Ficlet: Imagination (POTC)
Sep. 4th, 2011 06:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
anactoriaTitle: Imagination
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
anactoria
Characters/pairing: Sparrington
Rating: G
Summary: Norrington is shipwrecked with Jack; Jack’s found somebody else he’d rather talk to.
Notes: Unbetaed. Pure crack, written forporridgebird’s prompt ('Sparrington with a pineapple') at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
raise_the_dead.
“Stuck up? That ain’t the half of it. Better keep an eye on the rum, too, between you an’ me. I wouldn’t put it past ‘im to try Lizzie’s old—sh! He’s coming!”
James paused in his pacing along the beach to regard Sparrow, who was sitting cross-legged on the sand with a pineapple cradled in the crook of his arm. He frowned.
“Are you planning on eating that?” he enquired. “Or are you just going to sit there and mumble at it until such time as we are rescued or—as seems more likely—expire from starvation?”
Sparrow looked affronted. “No need for us to be degeneratin’ into barbarism just yet, is there, Commodore?” He turned to the pineapple, nodded, and gave it a sympathetic look. “Tell me about it, mate.”
James restrained himself—just—from throwing up his arms and demanding of the heavens what in the world he’d done to deserve this. Firstly, he’d lost another ship—albeit this time to the vagaries of the Caribbean weather instead of pirates—and he was unsure that either his career or his dignity would survive the blow even if rescue were to appear. Secondly, the storm had arrived just after he’d finally managed to catch Jack Sparrow (in the midst of an elaborate ruse that had apparently involved calling himself Viscomte Something-Or-Other and affecting the most atrocious French accent James had ever heard) and have him thrown in the brig. And now—now, he was stranded on this godforsaken spit of land, miles from the slightest sign of civilisation, with only the aforementioned sun-addled brigand for company. And a pineapple.
There didn’t appear to be any pineapple plants on the island, so he could only conclude that Sparrow had retrieved it from the galley amid the confusion of the storm (and just how he’d managed that was a question James was going to want answered sooner or later) and somehow concealed it about his person until they washed ashore. He’d apparently decided in short order that the pineapple’s company was preferable to James’s, and now he was—
James blinked.
Sparrow had produced a knife from one of his boots (more questions...) and was painstakingly carving out two small, triangular holes in the pineapple’s tough outer skin.
“Much better, I agree,” he said to it, once he’d finished. “Can’t expect a gentleman to be doin’ without eyes, after all.” He aimed the pineapple’s 'face' at James. Then he cocked his head to one side, as though listening, and nodded again. “Handsome enough, I’ll give you that. Shame about ‘is personality, really.”
James rolled his eyes heavenwards, and prayed silently for someone up there to grant him strength. “I’m going to collect more firewood,” he announced.
Sparrow shrugged, and gave the pineapple a knowing look. “Suit yourself.”
* * *
An hour later, James had identified two promising-looking clutches of coconuts inland, and a convenient rock near the shore from which fishing might well be possible, as well as finding a few pieces of driftwood that ought to be dry enough to burn.
Sparrow, on the other hand, was still sitting by the fire. Well, lying in the sand, actually, with the pineapple next to his head, and swigging something out of a flask. Rum, most likely.
“Borrowed it,” he explained, at James’ pointed look, propping himself up on his elbows. “Di’n’t mean t’start without you, but Bert here was feelin’ a mite parched, an’ it would’ve been rude not to share.”
“I have no use for your—“ James began. Then he stopped. “Bert?”
“Fellow needs a name,” said Sparrow, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.
James gave a strangled groan. “That,” he said, “is not a fellow. It is quite clearly a pineapple. Yellow on the inside, sharp and pointy on the outside, spiky leaves at the top. A pineapple.”
“Now that’s hurtful,” said Sparrow. “Don’t know how you can bring yourself to say somethin’ like that to a man’s face.”
“It doesn’t have a face.”
Sparrow raised an eyebrow. James stared at him. Then he stared at the pineapple.
