Disclaimer: I do not own anything associated with The Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl.

A/N: I'm writing this fic in response to cal's request for a Jack/Ana story, and because it seemed like a good idea at the time. It takes place right after Barbossa and the crew maroon Jack the first time. I put Jack at about 22-23 years old and Ana at 16. Enjoy!

Rum and Roses

I: Rock Covers Pistol

The man on the beach might have been named Delectable, or Roguish, or Suave, or Irresistible. He was, in every sense of the word, an extraordinary male specimen. Sprawled picturesquely on the sand, his skin tanned a flawless bronze, his finely chiseled features framed by a mane of untamed brown tresses, he was an image no female with a heart could refuse. He had discarded his shirt in the tropical heat, exposing wiry muscles and mysterious scars to the sun's warmth. Even in repose, his posture screamed of reckless courage and rapacious wit. Any woman would have swooned at the sight.

Unfortunately, there were no women on this god-forsaken, desolate bit of rock, and Jack Sparrow's charms were expended wholly on the bottle of rum in his hand. In fact, no other human could be found within tens, possibly hundreds of miles – except perhaps the mutinous crew of the Black Pearl, which had lately sailed away with Captain Sparrow's favorite lady: his ship. 

Jack's fingers closed too tightly around the bottle's neck. The glass crunched, splintered, and drove shards into his left hand. He gazed blearily at the injury, the pain reaching him slowly through a dull haze of inebriation.

"Bloody pirates," he mumbled, "Bloody rum. Bloody hand." He threw the broken bottle violently, hearing it splash into the sea a few yards away. Perhaps the turtles would get some fun out of it. As for Jack, for the first time in his life he found that alcohol failed to solve his troubles. It didn't bring his ship back, it didn't get him off this island, and it didn't drown his anger. In fact, the huge, hidden stash of rum in the middle of the island was completely useless to him.

The experience was rather disturbing. In the past, whenever Jack had a problem he simply drank himself into a stupor. When he awoke the next morning, he had always either forgotten whatever trouble had come up or was too busy nursing a hangover to care anymore. This time his usual plan of action had failed. The rum had refused to work its magic, and Jack Sparrow was all out of ideas.

He groaned and tried to wipe the blood off his hand onto his shirt. Unfortunately, his shirt was not in its usual place, and he ended up smearing blood all over his chest instead. Realizing this, he stared at his red handiwork, gritting his teeth in an effort to control the oncoming temper tantrum. The attempt, like so many things recently, failed utterly.

"Bloody pirates!" Jack yelled, jumping up and nearly falling right down again. He grabbed handfuls of sand from the beach and flung them violently in every direction. "Just wait 'til I get me hands on the lot of yeh! Mutineers! I'll see you in hell, you rabid, filthy, mange-ridden dogs! I'll see you burn! Bloody, worthless ingrates! Soulless traitors! " Bending down became too precarious, so he began to kick at the sand instead. Golden grains sprayed wildly in every direction and landed grittily on his face. Irritated, Jack drew back his foot for another mighty kick, lost his balance, and fell heavily and ignominiously onto the sand.

He lay there for a moment, wondering what had happened.

"'S all useless, love," he rambled, his drunken tongue slurring the words to near incomprehensibility, "'s gone, all of it. Got nothin' left… cap'n without a ship's like a fish in a bowl. Can't do nothing. No crew, no ship, no treasure, no life. Might as well turn myself in to the authorities right now. Once I find some."

Except, of course, that Barbossa and the whole lot of them would get away with it then. Bitter as he was, Jack was far more furious. He'd sworn revenge on his former first mate, and when he said revenge, he meant all-out, blood-splattering, scream-inducing, cosmically ironic, legendary, merciless revenge.

Unfortunately, revenge was as far out of reach as everything else. Jack threw his arms out on the sand in surrender to the tropical sun. Even the golden light mocked his helplessness. To think that Jack Sparrow, Captain Jack Sparrow, had been tricked, overwhelmed, and marooned by his own crew…

His right hand found an object. Turning his head with an effort, he saw a beautiful thing lying next to him. It was a pistol, black, with lovely gold inlays, shining in the sun like a treasure.

Something was within reach after all.

Jack sat up carefully, drew the weapon towards him and brandished it in his uninjured hand. It gleamed cheerily, the only friend he still possessed.

"Why not?" he muttered drunkenly, "I'll see them in hell. In hell. Ha. Then they'll pay. Yes, in hell." He gazed at the pistol a moment longer, then raised it to his temple. His eyes traveled up to the blue sky and an asymmetrical grin appeared on his lips. "See you in hell!" he growled incoherently as his finger clenched.

There was a loud thunk and his vision wavered for a moment. When it returned, he was still on the beach and his skull was reverberating like a drum.

"Thunk?" he asked the air, "Nay, mate. Pistols don't say 'thunk.' More like 'bang.' Or maybe 'pop.' But probably more like 'bang.' Savvy?" He caught sight of the pistol, lying by his foot with a rock next to it, and frowned. "How did you get over there?"

Slowly, he began to understand that he was not dead. The rock had attacked the pistol and knocked it from his hand before he could pull the trigger. Except that rocks didn't usually attack people or save their lives. Generally, people threw rocks.

