Title: "Like the Pieces Fit"
Author: monimala
Fandom: POTC: AWE
Rating/Classification: SAC, Jack, Jack/Pearl and Jack/Elizabeth implied.
Disclaimer: All belongs to Disney, Jerry Bruckheimer, and people generally richer than me.
Summary: 400 word filler for "At World's End."
Note: I hate, hate, HATE writing Jack POV because I feel like I can never do justice to his voice. Still, I had to knock it out of my head so I could do things like sleep.
It could be worse. Instead of being marooned here all by his onesies, he could be stuck here with *her*. Dozens of her. Hundreds. All duplicitous and female-shaped. Smelling like lavender and drinking all his rum.
If he were in possession of said rum.
It could be worse yet. He could be stuck with the likes of her and *no* rum.
No, no, that wouldn't do at all.
Jack squints out at the sand. He squints at the mast and then stops posthaste because he's got disquieting squiggly feelings about being kissed there and chained there and eaten by a foul, toothy beastie and the like. He shudders, and ignores himself standing in the bow looking like he's committed an egregious sin of some sort. He ignores himself swabbing the deck, too. And he especially ignores the himself emptying his guts over the rail. And the goat. Because no good can come of *that*.
But ignoring his self… that just leads him back to *her* and her lavender smell. It's a conundrum, it is. A puzzle. Intricately, inexplicably, indubitably, woven. And when Jack closes his eyes, he gets all looped and locked in her, like the pieces fit. Which is a load of bollocks, it is, because he's got his one true love right here beneath his feet and under his hands. The Pearl. His freedom. His eternal freedom.
"That's right, Love. You and me," he murmurs, stroking his way up to her wheel. "You and me and no rum and no bloody Elizabeth."
But the Pearl, she isn't duplicitous and female-shaped. She doesn't smell sweet and feel soft. And aside from that one questionable incident with the Portuguese fire-eater, Giselle, and four barrels of brandy, she's not an ideal companion in amorous delights. Too many splinters in too many unmentionable places (aye, so *that's* why he got that slap about the face in Tortuga…). She's not going to betray him.
Not likely. Not ever.
It could be worse, he thinks. Instead of being marooned all by his onesies, he could be stuck here with *her*. He could be taking her in the sand. Against the mast (kissed and chained and eaten). In the bow. On the deck. Over the rail. But not with the goat. Because no good can come of *that*.
He could be committing the egregious sin of loving Elizabeth Swann.
And that won't do at all.
--end--
May 29, 2007.
