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Petites Affaires	By : Anactoria Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > General Views: 1065 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Pirates of the Caribbean movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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A/N: My take on the life-story of Jack, initially a one-shot that sprang from two �background� (or not) objects in the first and third films of the series and, er, evolved; see if you can figure out what they are. The pairings are Jack/OC(s) and Jack/Beckett, so if neither are your thing�

Warning: Pretentiousness, cute children, and casual disregard for the fourth wall abounds; continue at your peril.

Première

I.

It was in the middle of a most pleasant dream�a dream she had not dreamt in a while, the favourite of all her dreams, the one where she had finally tracked down her rake of a husband and was beating him to death with a shovel�that Abby�s eight-year-old son decided to pounce on her: He tugged at her hair and clothes, pinched her groggy, bewildered nose and cheeks and, as a last resort, took to jumping up and down on the uncomfortable mattress, happily chirping she wake up.
At that moment, Abby wanted nothing more than to kill him.
�Jack�� she mumbled, raising her hand in a futile gesture at silencing him; �Jackie, please��
She soon realised that her groaning was nothing short of ineffectual; on the contrary, it only encouraged him. Not only did his jumping increase, but Jack had also pulled off her blanket�no great loss, as with the exception of the humid monsoon season, Bombay was always swelteringly hot�and, wrapping it loosely about his wrist, proceeded to slap her unprotected face with a curling edge of scratchy wool.
�Jack�� The warning in her voice was unmistakeable; the boy giggled and, in a moment of grave underestimation, chose to ignore it, bringing the cloth back down for one final rousing smack�
Abby�s hand snapped out, fingers clawing at the merciless material, and pulled it towards her with unexpected resolution; Jack, who had of course been gripping tightly with both brown hands in anticipation of a tug-of-war, fell towards his mother�s supine body with an indignant squeak.
�Mum!� he squealed as the woman wrapped her arms tightly about him and turned on her side, eyes snapping shut as she feigned a snore, �Mama! Mum, we have to get up now!�
Abby grunted the grunt of the deservedly sleepy, her hand gently swatting his smooth cheek. ��S too early, you go sleep�� she grumbled, clutching her only child tighter.
Even at that tender age, Jack refused to be contained�even if the bars of his prison were the arms of his own mother. He curled and stretched, wriggled and kicked and generally made such a fuss that Abby was forced to admit defeat; she loosened her hold and allowed her bouncing son to pull her up into a sitting position, yawning and rubbing her eye. She looked sleepily around her, cursing unabashedly in her native tongue; Jack heard and set about to quietly repeating it, carefully filing it away in his mental collection of Bad Words. He stopped when he became aware of her glaring at him.
�Honestly Jack, it�s still dark��
�That�s �cause the shutters are closed,� he informed her with all the air of an adult patiently explaining a basic worldly fact to a particularly slow child. Abby regretted drawing his attention to this tiny detail, for fifteen seconds later, the boy had leapt over the bed and thrown the shutters wide open. The bright light of late dawn was like an explosion in the small room, searing her unaccustomed eyes; instinctively, her lids snapped shut, a hand reaching up to shield her unseeing gaze further.
�Don�t be so lazy,� Jack reprimanded merrily, crawling across the mattress to take her dark hand in his far smaller one. �You have to get up, and get dressed, and I�m very hungry, so you have to give me something to eat too.�
There were times when Abby found his childish self-centredness positively endearing, but it goes without saying that that fateful morning was not one of them; rather than smiling indulgently or playfully swiping at his head, she chose instead to sharply order he go fetch her a suitable item of clothing.
Jack was encased in a bubble of unsuppressed excitement, and therefore remained unhurt by his mother�s response; he sat down next to her, his eagerness such that he did not voice his customary protest at being sent on a girl�s errand, which fetching clothes undoubtedly was.
�Would you like an English dress?� he asked her. �Would you like one of Mr Armistade�s?�
Abby stiffened at his innocent mention of the man who, up until that very morning, had been her lover and protector, and now was nothing more than her master.
Her married master.
It was rather silly of course, she thought dully after she�d carefully described to Jack exactly which item of clothing she desired to wear and had sent him off with an affectionate kick on his worryingly skinny rump; rather silly, that she had allowed herself to feel so betrayed, so angered, so hurt, when Abby herself was but a pirate�s wife. It was really rather hypocritical of her, but then again hearts, passion, love� None of these were exactly celebrated as pillars of rationality.
�Thank you, Jack,� she said when he had returned with a wad of dove-grey cloth wrapped in his arms. She pulled the deliberately-demure fabric from out of his grip and set the bundle down beside her, than glanced disapprovingly at the dirty-nosed, tangle-haired boy with the bright brown eyes and easy, disarming smile that ten years prior had lured her away from the comforting familiarity of home and family.
�I suppose it wouldn�t be entirely unfair to assume that you chose not to listen to me last night?�
Jack�s brown eyes widened with well-practised and successfully-applied innocence. �I don�t know what you�re talking about.�
As Abby�s husband had abandoned her and their newly-born son in Bombay on the pretext of concern for her and Jack�s respective health, she had never learned to read and manipulate him as well as a wife ought to; she had, however, had the trying and tiring experience of raising Captain Teague�s son, whose resemblance to his father was such that there were times when Abby believed that if she ever encountered Captain Teague again, she would be able to read his mind with all the studied skill of eight years� worth of meticulous observation. It would therefore come as no surprise that she would know that directly confronting her son would prove fruitless, and so she chose the only avenue available to her:
