Marooned, 23
In Which Jack Seeks Solitude
by
Gloria Mundi
See Chapter 1 for full headers
Originally Posted: 1/23/05
For almost a year he'd craved the sound of voices that weren't his own: real voices, not the nasty hissings of mermaids or the murmurings in an unknown tongue that had drifted to him, from time to time, when the wind blew from the west. Now that the constant comfortable rumble of men's voices, underlying shipboard life like the sound of waves on the hull, was there again, he found he wanted to block his ears against it.
Norrington—funny to have to think of him as 'Captain', now, rather than 'Commodore'—had said he'd find a bunk for Jack before first watch: but what Jack wanted right now, now that the island had finally been swallowed up by the horizon, was a door with himself on one side and everyone else on the other.
"Captain," he said, going back over to where Norrington stood, alone, on the quarterdeck, "might I beg the loan of a razor?"
Norrington chuckled. "Vain as ever, Captain Sparrow."
At least he'd remembered the title. Jack set his teeth and forced a smile.
"No one's had to look at me for a while, Captain Norrington. Thought I'd do you all a little favour."
"Come with me," said Norrington abruptly, and he led Jack below.
"I'll have someone bring you some decent clothes," he said, eyeing Jack's rags. "And some hot water."
Jack felt like purring, but the other man's presence made him itch. "Out!" he said, shooing the man from his own cabin: and Norrington left, grinning.
There was a small mirror on the back of the door, and Jack shot a sideways glance at his reflection. He hadn't seen his own face—or anyone else's—for a year. Mermaids didn't count, and neither did the vivid conjurations with which he'd entertained himself. Remembering one daydream in particular, Jack eyed the hanging cot speculatively: but he had other business first.
He faced the mirror, and inspected himself.
Only the tapping on the door roused him from half-horrified contemplation. He'd forgotten what to say, so he crossed to the door and opened it. One of the men—Jack thought he seemed familiar, but perhaps he just had that Navy (ex-Navy) look to him—brought in a basin of water, and someone's good, newly-sharpened razor, and a pile of folded clothes.
Jack thanked him and shut the door, and leaned on it for a moment, just gathering strength. He looked like a savage. He looked nothing like Captain Jack Sparrow.
He shaved slowly and carefully, not wanting to appear any more outlandish, or bloodstained, than when he'd come aboard. The beard-braids would need refashioning. His skin was pale and raw beneath the fuzzy growth of a year away from mirrors. Teeth still good, and the gold was all still in place: smile, when he essayed one, moderately convincing. He stripped off and washed, methodically, from head to foot: the fresh warm water felt like velvet, even once it was dark with dirt. Civil of Norrington not to mention that he stank.
The clothes weren't Norrington's, but they were still too large for him. They were whole and clean and rough from the loom, without the soft threadbare nap of his ... his rags. Jack kicked them into a corner, salvaging only his ghost-of-red bandana, and contorted himself in front of the tiny mirror until he'd arranged it all to his liking.
That was more like it, though something was still missing. Jack blinked and squinted: he was tempted to explore the Captain's desk, but Norrington might come in and find him poking about, and really it'd be ill-mannered. Besides which, there was a perfectly good lamp.
A few messy minutes later—and his old shirt pressed into service one last time to clear the spillage—there was lamp-black, bound with oil, to shade his eyes: imperfect, for he'd used a fingertip in the absence of any brush, but it'd pass. That was more like it: more like himself: less like some bedraggled nobody marooned in the middle of nowhere.
"Captain Jack Sparrow," he said to his reflection. "At your... service."
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Chapter 24