milliways_bar | (no subject)

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The man who walks in -- no, strides in, moving with confidence and self-assurance -- looks much, much different from the man who came in last night. It's amazing what couture can manage. In addition to much more upscale attire (names such as Armani, Cardin, and Bruno Magli come to mind for the observant), his hair has been properly styled, complete with product and arranged with artfully careless perfection. There's not a bead or a braid in sight.

Jack seems much more pleased with life today as he strolls up to Bar and says, "Darling, it's been too long. You know what I like, don't you? Venti, triple-shot, organic soy, extra-hot latte, and of course I know you won't forget the rum."

The drink appears instantly, and he runs a casual hand down the wood, almost absently, as he picks it up. "Merci. Be a dear, would you, and give me the latest journals? The Times -- Financial, New York, and London all three, I suppose, plus the Wall Street Journal and the Economist. I know the holidays are coming, but--"

Here there's a bit of a smirk.

"--business never stops. Especially in trade, and you know I'm not one to miss the opportune moment."

He takes the papers as well and settles at the nearest table, then begins to read the shipping news.

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Well. That's certainly interesting.

He makes a small moue of distaste as he notices the ... gamin-like... attire, but it's quickly covered with a professional smile.

"You look troubled, darling."

Her eyes narrow, but the clicking stops for a moment, and she curves a smile at him.

There's something predatory in the baring of her teeth, and in the flick of her head that sets her coiling hair swinging over bare shoulders. "Thieving again, Jack Sparrow," she says, caring little whether he can hear her over the distance between them or not. Her hand, still carrying those...whatevers...swings back and forth gently.

"Ye've changed your plumage, magpie. Don't suit you, hm?"

He looks honestly nonplussed.

"I am not! You'll find not a trace of dishonesty in any of my trade, no matter what the competition is insinuating."

A beat and an elegant gesture, indicating his suit. The gold of a watch gleams at his left wrist, covering any other marks that might once have been visible there.

"And although I do admit that the historical style suits me well enough, I can't spend all my time advertising the reconstruction project when there's other business to be done."

Something in her face falls, a little, and her fingers tighten into her palm, setting off muted clacks. There's the mellow gleam of amber on her finger, catching the firelight and holding it in its clear depths.

"A prouder calling, ay?" she asks, sadly, and frowns. "Jack Sparrow the honest man, whose business is no longer with me."

She misses him.

Some things are stronger than any soy-based taint.

(freedom of the sea)

Jack grows very, very still, and slowly cocks his head sideways, as if listening to something that no one else can hear.

"I didn't say that, love. I'd never say that. Business is one thing, certainly-- but why else would I have focused on trading and transport?"

It's slowly said, almost dreamily so.

"And it been treating ye well," she tells him, and stands with skirts swaying and her hand still held out before her, loosely clenched. The electric lights glint of the beads in her palm; purple, green, red, turning them to bright jewels.

"Always has."

He looks up at her and not at the (jewels) beads in her hand, black eyes strangely clouded as he tries to focus on her face.

"Don't tell me you're upset with me?"

"Ah, my magpie." Her laugh waves like the heat and flames behind her, flooding out into the room in sweet smoky warmth. One step; two; her skirts brush against the floor as she walks towards him to lay her free hand against his cheek. It's a strangely possesive gesture; half-motherly and half-urging.

"No. Never so, hm?"

Or if she is, she forgives nearly as quickly. Changeable and wanting and undeniable as the tide are her moods and affections. Smiling, so, she lifts her skirts gracefully and sits beside him, the same fingers dropping from his cheek to stroke over the back of his hand.

"But how you will trade when you still be trapped by the tide and waters here?" she wonders, idly, bright eyes fixed on his face.

He doesn't move-- save for the hand she's not touching, which makes an abortive twitch toward the coffee cup before it stills.

"I'm not--"

(dead drowned trapped)

"It isn't--"

(the worlds' ends)

He swallows, hard, and forces a false, brittle smile, followed by an even more false laugh.

"Oh, I'll figure something out."

(the world is an emptier place)

"Hmph."

Somewhere, a candle flickers in the moist wind off a river.

She looks marginally unimpressed, and though her fingers still briefly, they continue after their pause to caress his hand.

"Ye always do. Find a course 'round de Devil himself, don't it."

His grin returns, sharp and nearly feral, even as his eyes clear and his manner shifts again.

"Of course. That's the particular strength of my company, in fact."

Her hand lifts from his, moving with quick, precise motions of her wrist and fingers. For a second, she looks almost birdlike in nature, but then the expression of vague distaste settles over her features again, though she sits back in her chair peaceably enough.

"Gone back to your old ways, so it seem." There is little amusement in the smile that shows her flashing teeth.

"Gwine back to your old employers, too? And they open arms?"

"Please."

Jack sniffs, looking very disaffected at the notion.

"I did say my company, did I not? Black Pearl Shipping and Trading."

(him precious Pearl)

Jack sniffs, and she looks vaguely disgusted, as though she'd suddenly noticed that the hand she had been stroking was covered with something nasty.

"That were not part of the agreement ye made with Davy Jones, Jack Sparrow." She gives him an annoyed look. "Ye didn't raise the Pearl from the depths to make her into a trader, ay?"

He's taking a sip of coffee as she speaks, and as a result he's unable to speak at first. Jack blinks, then blinks again -- and then finally laughs as he sets the cup aside, the sound both charming and politely amused.

"Davy Jones? My dear, you've outdone yourself in playing your role for the reenactment drama, but please, don't tell me you actually believe that history we've been handing out?"

Her eyes open wide in surprise, and her hand jerks where it rests on the table top, as if longing to grasp something, and she shoots a poisonous look at the innocently steaming cup of coffee.

When she looks back up at Jack, her eyes are flat and her face expressionless.

"It'd do ye well not to trifle with the things you cannot understand," she warns. "And it do well for a sailor not to speak ill of Davy Jones." The black eyes flash with sudden ire.

"Not even you, though your deal be done and paid."

He brings one hand up in a swift, elegant motion, covering his heart as he smiles at her.

"Of course not. Do forgive me."

It's not as sincere as might have been hoped, and much more after the fashion of a director reassuring a favored actress-- but there's something there

(my first love was the sea)

besides, something deep down, something flickering in that soulful black gaze.

The frown creases her forehead again, and her shoulders tighten a little,

(thick as thieves)

and for a moment, she looks like nothing so much as an unhappy girl.

But she forgives him. She always does.

For now, though, she looks troubled and more than a little anrgy still, though his words have placated her somewhat. Rising, she lifts her chin imperiously. Her voice rolls out from her small frame like molasses, like the roll of the Pearl on the waves. "Go on, then, tradesman, and look to your business. There'll be no hindering today."

"If you're certain, darling. I do have several things I need to finish up, actually."

He folds up his papers and picks up the coffee cup as he stands, then gives her a small bow and a charming smile.

"I'll see you Friday. And I must say I'm definitely looking forward to it."

Her dark eyes follow him as he saunters casually to the door, and he opens it to a wailing, bitter wind that sweeps at his coat and coils around his legs as he walks back to the Pearl.

She returns to her seat by the fire, and stares into the red and gold flicker, her fingers twisting deftly in her lap.

She does not appear on Friday, and the Black Pearl's rigging remains silent.

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