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dwgmFinally another reply to that Ficlet Meme! This story is for dear ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ladymouse2 who requested a tale in which Jack rescues early-teen Michael Owens, my OMC who first appeared as if by magic in the second chapter of Harry & the Pirate I and quickly took on a life of his own. He and his best friend, Charles Norrington, are both about fifteen years old in this one, placing it midway between Norrington's Choice and Chalice of St. Francis . ladymouse2's request bookends a plot bunny that hatched over Labor Day, the first chapter of H&theP1 from Owens' pov...
Many many thanks tohereswith for editing this!
~ Jailbait ~
"Don't worry. Jack'll come for us," Michael Owens says, quietly (for the least sound echoes disturbingly in this barren, mostly deserted prison of stone and steel) but confidently, too, in spite the fact that his captain and mentor has no way of guessing where he and Charles Norrington have gone.
That they've been locked up is the fault of both: it was Charles who'd filched the apple, but the proprietor of the stall would've been none the wiser if that female hadn't squealed, and all because Michael shoved her away not five minutes before when she'd been too insistent about him needing her "services". Maybe he does "need", what with his unruly body (some of the fellows call it a "yard", and by the saints, sometimes it feels like it, a yard or more) and his thoughts full of Charles' sister Susanna – determinedly innocent thoughts by day, but oh, his dreams, a plague and a wonder to him in the dark of night, inspiring all manner of indecencies, both unintentional and, God help him, deliberate. But he surely needed nothing from that portside trollop, blast it, any attraction he might have felt for her (for she’d been pretty enough, and round in the right places) having been spoiled by her knowing leer and too-cunning hand. Startled at her rough intimacy, and angry that she'd found something to exclaim over ("Ooo, an' what did I tell you, c'mon ducky, I'll help you wi' that!"), Michael had probably been more forceful than the situation called for, and his growled, "Get off!" had been unfriendly enough to surprise both Charles and himself. It clearly had enraged the girl, who'd known exactly what would be their lot if they were taken as thieves. He'd seen the smirk on her face as he and Charles were hauled unceremoniously off to this notorious prison, to await judgment (the magistrate having gone off on holiday until Monday) and retribution, the possible nature of which the guards kept hinting at in bloodcurdling terms.
But Jack will come. He has to.
"How will he even know where to start looking?" Charles whispers, sounding miserable and guilty. "Are you sure we shouldn't give them our real names?"
"No!" Michael says, firmly. For himself, it doesn't matter. He’s a pirate – well, privateer. But for Charles, recently made midshipman, it might spell the end of his career in the Royal Navy. "No, he'll find us, we were supposed to be back by the first Dog Watch, and you think he don't notice these things, but he does!"
Charles sniffs, but doesn't deny it. He might be Commodore Norrington's son, but Charles has seen enough of Jack Sparrow these last three years to know that in spite of the pirate's eccentricities and lackadaisical airs, the captain of the notorious Black Pearl is sharp as he can stare.
And as for Michael Owens, well, he thanks God every night and twice on Sundays for the fate that brought him into Jack Sparrow's orbit.
As Charles sighs and settles in the dark beside him, presumably to sleep, Michael gazes up at the barred window, at the stars visible in the velvet black, and remembers another night just like this, four years ago. A pitiable creature he'd been then, orphaned the year before in the last wave of Yellow Jack that swept through Santo Cristobal, skinny and shy and apparently clumsy, for the Mayor's wife, who'd taken him in, was forever finding that an excuse to thrash him.
He'd been thrashed earlier that day, in fact, the second time in a week, but it was debatable whether his backside was worse off or his foot. It was the cut on his foot, untreated and beginning to fester, that had exacerbated the clumsiness, causing him to overturn a whole tray full of sweets and coffee. How the Señora had screeched, and what a slap she'd dealt him, too. He'd known he was for it, but there was no use trying to run, his foot was too sore to allow him any speed. So he had endured as best he could, and then, locked in the cold, dark cellar, gave in to the wracking sobs he'd denied himself in the presence of his cruel mistress.
Lord, what a mess he'd been when Jack Sparrow came that night!
Jack, and all his crew, who'd heard of the treasure in Santo Cristobal, in that very house, and of the Mayor’s miserly ways and brutality as well.
Michael remembers waking in the black to the sound of screams, pistol shots, harsh voices, and a general tumult of panic.
Pirates!
