the Dalaverse

Happy Birthday, PotC! Quite simply the best fandom I've ever witnessed, and a great joy to be involved in. Love to everyone. I can't do poetry, even limericks and haikus, but I did write this short, silly little J/W. Enjoy :)



Not All Treasure



For a moment Jack feared he was back in the cave at Isla de Muerte, surrounded by glittering swag and close, dank walls. But no, this chamber was well-lit, though he couldn’t see any windows. The strange lights overhead piqued his interest briefly before his attention was quickly recaptured by the gold. Thousands of pieces of it all around him, and silver too – there was a tall column with oversized coins dancing across it, but closer inspection revealed it to be a skillfully-rendered mural of some kind.

Hearing voices, he ducked behind the column, his eyes gleaming at all the unguarded wealth. A small family walked by, chattering in low voices and all dressed in some very questionable blue trousers. Jack ignored them; the gold called.

He cast suspicious looks over his shoulder as he crept up to a glass case full of doubloons on little racks, but still no one was about. With a grin at his own good fortune, he drew his sword and brought the hilt down hard on the glass cover. The shock of impact failed to shatter the thing, though it did send painful reverberations all through his body. He frowned at the glass and struck it again, more carefully, adjusting his grip. It bounced off again with a dull thunk.

Frustrated, Jack relocated to another case, containing more pieces and a giant silver disk the size of his fist, and the same thing happened. He searched for a hinge to dismantle, but the unbreakable barrier was seamless.

Running about the chamber, he shouted and pounded on every clear surface, each containing a surfeit of riches and each impregnable to all his efforts. It seemed to not be abandoned after all, however; the noise he raised brought several people rushing in, pointing cudgels at him. Their uniforms were cut in a funny fashion and one appeared to be a woman, but they were all undoubtedly attired in Navy blue...

Jack sat bolt upright, the cot swinging beneath him. He sucked in great, desperate breaths, feeling sweat plaster his hair to his head and trickle maddeningly down his back.

Beside him, Will stirred and made a soft, inquisitive ‘mmph’ noise.

“Terrible dream,” Jack gasped, “terrible, horrible dream. There it was, ripe fer the takin’, and I tried but I couldn’t get t’ any of it...”

“Shhh,” Will soothed, wrapping arms around him from behind and pulling him back down. “It was only a dream.”

“But it felt so real,” Jack said, aggravation dragging out in his voice. “An’ I was so powerless...useless...”

Will kissed his bare shoulder. “Could this possibly be about tonight?" he asked tentatively. "About the – the failure?”

Immediately Jack stiffened in his embrace. “No,” he muttered. “I said I didn’t want to talk ‘bout that.”

“It’s nothing to worry about – I’m not upset –”

“Let it go, Will!”

“You’ll never solve the problem if you don’t confront it,” said Will doggedly, trying to hold onto a red-faced, squirming Jack. “Look, it happens to everyone now and then...”

“It’s never happened to me!”

“You’d had a lot to drink, love, we all had. And if you hadn’t insisted on taking control of the situation yourself – if you’d left things to me –”

“For land’s sakes,” Jack cried indignantly, “am I or am I not captain of this ‘ere ship?”

Will stroked a hand along his ribs, backtracking quickly. “You are, Jack, of course you are. Listen, get some rest, and we’ll try again tomorrow.”

“Humiliating, that’s what it is,” said Jack, sulking even as he hunkered down and pressed his face into Will’s neck. “What’ll people think if they find out? If they hear ole Captain Jack Sparrow has...has gone soft?”

“You have not gone soft,” said Will firmly. “We came upon her in the fog, and she simply recovered from her surprise a bit more quickly that we anticipated. She was a younger, lighter ship –”

Jack gasped in consternation and clapped a hand over Will’s mouth. “Hold yer tongue, whelp. He din’t mean it, I swear,” he called out to the Pearl herself.

Will sighed in long-suffering patience, flicking his tongue out against Jack’s sea-scented palm. Smug bastard or not, even Jack Sparrow was vulnerable to fits of self-doubt. So Will, as was his nature, took matters to heart and to hand, and set about proving to his captain that pirating was not the only venture in which he hadn’t lost his touch.




The setting of Jack's dream was, of course, a museum. Inspired by a recent visit to the money exhibit at the Museum of American History in Washington D.C., during which I kept bounching up and down with a newfound piratical excitement at all the gold.