A Man's Soul
There you go - my first fic!
A man’s soul
(can be seen in his eyes)
“Mr. Gibbs!” The older man turned around slowly as he noticed that his captain’s words were even more slurred than usual.
Not good.
When he finally faced the most fearsome pirate captain in the Spanish main he was shocked: Captain Jack Sparrow was staggering harder than usual and all in all he looked a real mess: his naturally handsome features appeared exhausted, tired, worn out; the coal around his dark brown eyes was all smeared and if one looked closely, one could see tiny little trails from his clouded eyes over his high cheekbones down to his chin, where his skin looked unusually clean.
Bad signs, the lot of ‘em.
But what bothered the Black Pearl’s first mate the most were his old friend’s eyes: they didn’t glow with the captain’s ordinary passion and mischief. They were dark and unfathomable like the night, dull and dim. Not a lonely spark of the characteristic mirth and cheerfulness - only bottomless darkness. He seemed to be pale under his sun tanned skin and truth be told - he looked ages older.
Gibbs felt really sorry for his old crony; for he knew just too well that the honey-brown-haired, brown-eyed, long-legged, stunning, boyish, beautiful, hot-tempered reason for Jack’s misery had to be married to young Master Turner by now and was therefore even further out of reach for the tree weeks full-time drunk scallywag in front of him than ever.
“Aye cap’n?”
Said pirate captain tried his best to focus his weary eyes on his first mate and best friend while fighting to keep his balance and not tumbling into Gibbs’ arms.
“First of all, Joshamee, the rum is gone. Entirely - I has no clue how and why, but it’s all gone!” Jack squinted in an attempt of keeping focus on the man in front of him.
“So we be heading for the next port to stock up rum and supplies?” Gibbs asked worriedly.
“Aye, mate. And second, why the bloody hell are ye scurvy dog staring at me like I be drunk and all not responsible of me actions, eh?!”
“Nothin’ be the matter, Jack.”
“Very well then, ye don’t know anybody on this me vessel, who could possibly be in possession of one tiny sip of rum left for his beloved captain, do ye, Mr. Gibbs?” The captain asked innocently.
“Aye, cap’n. There’s a half full bottle of rum in me hammock. Ye can take it if ye like.” Gibbs answered after he had finally sorted out his captain’s words, which was kind of difficult since Jack’s slur was still very prominent.
“Why thank ye, Gibby-mate.”
The man in the pirate boots, faded brown breeches, once-been-white-but-now-dirty and torn shirt, pink and dirty, white sash and a well worn red bandana turned around energetically. Once he had regained his balance he started staggering below decks.
Gibbs watched his captain and old friend, shaking his gray-haired head. Things couldn’t go on like they were now; with Jack spending his days and nights locked up in his quarters, sitting on his table with charts sprawled all around, heavy head in hands, accompanied by his only mistress these days - his rum, trying to drown his longing and desire for the girl that could never be his, yet kept on creeping into his thoughts and mind, haunting his dreams, when he knew perfectly well that when awaking the next morning he would only have made it worse.
Something had to be done about this.
A man’s soul
(can be seen in his eyes)
“Mr. Gibbs!” The older man turned around slowly as he noticed that his captain’s words were even more slurred than usual.
Not good.
When he finally faced the most fearsome pirate captain in the Spanish main he was shocked: Captain Jack Sparrow was staggering harder than usual and all in all he looked a real mess: his naturally handsome features appeared exhausted, tired, worn out; the coal around his dark brown eyes was all smeared and if one looked closely, one could see tiny little trails from his clouded eyes over his high cheekbones down to his chin, where his skin looked unusually clean.
Bad signs, the lot of ‘em.
But what bothered the Black Pearl’s first mate the most were his old friend’s eyes: they didn’t glow with the captain’s ordinary passion and mischief. They were dark and unfathomable like the night, dull and dim. Not a lonely spark of the characteristic mirth and cheerfulness - only bottomless darkness. He seemed to be pale under his sun tanned skin and truth be told - he looked ages older.
Gibbs felt really sorry for his old crony; for he knew just too well that the honey-brown-haired, brown-eyed, long-legged, stunning, boyish, beautiful, hot-tempered reason for Jack’s misery had to be married to young Master Turner by now and was therefore even further out of reach for the tree weeks full-time drunk scallywag in front of him than ever.
“Aye cap’n?”
Said pirate captain tried his best to focus his weary eyes on his first mate and best friend while fighting to keep his balance and not tumbling into Gibbs’ arms.
“First of all, Joshamee, the rum is gone. Entirely - I has no clue how and why, but it’s all gone!” Jack squinted in an attempt of keeping focus on the man in front of him.
“So we be heading for the next port to stock up rum and supplies?” Gibbs asked worriedly.
“Aye, mate. And second, why the bloody hell are ye scurvy dog staring at me like I be drunk and all not responsible of me actions, eh?!”
“Nothin’ be the matter, Jack.”
“Very well then, ye don’t know anybody on this me vessel, who could possibly be in possession of one tiny sip of rum left for his beloved captain, do ye, Mr. Gibbs?” The captain asked innocently.
“Aye, cap’n. There’s a half full bottle of rum in me hammock. Ye can take it if ye like.” Gibbs answered after he had finally sorted out his captain’s words, which was kind of difficult since Jack’s slur was still very prominent.
“Why thank ye, Gibby-mate.”
The man in the pirate boots, faded brown breeches, once-been-white-but-now-dirty and torn shirt, pink and dirty, white sash and a well worn red bandana turned around energetically. Once he had regained his balance he started staggering below decks.
Gibbs watched his captain and old friend, shaking his gray-haired head. Things couldn’t go on like they were now; with Jack spending his days and nights locked up in his quarters, sitting on his table with charts sprawled all around, heavy head in hands, accompanied by his only mistress these days - his rum, trying to drown his longing and desire for the girl that could never be his, yet kept on creeping into his thoughts and mind, haunting his dreams, when he knew perfectly well that when awaking the next morning he would only have made it worse.
Something had to be done about this.