Not Dead Yet, for the Mistaken Identity challenge
Elizabeth Swann, newly divorced, is sitting in a tavern in Tortuga, nursing a drink. Barbossa came back to get her once he’d commandeered the ship, of course. He wasn’t going to leave her there on a bloody island for ten years, which was one of the many things she and Will had fought about as soon as they’d had the time. It’s always surprising to realize that once the sexual tension and life-threatening danger have gone out of the relationship, you’re laying in a dank cave somewhere next to a literally heartless man with ridiculous fashion sense and a hyperactive moral code; rather than the swashbuckling pirate you thought you were marrying. As one might expect, disillusionment is never pretty.
Her drink has a pineapple in it, and it’s a vaguely cloudy blue. The pineapple is a detail she insisted on, despite odd looks from the barman, and it makes her feel better. She wasn’t previously aware that Tortuga had fruity non-rum drinks. She suspects this one is still rum-based. She doesn’t really care. Someone buys her another drink. This one tastes a bit like coconut. She slurps enthusiastically and appreciatively at it. Elizabeth follows the tavern wench’s gaze to the far end of the room at a man who is sitting in the shadows. He tips a nonexistent hat to her.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” he says as she sits at a table next to his, wanting to thank him for the drink.
“Er, do I know you? It’s a bit dark, I’m afraid I can’t really see, and I am a bit squiffy, so if you don’t mind-” The man stands up and steps into the light. Elizabeth falls off her chair. Her mouth opens and closes several times like a fish. Blue liquid dribbles out of the side of her mouth. She blinks rapidly.
“James?!” She splutters. “I thought you were-”
“Who, Elizabeth,” he asks, feeling infinitely tired. “Who did you think I was this time? I’m not Will. I’m not Jack Sparrow, I’m not Captain Barbossa or your father or a stuffy old man with whiskers or any of the number of people you seem to mistake me for.”
“Dead,” she says quietly, tears pricking her eyes. “I thought you were dead.”
“Oh.” He ponders this for a moment. “Well, I’m not.”
“I can see that.”
“I’m sorry to have upset you. If it bothers you that much, I’ll try to die again, for real this time.” She slaps him across the face.
“Don’t you DARE! Oh, James…” She clings to him and begins sobbing brokenly. James is bewildered, incapable of dealing with the rapid change of emotions she is exhibiting.
“Er,” he says awkwardly, and pats her on the back. “There, there.” She looks up at him and shakes her head fondly.
“You’re terrible at comforting people,” she says, but she is smiling through her tears.
“I know.” His brows knit together in consternation at that fact.
“You’re also terrible at declaring your feelings. And having feelings, I sometime suspect.”
“Now that’s entirely untrue,” he says stiffly, hurt. “Just because I don’t ponce about in ridiculous hats stealing other people’s fiancées and declaring my love in a dramatic way does not mean I don’t have feelings.” This is a ridiculous and bizarre conversation. James feels whimsical, possibly for the first time in his life. He also feels, possibly for the first time in his relationship with Elizabeth Turner-Swann, that he has the upper hand. He pokes her in the nose. Her eyes widen in shock and something like admiration. “You never took the time to find out.”
“I wanted to,” she says, picking at her fingernails.
“You loved Will Turner,” he counters. “Didn’t you?”
“Er, well…” she mutters and turns bright red. “You know he’s the Captain of the Flying Dutchman now?” She says too brightly, flailing for conversation.
“I’m aware. He’s the one who brought me back.” James decides he likes having the upper hand. He does not want to relinquish it any time soon.
“Oh,” she says. She looks wildly around the room, perhaps seeking escape or someone she knows so she can hail him down and end this awkwardness James does not intend to let her. “So I imagine he told you all about our catastrophic, marriage-ending fight,” she says, correctly concluding that she is going to have this conversation, like it or not.
“I’m told it included lots of throwing things about and hurling accusations,” he concedes, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, even though it is entirely inappropriate.
