Impulsive

"...a pirate's life for me."

At the helm, Jack Sparrow--<i>Captain</i> Jack Sparrow--moved his
hands lovingly against lacquered wood, guiding his ship toward an
island that couldn't be found (lest ye been there before) with a
compass that didn't point north.

"We kindle and char..."

His eyes, in which one could see the makings of clarity despite his
otherwise erratic traits, moved from his helpful navigation device to
the setting sun.

"...and inflame and ignite."

He snapped his compass closed, slipping it into his pocket with the
hands of a thief. He glanced down at where Anamaria leaned on the
gunwale. White teeth showed; a nefarious grin.

"DRINK UP, ME 'EARTIES, YO HO!" he yelled, and with one fluid motion
turned his ship hard to port. He kept his balance gallantly as he
watched his crew fall over themselves. Amidships, Anamaria was
thrust toward the mast, and once she regained her dignity he could
see she was hell-bent upon butchering his. As she leapt up the
stairs toward him he bowed slightly, raising a finger.

"You attack your captain, m'lady?" She stood in front of him, fuming
and breathing hard. "Still angry about your ship, are you? Well,
forgive this humble knave, but I seem to remember someone letting the
<i>Interceptor's</i> mast fall upon herself. T'wasn't me, love."

Anamaria glared and moved forward to attack but a hand on her
shoulder kept her from doing so. It was Gibbs that stole in front of
her and leveled his gaze with Jack's.

"Cap'n, not to question yer command or nothin', but mays I ask just
why we're headin' back toward Port Royal?"

Jack took one hand off the wheel and shrugged. "I do admit that I'm
impulsive."

"Aye, we be knowin' that, Jack, you crazy wretch." Gibbs sighed,
looking back at the rest of the crew and then at their
captain. "What's yer plan of action?"

The question warranted a grin of mischief from Jack and he drew an
arm around Gibbs, pulling the man abreast himself.

"Where exac'ly did they cast off ol' Bootstrap?"


x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x


William squinted his eyes and let his hammer fall on hot steel.

Elizabeth was in her father's mansion, probably curled up in finery
and dreaming of him. Of Will Turner. Not of Commodore Norrington,
nor of any man of equal station. Tonight, she dreamt of a blacksmith.

As any man of his humble background would, he looked upon good
fortune with a suspicious gaze. Why was she suddenly willing to
stand next to him? Was it because he had saved her life? Nay, for
once saved it was merely threatened again, not to be rescued by him
but by Norrington. So why, then? Did he fulfill her girlish
fantasies of pirates and swordfighting and adventure? Aye, there the
truth was, clear as the morning sun.

Days ago he had not dreamt of such things...yet now they were a part
of him. While Elizabeth looked upon piracy with fascination, he saw
it with a light of familiarity.

Days ago, he had been but a boy, naive and uncertain. But then Jack
Sparrow had entered his life.

And then Jack had left him behind.

"Blast!" William stared down at the sword destroyed by his
thoughtless hand, the red-hot tip now cooling separately on the
floor. Disgusted, he threw the damned thing to the side and stalked
to an overturned crate, taking a seat and resting his chin on his
joined fingers. Oh, if only Norrington could see him now.

"Care and devotion?" Will asked himself. "I take care and devotion
in nothing but the craft." Jack himself had seen this, how William
was wont to never think ahead, to do impulsive things, stupid
things. Perhaps Jack could have broke him of the habit had he but
stayed a bit longer.

"He was far smarter than I, I'll give him that," William said to the
empty silence. "He was rooting for the Commodore, after all."

***

                            
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