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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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II.
�Is it dead?� It was a girl�s voice that had spoken; small, squeaky, babyish. Jack wrinkled his nose and groaned; he wanted to sit up and hit the child whose voice had pierced through his auditory shield, but he couldn�t even find the strength to open his eyes.
�Wet kitty,� the voice said again, as chipper as ever. �Dead wet kitty.� A finger poked him squarely in the ribs, achieving that where sheer willpower alone had failed: Jack sputtered, water leaking from between his lips, eyes snapping open only to screw tightly shut as the Indian sun shone directly into his pupils. Beside him, he heard the girl let out a delighted squeal: �It�s awake, it�s awake! Papa, papa! Look, look!� and other exclamations which she felt the need to repeat for impact. Jack�s desire to hit her quickly turned into the yearning to strangle her.
�Thank you, Nell,� he heard Mr Armistade�s voice reply warmly; there was a giggle, and then the sound of two (admittedly heavy) feet being sat on the ground, Peter�s low, conspiratorial whisper, another of the girl�s high-pitched giggles� the sound of waddling feet attempting to run back to him, accompanied by deep, labouring breaths; the feel of something being thrown over him, a blanket, or was it a towel? Whatever it was, it made Jack realise that he was cold, and he began to shiver, teeth chattering. Above him, the girl tutted in a way that struck Jack as being undeniably maternal.
�Poor cold, wet kitty,� she sniffed disapprovingly, and Jack had the wind knocked out of him in a horrified squeak as she suddenly jumped on him, her arms going about his waist in a bone-crushing hug.
�Eleanor!� he heard a woman gasp in disapprobation. �Just what do you think you�re doing? Get off that�� She hesitated a moment, and Jack couldn�t help but suspect that she had been about to call him by a term that, though indubitably polite enough to come from a lady�s lips, was unpleasant nevertheless. �Get off that boy,� she said instead, but all that Eleanor did was giggle and clutch tighter. Jack gasped, his eyes screwing ever tighter shut in pain as his arms reached up to bat at her round shoulders.
�Get�off�� he gasped, wheezing as his skinny limbs flailed about helplessly.
�Eleanor��
�No!� she cried, and clutched tighter still. Jack swore he heard a bone crack.
�P-P-Please�?� Abby always told him that Please was the Magic Word, so maybe if he said it she�ll go flying off him, whizzing up into the cerulean blue sky, never to be seen again.
It was a pity it didn�t work.
�My kitty-cat! Mine!�
�El�� the mother�or so Jack assumed, began once more before stopping and turning to someone else in sheer exasperation. �Mr Armistade,� she intoned, quite formally, �might you intervene? She is your daughter, after all.� So perhaps she wasn�t this Eleanor�s mother after all, but rather a governess; but if that was the case, her calling her pupil by her Christian name was something of an impertinence (not that he could actually talk), and from what little he could tell by the sound of her voice, this woman was not one to be impertinent.
�Come along, Nellie,� Jack heard Peter�s voice gently coax; �You�re squashing him, don�t you see? And you have lots of other people to hug besides Jack, you know.�
�No!� the girl said again, this time with something, a precursor to a tantrum, he suspected, ringing in her voice. �I want to hug Kitty, and hug Kitty I will.� And God forbid, but she actually squeezed him tighter at this.
Jack fast decided that he had had enough; with an effort that strained several muscles in both arms and back, his scrabbling hands found footing on her rounded, lace-edged dress, pushing up against her shoulders. The dress was of fine silk, soft and smooth against his fingertips, but Jack didn�t notice anything other than that it had an annoying habit of slipping against his skin so that, when his hands, sliding over her shoulders in an inadvertent hug, hurriedly scurried down once more, more often than not he found his hands down her dress rather than on it.
�Ah! Stop it!� Eleanor squealed, her heavy body twisting in protest against his escape attempts. �Bad kitty, bad! You�re tickling me, stop!� And spoilt, stubborn as she was, Eleanor merely increased the pressure; Jack snarled in a retaliation so feline that for a moment all onlookers agreed that he did warrant his nickname before, seized by a sudden, simple, brilliant idea (as was prone to happen to Jack), he deliberately stuck both hands into her dress, his blunt fingers scratching against her delicate skin as he tickled her, to death if need be.
