Best Laid Plans

***Author's Note

I love weird crossovers, and what could be more weird than Pirates of the Carribbean and Les Miserables? This takes place after the events of Les Miserables, and between Pirates of the Carribbean 3 and 4.

Please let me know what you think, read&review. For the purposes of this fanfic, both Enjolras and Grantaire survived the barricades. I also apologise in advance for any awful depictions of any character's accents...

As usual, The Chat Noir inn was packed with customers. The bartender viewed the bustling scene with complacency. It was always good for business when the ships came in, that was one of the benefits of living near the docks. When all the ships came in from all over the world, even the filthiest, foulest inns filled up with men eager to exchange their hard-earned money for watery beer and rancid food. After all those months at sea, it probably tasted delicious. Everyone was happy. Or at least drunk. As the bartender ran his eye across the room, two young men in the corner caught his eye. They didn't look happy. They looked terrified. At least, the one with a mop of dark, curly hair looked terrified. His mug of ale was untouched in front of him. And it was only his first, the bartender thought with disapproval. His friend made up for it though. Beside the dark-haired one sat a very handsome young man, fairhaired, with an expensive-looking red coat. Now he was on his sixth mug of ale. He was drinking determinedly. Like a man desperate to forget, the bartender thought shrewdly. He beckoned at a familiar customer. 'Hey, Jacques,'

'That's me,' a slightly inebriated man with a florid complextion wobbled over. 'What can I do you for?'

'D'you know those two young 'uns over there?'

Jacques squinted for a few seconds. 'Nope. Can't say I do. Fancy coat he's got there.'

'That feller there, the blonde one in the fancy red coat, he's got the look of a desperate drunk,' the bartender nodded knowingly. 'The other one looks as if he's about to wet himself.' they laughed raucously. Suddenly Jacques' eyes widened. 'Looks like he's expecting to be arrested at any time.'

The bartender shrugged. 'Wouldn't surprise me. None of my business, that is.'

'You know what I think?' Jacques leaned confidentially across the bar. 'I think that those two might have had something to do with that uprising. Y'know, in Paris? They said it was mostly young men.'

'You don't say.' the bartender mused. 'I heard that not all of them were dead. They were a couple – three or four, I think, who were unaccounted for. There's a hefty reward for turning 'em in.'

'That's right,' Jacques urged. 'What I wouldn't do for that kind of money.'

'What d'you think they're doing here?'

'Trying to leave the country, o'course! Better move quick.'

Grantaire looked up, and saw the bartender and a greasy-looking man staring greedily at them. His heart sank. They'd been recognized. 'Enjolras,' he hissed, 'We have to go.'

Enjolras shook his head drunkenly. 'Not going anywhere,' he slurred.

'We have to!' Grantaire tried to take the mug of ale from his friend, but Enjolras whisked it out of the way, spilling half of it on the table and on him himself as he did so. 'Gerrofofit,' he mumbled. Grantaire clenched his fists in frustration. It was less than three days since the barricades. His shoulder still stung where a bullet skimmed it. Enjolras was lucky, the bullet meant for him had ricchoched off a button. The two of them had had the good sense the lie still, and the soldiers had left them for dead. Although Grantaire was sure that Enjolras regretted his actions. Grantaire looked over his shoulder to see whether they were still being watched. The bartender and the greasy-looking man were nowhere to be seen. Somehow this was more worrying. 'Listen, Enjolras,' Grantaire began, with more than a touch of desperation, 'if we stay here much longer, the soldiers will catch up with us. They'll kill us, Enjolras!'

'Why not?' Enjolras laid his head on the grubby table, staring blearily into space. 'I mean, evr...everyone else is dead. All our friends are dead.' he blinked drunkenly up at his friend, and suddenly threw his arms around him. 'Why aren't we dead, Grantaire?' he wailed, a little too loudly. Several people turned to stare at them. 'Shhh!' Grantaire hissed, disentangling himself from Enjolras. 'Come on, we have to go.'

'Don't want to. Where will we go?'

'I don't know. Out of the country, maybe to...'

'No.' Enjolras sat bolt upright and glared at his friend.

'No?'

'No. I'm nothic leaving the country. This is my home.'

'This will be your grave if you don't...'

'IthinkI'mgoingtobesick...' Enjolras suddenly pushed past Grantaire and ran clumsily out of the front door into the night, upsetting a table full of food, three mugs of ale, two chairs and a barmaid carrying a tray as he went.

Grantaire followed, feeling the eyes of everyone, including angry customers and an irate barmaid, boring into his back.

