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Bugger this. Of all the places to be stuck in. And in a ruddy dream, for the love of all that’s unholy. In Port Royal, with a rope around his neck, only now there’s no fancy Commodore hanging his head and looking all contrite in front of Jack's eyes. Now there’s something that would take the pain of death away.
Come to think of it, there’s no one around at all, which is mighty strange, given how quickly the good folk of Port Royal scurry to witness a hanging. No one except for… oh. Strange how much that fellow next to him looks like… oh.
It’s like looking into a ruddy mirror. Except that the chap in the mirror’s oh, about seventeen years younger than Jack. Rope around his neck’s about the same as Jack’s, though.
‘So,’ not-Jack says, smiling for all the world like they weren’t just about to be sent into Beelzebub’s lair. ‘What’s a nice pirate like you doin’ in a place like this?’
‘No one calls Captain Jack Sparrow a nice pirate,’ Jack growls back, shuffling his feet around to face the other man. ‘’Specially not a twenty-seven-year-old Sparrow.’
‘That’s Captain Jack Sparrow to you, love,’ he grins, waggling the fingers of his bound hands and tilting his head, as if that damned rope around his neck doesn’t bother him one bit.
‘Your hat is stupid,’ Jack says, just to say something.
He doesn’t deign to reply, smiling at someone behind Jack as a long shadow falls on the platform between them, and Jack raises his eyes to the tall, dark-haired figure in front of him. He can’t see the newcomer’s face. He doesn’t have to. He watches as long, strong fingers undo the bonds holding the other prisoner’s hands in front of him.
Not-Jack grins triumphantly at him as he steps out nimbly from the hangman’s noose, and his rescuer moves behind him to wrap his arms around his waist, his chin resting on Not-Jack’s shoulder as his green eyes look beguilingly into Jack’s. So this is what he looked like that night in Kingston town, when he was no more than a wee lieutenant. Bad haircut, suitable maybe for someone cursed with a name like Miles, but lovely hair nevertheless, hair Jack would still like to run his fingers through if his damned hands weren’t tied and there wasn’t that small matter of the noose still around his neck.
‘He looks a bit uncomfortable, doesn’t he, love?’ Not-Jack leans back comfortably in James’s arms, fingers dancing over the hands clasped at his waist.
‘Indeed,’ James says thoughtfully, surveying Jack. ‘Shouldn’t we help him, Jack?’
‘Not our task, love.’
James stirs uneasily. ‘I can’t watch him be put to death, Jack.’
Not-Jack straightens, grinning. ‘You won’t have to, Jim. But he’ll have to find a way out all on his onesies, won’t he?’
He wiggles his fingers at Jack – bloody infuriating gesture, Jack knows that much – and turns his back on Jack. At the same moment, there is a tiny creaking sound beneath Jack’s feet, and the trapdoor gives slightly. Not-Jack turns his head, grins a piratical grin, and wanders away.
A louder creak this time, and the trapdoor gives way entirely. Jack’s feet flail in thin air, and he gasps as the rope jerks tight around his neck. Before it can crush his throat he feels a pair of strong arms around his knees, and looks down to find James’s dark head against his waist, shoulders straining as he holds Jack’s weight.
He looks up at Jack, eyes glimmering like bright jewels in the sun. ‘Hold on, Jack.’
Jack finds solid ground – well, the wooden platform, anyhow – under his feet, and as James’s arms release his legs and fall away, Jack sees the glint of jade at his left wrist, barely visible beneath his white sleeve.
Jack’s eyes open in the darkness, the sheets sodden with sweat beneath his bare back. His hand reaches out automatically for the bottle of rum beside the bed, and he takes a long, steadying gulp. ‘I’m Captain Jack Sparrow,’ he says firmly to the ceiling above him, and the Pearl purrs contentedly under him.