�NO!� the girl whimpered, irked that the tables had been turned. Furious that her authority had been so publicly undermined, her chubby arms reached out, fingers clawing at his face; with a yelp of pain, Jack gave her flabby body one final, desperate push, and with a squeal, she fell squarely onto her backside, bonnet askew, dress disarrayed, mouth hanging open. With a deep, satisfying breath, Jack straightened up, pulling the blanket protectively over him and, blinking stupidly, surveyed the creature that had nearly killed him.
Her stockinged legs lay out in front of her, poking visibly from out of her bundled pink skirts, small feet contrasting sharply with thick calves, making her tubbiness all the more apparent. Her petticoats were white, glowing blindingly in the sun, making her skin seem sickly pale; or perhaps he was simply used to the rich ochre tones of the natives. Even Peter, who Jack had always thought of as rather pallid, seemed brown in comparison to his daughter�s English complexion. Her hands, splayed on either side of her hips the better to support her, were nothing short of a surprise; even with a child�s puppy fat, the fingers were long, slender, elegant, betraying the aristocratic lineage she had inherited from her mother.
After staring at her quivering, heavily-breathing body a little longer, Jack�s brown eyes slowly moved up to her face. Her fair hair had been pinned back in a braid that seemed to encompass her entire skull, making her round face seem all the rounder, and the cheeks were full, glowing red from both her unexpected exertions and the unaccustomed heat. Her nose, like her eyes, had the appearance of drowning, sunken as they were in that large, inflated flesh; its tip appeared abnormally small, all but insignificant in that round, childish face. It reminded Jack of those Egyptian pyramids Peter had spun him tales about, the triangular tombs of ancient kings, half buried in the sands of time� They, Jack realised with sudden conviction, must now look exactly like Nell�s nose.
After the momentary surprise had passed, the girl, still breathing heavily, screwed up her small, piggy eyes and burst into tears, causing the woman Jack believed was her governess to cry out and rush towards her, her voluminous skirts whipping Jack�s arm as she rushed by.
�Oh Eleanor!� she exclaimed, scooping the bawling baby (though she must have been about Jack�s age) into her arms; �Shh, shh my darling, shush shush� Mama�s here, my sweet, hush now�� Ah; so not a governess after all, then. A small part of Jack was sensible enough to be grateful that his assumption had been disproved before he could open his mouth and offend his new mistress. This same part was also telling him, in no uncertain terms, that Jack had been very silly and stupid, to go jumping into the sea like that, and that he must, from then on, keep his feet planted firmly on terra firma, but as always, Jack chose to ignore the sensible voice�s advice.
Mrs Armistade, in a bid at soothing her unabashedly weeping child, had retreated some distance away, a ball of pink silk and flesh, easily half her size, clutched tightly to her chest; Jack�s eyes followed the two English females with a feeling of dread gnawing at the pit of his stomach. He had a horrible vision of waking up every morning with that loud, shrill creature wrapped tightly about his waist, slowly crushing his skeleton, one rib at a time; no, he didn�t much like her at all. And as for Mrs Armistade� Here Jack hesitated, because he was unable to describe what it was that made him�well, not dislike her as such, but� not like her very much�
Shaking his head for no reason other than a desire to rid himself of jumbled thoughts his young mind couldn�t quite comprehend, Jack�s big brown eyes landed guiltily on Mr Armistade; the good officer was leaning against the railing of the ship, dressed in nothing more than his shirt and breeches, a blanket of his own flung about his shoulders. Like Jack, he was soaked to the skin; his light hair, which less than an hour before had been so carefully coiffed, hung about his face and shoulders in darkened waves of rich golden brown, and his impossibly blue eyes seemed to sparkle with a kind of fever� He raised an eyebrow when Jack�s gaze met his, as if to say, Well, boy? and as he did so, the beginnings of shame, a gnawing, acidic nausea, flooded his entrails, making Jack hastily avert his eyes.
