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The Scythe's Song	By : hallowedmaiden Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > Het - Male/Female > Jack/Elizabeth Views: 2815 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own POTC or the characters and I do not make any money from this story.

Chapter List
- 8
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The lingering smell of Drakkar Noir punctured her dream consciousness until she was roused awake, and found that rather than what she normally woke up to, being snuggled next to Jack, he had his head cradled in the crook of her neck, his arm slung over her possessively, the rest of his body pressed against her underneath the blanket.
Unwilling to shift him just yet, she reached for her phone slowly, checking the time.
10:30.
The light was blocked from coming in the windows since she had closed the blinds the night before, and she had evidently been too far gone to turn the red lights off. It gave the room a strange feeling, as though it was stuck on a different plane of existence. She grabbed the remote to switch them off.
Closer was still playing in her head on and off as she lay there, reflecting. She knew that Jack was going to have something to say about last night, perhaps not right away, but once he gained enough presence of mind.
He had always warned her against making him lose control because he was terrified of hurting her, and the handful of times that she had done it, she had woken to a panicked Jack interrogating her about whether he had hurt her or not. It usually took a little bit of convincing to make him believe that she always knew what she was getting into and that she loved bringing him to that state of basic instinct.
Because right now, having him laying against her, completely satiated, vulnerable, was something that made her feel an indescribable feeling of special, as though she was the most precious thing in the world to him.
His hair was mussed up, some of it tickling her face. Slowly, delicately, she raised her shoulder a bit, hoping that it would be enough to wake him up.
Not only did it not wake him up, he tightened his arm around her and snuggled his face further into her, as though he was afraid that she was going to get up and leave. She sighed, raising her eyes towards the ceiling.
He made an adorable little whine of protest when she shifted more, his head falling down onto the bed. She giggled when he groaned into the mattress.
"Whattime'sit," he mumbled, still very much half-asleep.
"10:30, also known as time to get up."
"'S not, be quiet."
"You be quiet."
"'M gonna go back t' sleep…"
"Mmm, I could let you do that," she said, leaning down to plant light kisses on his shoulder, "but I could also tickle you."
"'S not nice."
She grinned, brushing her fingers over the hollow of his hip, where she knew he was the most sensitive, and lightly twitched them. He reached down and tried to swat her hand away, jerking his head back and forth.
"Lizzie," he whined, whimpering into the mattress.
"Gotta get up, then I'll stop."
"Don't wanna get up. M' comfortable."
"Oh yeah?"
He slammed a fist down when she attacked the other hip, digging her fingers in aggressively.
"S-stop, Lizzie, that bloody tickles."
"Are you going to get up?"
"No."
"Well then-"
He cut her off when he tugged on her arm, pulling her down next to him. Shifting onto his side, he gathered her closer and kissed the living daylights out of her.
"Mmm, morning darling," he purred when he broke away.
He brushed his hand down her side, settling on her hip, and she waited for the pin to drop.
"I have something cool for the truck...think you're sneaky, hm?"
"Hey, it worked, didn't it?
"Uh huh."
"What, you didn't like my outfit?"
"Liked it a little too much, I think. You enjoy playing with fire, don't you?"
"Sometimes," she said, smiling at him. A second later, his face grew serious, and he cast his eyes downward. There it was.
"I didn't hurt you, did I?"
She reached out to stroke her thumb across his cheek.
"No, Jack, you didn't. Like I have told you before, I-"
"-always know what you are getting into. I know."
"Then don't worry about it. I like it when you're a little rough."
"Well, stripping me to that song, then throwing me on a bed and teasing me mercilessly will certainly do that. When did you pick up that outfit anyway?"
"When I was out shopping with Chris the first day I was here. There was this little lingerie shop that I found, and I just had this strange urge to go in."
"Strange urge? Right."
"Chris is the one that told me about the special lighting in here, and the speakers you have."
"Well, remind me to give him a medal or something."
"The look on your face when you saw me was priceless. I wish I would've had a camera."
"It's not my fault that you looked like a seductress straight from the land of 'drive Jack Sparrow out of his mind'."
She grinned at him as he threw the covers back and stretched, before getting out of bed and throwing on a pair of boxers, a pair of black jeans, and a plain gray t-shirt.
"Time to work some shit out about this evidence thing, then?" she asked as she scrolled through her phone to her and Ringa's message window.
"Yeah, Chris and Shawn both figured some stuff out. Meet us out on the back porch when you get dressed."