“Especially mine about him only ever being an infatuation and not knowing a real, noble man if one bit him on the nose.” She laughs, but the sound is brittle and forced. “That had a lot to do with you sacrificing your life for me, of course.”
“Did it?”
“Yes. That was terrible timing, by the way.”
“Better late than never?” He hazards, trying to get a word in edgewise. A feeling of triumph wells up from deep within. The Turner boy was just an infatuation! HA! I KNEW IT! They are uncharitable feelings for the man who brought him back from the other side of death, but James allows himself to indulge in them just the once. Elizabeth thinks about it for a moment, then nods.
“Yes. Better late than never.” She looks at him expectantly. James wonders feverishly if there is something he ought to be doing right now, something he’s forgotten. Damn. She has somehow reclaimed the position of smirky all-knowingness. He frowns.
“Well?” She demands. Always demanding things of him, that Elizabeth Swann. “I tell you I divorced my husband mainly on account of you when, I might add, I thought you were dead, and you’re still not going to kiss me?” Oh. That.
He lifts her up in his arms, and her feet dangle off the floor.
“I might, if you ask nicely.”
“James,” she says levelly, “you’re about to find out just how nice I can be.”
“Am I?” He says, delighted by this turn of events.
“Oh, yes,” she assures him.
“That’s nice,” he says faintly. “I’m going to kiss you now, and I’m going to take my time about it, and come hell, highwater, kraken, dead pirates, the end of the world or even closing hour at this tavern, I will not be swayed from my purpose.” Before she can even say ‘Good man’, he does so. Ah, yes. This is what it feels like to win. Winning feels like Elizabeth pressed up against him, sweet-smelling and tasting of fruit and kissing him back with long, slow strokes of her tongue and muffled noises in the back of her throat. It was clearly a matter of holding out long enough for her to tire of her other lovers, after all. James persists, therefore James- finally- wins.
He is not a man prone to gloating in his victory, but he is possessive and more than slightly paranoid that she is going to leave him again, and for good reason. He wonders idly if a brand or a permanent tattoo on her lips with his initials on it would be enough to dissuade would-be-suitors. Then he decides it isn’t going to matter, because he’s going to lock her up in a room with him, swallow the key and make love to her until the end of time. Yes, James thinks as she breathes ‘I think I love you’ against his neck, now that’s a good plan.
Her drink has a pineapple in it, and it’s a vaguely cloudy blue. The pineapple is a detail she insisted on, despite odd looks from the barman, and it makes her feel better. She wasn’t previously aware that Tortuga had fruity non-rum drinks. She suspects this one is still rum-based. She doesn’t really care. Someone buys her another drink. This one tastes a bit like coconut. She slurps enthusiastically and appreciatively at it. Elizabeth follows the tavern wench’s gaze to the far end of the room at a man who is sitting in the shadows. He tips a nonexistent hat to her.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” he says as she sits at a table next to his, wanting to thank him for the drink.
“Er, do I know you? It’s a bit dark, I’m afraid I can’t really see, and I am a bit squiffy, so if you don’t mind-” The man stands up and steps into the light. Elizabeth falls off her chair. Her mouth opens and closes several times like a fish. Blue liquid dribbles out of the side of her mouth. She blinks rapidly.
“James?!” She splutters. “I thought you were-”
“Who, Elizabeth,” he asks, feeling infinitely tired. “Who did you think I was this time? I’m not Will. I’m not Jack Sparrow, I’m not Captain Barbossa or your father or a stuffy old man with whiskers or any of the number of people you seem to mistake me for.”
“Dead,” she says quietly, tears pricking her eyes. “I thought you were dead.”
“Oh.” He ponders this for a moment. “Well, I’m not.”
“I can see that.”
“I’m sorry to have upset you. If it bothers you that much, I’ll try to die again, for real this time.” She slaps him across the face.
“Don’t you DARE! Oh, James…” She clings to him and begins sobbing brokenly. James is bewildered, incapable of dealing with the rapid change of emotions she is exhibiting.
