smallpox, there was no room for disfiguring facial scars in this castle in the air. Consumption would suit better. The gentleman had been heartbroken and would remain so until one day when he would see Louise wearing the necklace and fall in love with her on the spot because she reminded him of his lost love, and marry her, and they would live happily ever after.
That of course was absurd. She would be much better off selling the necklace to someone who could break it up and quietly distribute the jewels for a profit, and as soon as the sun was up she did just that. She would indeed have joy of the proceeds.
---
Jack woke up on the Liberty with the vague feeling that something was missing. That feeling had become very familiar since the Black Pearl had been taken away from him by Barbossa, damn him to the depths of hell, and had only intensified when he had learned that William had been damned to the depths of the oceans. He had been told by a trollop who'd sworn she'd had it from one of Barbossa's men that Bootstrap had been good as murdered simply because he had protested the mutineers' treatment of their former captain.
Poor William. Jack had known that that fundamental good nature would get him into trouble one day.
With an effort, he turned his mind away from that line of thought. There was still something missing. He counted his fingers, checked other body parts, noting as he did so that all his scars and tattoos were still present, ran his tongue around his teeth, and made sure that his hair ornaments were still affixed to his head. Everything was in its proper place.
It was chilly. They must be drawing near the Isle of Wight by now. He reached for his coat. Handling it stirred a memory, one that caused his heart to sink. He dipped his hands into each pocket in turn.
It was gone. That priceless string of rubies that he had filched from an arrogant Portuguese aristocrat in the Azores was GONE.
Had the whore robbed him? No. He couldn't deny what his mind was telling him, that he had done the ridiculous, unpiratical thing of giving it to her. He had a good mind to go and get it back. Unfortunately he couldn't remember the name of the tavern, and besides, by this time she had probably sold the necklace. That was what he would have done in her place. Jack pushed away the thought that in any case it was not his ship to order back to Saint Malo.
At least he still had the pendant, the one set with the pearls. He had felt a superstitious dread at the thought of giving away a pearl; even though it was not the Pearl and was not even black, it had seemed that such an act would symbolise the loss of hope. The search had not even begun. He bloody well wouldn't give up before he had even tried to find her and exact his revenge on Barbossa.
First he had to go to England to find Sarah Turner and tell her why her husband had died.
Author:
shyawayRating: PG-13
Pairing: Jack/various OFCs
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean and its characters belong to Disney.
Summary: Five women reflect on what Jack Sparrow left behind, with laughter and regret, with gratitude and dislike...
Louise had much to thank him for. Every time she remembered how much he had improved her life, she thanked the Lord and blessed the day that she had met – him. She wished that she had asked his name.
The encounter had in fact taken place in the evening. She had been serving drinks in a tavern. That was not her preferred source of income, especially when one considered the less than stellar reputation of that particular drinking establishment; she had gone to the town with hopes of finding work as a seamstress, which indeed she had, but not enough. The sewing work that she could get did not earn her enough to live on, so at length she reluctantly took employment in a tavern. It was owned by a man about whom the kindest thing she could say was that he was not quite the laziest sluggard in Saint Malo.
She had very quickly realised that there was much more to be earned from the tavern's patrons that tips for serving drinks. The typically-inebriated clientele were easily pleased by any passably pretty face. It wasn't long before one of them propositioned her. Louise refused his advances. The man offered her money. Remembering that she had barely enough to pay that month's rent, Louise's principles had been shaken, but mindful of her chastity and her immortal soul, she again declined. The man went away.
The next month she found she could not pay her rent. Panic-stricken by the thought of homelessness, she gave way to the next drunk to offer payment in exchange for getting his hands up her skirt. That didn't yield enough for the rent. Doing it again did.
So it went on. Sewing work was hard to come by and she could not always make ends meet with her barmaid wages. When that happened she always had recourse to the lust and purses of the tavern customers. Just to enable her to pay for her next meal.
Whore was a word that she preferred not to say to herself.
---
As it happened, she was in reasonably good funds when she met him. If she had been looking for a benefactor, the arrival of the flamboyantly-dressed stranger would have attracted her interest straightaway. A man attired so extravagantly would likely be free with his money. This impression of him grew stronger when, approaching the bar, he illustrated his request for beer by fluttering his fingers as if he were bestowing largesse.