"Okay."
'About to make progress on the job. Keep your phone next to you in case I want to put you on a speaker call.'
'Put me on a speaker call anyways. I want to meet Jack in some kind of way before the end of time.'
'Fine. Talk to you in a little bit.'
She chose a pair of cut-off white capris and a black shirt that had 'FUCK OFF' written on it in big white letters, purchased purely for the novelty, and because fuck off occupied much of her inner monologue most of the time.
She walked onto the back patio with the bottle of Carter's root beer that she had found in the fridge, finally getting her first view of the pool. The tile was an iridescent black, and it had black marble sides.
It was gorgeous, much like the rest of his house.
"About time you join us. Want a slice of pizza?"
She eyed Shawn and the pizza that he was holding out.
"No one fucking eats cold pizza besides you," Jack commented, taking a drag of the cigarette that he had in his hand.
"Yeah, and no one but you eats Taco Bell like it's about to be against the law."
"Fuck you, I'll eat my chipotle grillers 8 days a week as long as it pisses you off. And you fucking put pineapple on your pizza too. Gross."
"How about you both get each other drunk one night and force feed the other Taco Bell and pineapple pizza respectively. Maybe you will kill each other in a disgusted rage so I can have the house to myself," Chris chimed in, leaning back in his chair with a smirk on his face.
"I am actually fairly certain the house would go to me. Sorry Chris," she said, sitting down in the only empty chair, placing her phone on the table.
"See, at least someone knows what's up," Jack said to the other two, stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray.
"She certainly knew what was up last night," Shawn muttered, then his head shot up with an 'oh-fuck-I'm-suicidal' look on his face.
A quiet 'wow' came from Chris, and Jack looked around at Shawn like he had half a mind to drown him in the pool, pizza included.
These were the men that she was stuck with for an undetermined amount of time.
Lovely.
"You're just jealous that you can't find a woman to put up with you for more than five minutes."
"I'm surprised she puts up with you for more than two."
"Guys, or should I say boys, could we get this show on the road? For all we know, the Yakuza have already murdered the entire Japanese government by now. Chris, what did you find out?"
"Scotland Yard, or the New Scotland Yard, as they have taken to calling themselves, is located on the shore of the River Thames. Next to it is the Department of Health, and it's surrounded by four roads. Traffic in the area is fairly heavy due to its proximity to Buckingham Palace."
"I am still a bit confused on why the fuck a box of evidence that is being used to frame a cartel by the fucking Yakuza is being housed in Scotland Yard. Sounds like someone fucked up in geography class," Jack said, scrolling through his phone.
She snorted at him when he tapped once on the screen, the phone starting to ring on speaker.
After a few seconds, an irritated female voice answered on the other end.
"Hello?"
"Suzuki, how is our favorite assassin?"
"...Jack."
"Oh, by our, I mean my girl, Chris, and Shawn. Say hi to everyone."
"Your...girl? You mean that little tart from the club in India?"
All three of them could tell that Jack briefly contemplated canceling the entire evidence plan to track her down and strangle her. The screen of his Xperia should have at least started on fire with the way he was glaring at it.
"...Yes, Suzuki."
"Whatever, what the fuck do you want?"
"First of all, how is Handa's health?"
"His heart's beating."
"Not quite what I wanted to hear."
"I'll get to it. Why did you call me?"
"I want you to explain to me why this box is in Scotland Yard."
"Good timing, since I just found out myself. Normally it's either at the Tokyo PD or the Federal District Police in Mexico City, but apparently, the Yakuza has a couple of...friends at Scotland Yard that were willing to keep the evidence out of the way to avoid tampering."
"Crooked cops. What a shock."
"Such is the way of the world. Everyone is crooked."
"Right."
He hung up on her, sliding the phone away from him in annoyance.
"So escape by car from the building is a no-go then…," he said to no one in particular.
"Actually, doing anything in or around the building is probably a no-go," Shawn cut in. "The place itself is always crawling with people, and there are cameras everywhere. The evidence room is all the way in the back, have to go through the entire place to get to it. Too risky."
"That's what I was afraid of. And I don't suppose the British government would take too kindly to mowing a bunch of police officers down with an AK…"
"No, probably not," Shawn said. "The best bet would probably be getting them to extract the evidence to a different location. Then we could intercept it mid-transport."
"Jack, are you sure that Suzuki can handle killing Handa?" Chris asked.
