the Dalaverse

Decided to write myself out of my bad mood. It worked, in part because it's almost late enough to go to bed and stop feeling guilty about slacking! (Warning: one of these commits character death)


Proposition Jack, Groves, a chance; hendercats

"Don't I know you, son?" Jack squints at the man across the table, who rubs a palm over his short-cropped dark hair in obvious discomfort.

"I have no memory of our ever meeting, sir," he says -- smooth, accomplished at lying, and most certainly not born in a barn. His clothes are ill-fitting and patched, but he hasn't thought to exchange his fine boots for a more convincing pair. If his blood doesn't run Navy blue, Jack will eat Mr. Cotton's parrot.

Taking note of the bruise on the lad's cheek, Jack quells his nagging memory -- he passed eyes over many a sailor in his recent brush, and reckons he would hardly recognize the commodore out of wig and uniform. It's his job to ascertain the lad's suitability to the Pearl, not to suss out what he's running from.

"All right then, Mr....Groves, is it? I've a few berths open, now I think on it..."


Last Rites Norrington, Jack, a story; hannahrorlove

Jack Sparrow died at a monastery in Florida. He raved through a steadily mounting fever for five days, talking of pearls and gold and bones, snarling at the Spanish monks who tended him. On the six day, a man dressed in blue came -- the admiral of the English fleet, according to the clumsy translation of a young lieutenant. The monks wanted no trouble with any navy, but the admiral took off his hat and spoke to them in their own language, so they allowed him to stay, although the pair who had cared for Sparrow most regularly stood guard at the door.

When Sparrow saw him, his face cleared and he stopped shredding the corner of his blanket. "James," he said, fixing his dark eyes on the admiral's face.

"Aye, Jack," said the admiral softly, kneeling beside the pallet. He laid his hand on the laboring breast, and Sparrow curled all his fingers around it. "I would have come sooner if I had known."

"No worries," said Sparrow, his grin broken into a grimace. When the fit of coughing ended, he murmured, "Tell me -- tell it all again."

The admiral's green eyes went distant for a spell, but he recovered before Sparrow noticed, and his smile was no less kind for the effort it clearly cost him. "Well, I suppose it must begin with a ship..."

The monks left them be and returned in the early hours of the morning to say their prayers. Though they had cleared a space in the garden, they bequeathed the body to the admiral, who took it with him when he sailed.


A Fowl Truce Cotton's parrot, Gibbs, pinching; linaelyn

Gibbs loved animals and handled them well. The first twelve years of his life had been spent on a farm with all manner of creatures; he'd kept a dog whenever he lived on land after, however short that time had been; he made sure every ship he sailed had a good rat-catcher. Beasts just took to some people (and took offense to others, as the captain could attest).

But Cotton's parrot had a habit of snatching caps from his head, ruffling its feathers at him when he spoke to Cotton, and pinching him with its beak whenever it thought no one was looking. "Shot 'cross yer bow! Letter o' marque!" it shrieked whenever he protested, and Cotton frowned at its fibbing.

Gibbs tried everything he could think to woo the blasted bird, but it remained unmoved until the day he dropped a chunk of biscuit he'd been sopping in rum. He'd never had much dealing with birds smarter than geese or chicken, and he'd never suspected a parrot might share a man's weakness.


Blow Ye Winds Jack, Elizabeth, a storm; geek_mama_2

"You cannot make it rain," Elizabeth snapped, itching to slap the smug grin off her captain's face. Raising her arm for anything not absolutely vital would take too much effort in this heat, however. It had taken an hour to talk herself out of slicing her dirk through the heavy weight of her hair today; only a vivid sense of how much she'd regret the loss of her last vanity had stopped her hand. "Or you'd have done so already." He was immune to the heat no less than she, and he felt the groans of his becalmed ship as well.

"Oh, I can, lass," he assured her, crossing his arms over his bare chest, daring her to watch the sweat run down his bronzed skin. She defied him, but from his grin, he knew how hard she had to fight. "The question is," he said, leaning too close for the heat -- too close entirely -- "How much d'you want it?"

When it did begin to rain not two hours later, Jack was not on deck to enjoy his victory, and Elizabeth was not surprised.

"You are merely a lucky bastard," she told him primly, slamming the cabin door and shucking her shirt.

Lounging nude on the cot, Jack flashed his teeth at her and admitted, "Been called that in me time, true enough."

Elizabeth snorted in derision even as the low rumble over the waves sent an answering call through her blood. She'd seen enough tropical weather to gauge they had about half an hour til the storm struck true, and she intended to make him work for his victory.