Enlightenment burst upon him and he twisted around, scanning the beach. His eyes lighted on a person standing on the edge of the sand, in the shade of a palm tree.

"Hey!" he called, staggering to his feet and taking the pistol with him.

The person took a quick step back, spun around, and sped away towards the interior of the island. Long, black hair whirled in the hot air and bare feet flashed. Jack ran, in a more or less straight line, in pursuit. He was fast, but drunk, and the nameless visitor outpaced him easily.

Sand turned to sparse grass and palm trees. Jack sped up, feeling as if he was about to fall onto his face with every step, his feet slipping on the soft, warm ground. He had an inkling of where they were headed. There was only one place on the island worth running to, one place where people might be. An area, somewhat of a clearing, near the center of the landmass. The place where he'd found the rum.

He stumbled into the small cleared space and found twenty pistols trained on him. That stopped him in his tracks. His hands sought the air and he tried to look non-threatening, which was hardly difficult, considering that shamelessly drunk, uncoordinated men are rarely intimidating.

They were obviously pirates or outlaws of some kind, dressed in the usual wardrobe of stained shirts, leather accessories, and big, pompous hats. All of them bore swords and guns and none looked happy to see Jack. This was worrying, since Jack's first thought upon seeing them was that they must have come on a ship. And if they'd come on a ship, they would leave on one. And if they left on a ship, he might leave with them. Accordingly, he tried his best to be pleasant.

"Welcome to my island," he said with a wavering sweep of a bow, "Help yourself to the rum – take all you want – there's plenty to go 'round."

A moment of silence reigned. Then one of the men threw back his head and barked a strident laugh. He returned his pistol to his belt, walked over, and gave Jack a light shove. This proved too much for an addled sense of balance: Jack toppled over without resistance. Stunned, he lay looking up at his tormenter. The man was tall, with extremely broad shoulders, scraggly red hair and beard, a broken nose, multiple gold and silver teeth, and a host of freckles crossing his face. The expression on his face was amused rather than hostile.

"Thanks, mate," Jack growled from the ground, "Much obliged to yeh. I've been longing to fall over but couldn't quite manage it meself. Nice to know there's a helpin' hand out there."

"Least he's got a sense of humor," the man said gruffly, grabbing Jack's hand and pulling him to his feet again. "What you be doin' on our island, boy?"

"Your… island?" Jack parroted. "Ah, yes – your island. Of course. What?"

"Yes, our island. They call me Captain Moore. My ship is the Demerara, and that be her crew. This is our island you're standing on, and our rum you're drunk on."    

It clicked. Rum runners. They'd come to pick up some bottles to sell. If he played it right, they might pick him up as well. To think he'd just almost… if it hadn't been for that rock…

Jack examined the circle of faces. One of these men had thrown that rock. Why didn't he speak up? Why, for that matter, had he run away? None of the eyes showed any recognition. None of these men looked the type to randomly save someone's life and then run like blazes. Of course, it was hard to tell what such a person would look like anyway. Had he perhaps imagined the whole episode?

Then someone on the outskirts of the ring moved, and Jack knew he'd found his man. Or woman, as it were, since the person in loose men's clothes and a black bandana was quite definitely a woman. A girl, rather – she looked about sixteen. The black hair he'd glimpsed hung below her shoulders, revealing a face that might have been pretty, if he could've gotten a look at it. As soon as she noticed him watching, her eyes darted away and she retreated behind a larger, male member of the crew.

"Yeh might want to put that down, lad," Moore said.

Jack blinked and looked down at the pistol in his hand. He grinned lopsidedly. "Couldn't do much damage with this, mate. Only got one bullet in her."

Moore's expression darkened to a scowled. "Marooned, eh? What'd you do, kill a crew member? Mutiny against the captain?"

"I was the captain," Jack said coldly.

"Ah," Moore said, "That changes things. Well, Mr. – "

"Captain Jack Sparrow."

" – Captain Jack Sparrow, I suppose yeh'll be wanting passage off this rock?"  

"I would be most obliged," Jack said with his most charming smile, "very grateful, in fact."

"Got anything to pay your way?"

Jack spread his arms ironically. "I am as you see. And I'm saving the pistol for my first mate."

Moore examined him critically. "Can't say I blame yeh. Well, captains have to stick together. I'll take you on – you can work off your passage. A man can never have too many deckhands, eh?"

"My humblest thanks," Jack said with a smile. His life, it seemed, had taken a sudden turn for the better. A way off this island, a ship full of rum, a chance for revenge and – a mystery. The moment he'd spotted the girl who had saved his life via an unlikely rock, he knew he had to lay his curiosity to rest. Finding out her name, weaseling out her motivations and her history, promised entertainment and a possible challenge. If she was pretty, entertainment of a different kind might follow.

There was nothing in the world, Jack decided, better than a pirate's life.

Had elation and rum not dimmed his wits, Jack might have noticed the look that passed between Captain Moore and the girl in the black bandana. He might have seen Moore's scowl and the threat in the captain's stare. He might even have discerned the blanching of the girl's face and the fear shining in her eyes. He might have wondered a little. Even so, he could hardly have guessed the trouble in which a rock and a pretty face were about to land him.

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A/N: This chapter was Ana-lite, but there'll be a lot more of her in the next one. Stick around!