"She'd better. That's a thorn that I do not need in my side. And how in the fuck are we going to get them to do that?"
"I think I can help with that," she said, taking a sip of her root beer.
She dialed Ringa's number. Her sassy-sounding voice answered.
"Liz, hola. How can I be of service to you and the fine gentlemen?"
"Ringa, nice to meet you. We actually-"
"Follame, his voice is nice, Liz. Like velvet-"
"Ringa!"
Jack was staring at her phone, his mouth still frozen around the last syllable, a curious expression on his face.
"...And what else has Lizzie been saying about me?" he asked leaning forward, sending her a devilish look.
And of course, Ringa answered without hesitation, an equally devilish tone in her voice.
"Oh, she talked about how nice your hair is, muy sedoso, how much of a sweetheart you are, and how cute you are when you wake up in the morning."
She sank further down in her chair with every single thing that Ringa said, trying to cover her face with her hands.
"Mmm, it's times like these that make me glad I know more than one language."
"Fuck me," she muttered between her fingers. Ringa was chuckling away, and Shawn and Chris were doing all they could do to stifle their laughter.
"Solo bromeo, Liz. So, what task did you have in mind?"
"We need to find a way to get the evidence transported out of Scotland Yard."
"Ooh, a bit of subterfuge, I'm in. What are you thinking? Impersonation?"
"More like...emergency crisis," she said, glancing at Jack, who nodded in agreement. "Good thing you packed a bag. Think you can be here by tomorrow night?"
"Sure, the flight from New York to London only takes about seven hours. I can leave in the morning."
"Perfect, see you then."
"Si, then I can tease you about your lovely man in person."
She hung up before Ringa could say any more.
"So, from the way I see it, the only way they will even consider moving that box is if they are forced to. Ringa is quite good at causing a panic. She has helped me get out of sticky situations plenty of times by making the surrounding area enough of a clusterfuck for me to escape undetected."
"Well, there are certainly plenty of things that would panic them enough. Bomb threat, terrorist threat, anything that would potentially fuck the building up," Chris said.
"Ringa can pretend to be pretty much anyone we need her to be. Police dispatch, medical dispatch, the government, etc. That will leave Jack and I open to intercept without being previously involved."
"And what are Chris and I going to do? Sit here and twiddle our thumbs?"
"You're going to find a way to get into the city's traffic cameras, Chris. I need eyes everywhere when I am flying down the highway doing 105. And Shawn, you are going to make the McLaren drivable here, and make damn sure that every single fucking thing in that car is in pristine condition."
"Okay, but-"
"And you are going to do the same thing to the Viper. That's what she's gonna drive."
"Fine."
"Could the two of you maybe clear out for a little while? I think her and I deserve a day alone in the house before all of this shit gets started."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever, enjoy yourselves," Chris said, shaking his head.
Both she and Jack got up at the same time, her intention being to find something to eat. Her plans were cut short when he caught her and spun her around, enclosing her in his arms.
"So, you called me a sweetheart, hm?"
"Maybe-"
"And you think my hair is silky?"
"Well, it is-"
"And I'm cute when I wake up?"
"You certainly were this morning."
"There is a difference between being cute and being so tired from the night before that I could sleep for a week."
"I didn't know that it was possible for the great Jack Sparrow to get tired out."
He tilted his head down and gave her a little chuckle, before pulling her closer.
"Congratulations, then. You have achieved the unachievable."
She snuck her hands under his shirt, enjoying the warm feeling of his skin.
When they had drunk from the Fountain, all of their scars, every mark that they had gained from battle, or from other misfortunes, had vanished, leaving their skin smooth, unblemished. The two bullet wounds on the left side of Jack's chest were gone, his "P" was gone, though she could still perfectly picture it if she were to look at his wrist, the spidery scar that went down his right arm was gone, and the scars that he had revealed to her during their first time making love, the whip marks on his back, were gone.
When she had asked him whether anything had changed because of it, he had told her that he hadn't been ashamed of any of them before, more indifferent than anything, but he did feel like a piece of his history was being taken away, the evidence of everything that he had done. Now it was truly only his word that people had to believe.
It had reminded her of their first time alone together, being marooned on that island. She had questioned him about whether or not all of the stories about him were true, after hearing that he had not, in fact, spent a very long time on the island, and he had shown her his bullet wounds, his pirate brand, and the scar on his arm.