Somehow—James was starting to suspect that that greatcoat of his had magic properties—Sparrow had managed to replenish the rings of lampblack around his eyes. He’d also—James squinted. Yes. He’d drawn a mouth on it.
“He does have a point there, though,” Sparrow was saying, now, to the pineapple. “You could do with a decent ‘aircut.” He fished in a pocket. “Hang on.”
“What on Earth are you doing now?” James demanded. “And what makes you th—where did you get that?!”
It was filthy and tattered, and not a little waterlogged, but it was unmistakably his wig.
“Y’didn’t seem overly concerned ‘bout it at the time,” Sparrow said, equally unconcerned, as he settled it atop the pineapple. “Bein’ awfully busy trying not to drown, an’ all. Anyway, I reckon ol’ Bertie’s more need of it now than you. Matter of fact, y’look much better without it.”
“Sparrow,” James snapped, finally reaching the end of his tether, “I appreciate that there is little room for things such as common sense and logic inside your tiny brain. But I’d appreciate even more your refraining from any future attempts to draw me into your insanity.”
“No imagination, that’s your problem.”
“Imagination? Perhaps, if it’s such a useful quality, you could imagine up a rescue? Or maybe come up with some new way of locating food or shelter, instead of sitting on your backside, talking to a bloody pineapple?”
James turned on his heel and stalked off, away from the shore. Perhaps he could imagine up an island with no Jack Sparrow on it. That ought to suit him capitally.
Sparrow nudged the pineapple with his elbow. “You know what?” he said. “I reckon he’s jealous.”
* * *
James’s imaginary Sparrowless island was a wonderfully calm place. It was quiet. It was peaceful. It was blissfully free from frustration and confusion. He had nobody else to worry about, and all the time in the world to plan his survival and eventual escape.
Christ, it was as dull as bloody ditchwater.
On the other side of the island, the fire was still bright and warm. Sparrow was still lying in the sand beside it.
“Knew you’d be back,” he grinned, as James sat down next to him. “Pineapple ring?”
Author:
anactoria Characters/pairing: Sparrington
Rating: G
Summary: Norrington is shipwrecked with Jack; Jack’s found somebody else he’d rather talk to.
Notes: Unbetaed. Pure crack, written for
porridgebird’s prompt ('Sparrington with a pineapple') at raise_the_dead.“Stuck up? That ain’t the half of it. Better keep an eye on the rum, too, between you an’ me. I wouldn’t put it past ‘im to try Lizzie’s old—sh! He’s coming!”
James paused in his pacing along the beach to regard Sparrow, who was sitting cross-legged on the sand with a pineapple cradled in the crook of his arm. He frowned.
“Are you planning on eating that?” he enquired. “Or are you just going to sit there and mumble at it until such time as we are rescued or—as seems more likely—expire from starvation?”
Sparrow looked affronted. “No need for us to be degeneratin’ into barbarism just yet, is there, Commodore?” He turned to the pineapple, nodded, and gave it a sympathetic look. “Tell me about it, mate.”
James restrained himself—just—from throwing up his arms and demanding of the heavens what in the world he’d done to deserve this. Firstly, he’d lost another ship—albeit this time to the vagaries of the Caribbean weather instead of pirates—and he was unsure that either his career or his dignity would survive the blow even if rescue were to appear. Secondly, the storm had arrived just after he’d finally managed to catch Jack Sparrow (in the midst of an elaborate ruse that had apparently involved calling himself Viscomte Something-Or-Other and affecting the most atrocious French accent James had ever heard) and have him thrown in the brig. And now—now, he was stranded on this godforsaken spit of land, miles from the slightest sign of civilisation, with only the aforementioned sun-addled brigand for company. And a pineapple.
There didn’t appear to be any pineapple plants on the island, so he could only conclude that Sparrow had retrieved it from the galley amid the confusion of the storm (and just how he’d managed that was a question James was going to want answered sooner or later) and somehow concealed it about his person until they washed ashore. He’d apparently decided in short order that the pineapple’s company was preferable to James’s, and now he was—
James blinked.