Enjolras was very sick behind some barrels.

'I don't feel well.' he mumbled thickly, slumping to the ground.

'We can't stay here.' Grantaire sighed. 'Come on, you get.'

Enjolras looked up at him, his eyes suddenly clear. 'I'm not leaving France, Grantaire. If you take me away, I'll never forgive you. Ever.' Then he suddenly fell asleep.

Great. Just great. Grantaire felt like screaming. We're stuck in France, because his nibs refuses to leave. If we stay, we'll no doubt get arrested and executed. If I drag him onto a ship, I'll lose my friend forever. He glared down at his inebriated friend. 'I hate you!' he said aloud. 'I wish I could leave you here!'

Noise from the inn they had just vacated caught his attention. Grantaire sneaked over to the entrance and peered in. He gasped in horror...the inn was full of soldiers! They were standing where he and Enjolras had been sitting not too long ago, talking to the bartender and the greasy-looking man. Suddenly the barmaid that Enjolras had knocked over popped up, and started speaking, pointing towards the door. Grantaire couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could guess. He dashed back into the alleyway and started shaking Enjolras.

'Enjolras! You have to get up now! Come on, the soldiers are here! They've come for us!'

A snore was his only reply.

'Oh, come on, you drunken idiot! If you don't care about your own life, think of me!' he groaned. Footsteps were coming closer. Grantaire resorted to dragging Enjolras around the corner, behind a huge pile of rubbish, nets and barrels. A thought suddenly occurred to him. This must be what Enjolras feels like every night, when I get so drunk I can't walk. He was always complaining about it. It really is irritaing. I will never drink again. Fortunately it was late at night, and there was no moon. In the dark, the soldiers ran straight past their hiding places. But, enticed by the promise of a reward, most of the customers poured out of the inn and started making their own search for the two men. Grantaire's heart sank. Great. Soon, the whole town will be looking for us. He crawled out of his hiding place and paced cautiously up and down. Think. Come on, think. There must a way out of this. I need a miracle.

'Hey, you.'

Grantaire jumped at the unfamiliar voice. He turned to see two scruffy-looking individuals, a short, fat, balding man with a grey beard, and a tall, thin man with greasy hair and what looked like a fake eye. Is that wood? Grantaire wondered, squinting.

'Stop lookin' at me eye!' the man snapped, and they both advanced. Grantaire noticed that one had a gun. 'If you're going to rob us,' he began, trying not to sound scared, 'it's pointless. I don't have any money.'

'That be not what we want.'

Grantaire turned again, and saw that he was cornered. Two more people, a grey-haired man and a woman, had sneaked up behind him.

'The name's Joshamee Gibbs.' the grey haired man introduced himself, with a not very nice smile. 'This here's Anamaria,' he indicated the woman standing next to him. She said nothing, and it was too dark to make out what she looked like.

Understanding dawned. 'Ahh,' Grantaire realised, 'you're pirates.'

The four chuckled evilly.

'You want to pressgang us,' Grantaire continued.

Again the evil chuckle.

Relief flooded over him. Enjolras would never forgive me if I took him out of the country, but if we were pressganged...well now, there's nothing I could do about it.

'Thank goodness.' he gasped in relief.

'Eh?' Mr Gibbs looked slightly nonplussed. 'Are...are you sure you know what pressganging is, boy?'

'Oh yes. You kidnap us, force us into servitude upon your ratty vessel, we endure poor food, no wages, scurvy and whatever else you get on ships, until we get an opportunity to do a runner. Am I right?'

'Ah, yes,' Mr Gibbs looked happy. 'I'm glad you understand your end of the bargain boy.'

'Excellent. Shall we go?'

'Oh, er, I suppose. Eager, aren't we?'

'Oh yes.' Grantaire heard ominous footsteps again. 'By the way,' he dragged Enjolras out by his arm, 'you might need to carry him. He's entirely drunk.'

'Should we knock them on the head?' the man with the wooden eye asked, looking bewildered.

'I don't see there's any need.' Mr Gibbs shrugged. 'One's stone drunk, and the other can't wait to get aboard.'

'Then...' the short grey-bearded man looked more confused than ever, '...what are we here for?'

'Oh, just come with me!' Mr Gibbs snapped, and led the way through the narrow, dark alleyways. He led them past dozens of ships, until they came to one and stopped. It was an impressive ship, from what Grantaire could make out. Its sails looked strangely dark, and a little ragged. 'What is this ship called?' he asked, suddenly feeling less sure of himself. Mr Gibbs grinned. 'They call her The Black Pearl.'