That gesture, that one simple reveal, had laid some of the foundation that had shaped her worldview from there forward. The stories, the myths that are told about a person, tall tales, and exaggerations, could often be so to hide the true horror of what really happened. She had often wondered if Jack himself had purposefully made the stories about him seem fantastical to accomplish exactly that.
She had informed him that she was sure they would amalgamate a whole new plethora of scars eventually. And they had. He had a scar from a gash made by a knife running across the bottom of his rib cage on the right side, though it was so thin that one really had to look hard to see it. He had a new bullet wound on his thigh, but that one had also faded quite a bit since she had seen it last. On his left bicep, he had a scar from a piece of car window getting embedded in his arm in '72. It had been a rather violent car accident, and he had been lucky to walk away with the small injuries he did have.
A small thin line wrapped around her ankle when she had been caught with a switchblade, and she had a very thin line on her neck from a knife.
"So, what's the plan for today, since we have the house to ourselves?"
"Oh, I don't know, maybe a dip in the pool?
Glancing around him at the object in question, a mischievous smile spread across her face.
"A 'dip in the pool' sounds too innocent for us."
"Oh, come on now love, I just said I was tired."
"You and I both know damn well that the only way you would actually turn down having sex with me is if you are dead or dying, and I am still mildly unconvinced about that last one."
He nuzzled her face with his, snickering.
"Careful, I might just throw you in."
"I'll take you down with me, mark my words, Captain Sparrow."
That earned her a straight up laugh.
"I have no doubt about that, my fierce Pirate King."
She wasn't a woman that normally cared for emotional mundane things that normal people spent days in and days out trying to strive, reach for, but now that something of hers, something that she considered dear to her, had been taken, there was nothing more vital than regaining that bit of normality in her life.
As an assassin, it was important for her to stick to one talent, rather than branching out, and that was the only reason that she had hired Jack Sparrow to retrieve the evidence. Dabble in too many things, and you get spread too thin. The focus, the drive, becomes muddled, like a soup with too many ingredients.
That, and she knew that he was more than capable of doing the job. Stories about him had been whispered around her, sometimes by people she intended on killing, and sometimes by her employers. Her own experience with him had her vaguely worried for her health several times, but he wasn't a person to go out looking for someone to kill. It was only when some poor person had the unfortunate idea to fuck with whatever it was that he wanted that he resorted to violence.
There had also been stories that were vaguely similar about a woman, one without mercy or compassion to those that did not deserve it, and once that stopped at nothing to gain what she wanted, and she had a sneaking suspicion that the woman she had called a tart on the phone might be one and the same.
The white suit she wore was fitted, making her posture perfectly straight, and the high ponytail of sleek black hair swayed behind her as she walked.
A stark contrast to the dark and dingy house she had just entered. It smelled of old tobacco and stale alcohol, the lingering stain of smoke giving everything a look as though it was decaying into a pit of death.
The Sinaloa Cartel, also known as the Blood Alliance, was an organized drug trafficking syndicate, broken up into different divisions that were spread throughout Mexico. They were known for their brutal gang violence, and for their production of marijuana and Mexican opium.
It was a long story about how she had gotten involved with them, but for a short summary, she had met a poor family while on a job here, only to learn that the father was a member of the Cartel, and had been trying to leave for quite some time. She hadn't spoken to them for awhile, not until a few weeks ago, anyway.
Dull voices could be heard in the kitchen, rough and scratchy from years of cigarettes and bodily neglect.
Being careful to avoid touching anything with fear of contracting some kind of disease, she approached, finding a group of three men seated around a piece of shit fold-up kitchen table, flinging around playing cards in an intense game of poker, one where the jackpot was almost certainly which one of them got to perform the next cartel assassination.
The one in the back looked up at her with a gaze that she would almost describe as greasy. Sweat was collecting on his forehead, and his complexion looked like a person that had their aging suddenly accelerated by 20 years while still being only 35.
"Ahh, entra, entra, únete a nosotros, join us!"
"...No thank you, I am here on...business, Arturo."
"Business, business, always business. What informacion do you have for me?"
She curled her lip up at the man, the snake, as he should really be called.
"It's about the job you gave me. The evidence."
"Ahhh, yes of course, how muy tonto of me. Well?"
"I hired outside help."
The other men at the table grew silent, their hands freezing with their cards still in them, like strange mannequins.
"...outside help. Are you not fit for the job?"
"Arturo, I'm a hit woman. My job is to kill targets, not steal things."
"I gave you the job to steal the evidence. And now you are telling me that you cannot do the job."