Louise filled a tankard and set it down before him. He produced a coin from somewhere about his person with a magician's flourish, his expression remaining serious, even sad. It was not unusual for there to be depressed patrons. Every night men came in to drown sorrows of one kind or another, and they frequently ended up relating their troubles in excruciating detail to Louise, or indeed anyone else who would listen. Her usual prurient curiosity was soon sated. She had no particular desire to learn what ailed this one.
To her surprise, he didn't want to talk. He sat at the bar and sipped at his drink grave-faced. The tavern was quiet that evening, so Louise occupied herself by ferreting out a broom and sweeping the floor. That quickly grew boring. She ceased her activity and put the broom back. The innkeeper wouldn't notice whether or not the floor was clean, anyway.
No one seemed to require refills. The few customers were nursing their drinks in keeping with the general air of sullen despondency that the stranger's arrival had only exacerbated. Louise drummed her fingers on the well-worn counter. The stranger glanced at her. Their eyes met briefly and she noticed how deeply-tanned he was. A sailor, she decided, judging by his rolling stride, who had spent much time in tropical climes.
Seamen often had interesting stories to tell, and even yet another claim to have seen a mermaid would be better than this interminable silence. "What brings you to Saint Malo?" she asked. "Business or pleasure?"
He made a wry half-smile into his tankard. "Not exactly the former and certainly not the latter." His speech revealed an English accent. "As a matter of fact your fine town is not my destination. I'm just passing through."
"My loss," she said reflexively, having learned that a little trite charm could be a useful thing. "Well, where are you going and what takes you there? Are you going north across the Channel or west into the Atlantic?"
"I'm about to brave the bone-chilling stretch of water that is the Channel."
"So you're going home."
"You could put it like that."
How cryptic, Louise thought. The man's roundabout answers were much more engaging than the leaden silence that she had had to endure so far that evening, so she pressed on. "I'll wager you're coming back from somewhere hot and faraway."
"Aye, and I'm going somewhere cold and rainy."
"England?" she prodded.
"Mmm."
"I see." She pondered. Sailors were usually glad to go home after a long absence, but this man looked anything but cheerful. Slouching over the counter, mug in hand, there was a tautness about him that suggested he was subject to an unaccustomed strain. The dark circles around his eyes bore testament to the lack of sleep – or was that smudged kohl? It was hard to tell in the flickering candlelight. Whichever it was, he did look bone-weary.
Perhaps he was going home to his wife. He might have stayed away so long that he expected her to be angry instead of pleased to see him. "Are you going to see a woman?"
"That's it," he said, his words more slurred than one beer could account for. "I'm goin' to fin' a lady called Mrs Bootstrap."
What peculiar names the English had. "I expect she's waiting for you."
The change in his expression was almost imperceptible, but she saw a cloud settle on his face. "Not for me."
Louise decided that she didn't want to hear any particulars. She had a feeling that there would be no joy in the tale of this Bootstrap woman. The man's gloom was contagious enough as it was. She had started out the night by being bored; she didn't want to end it with a bout of melancholia. She racked her brains for a happier topic. Shameless flattery should work.
"I bet you're the captain of a huge ship, with lots of brave men under your command."
His smile was sardonic. "You'd think that, wouldn't you."
Louise sensed she'd blundered. His ironic expression twisted into a grimace and he took another swallow of beer, then set the empty tankard down regretfully. "Let me get you another," Louise offered, trying to make amends for having made a faux pas that she didn't understand. "On the house," she added. There were advantages to having such a neglectful employer. One was that she could give drinks away with impunity, and he would never notice. The man accepted and drank it more quickly than he had the first. He still looked as though he'd lost his last friend in the world.
Instinctively, Louise reached out and squeezed his hand. It was hot to the touch, and calloused and scarred like a peasant's, yet somehow as elegant as an aristocrat's. She spent a moment tracing the veins and bones with her own work-roughened thumb. What he really needed was human contact, so to speak, and she had a feeling that providing it could be quite pleasant - especially if her initial impression that he would be generous with his money was correct. True, she normally did it only when money was more than usually tight, but there was no harm in earning a little extra at other times as well, was there? She caught the eye of the beefy lad employed with the hope of keeping brawls to a minimum, something their boss would hardly be bothered to do himself, and gave him a conspiratorial wink. He responded by grinning salaciously, nodded, and moved over to take charge of the bar. Louise turned her attention back to the dark-eyed stranger, whose hand she still held. She stroked his palm.
"You need someone to take your mind off your troubles," she said. There was a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he recognised the line for the solicitation it was. Probably it was one that he had heard many times in the past. No matter. He accepted the invitation.
