Title: Prettiness
Rating: G, or PG, for mention of violence
Summary: Jack is pretty and funny. He walks funny, does weird hand motions, and it pretty some more.
Author's Note: For Silvergreen, who gave me the summary. Cross-over. Writing style influenced by Terry Pratchett (but is definitely not an imitation of his style). Also, characters contained herein are not mine, blah blah.
Prettiness
Jack is pretty, Will Turner mused to himself. He thought of all the times they had dropped anchor in some unsuspecting harbor and gone into the city to pillage, plunder, and generally engage in typical pirate behavior (the pub was always the first place to be ransacked). Women always screamed when Jack appeared, pistol in one hand, sword in the other – or pistol in one hand, drink in the other, if he had been the first one to the pub. What was odd, though, was the type of scream. Women always screamed, period. But when Jack showed up, the screams became less shrill, less panicked, less "Ahhh, a pirate is trying to catchmedamntheseskirtsandcorsets!" and more like the eighteenth-century equivalent of "Omigod! It's him!"
It says something about a person when your intended victims start chasing you.
He stared at his face in the mirror, unconsciously balancing so that he stayed perfectly upright and centered in the clear surface even though the floor beneath him swayed as the ship crashed through the waves. With a sigh, he lifted the wet rag to his face and scrubbed vigorously. Sea-salt was caked on his skin in a nearly-invisible layer of brittle crystals. It dissolved into the damp rag easily enough and stung sharply when he wiped it across the rope burn on his palm.
The several months he had been at sea had darkened his skin. No matter. He reverently pulled a small jar from under the cot that served as his bed, and held it up. It was just something that had struck his fancy on one of the raids, and he had never used it until now. He opened it and a sweet, thick smell rose from its contents.
Jack is pretty, ran through his head rhythmically. It was odd, that someone who walked with a permanent drunken swagger – as if he were standing on a ship caught in a storm though he was on dry land – could be pretty. It was odd, that someone whose words were often slurred even when he was sober could attract so much positive attention. It was odd, that someone whose hands were as spastic as his gait – twisting and moving constantly, like an insect's feelers – could be so revered for his looks.
It was odd when Jack is pretty temporarily became No one is prettier than Jack and other variations on that theme. Even among the non-pirating circles, Jack had become a symbol of prettiness. As always, the captain ignored the attention. A pirate couldn't afford to be known for his prettiness, he had said. His reputation depended on his booty. Jack and his booty are pretty had been suggested, but then it went back to Jack is pretty because that was the easiest one to whisper when you're a maid hiding in the corner during the sacking of your town.
He combed his hair back as neatly as possible, crunching the salt crystals that were hidden amongst the dark strands with his comb, a primitive-looking utensil he had carved from a piece of driftwood. He wet his knife and with painstaking care, began to shave. He fought the urge to wince at the feel of the blade scraping his skin until it was raw – wincing only gave him a nice, thin line of red on his face.
No one is prettier than Jack was making a comeback, though. It was spoken with such vehemence, such confidence, that even people who had never set eyes upon Jack Sparrow believed it. Young women in inland villages would eye their fiancées critically and mutter, "But no one is prettier than Jack." Then the young men would get mad and go hunting for someone named Jack. Thus, the name Jack in inland villages became very unpopular for a time.
When he was done shaving, he looked up at his face in the mirror. Much better. He smiled at himself, more to see what it looked like than out of vanity. He covered his head carefully, smoothing the lines down so that it fit smugly over his skull.
His eyes were getting dry already, so he blinked rapidly a few times to try and moisten them. He smoothed the sleeves of his shirt, gently. It was nice fabric, and normally more than a pirate could afford. However, this had been made especially for him, and he hadn't had to pay for it.
He snapped on his arm guards, just as a precaution. Violence was always unpredictable, and he didn't want to get hurt. He looked in the mirror and carefully brushed a strand of hair behind one ear. Then he reached for the smooth, curved wood on his cot.
"Jack is pretty," he stated, watching his mouth move in the mirror. They were easy words to say; they flowed like wine at a gathering of the wealthy. That was a problem.
He repeated it as he attached a string to the wood. "Jack is pretty. Jack is the prettiest. Jack. Is. Pretty."
He held up the strung bow, and swung his quiver onto his back, the rattle of arrows a reassuring sound to his pointed ears. His blue eyes hardened into glacial ice in the mirror and his mouth set itself in a thin, determined line. The candlelight glinted faintly off his golden hair.
"No one is prettier than me," said Legolas Greenleaf, and he strode from the cabin in search of Captain Jack Sparrow.
Endnote: Last line from Cassie Claire's Very Secret Diaries, genius work that they are.