Biting his lip, he'd gotten painfully to his feet and gone to the slender ground-level window that looked out on the square. It was barred, but there was plenty of torchlight outside, and Michael could see the wide area before the house plainly. Big, frightening men were herding most of the citizenry into the church to be kept under guard while the rest of the pirates had their way with the town. Not with the women, though – their captain, fierce and quicksilver, the very definition of flamboyant with his swirling coat and hair and his gravelly roar, made sure his men kept the line on that score. The pirate captain accepted the challenge of the commandant of the guard, and for a time Michael's heart was in his mouth, watching their swords flash, but he needn't have worried. The commandant might be taller, and an experienced soldier, but his skills couldn't hold a candle to the pirate captain's, supplemented as they were by some truly devious tricks.
Captain Jack Sparrow. That's what his men were shouting, the ones that weren't hauling the wounded commandant into the church.
They were getting into the house above then, the Señora could be heard screaming, the Mayor shouting. Heavy footsteps, and laughter, and Michael thought to hide himself just in time, the door to the cellar opened to let in a stream of gold, flickering light. Two pirates bearing torches looked down at the dusty furniture and trunks of old clothing.
"Ain’t worth the taking," one of the pirates scoffed.
"We'll show Cap'n, might be a good spot to stuff them pesky servants," came the reply.
They left – and left the door open.
Quiet as a mouse, but quick, Michael had made his way up the steps, peered out cautiously, and scooted into the shadowed hall.
Getting out of the house had been easy enough, unseen and unheard – though he’d doubted they'd think him of much account even if they noticed him. The air was cool and soft, and he’d hidden in some bushes by the house to watch it all. How the Mayor was dragged from the house and ducked in the well until finally, ignoring his wife's importunities to "be brave, Carlos!", he gave up the hiding place where he kept his gold. How the grandees of the town mourned as the treasure was carried away. How Captain Sparrow was the last to go, and slyly passed a small strongbox to old Muñoz, leader of the peasants who'd been allowed to hang back and witness the proceedings.
And then they were leaving. Captain Sparrow was leaving, and the rest of his men. And suddenly faced with the choice, Michael Owens had known he couldn't bear it.
Frightened, but determined – for anything would be better than enduring the Señora 's capricious wrath for the rest of his days – Michael had ignored his aches and pains and hurried along. But the pirates had moved quickly, in spite of their burdens, and he hadn’t caught up with Captain Sparrow until he arrived at the beach where the swag was being loaded into longboats. Michael had hung back, watching the pirates as they worked with great good cheer, and watching Captain Sparrow speak with a whiskered man, second in command it seemed, from their conversation. And then Michael raised his eyes and saw the ship, black against the stars.
The Black Pearl.
It made his heart swell a bit, the sight of that ship. Oh, he knew her reputation. But now her true captain had her back, Michael had heard the men of Santo Cristobal talking of it these last few weeks. And she was beautiful.
As was her captain.
He was quick and feral, too, his hand going to his knife at Michael's first tentative hail, but he quickly realized there was no threat.
"We don't take on babes," Captain Sparrow said in reply to Michael's stammered plea, but then added, "You speak English," and hope had soared anew.
“Me mum an’ da’ were Irish. They…they died in the sickness, last year. Please Captain! Take me along. I can work hard, and I learn quick. I could be your Cabin Boy!”
And miracle of miracles, they’d taken him.
Gibbs liked that he was of Irish descent. And Jack, well, maybe Jack had seen something of himself in the skinny, battered orphan boy. Whatever it was, they took him.
And Michael never looked back.
*
He must have fallen asleep, even with Charles a snoring, heavy weight against his shoulder, for he wakes suddenly in the faint light of dawn, and hears with startled dread the clank of keys and the tread of boots on stone.
Dread… and then joy! He leaps up, and when Jack Sparrow rounds the corner, grin gold and white in the dim, kohl-lined eyes both glad and accusing, he could shout his relief. But he doesn’t. "Captain!" is all he says, in a hoarse whisper – just in case.
"Shhh!" says Jack, and plies the keys.
Michael keeps silent, but when Charles comes to stand beside him, drowsy and wondering, he gives his friend's arm a little shake and says, "What did I tell you?"
Charles nods, silent and rueful.
The third key Jack tries opens the cell door.
"Out you go, you lubbers," the captain commands. "We'll need to hurry, bribery only goes so far, y'know."
"How'd you find us, sir?" asks Charles, as they move along.
"That bit of a doxie you ran into yesterday, she likes to talk. Told the entire clientele of the Rusty Goat how she'd got revenged on a couple of pirate lads. Didn't take much skill to get the whole tale out of her, once I'd taken her off to a more private location."