With an exaggerated sigh, she leant forward, placed her elbows on her knees, her chin in her palms and, now suitably positioned, initiated a staring contest.
Brown eyes met blue in a silent clash of wills: the unspoken, ongoing war of male and female, young and old, parent and child. Needless to say, the mother won: with rapid blinking and reddening cheeks, Jack lowered his head and turned abruptly away, hopelessly hoping that this late display of contrite repentance would yet spare him from his inevitable fate.
�Jack,� Abby commanded in that voice that no child could truly disobey�at least not yet anyway; �Stop sulking and go have your bath. Hill will help you with the water at the well; Martha will no doubt boil it for you. Go on,� she said with a gesture, unconsciously imitating her despised husband; �Shoo!�
When the Honourable Mrs Armistade had finally quitted the bourgeois London lodgings that, though quite fitting for her role of dutiful wife of a rising East India Trading Company officer but, as the daughter of a peer of the realm, left much to be desired, she did so with the cold knowledge that her removal to India would at least allow her to discover for herself if the rumours were fuelled by anything other than malicious jealousy and the appetite for scandal that high society was so very fond of.
The rumours that Peter had found amongst the locals a concubine, and had fathered on her a boy, about Eleanor�s age.
Mrs Armistade was of course no fool, having been raised to respect the fact that, unchristian and unseemly though it may be, it was very probable that her future husband would take for himself a mistress.�And if one was to consider the overall character of Mrs Armistade, one would find such probability of infidelity shift unflatteringly into certainty. The second-youngest child of the Viscount Broughton, wedged as she was between her glamorous older sister and priestly younger brother, it had seemed as though Fate was determined not to grace Mrs Armistade with any distinguishing talents or qualities right from the off. (Other than her noble birth and whatever dowry her father saw fit to bestow upon her when she had come out and come of age, provisions that were the birthright of every woman of the Hon. Mrs Armistade�s rank.)
This would, of course, be the perfect opportunity for one to describe the Hon. Maria Henrietta Armistade née Broughton in full and wince-worthy detail, had it not been for the remarkable fact that the Hon. Mrs Armistade could best be described as indescribable. Though numerous adjectives had been applied to her sister, some English, some French, all flattering, Henrietta, as she was known to those who were intimate enough to address her by anything other than Mrs Armistade, had had to drudge through her debutante years dismissively alluded to as �the younger Miss Broughton�, �the other Miss Broughton�, �the sister of the most fair/beautiful/celebrated/charming/respectful/well-mannered/Honourable Miss Broughton.� (Unlike Maria Frances, she was not even granted the courtesy �Honourable� that, as the daughter of a viscount, should by right be hers.)
With such an insurmountable void between the gifts and charms of the two sisters, it was only to be expected that Henrietta would (justifiably) be consumed by an envy and resentment that would thus allow her to be described as envious and resentful, but alas, she was not, and hence one cannot apply these adjectives to Henrietta without gravely perjuring oneself. But neither was she indifferent to the companions, suitors and general attention Frances was bombarded with, and thus could not be classed as indifferent either. She was, in short, a conundrum; neither tedious nor insignificant enough to skip altogether, nor intriguing nor integral enough to our tale to warrant the three paragraphs wasted on describing her indescribability, but such was life.
And so, we now proceed to the Hon. Mrs Armistade�s daughter, a ball of blonde hair and pink flesh that had yet reached her eighth year and who, unlike her infamously indescribable mother, could in short be described in one word: fat. (Cruel, but true.)
From the daughter we now look to the son, a beanpole of a boy who has already spent ten summers in this world, the majority of which he apparently devoted to growing taller still. He had more of his father than his mother about his features, which was a most fortunate circumstance, as not only was Lieutenant Peter Armistade considered by most to be classically and devastatingly handsome, but he was therefore classically and devastatingly handsome enough to be described as such, and by extension the same could be said of his son, thus saving a good paragraph that would otherwise be devoted to painting the physical attributes of the eyebrow-raisingly absent Armistade patriarch. (�Two birds with one stone�, as they say.)
And thus were the Armistades described in wince-worthy, if not entirely full, detail, and one can breathe a sigh of relief as the narrative attempts to move seamlessly from clumsily depicting the respective characters of the characters to the fateful morning that followed the last night Abby laid with her beloved Peter, the morning the Hon. Mrs Armistade arrived with her husband�s flaxen-haired sprogs in the East India Trading Company-controlled port-city of Bombay, the very same morning on which Jack had pounced upon the mother that had returned to the servants� quarters for the first time in five years to lie on the alien mattress and cry herself to sleep, etc., etc.
(A careful and respectful author would, of course, seize this opportunity to describe the emerald-sapphire waves that quickly metamorphosed into diamond-like swells which lapped against the hull of the Company ship as it pulled into the not-so-long-ago Dutch port; or perhaps the blinding glow of the sun as it beat down upon the bonnet the Hon. Mrs Armistade was attempting to tie under her squealing daughter�s fat, dribbling chin; or even the breeze that swayed the Indian palms as surely as it guided the vessel into port, but this tale was of no interest to such an author, and so we must make do with one who, upon being asked to describe clothing, appearances, location, weather, food, political systems etc., simply reddens and bawls �Use your bloody imagination!�)