Sparrow had produced a knife from one of his boots (more questions...) and was painstakingly carving out two small, triangular holes in the pineapple’s tough outer skin.
“Much better, I agree,” he said to it, once he’d finished. “Can’t expect a gentleman to be doin’ without eyes, after all.” He aimed the pineapple’s 'face' at James. Then he cocked his head to one side, as though listening, and nodded again. “Handsome enough, I’ll give you that. Shame about ‘is personality, really.”
James rolled his eyes heavenwards, and prayed silently for someone up there to grant him strength. “I’m going to collect more firewood,” he announced.
Sparrow shrugged, and gave the pineapple a knowing look. “Suit yourself.”
An hour later, James had identified two promising-looking clutches of coconuts inland, and a convenient rock near the shore from which fishing might well be possible, as well as finding a few pieces of driftwood that ought to be dry enough to burn.
Sparrow, on the other hand, was still sitting by the fire. Well, lying in the sand, actually, with the pineapple next to his head, and swigging something out of a flask. Rum, most likely.
“Borrowed it,” he explained, at James’ pointed look, propping himself up on his elbows. “Di’n’t mean t’start without you, but Bert here was feelin’ a mite parched, an’ it would’ve been rude not to share.”
“I have no use for your—“ James began. Then he stopped. “Bert?”
“Fellow needs a name,” said Sparrow, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.
James gave a strangled groan. “That,” he said, “is not a fellow. It is quite clearly a pineapple. Yellow on the inside, sharp and pointy on the outside, spiky leaves at the top. A pineapple.”
“Now that’s hurtful,” said Sparrow. “Don’t know how you can bring yourself to say somethin’ like that to a man’s face.”
“It doesn’t have a face.”
Sparrow raised an eyebrow. James stared at him. Then he stared at the pineapple.
Somehow—James was starting to suspect that that greatcoat of his had magic properties—Sparrow had managed to replenish the rings of lampblack around his eyes. He’d also—James squinted. Yes. He’d drawn a mouth on it.
“He does have a point there, though,” Sparrow was saying, now, to the pineapple. “You could do with a decent ‘aircut.” He fished in a pocket. “Hang on.”
“What on Earth are you doing now?” James demanded. “And what makes you th—where did you get that?!”
It was filthy and tattered, and not a little waterlogged, but it was unmistakably his wig.
“Y’didn’t seem overly concerned ‘bout it at the time,” Sparrow said, equally unconcerned, as he settled it atop the pineapple. “Bein’ awfully busy trying not to drown, an’ all. Anyway, I reckon ol’ Bertie’s more need of it now than you. Matter of fact, y’look much better without it.”
“Sparrow,” James snapped, finally reaching the end of his tether, “I appreciate that there is little room for things such as common sense and logic inside your tiny brain. But I’d appreciate even more your refraining from any future attempts to draw me into your insanity.”
“No imagination, that’s your problem.”
“Imagination? Perhaps, if it’s such a useful quality, you could imagine up a rescue? Or maybe come up with some new way of locating food or shelter, instead of sitting on your backside, talking to a bloody pineapple?”
James turned on his heel and stalked off, away from the shore. Perhaps he could imagine up an island with no Jack Sparrow on it. That ought to suit him capitally.
Sparrow nudged the pineapple with his elbow. “You know what?” he said. “I reckon he’s jealous.”
James’s imaginary Sparrowless island was a wonderfully calm place. It was quiet. It was peaceful. It was blissfully free from frustration and confusion. He had nobody else to worry about, and all the time in the world to plan his survival and eventual escape.
Christ, it was as dull as bloody ditchwater.
On the other side of the island, the fire was still bright and warm. Sparrow was still lying in the sand beside it.
“Knew you’d be back,” he grinned, as James sat down next to him. “Pineapple ring?”
