potc & lost/fringe fic
prompts & drabbles under the cut/s!
Pirates of the Caribbean; Jack Sparrow
'ANGST'
It’s just sand. Endless sand and the godless sky above him. And the heat. Oh god, the heat. The sun beats down on his limp, still form, cracked lips slowly parting, aching for water. Or something other than the godforsaken peanuts. But there’s nothing here. Nothing but the ground beneath him - and the Pearl.
At least he has his beloved ship; maybe even in the Locker one is granted small mercies. Or maybe it’s just to taunt him, having the Pearl without seeing it able to fly her colours, unable to have the glorious waves caress her hull, unable to be free. ‘Cause whichever way you slice it, Jack ain’t free. Never was, especially after he signed the deal with the devil. ‘Course, he’d fooled himself into believing he could escape it; he shouldn’t have been so naive. After all, no one can out deal the devil.
There isn’t any wind. The Pearl’s dark, lovingly patched-up sails don’t fill up, and then breathe out, sighing with the wind. Her flag doesn’t ripple and wave with the slightest breeze. The ropes and riggings don’t flap about, and they don’t slap against the deck or hull when the ship moves.
Of course there isn’t any wind in the Locker. Because that’s where he is, he knows. He still has all the memories, all the regrets, all the betrayals. He knows he’s in the Locker, because he’s dreamed of it. No, Jack Sparrow dreams, but he only has nightmares of the Locker. Only now, it’s less full of nightmarish creatures, garish things clawing at his soul; it’s just empty.
Just sand. And the sky above him.
Lost/Fringe; Hurley, Peter Bishop
'AU'
“You’re from flight 815. And you’re alive.”
“Um… Should I… not… be?”
Peter scrutinised the man in front of him suspiciously. “We found your plane - at the bottom of the ocean. Everyone was said to be dead!”
Hurley grinned, as if he received that reaction all the time. “Dude. Look around you.”
Peter did so, somewhat with confusion.
“You’re not exactly in Boston, are you?”
Pirates of the Caribbean; Jack Sparrow
'ANGST'
It’s just sand. Endless sand and the godless sky above him. And the heat. Oh god, the heat. The sun beats down on his limp, still form, cracked lips slowly parting, aching for water. Or something other than the godforsaken peanuts. But there’s nothing here. Nothing but the ground beneath him - and the Pearl.
At least he has his beloved ship; maybe even in the Locker one is granted small mercies. Or maybe it’s just to taunt him, having the Pearl without seeing it able to fly her colours, unable to have the glorious waves caress her hull, unable to be free. ‘Cause whichever way you slice it, Jack ain’t free. Never was, especially after he signed the deal with the devil. ‘Course, he’d fooled himself into believing he could escape it; he shouldn’t have been so naive. After all, no one can out deal the devil.
There isn’t any wind. The Pearl’s dark, lovingly patched-up sails don’t fill up, and then breathe out, sighing with the wind. Her flag doesn’t ripple and wave with the slightest breeze. The ropes and riggings don’t flap about, and they don’t slap against the deck or hull when the ship moves.
Of course there isn’t any wind in the Locker. Because that’s where he is, he knows. He still has all the memories, all the regrets, all the betrayals. He knows he’s in the Locker, because he’s dreamed of it. No, Jack Sparrow dreams, but he only has nightmares of the Locker. Only now, it’s less full of nightmarish creatures, garish things clawing at his soul; it’s just empty.
Just sand. And the sky above him.
Lost/Fringe; Hurley, Peter Bishop
'AU'
“You’re from flight 815. And you’re alive.”
“Um… Should I… not… be?”
Peter scrutinised the man in front of him suspiciously. “We found your plane - at the bottom of the ocean. Everyone was said to be dead!”
Hurley grinned, as if he received that reaction all the time. “Dude. Look around you.”
Peter did so, somewhat with confusion.
“You’re not exactly in Boston, are you?”