The morning on which our tale begins dawned crisp and clear, even if for no other reason than that the author is unable to think outside of various clichés: Abby, dressed demurely in the blue-grey dress her baby had fetched for her earlier that morning, clambered out of the open cart with the hindering help of her gallant son and kept her eyes lowered, thus avoiding the pained, hungry stare that Mr Armistade made no visible attempt at concealing.
To keep her thoughts away from Peter, Abby entertained herself by eying her bouncing son with a growing feeling of suspicious dread. She understood�or rather, she believed she understood, the reason for Jack�s irrepressible excitement: she could vaguely recall a period in her childhood where even the slightest disturbance to a well-established routine, a change of furniture perhaps, or indeed, people, brought with it an overwhelming curiosity and impatience to see for herself what next would happen. This same feeling was undoubtedly coursing through her only son at this very moment, but even so, childish excitement alone could not account for his overflowing joy. She naturally suspected that a prank had been planned.
�It is the most delightful sight, is it not?� Mr Armistade had sidled up to her, his tone wistful as he followed her gaze to where Jack sat on the edge of the dock, recently-cleaned but already-dirtied shoes dangling some three feet above the rippling water; his hand reached out for hers as he spoke, clutching her palm tightly.
Though she hated him, or rather, though she tried to hate him, Abby could not pretend that his sentiments were anything other than genuine. When Peter had left London, he had left behind two children, one a longed-for successor and heir, the other a dynastic pawn; when Abby, who had eked out the last of the not ungenerous �payment� that Captain Teague had left her three years prior, had heard tell of a domestic position of maid and had thus applied for it, Mr Armistade had found himself charmed as much by her beauty and musical manner of speech as by her comically misbehaving son: When told to be quiet, Jack had laughed; when ordered to thank, he had insulted; and finally, after Abby�s doomed interview was concluded, it was discovered that Jack had attempted to make off with a rather expensive candlestick.
Rather than report them to the appropriate authorities, Peter had hired Mrs Teague at once, and in the years that followed it had brought him a secret joy to converse, teach and play with the errant child he slowly came to regard as his own. So strong did this belief take hold that, unbeknownst to Abby, Peter had encouraged Jack to write to his own son as though they were brothers, and these secret missives were smuggled into the Armistades� London home in the thick wad of papers that the officer sent to England on a monthly basis. This correspondence had continued for about a year, though it must be said that Peter had had to transcribe several of the boy�s letters himself, as Jack was still learning his letters, though he did try. And now, after thirteen months of slow reading and slower writing, Jack would finally see the face of the boy who had so dutifully replied to all of his messages, hence his early rise and general bounciness.
All in all, Peter was looking forward to the arrival of his small and beloved family: he did not fear cold, snide treatment of Jack and Abby, at least not from Jason; and Nell, being but a baby, would of course follow her brother�s lead, and Henrietta would naturally comply with his wishes. As a matter of fact, Peter�s only fear was that his wife, upon learning that her son had befriended the child of her husband�s ill-hidden mistress (whom she must surely have heard of, gossips being what they are), would succumb to a fit of hatred and betrayal. He may not love Henrietta, but he had never wished to do her harm; which was why, after receiving his wife�s third plea to join him in the growing Empire�s far-flung post, he had chosen to grant her polite and unfortunately reasonable request, and end the liaison with the woman he loved. Peter Armistade did not have in him the cruelty required to parade his lover before Henrietta, who after all had been as good and dutiful a wife as any Christian man could hope for.
�Jack,� the gentleman called, strolling towards the child with Abby tugged reluctantly behind him, determined to offer the boy some last-minute advice; the dark speck that marred the horizon had at last focused, and if one squinted, one could just about make out the gleaming paint of the word Intrepid, the newest and fastest ship owned by the Company. It was said that Thomas Beckett, whose twenty-odd year reign had seen the Company expand and prosper through a mixture of casual violence and carefully-cultivated London acquaintances via his wife, a certain Hon. Frances Broughton, had designed the ship to his own specifications. Considering how only sheer luck had dropped the East India Trading Company into his lap (if it hadn�t been for the death of a cousin, Thomas would no doubt be earning his bread as a Company-employed shipwright), Peter supposed that this was true.
�Jack, come on,� Armistade repeated firmly as the lad made a show of paying no heed; �you don�t want my wife and children�s first impression of you to be one of a scruffy-clothed, tangle-haired, dirty-nosed rapscallion who thinks nothing of his appearance?�
�But I am a scruffy-clothed, tangle-haired, dirty-nosed rapscallion what thinks nothing of his appearance,� Jack sung happily back, and to prove it he promptly pushed himself off of the dock and into the water.
�JACK!�
Though Abby had rushed to Peter�s side, neither knew�nor cared�who had cried out: they were of course far too frantic to worry over such trivialities. Abby was just preparing to throw herself in after her son, but Peter caught her in his arms before she could do so, and clutched tightly to her as she struggled and cursed. At any other time, such contact would provoke her legs into trembling, her stomach into turning; but now that her only child had all but drowned himself, such palpable sexual tension would therefore be most inappropriate. Conditions being what they were, Peter merely clung tighter to her arms, alternating between half-hearted attempts at soothing her and ordering his footman to fetch that stupid, reckless boy!

