Maddened and Maddening
by She's a Star
Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine. Fancy that!
Author's Note: First off, a zillion very enthusiastic thank you's to everyone who reviewed the last piece I posted – I'd have never imagined that it would be received so kindly. :-D
Secondly – gotta love them deeply pointless ficlets, eh? Ergo, this.
They have been on this island for two hours and sixteen minutes, and Elizabeth has decided that she will die here. Either that, or she will strangle Jack Sparrow.
Admittedly, the latter option is the vastly more appealing one.
At least the discovery of the rum has rendered him mostly silent, save for the sound of vigorous swigging; for awhile, it had become something almost approaching peaceful. Now, however, she finds herself most discomforted. An odd, prickling feeling keeps creeping through her, suggesting a very unwelcome possibility.
Sure enough, one swift glance confirms it –
Jack Sparrow is staring at her.
What makes it even worse is that he doesn't make the slightest attempt to hide it, which might at least display the faintest trace of gentlemanly shame. Oh, no. Instead, he just stares blatantly – and not even in a manner that suggests him profoundly enraptured! He has the nerve to look slightly interested, as though she makes a fascinating enough subject for contemplation considering they are stranded on a tiny, boring island, but otherwise he really wouldn't bother.
Oh, how she despises him.
"Mr. Sparrow," she finally says, deciding she cannot take it any longer.
He grunts, apparently considering this to be an adequate response.
Feeling rather reckless, she lightly accuses, "I do hope you weren't looking at my ankles just then."
Any decent man would trip all over himself protesting.
He, predictably, is not the slightest bit flustered.
"You needn't fear, Miss Swann," he returns, with a lazy, mocking air of dignity. "I have little interest in ankles – even yours."
Indignation flares, and she pulls her knees to her chest. "Well, good."
"My own interests lie a bit further north," he finishes.
Elizabeth prides herself on not being one to shock easily, but even she cannot feign indifference here. "Mr. Sparrow!"
"Knees," he supplies at once. "Something about them. Very intoxicating, can't resist in the slightest."
"You," she informs him, scowling, "are a detestable man."
"Pirate," he offers impatiently, by way of explanation.
"One day, that will prove an insufficient response," she tells him coldly. "What do you plan to do then?"
He shrugs. "Well, I could always shoot them."
"Oh, I'm sorry," he drawls. "What I meant to say is that I would rush to apologize, fall to my knees, and make a solemn vow to redeem my evil ways, find some deeply buried sense of honour, and embrace a lifestyle that proves overall infinitely less piratey in nature." He offers a grin that is both maddened and maddening. "Better?"
"No," she snaps irritably.
He eyes her in silent imploration.
"A little," she capitulates.
"Ah, good," he says, his face breaking out into a much more pleased smile. "Perhaps this little visit will be much . . ." his fingers wander idly across the small stretch of sand that separates them, "cozier than first anticipated, eh, love?"
"I very much doubt it," she returns, glaring as she scoots away.
He chuckles to himself, and in an act of desperation, she reaches for her abandoned bottle of rum. Considering present company, the drink, for all its foulness, seems much less disgusting in comparison.
She pulls a face and brings the bottle to her lips.
Drink up me hearties, indeed.