Michael's eyes widen. "What did you do?"
Jack gives a chuckle and says, “A gentleman never tells.”
*
He’s not chuckling when they get back to the Pearl, however. In the Great Cabin, Gibbs and O'Brien stand by ominously as Jack rakes Michael over the coals for his treatment of the girl. "You and I are going to have a long and detailed chat about the female of the species, Mr. Owens, and the proper way to treat 'em, doxie or no."
"Aye, sir," Michael mumbles, squirming inwardly and thinking, He doesn't understand!
But Jack says, sharply, "You think you're the first lad to be waylaid by the confusion of his lusts and dreams? Bollocks! And a more appropriate expletive never passed me lips, I must say."
O'Brien grins, and Gibbs winks at Michael, who can feel his cheeks heat with a shameful blush.
Captain Sparrow then turns to Charles. "As for you, Midshipman Norrington, your father left you in my charge, confident that you'd behave in a manner as befits a naval officer or that you'd pay the piper if you did not. I don't like being the piper. I don't appreciate in the least the necessity. Therefore, Midshipman Norrington, in lieu of the thrashing you so richly deserve, you are being turned before the mast for the duration of your voyage on the Black Pearl."
"For stealing an apple!" Charles blurts, very unwisely.
Captain Sparrow's eyes narrow, and his voice slowly rises to a roar. "For stealing an apple. For involving yourself in a situation that might have ended very badly, for you, for your mate here, and, above all, for your father. Savvy?"
Charles looks a bit ill. "Aye, sir."
The captain nods. "Gibbs, O'Brien: take him away. And a taste of the rope's end might not come amiss, just now and then, if he don't perform snappish-like."
"Aye aye, Cap'n," Gibbs says with a sprightly air, "rope's end it be. Come along, you young varmint."
And Charles, with a sorrowful glance at Michael, is hustled out.
Michael, now alone with the captain, faces him with some trepidation. "Sir… may I go now?"
Jack turns to him, and Michael's heart sinks a bit. And sure enough, the captain speaks the dreaded words. "Chat, Owens. Remember?' He pulls one of the big carved chairs out from the table, and with a sweeping gesture, says, "Have a seat. We’ll be a while."
~.~
ladymouse2 who requested a tale in which Jack rescues early-teen Michael Owens, my OMC who first appeared as if by magic in the second chapter of Harry & the Pirate I and quickly took on a life of his own. He and his best friend, Charles Norrington, are both about fifteen years old in this one, placing it midway between Norrington's Choice and Chalice of St. Francis . ladymouse2's request bookends a plot bunny that hatched over Labor Day, the first chapter of H&theP1 from Owens' pov...Many many thanks to
hereswith for editing this!~ Jailbait ~
"Don't worry. Jack'll come for us," Michael Owens says, quietly (for the least sound echoes disturbingly in this barren, mostly deserted prison of stone and steel) but confidently, too, in spite the fact that his captain and mentor has no way of guessing where he and Charles Norrington have gone.
That they've been locked up is the fault of both: it was Charles who'd filched the apple, but the proprietor of the stall would've been none the wiser if that female hadn't squealed, and all because Michael shoved her away not five minutes before when she'd been too insistent about him needing her "services". Maybe he does "need", what with his unruly body (some of the fellows call it a "yard", and by the saints, sometimes it feels like it, a yard or more) and his thoughts full of Charles' sister Susanna – determinedly innocent thoughts by day, but oh, his dreams, a plague and a wonder to him in the dark of night, inspiring all manner of indecencies, both unintentional and, God help him, deliberate. But he surely needed nothing from that portside trollop, blast it, any attraction he might have felt for her (for she’d been pretty enough, and round in the right places) having been spoiled by her knowing leer and too-cunning hand. Startled at her rough intimacy, and angry that she'd found something to exclaim over ("Ooo, an' what did I tell you, c'mon ducky, I'll help you wi' that!"), Michael had probably been more forceful than the situation called for, and his growled, "Get off!" had been unfriendly enough to surprise both Charles and himself. It clearly had enraged the girl, who'd known exactly what would be their lot if they were taken as thieves. He'd seen the smirk on her face as he and Charles were hauled unceremoniously off to this notorious prison, to await judgment (the magistrate having gone off on holiday until Monday) and retribution, the possible nature of which the guards kept hinting at in bloodcurdling terms.
But Jack will come. He has to.