Unbeknownst to either Peter or Abby, Jack had been learning to swim: there was a boy in the charity school he attended at the local church, Stuart, whose father was a fisherman, and every day after school (if sitting in a �classroom� meekly pretending to read a book or doodling when he ought to be concentrating on his sums could be called that), Stuart would take Jack home to his father, and what followed would be an hour�s worth of splashing about in a river miserably failing to float. Naturally, both master and mother were aware of where he was, but they had simply assumed that the boys went to play whatever it was that boys played in the sunshine. Far be it for them to entertain the thought that a visit to the fisherman could prove to be educational.

Although Stuart had been a fisherman�s son, it was Jack who proved to be the natural proficient: he supposed he ought not to be surprised, as his mother was after all the widow of an English merchant sailor or the like� Anyway, after three months, Jack had announced he�d grown bored of swimming from one bank to the other. He proposed they tackle the sea.
His suggestion was met with a patronising smile and shaking head. Affronted, he had asked what was wrong with his suggestion, only to be told that the sea was too dangerous for a beginner such as himself. This was of course completely illogical, and Jack proceeded to tell him so: after all, the rivers were populated with poisonous snakes and bloodthirsty leeches and snapping crocodiles and fire-breathing water-dragons and flesh-eating water-daisies and carnivorous chipmunks and eyeball-eating elves and swimming knives and�
�Well this river ain�t,� the fisherman interrupted once Jack had ranted in this vein for what he deemed long enough. �Now get into the water boy, yer kick needs some tendin� to.�
And to make matters even more frustrating than they really needed to be was the minute detail that, very rarely in his day-to-day routine did Jack come across the vast, unending, undulating ocean. (Not that he actually knew what undulating meant, of course; but he�d once overheard a rather pompous officer, newly-sent down from a place called the West Country, attempting to compose a letter aloud, and he�d said, �It is indeed a sad and unfulfilled life led by the man who has never set eyes on the vast, unending ocean, the waves of which swell and undulate with all the hypnotic seduction of a heaving, generously-proportioned bosom of a blue-skinned Irish milkmaid�� Jack had thanked the officer for extending his vocabulary by placing a large dead spider in his breakfast tea the next morning.)
It should go without saying that, ever since Jack�s suggestion of swimming in the sea had been so casually dismissed, swimming in the sea was all he then thought about; which was why, when Mr Armistade and Mama�er, Mum�had announced that Mr Armistade�s family would be coming to stay with them, and that they were to greet them on the docks as and when their ship made port, Jack had promptly run around the breakfast table, squealing in excitement. It was also why, after helping his mother step down from the cart, Jack had skipped down to the end of the jetty, fully intending to dive into the ocean�s welcoming waves and prove to all of them�Mama, Mr Armistade, Stuart, the fisherman who was Stu�s father whose name he could never quite remember�that he could swim in the sea and not drown.

