Pirates of the Caribbean Oneshots

After The Locker

Upon entering Shipwreck Cove, Jack went directly to the quarters of the Keeper of the Code. It was just after ten in the morning, and there were very few about.

The door was, unsurprisingly, locked when he tried it. "Had to make it awkward, didn't you? Where the hell did that key go?" he muttered, searching for the door key.

Ordinarily, in a city of pirates, a locked door wouldn't really be overly effective at keeping anyone out. But in this case, nobody save a select few ever dared to enter these rooms uninvited, as the inhabitants temper and dislike of being woken or disturbed were widely-known.

Eventually, Jack located the key and unlocked the door, slipping silently into the rooms beyond.

The kitchen table was in disarray, half-empty mugs of forgotten, cold tea sitting among papers and books. A neat pile of broken eggshells sat on a slightly chipped plate, an open book beside it.

The fire was dead, and the first thing Jack did was clean out the grate and relight it. Once it was warm enough, he put the kettle over it to boil water.

After clearing up a little, and making a pot of tea, he carefully let himself into the bedroom. A low growl greeted him from the Irish terrier who lay amidst the rumpled sheets.

"Oh shush," Jack muttered. Recognising his voice the dog left the bed, jumping up and wagging her tail, though didn't bark.

Once he'd fussed over Rua for a few minutes, he turned his attention to the matter of waking the sleeper, who he knew had a loaded pistol under his pillow.

Sitting on the empty side of the bed, he swiftly and gently put his hands over those of the sleeping man. Then spoke gently, urging him to wake.

The slumbering body shifted, then struggled. "Easy, easy. C'mon, wake up. It's me." Jack muttered, still restraining his wrists.

Gradually the struggling stopped and the man's eyes opened slowly, a frown forming as they focused on Jack, who let his hands fall to his sides again.

"For someone who's supposed to be dead, ye look very alive to me, Astóirín."

During the months spent on the expanse of bare sand of Davy Jones's Locker, this was the voice Jack had hallucinated more than any other. Low and slightly gravelly, with a distinct Irish accent, he'd heard this voice in his imagination a million times in that godforsaken, timeless place.

Now, hearing it, and knowing it was real, knowing that the owner of it was real, and close enough to touch, was enough to make Jack start crying. Sinking to the floor at the side of the bed, he buried his head in his hands and wept.

"Astóirín...Jackie...come here, it's alright."

Jack felt himself being pulled up onto the bed and immediately embraced almost painfully tightly. His sobs only increased at the familiar scent of whiskey and gunpowder, and the first real, meaningful human contact since being brought out of the Locker.

"Oh Dad..." he whispered into his father's hair, frame shaking. He held onto his father like a frightened child, half afraid he was imagining the whole thing.

Edward's calloused hands ran up and down the length of Jack's back before one cupped the back of his head in a tender, protective gesture.

He rubbed his back gently, murmuring softly in a fluid mix of Gaelic and English, reassuring Jack that he was safe and loved and free from the Locker.
"Sssh, Astóirín, tá sé ceart go leor... This is all real, I'm here, you're here, no Locker, no hallucinations. Tá tú ar ais. You're back. I love you."