"How will he even know where to start looking?" Charles whispers, sounding miserable and guilty. "Are you sure we shouldn't give them our real names?"
"No!" Michael says, firmly. For himself, it doesn't matter. He’s a pirate – well, privateer. But for Charles, recently made midshipman, it might spell the end of his career in the Royal Navy. "No, he'll find us, we were supposed to be back by the first Dog Watch, and you think he don't notice these things, but he does!"
Charles sniffs, but doesn't deny it. He might be Commodore Norrington's son, but Charles has seen enough of Jack Sparrow these last three years to know that in spite of the pirate's eccentricities and lackadaisical airs, the captain of the notorious Black Pearl is sharp as he can stare.
And as for Michael Owens, well, he thanks God every night and twice on Sundays for the fate that brought him into Jack Sparrow's orbit.
As Charles sighs and settles in the dark beside him, presumably to sleep, Michael gazes up at the barred window, at the stars visible in the velvet black, and remembers another night just like this, four years ago. A pitiable creature he'd been then, orphaned the year before in the last wave of Yellow Jack that swept through Santo Cristobal, skinny and shy and apparently clumsy, for the Mayor's wife, who'd taken him in, was forever finding that an excuse to thrash him.
He'd been thrashed earlier that day, in fact, the second time in a week, but it was debatable whether his backside was worse off or his foot. It was the cut on his foot, untreated and beginning to fester, that had exacerbated the clumsiness, causing him to overturn a whole tray full of sweets and coffee. How the Señora had screeched, and what a slap she'd dealt him, too. He'd known he was for it, but there was no use trying to run, his foot was too sore to allow him any speed. So he had endured as best he could, and then, locked in the cold, dark cellar, gave in to the wracking sobs he'd denied himself in the presence of his cruel mistress.
Lord, what a mess he'd been when Jack Sparrow came that night!
Jack, and all his crew, who'd heard of the treasure in Santo Cristobal, in that very house, and of the Mayor’s miserly ways and brutality as well.
Michael remembers waking in the black to the sound of screams, pistol shots, harsh voices, and a general tumult of panic.
Pirates!
Biting his lip, he'd gotten painfully to his feet and gone to the slender ground-level window that looked out on the square. It was barred, but there was plenty of torchlight outside, and Michael could see the wide area before the house plainly. Big, frightening men were herding most of the citizenry into the church to be kept under guard while the rest of the pirates had their way with the town. Not with the women, though – their captain, fierce and quicksilver, the very definition of flamboyant with his swirling coat and hair and his gravelly roar, made sure his men kept the line on that score. The pirate captain accepted the challenge of the commandant of the guard, and for a time Michael's heart was in his mouth, watching their swords flash, but he needn't have worried. The commandant might be taller, and an experienced soldier, but his skills couldn't hold a candle to the pirate captain's, supplemented as they were by some truly devious tricks.
Captain Jack Sparrow. That's what his men were shouting, the ones that weren't hauling the wounded commandant into the church.
They were getting into the house above then, the Señora could be heard screaming, the Mayor shouting. Heavy footsteps, and laughter, and Michael thought to hide himself just in time, the door to the cellar opened to let in a stream of gold, flickering light. Two pirates bearing torches looked down at the dusty furniture and trunks of old clothing.
"Ain’t worth the taking," one of the pirates scoffed.
"We'll show Cap'n, might be a good spot to stuff them pesky servants," came the reply.
They left – and left the door open.
Quiet as a mouse, but quick, Michael had made his way up the steps, peered out cautiously, and scooted into the shadowed hall.
Getting out of the house had been easy enough, unseen and unheard – though he’d doubted they'd think him of much account even if they noticed him. The air was cool and soft, and he’d hidden in some bushes by the house to watch it all. How the Mayor was dragged from the house and ducked in the well until finally, ignoring his wife's importunities to "be brave, Carlos!", he gave up the hiding place where he kept his gold. How the grandees of the town mourned as the treasure was carried away. How Captain Sparrow was the last to go, and slyly passed a small strongbox to old Muñoz, leader of the peasants who'd been allowed to hang back and witness the proceedings.
And then they were leaving. Captain Sparrow was leaving, and the rest of his men. And suddenly faced with the choice, Michael Owens had known he couldn't bear it.
