Word Count: 408
Summary: Elizabeth muses on what binds her, Will and Captain Sparrow together
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me. I'm simply responsible for putting imaginary thoughts into their heads.
Spoilers: For the first movie, I suppose.
Notes: Set shortly after the first movie, thus no spoilers for DMC. My first entry here, and my first gen Pirates fic (usually I try to cram some femmeslashy goodness in, but not this time. woe).
Elizabeth still cringed when she looked at the angry scar that ran across her hand.
Whether she liked it or not, it was the one thing that connected her not only to Will, but also to Jack Sparrow.
Captain Jack Sparrow, rather.
She didn’t mind examining the scar on Will’s hand, and often examined it by moonlight when he would fall asleep on her lap, much to her father’s horror, after a hard day’s work in the forge. Will’s scar brought to mind heroic deeds, committed by someone who managed to be a good man and a good pirate. It was a thin, almost delicate white line crossing his palm.
Elizabeth’s, on the other hand, was uneven and red, thanks to the rusty blade that rogue Barbossa had used to slice her palm open. Will’s scar was noble; hers was a sign of weakness.
Since the day she’d been rescued from Barbossa’s clutches, Elizabeth had often found sleep to be elusive. When she closed her eyes she’d see the horrifying rotting skeletons of the crew, the Black Pearl in tatters, and that cursed monkey jumping about the ship.
And she’d feel – as Barbossa couldn’t – the fear of never seeing her father, or Will, ever again. The moldy dress she’d been forced to wear. And the stinging pain of the knife being dragged across her palm.
She would try to turn her attention to happier thoughts to relax herself. The exhilarating freedom of being on the open sea. The first kiss she and Will had shared.
Her first drink of rum, dancing around the fire on that deserted island with the mysterious Captain Jack Sparrow.
And that was her problem. No matter how hard she tried, her thoughts always returned to Jack. Wondering how he and crew of the Pearl were doing. What sort of adventures were they having without their stuffy-by-comparison English acquaintances?
And what did the scar on Jack’s hand look like? Delicate like Will’s? Thick and red like hers? Or something else – something distinctly Jack.
Elizabeth closed her wounded hand into a fist, trying to force back thoughts of the pirate captain. He was not the pirate she’d read about – he was little better than an opportunist coward who probably didn’t appreciate everything Will had risked for him.
And yet…there was undeniably a connection between the three adventurers, the captain, the pirate-blacksmith, and the governor’s daughter.
And that connection lay in the palms of their hands.