---
Louise was constantly astonished by what men would pay for. Squashed between him and the wall in the dingy alley, listening to his breathing slowing, she was just thankful that he hadn't hurt her.
He planted a final kiss on her neck. "Thank you," he said.
She nodded. She was still never sure what to say to them afterwards. There was one thing that always had to be said, though; she requested her fee.
He started feeling through his pockets with an expression of much deeper concentration than seemed to be required. As one pocket after another left him empty-handed, Louise felt her stomach begin to knot.
"Aha." He pulled out some gold – but it was jewellery, not coin. "Oh." He did some more delving. Annoyed, she stepped closer, ready to search him herself, and gasped as he pulled out a second piece of jewellery. There was just enough light from the tavern kitchen window for her to make the items out. They were both necklaces. The first was a light, gold chain with a small pendant; the second was a rope of large red jewels – rubies, she supposed, never having seen any before. It was old-fashioned but undoubtedly worth a fortune.
He passed the smaller one to her, but hesitated just before placing it in her hand. The pendant glittered in the faint light. Louise caught sight of the pearls set into the gold.
He withdrew his arm and looked between the two necklaces, then met her eyes. "Which one do you want?"
Louise could not believe her ears. Had this man really just offered her her pick of them? Why was he finding the decision so difficult? Obviously it was in his best interests to give her the less valuable pearls, and keep the rubies … the sale of which, were it hers to sell, would secure her for life. Of course she wanted the rubies. And yet, she didn't dare say it. She had heard of men who found it amusing to raise a whore's hopes and then dash them cruelly, and though this man didn't strike her as such a type, she was quite certain that no one prepared to give away such riches could be entirely sane. Best to avoid aggravating him.
"You choose," she said, mouth dry.
He spread his hands and looked between them again. He made another move to give her the pearls, paused, sighed, and handed her the rubies. "May you have joy of them, mademoiselle," he muttered.
---
She did. She took the necklace and ran before he could change his mind. That night was spent trying her new riches on before the mirror, pretending that she was the fine lady that they must have belonged to. She briefly entertained the fantasy that they had been made for a lady who had died of smallpox on the eve of her wedding to a rich, kind man – no, not smallpox, there was no room for disfiguring facial scars in this castle in the air. Consumption would suit better. The gentleman had been heartbroken and would remain so until one day when he would see Louise wearing the necklace and fall in love with her on the spot because she reminded him of his lost love, and marry her, and they would live happily ever after.
That of course was absurd. She would be much better off selling the necklace to someone who could break it up and quietly distribute the jewels for a profit, and as soon as the sun was up she did just that. She would indeed have joy of the proceeds.
---
Jack woke up on the Liberty with the vague feeling that something was missing. That feeling had become very familiar since the Black Pearl had been taken away from him by Barbossa, damn him to the depths of hell, and had only intensified when he had learned that William had been damned to the depths of the oceans. He had been told by a trollop who'd sworn she'd had it from one of Barbossa's men that Bootstrap had been good as murdered simply because he had protested the mutineers' treatment of their former captain.
Poor William. Jack had known that that fundamental good nature would get him into trouble one day.
With an effort, he turned his mind away from that line of thought. There was still something missing. He counted his fingers, checked other body parts, noting as he did so that all his scars and tattoos were still present, ran his tongue around his teeth, and made sure that his hair ornaments were still affixed to his head. Everything was in its proper place.
It was chilly. They must be drawing near the Isle of Wight by now. He reached for his coat. Handling it stirred a memory, one that caused his heart to sink. He dipped his hands into each pocket in turn.
It was gone. That priceless string of rubies that he had filched from an arrogant Portuguese aristocrat in the Azores was GONE.
Had the whore robbed him? No. He couldn't deny what his mind was telling him, that he had done the ridiculous, unpiratical thing of giving it to her. He had a good mind to go and get it back. Unfortunately he couldn't remember the name of the tavern, and besides, by this time she had probably sold the necklace. That was what he would have done in her place. Jack pushed away the thought that in any case it was not his ship to order back to Saint Malo.
At least he still had the pendant, the one set with the pearls. He had felt a superstitious dread at the thought of giving away a pearl; even though it was not the Pearl and was not even black, it had seemed that such an act would symbolise the loss of hope. The search had not even begun. He bloody well wouldn't give up before he had even tried to find her and exact his revenge on Barbossa.
First he had to go to England to find Sarah Turner and tell her why her husband had died.