Frightened, but determined – for anything would be better than enduring the Señora 's capricious wrath for the rest of his days – Michael had ignored his aches and pains and hurried along. But the pirates had moved quickly, in spite of their burdens, and he hadn’t caught up with Captain Sparrow until he arrived at the beach where the swag was being loaded into longboats. Michael had hung back, watching the pirates as they worked with great good cheer, and watching Captain Sparrow speak with a whiskered man, second in command it seemed, from their conversation. And then Michael raised his eyes and saw the ship, black against the stars.
The Black Pearl.
It made his heart swell a bit, the sight of that ship. Oh, he knew her reputation. But now her true captain had her back, Michael had heard the men of Santo Cristobal talking of it these last few weeks. And she was beautiful.
As was her captain.
He was quick and feral, too, his hand going to his knife at Michael's first tentative hail, but he quickly realized there was no threat.
"We don't take on babes," Captain Sparrow said in reply to Michael's stammered plea, but then added, "You speak English," and hope had soared anew.
“Me mum an’ da’ were Irish. They…they died in the sickness, last year. Please Captain! Take me along. I can work hard, and I learn quick. I could be your Cabin Boy!”
And miracle of miracles, they’d taken him.
Gibbs liked that he was of Irish descent. And Jack, well, maybe Jack had seen something of himself in the skinny, battered orphan boy. Whatever it was, they took him.
And Michael never looked back.
*
He must have fallen asleep, even with Charles a snoring, heavy weight against his shoulder, for he wakes suddenly in the faint light of dawn, and hears with startled dread the clank of keys and the tread of boots on stone.
Dread… and then joy! He leaps up, and when Jack Sparrow rounds the corner, grin gold and white in the dim, kohl-lined eyes both glad and accusing, he could shout his relief. But he doesn’t. "Captain!" is all he says, in a hoarse whisper – just in case.
"Shhh!" says Jack, and plies the keys.
Michael keeps silent, but when Charles comes to stand beside him, drowsy and wondering, he gives his friend's arm a little shake and says, "What did I tell you?"
Charles nods, silent and rueful.
The third key Jack tries opens the cell door.
"Out you go, you lubbers," the captain commands. "We'll need to hurry, bribery only goes so far, y'know."
"How'd you find us, sir?" asks Charles, as they move along.
"That bit of a doxie you ran into yesterday, she likes to talk. Told the entire clientele of the Rusty Goat how she'd got revenged on a couple of pirate lads. Didn't take much skill to get the whole tale out of her, once I'd taken her off to a more private location."
Michael's eyes widen. "What did you do?"
Jack gives a chuckle and says, “A gentleman never tells.”
*
He’s not chuckling when they get back to the Pearl, however. In the Great Cabin, Gibbs and O'Brien stand by ominously as Jack rakes Michael over the coals for his treatment of the girl. "You and I are going to have a long and detailed chat about the female of the species, Mr. Owens, and the proper way to treat 'em, doxie or no."
"Aye, sir," Michael mumbles, squirming inwardly and thinking, He doesn't understand!
But Jack says, sharply, "You think you're the first lad to be waylaid by the confusion of his lusts and dreams? Bollocks! And a more appropriate expletive never passed me lips, I must say."
O'Brien grins, and Gibbs winks at Michael, who can feel his cheeks heat with a shameful blush.
Captain Sparrow then turns to Charles. "As for you, Midshipman Norrington, your father left you in my charge, confident that you'd behave in a manner as befits a naval officer or that you'd pay the piper if you did not. I don't like being the piper. I don't appreciate in the least the necessity. Therefore, Midshipman Norrington, in lieu of the thrashing you so richly deserve, you are being turned before the mast for the duration of your voyage on the Black Pearl."
"For stealing an apple!" Charles blurts, very unwisely.
Captain Sparrow's eyes narrow, and his voice slowly rises to a roar. "For stealing an apple. For involving yourself in a situation that might have ended very badly, for you, for your mate here, and, above all, for your father. Savvy?"
Charles looks a bit ill. "Aye, sir."
The captain nods. "Gibbs, O'Brien: take him away. And a taste of the rope's end might not come amiss, just now and then, if he don't perform snappish-like."
"Aye aye, Cap'n," Gibbs says with a sprightly air, "rope's end it be. Come along, you young varmint."
And Charles, with a sorrowful glance at Michael, is hustled out.
Michael, now alone with the captain, faces him with some trepidation. "Sir… may I go now?"
Jack turns to him, and Michael's heart sinks a bit. And sure enough, the captain speaks the dreaded words. "Chat, Owens. Remember?' He pulls one of the big carved chairs out from the table, and with a sweeping gesture, says, "Have a seat. We’ll be a while."
~.~