Such enthusiastic ideas were quickly squashed when Jack skidded to the end of the jetty and looked down: down into the water that hissed like a den of cobras, each swell providing a glimpse of venomous fangs; down into the waves, soaring up like reaching fingers to drag him to a watery grave�
After thinking about the sea in this manner for a little longer, Jack swiftly came to the conclusion that perhaps jumping into the ocean wasn�t the best of ideas.

But what if you never get another chance? a voice whispered in his ear, its breath causing Jack to shudder and reach up to rub his lobe; You said it yourself: you never see the sea� It�s very unfair, you know it is� And you are a very good swimmer�

The strangely solemn imp continued to alternately whisper words of seduction and encouragement as Jack sat down with his legs dangling over the edge of the wooden jetty, and as it did so the ocean seemed to calm before his very eyes; he could sense her arms opening wide in anticipation of his leap, heard her reassuring hiss: Don�t worry; I�ll catch you�

And then Mr Armistade had come trotting along, his kind blue eyes sparkling as he insisted that Jack make himself more presentable, and it was only then that the boy knew, once and for all, that he wanted to feel the ocean�s cool embrace�
And besides, he thought wickedly as his body tensed in expectation, not even his mother could make him presentable in wet clothes and shoes. And so he jumped.
The world seemed to slow as he fell the five feet or whatever distance it was; and in that agonising fall, thoughts flashed in his mind, jostling one another in their eagerness to terrify him: What if there were sharks? What if there were water serpents? What if carnivorous sirens reached up and pulled him down with their curved talons, baring their teeth in anticipation of fresh meat�
But then his feet had pushed through the surface of the restless ocean, and after a few seconds of kicking and struggling to return to the flickering daylight, after Jack�s head had broken the surface and he had settled into bobbing gently up and down as he trod water, a feeling of calm, of triumph, exploded within him. This wasn�t difficult or dangerous at all, he thought as his mother screamed and his father�sorry, Mr Armistade�ordered a handful of Company men and bystanders to �Fetch that stupid, reckless boy!�
Blinking, Jack looked up into the shadow of the overhanging jetty and, laughing, flipped onto his back, pulling himself into the sunlight with one backstroke after another. The water reached through his clothes to pulse, alive, against his skin in a way that the river never had, making its submission to his strokes and kicks all the more delicious as he splashed and laughed his way towards the open ocean.
No words could truly describe the euphoria, the triumph, the amalgamation of his mind, body and soul, the first time he swam in the clear blue waters whose coolness contrasted starkly with its sun-warmed surface. This certainly wasn�t for want of trying, as Abby and Stuart (and Abby) and Peter (and Abby) and Jason (and Abby again) could testify: Jack chatted of nothing else over the weeks that followed, and he described it thusly: �You know that feeling you get when your ma becomes mistress to a wealthy and important gentleman, and you wake up in your own bed with cotton sheets, and a servant comes in and pours you a hot bath, and you only wash because Mum makes you, and then the servant asks you what it is you want for breaking your fast, and you tell �em, and they go away, and they come back with it on a plate and some water and put it on your desk and leave again, and then you wait until they�re out of hearing before shouting �HA! I control the Breakfast Monkey!� for the very first time in your life? Well it feels just like that, only much more better.�
Chortling happily, Jack pulled in a deep breathe and submerged himself beneath the waves, his brown eyes snapped tightly shut as his arms flailed pointlessly. He wanted to see how long he could stay there, struggling valiantly not to slip too far away from air, light, life, beneath the spray and shifting waves; the kingdom of fish and mermaids, whales and sharks�

SHARKS!

And with this sudden spurt of panic, Jack kicked up to the surface, gulping in gasps of blessed air. He hadn�t actually seen any sharks, of course, but the realisation that they were there, somewhere, in the vast, undulating ocean with him� He shook his head, dark brown hair clinging to his face and neck like ebony ink, and turning clumsily in the water, faced the outlines of the dock and jetty. His heart sank as he saw just how far he�d allowed himself to drift� But that hardly mattered; surely only good could come of the practice� Setting his pointed jaw, Jack squared his shoulders, unsquared them as the movement caused him to bob dangerously downwards and, face screwed in concentration, began to make his way towards the shore.
It didn�t take him long to realise that such a feat would prove to be impossible. Frowning, Jack flipped from lying on his front to treading water with his hands and feet, �resting� as he attempted to piece together a last-minute plan. So far, this consisted of nothing more cunning than keeping his head above the water and shrieking, �Mum! MUUUUUUUUUUUUM!��but then again, he was but eight.
He could make out Peter lunging to grab his mother�s shoulders as she started forward, cursing him as two Company men, presumably on Mr Armistade�s order, seized each of her arms and pulled her a safe distance away from the jetty�And then Mr Armistade had turned to face him, shouting words of advice and reassurance; the longboat was all but ready, he said, and urged him to continue to fight against the current, which he was doing so very well for a little boy�

Currants, Jack thought numbly as he struggled to follow Mr Armistade�s advice. He liked currants; only had them once though, in England, when he was about six. Mr Armistade returned to his homeland on an annual basis, seeing to business and, of course, his family, and a couple of years ago, he had decided to bring Abby and her son along with him. Presumably he wished to introduce his English family to his Indian one, Jack neither knew nor cared, but he must have lost his nerve, because then Peter and his Mum had an argument (furnishing Jack�s mental directory with a good deal of Bad Words in the process); Mr Armistade had stormed off, and in retaliation Abby had made many friends amongst Mr Armistade�s male staff (which didn�t make Peter very happy, though Jack couldn�t fathom why). Anyway, Abby and Mr Armistade grudgingly realised that despite what they may have told one another, they still loved the other passionately, and therefore had no desire to separate just yet; Peter came back to Abby, and they talked for a very long time, and the next day Mr Armistade took Jack for a walk through the local village near his country estate, and had bought Jack his first and only currant bun, and Jack had liked it very much, but that hardly mattered, as he was going to die now.
For reasons which, on reflection, really weren�t reasonable at all, Jack opened his mouth to scream, swallowing impossibly large mouthfuls of saltwater in the process; coughing and sputtering, he whimpered and, abandoning all that the fisherman had taught him, flailed his arms and kicked his feet in an attempt at remaining above the surface; and all the while he heard his name, loud, frenzied, growing ever more distant�
His arms felt incredibly heavy, as though a cunning siren had slipped up behind him and strapped weights of lead to his wrists, and his ankles, and his nose, and now he was falling, slipping, drowning� Down, down, down, the water sliding up his nostrils, stinging his eyes, forcing its way into his throat, and then�
Silence.
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Petites Affaires