"Clearly she doesn't want the property back after all-"
"Shut the fuck up Fernando."
The man that had interjected snapped his mouth shut, shuffling his cards with shaking hands like the pussy follower that he was.
"Who did you hire?"
That piece of information was one that could make this meeting in a dingy cartel hell hole go several different ways. One, they could cut all ties with her out of fear, two, they could completely side step her to work directly with Jack, or three, they could try to kill Jack to keep the operation contained, but she would advise against trying that. She hadn't decided against Handa's bounty only because of the fact that she needed Jack. She was also uncertain about her ability to actually take him down. Most of her targets had been wealthy businessmen living a secret criminal double life, or outed criminals that just needed to die.
But Jack, he was neither of those things. He was far above a simple criminal, or a simple man in general.
"Jack Sparrow."
Arturo leaned back, his protruding belly flattening out to look like a giant flesh pancake, and grabbed the cigar that was sitting on the table to take a long puff.
"Well, I certainly cannot comment negatively on your standards of hire. Sparrow is a talented man. Muy profesional," he drawled, smoke curling out from his mouth and nose.
"He is a thief, is he not?" said the only man that had stayed silent until then. A handsome younger man, with slicked back black hair. He looked almost like a Mexican James Dean.
"More than a thief, Rafael. A corredor callejero, a street racer, he knows his way around firearms like a taxi driver knows his way around New York City, and I believe the Russians know him as an asesino en serie, a serial killer, but I have never heard the full story behind that one."
"Are you fucking telling me that you are okay with this?" the man called Fernando spat.
"That evidence is more important than both of your lives, and if you question me again, this will be the last fucking poker game you will ever play."
He wisely chose to be quiet again.
"Do you have...any other information?"
"The box is in Scotland Yard, in the UK. The Yakuza have a few shifty cops who have agreed to house it there."
"And I am assuming that Sparrow knows all this information as well?"
"He knows as much as he needs to."
"Good, good. Your property is in buenas manos until you clear this case up for us."
She inclined her head very slightly and turned to leave.
"Oh, and Suzuki, if you or Sparrow make things...complicated, we will not hesitate to terminate."
"Arturo, I would buy tickets to watch you try and terminate Jack Sparrow."
He gave her a mini salute as she left, laughing smugly to himself.
She circled her finger around in the water, making a wake behind it as she went.
"This is a beautiful pool."
Jack was sitting on a raised portion, leaning against the edge, wearing a black pair of swim trunks. He had a small glass of Captain Morgan in his hand. She was wearing a pair of black underwear and a sports bra, since she had forgotten to buy a swimsuit, standing right across from him. This section of the pool was only about four feet deep, coming up to her chest.
The weather was typical for Britain, slightly on the colder side, but his pool was also heated, so that didn't really matter.
"I would say not quite as beautiful as you, but that would make me sound like a sap."
"Aww, I like it when you sound like a sap."
He took a sip of rum, then decided to just down the entire glass.
"Wow, maybe I wanted some."
"I mean, there is an entire...well, several entire bottles back inside."
He set the glass on the cement and joined her, the water rippling around him as he walked towards her, pushing her to the other side of the pool.
"I'm surprised you don't have an entire room in your house just to store rum in. Kegs even."
"Who says I don't?"
"I would've found it by now, probably."
Suddenly her phone buzzed, and she waded over to the towel that she had wrapped it in by the stairs.
'Hola Liz. My flight leaves at 9 AM tomorrow morning. Should be there by around 9 PM counting driving.'
'Sounds good. Are you going to rent a car?'
'Si.'
'Text me when you take off and when you land.'
'Not a problem. Talk tomorrow.'
Just as she put her phone back on the towel, someone attacked her from under the water, pulling her under, tickling her rib cage like a man possessed. She tried to shout his name, but it just came out as a bunch of garbled noises, complete with an explosion of bubbles. She tried to pry his hands off her, but he was too strong, and only doubled his efforts.
When she surfaced, after she was done coughing up pool water, she rounded on him, only to find him grinning like a fool at her.
"You know, I really enjoy almost being drowned," she muttered as she walked out of the bathroom.
"Yeah, I could tell by the way you shouted at me. It was quite entertaining," he murmured, half-asleep already.
"I'm sure."
She toweled off and then crossed the room to the bed, sliding under the comforter, appreciating the feel of the black satin sheets as she drifted to sleep.
- 8
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The Scythe's Song