As it happened, Jack need not have feared Mr Armistade�s anger, for Mr Armistade was one of those forward-thinking men who did not believe that there was anything to gain from blind, red, neck-snapping rage, barring a death sentence and confiscation of all worldly possessions, that is. This was not to say that Mr Armistade did not feel anger, or the urge to throttle the boy he had dived after in a last-minute rescue attempt when it was made clear the longboat would not be readied in time, simply that he did his best not to express such unseemly emotion: rage was most unchristian, children learn by example, and other such justifications. Logically Jack knew this, but even so he was but a child, and children invariably tend to think of the worst.
This last Peter knew; and so, after little Nell was carefully appeased and sufficiently contented to watch, sulking, from the safety of her mother�s arms, he approached the damp bundle that lay, curled up and shivering, in the shadow of the captain�s cabin, touched his shoulder, and gently murmured, ��You alright?�
Shyly, with his head still buried in the blanket, Jack nodded firmly, singularly. A smile tugged at Peter�s lips.
�Are you sure?�
The answering nod was more vigorous than the first. Sighing, Peter stealthily reached out and, with one fast, well-timed tug, unveiled the wet, shivering boy with a startled cry of outrage.
�Now you listen closely, Jack,� he said as he knelt down before the child, rubbing his dripping face with one of the dry corners of the cloth, �What you did today was�and I cannot stress this enough�an idiotic, imbecilic, injudicious, and above all, stupid thing to do. You should by right be birched, do you understand?�
From under Mr Armistade�s rubbing hand came a long, slow nod of apologetic acceptance. Mr Armistade made note of the boy�s apparent contrition, knowing full well that the emotion was sincere�for the present. With a sigh, Peter Armistade pulled away, surveying the little imp with grudging affection. The boy was still shivering, shivering for a fear that was as ungrounded as it was illogical.
�You know�� Peter began in a low, conspiratorial tone; out of the corner of his eye he saw his daughter, who, clearly annoyed that she was unable to overhear, turn to her mother and demand �I want you to put me down now.�
It had the desired effect; Jack�s water-clogged ears pricked in anticipation of an imparted secret, his back straightening as he leant ever closer, rivulets of saltwater running down his smooth skin to splash on the whorled wood below. �Know what?� he asked, in a low, hurried whisper. Peter continued to enticingly hold the boy�s gaze whilst in the background Nell�s demands grew ever more shrill: �Now now now now now!�
�Well�� Mr Armistade temptingly trailed off, pausing to tuck a strand of dark hair behind Jack�s ear, run a hand through his own damp locks, and call out words chosen to soothe his daughter.
�Well what?� Jack urged, his voice rising half an octave in his excitement; only then did Peter drag his eyes away from his daughter to fix on his all but adopted son a steely glare.
�Do you know Jack, I�m starting to think that, in light of your recent mischief, I ought not to tell you at all?�
Jack�s bright face fell at his master�s casual, measured words. ��W-W-W-What?� His disappointment was truly heartbreaking. Peter released an exaggerated sigh, tossed Jack back the blanket and, rising to his full height, looked imperiously down at Jack, who sat with his spindly legs splayed before him as he stared up with wide, disconsolate eyes.
�Well, you�ve been a very naughty boy, haven�t you? And I can�t go about giving naughty boys rewards.� (It seemed devoid of innuendo at the time.)
He had barely taken five steps before Jack�s arms had latched about his legs in a manner not unlike Nell�s, words tumbling from his lips as he hurried to apologise and promise and plead, the blanket trailing behind him like a makeshift tail. Grinning wickedly, Peter allowed the child to make a fool of himself for a minute longer before gently kicking himself free of Jack�s clasp and bending down to impart the knowledge he had gleaned from Mrs Armistade in the five or so minutes Jack had lain on the sunlit deck, unconscious but safe.
A/N: *Sighs* It appears that, even after the incredibly long first chapter, we�re still stuck in the �introductory� phase. This could take a while�
GigglesforJohnnyDepp: Thanks! I�m glad to hear you liked it; to be honest, I wasn�t certain how to write young Jack, so I went down the ole �aww, how cute� route. :)
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Petites Affaires