“Er,” he says awkwardly, and pats her on the back. “There, there.” She looks up at him and shakes her head fondly.
“You’re terrible at comforting people,” she says, but she is smiling through her tears.
“I know.” His brows knit together in consternation at that fact.
“You’re also terrible at declaring your feelings. And having feelings, I sometime suspect.”
“Now that’s entirely untrue,” he says stiffly, hurt. “Just because I don’t ponce about in ridiculous hats stealing other people’s fiancées and declaring my love in a dramatic way does not mean I don’t have feelings.” This is a ridiculous and bizarre conversation. James feels whimsical, possibly for the first time in his life. He also feels, possibly for the first time in his relationship with Elizabeth Turner-Swann, that he has the upper hand. He pokes her in the nose. Her eyes widen in shock and something like admiration. “You never took the time to find out.”
“I wanted to,” she says, picking at her fingernails.
“You loved Will Turner,” he counters. “Didn’t you?”
“Er, well…” she mutters and turns bright red. “You know he’s the Captain of the Flying Dutchman now?” She says too brightly, flailing for conversation.
“I’m aware. He’s the one who brought me back.” James decides he likes having the upper hand. He does not want to relinquish it any time soon.
“Oh,” she says. She looks wildly around the room, perhaps seeking escape or someone she knows so she can hail him down and end this awkwardness James does not intend to let her. “So I imagine he told you all about our catastrophic, marriage-ending fight,” she says, correctly concluding that she is going to have this conversation, like it or not.
“I’m told it included lots of throwing things about and hurling accusations,” he concedes, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, even though it is entirely inappropriate.
“Especially mine about him only ever being an infatuation and not knowing a real, noble man if one bit him on the nose.” She laughs, but the sound is brittle and forced. “That had a lot to do with you sacrificing your life for me, of course.”
“Did it?”
“Yes. That was terrible timing, by the way.”
“Better late than never?” He hazards, trying to get a word in edgewise. A feeling of triumph wells up from deep within. The Turner boy was just an infatuation! HA! I KNEW IT! They are uncharitable feelings for the man who brought him back from the other side of death, but James allows himself to indulge in them just the once. Elizabeth thinks about it for a moment, then nods.
“Yes. Better late than never.” She looks at him expectantly. James wonders feverishly if there is something he ought to be doing right now, something he’s forgotten. Damn. She has somehow reclaimed the position of smirky all-knowingness. He frowns.
“Well?” She demands. Always demanding things of him, that Elizabeth Swann. “I tell you I divorced my husband mainly on account of you when, I might add, I thought you were dead, and you’re still not going to kiss me?” Oh. That.
He lifts her up in his arms, and her feet dangle off the floor.
“I might, if you ask nicely.”
“James,” she says levelly, “you’re about to find out just how nice I can be.”
“Am I?” He says, delighted by this turn of events.
“Oh, yes,” she assures him.
“That’s nice,” he says faintly. “I’m going to kiss you now, and I’m going to take my time about it, and come hell, highwater, kraken, dead pirates, the end of the world or even closing hour at this tavern, I will not be swayed from my purpose.” Before she can even say ‘Good man’, he does so. Ah, yes. This is what it feels like to win. Winning feels like Elizabeth pressed up against him, sweet-smelling and tasting of fruit and kissing him back with long, slow strokes of her tongue and muffled noises in the back of her throat. It was clearly a matter of holding out long enough for her to tire of her other lovers, after all. James persists, therefore James- finally- wins.
He is not a man prone to gloating in his victory, but he is possessive and more than slightly paranoid that she is going to leave him again, and for good reason. He wonders idly if a brand or a permanent tattoo on her lips with his initials on it would be enough to dissuade would-be-suitors. Then he decides it isn’t going to matter, because he’s going to lock her up in a room with him, swallow the key and make love to her until the end of time. Yes, James thinks as she breathes ‘I think I love you’ against his neck, now that’s a good plan.