Jjail

Lacking any proper art supplies, Jack borrowed from the masters of old and
experimented with the principle medium available in the distressingly bare
cell. With James again at his window (and oh, it was indeed his window,
with no sharing in mind, no no), morning sunlight streaming in to light his
face in strange ways, Jack worked on a portrait drawn in dirt with straw and
fingertip.

At first James ignored him. He'd been ignoring him pretty much since waking. La-la-la,
no pirate in the cell, only us assassins here, la-la-la... Jack didn't much
hold it against him; really, it had to have felt like quite a leap to go from
trying to hang a man to doing thoroughly depraved and wonderful things to his
most favorite anatomical landmark.

Jack grinned with sanguine cheer at the lanky Brit. Thoughtfully selected a
different straw to draw in eyebrows.

"Very well, Jack, I'll bite."

Dark eyes flicked up. "Eh? Am I still forbidden then?"


A cold, slantwise glare. His eyes were more towards the same size and shape
this morning, which improved the effectiveness of that frigid look
tremendously. "What. Are. You. Doing?"

"Portrait art."

"Portrait art."

"Portrait art."

"In dirt."


"There's a distinct lack of quality canvass in the room, mate." Teeth
flashed. "Barring your fine commodorial skin, which I don't see you
willingly offering up. 'sides, those ham-handed guards already scrawled all
over you."

An eyebrow quirked. "So I'm ruined for fine art. Is that what you're
saying?"

"Not as the subject, you're not." He feathered the drawing's hair out
in wild disarray, fingers battling with straw for dominance. "You're quite
the inspiration this morning."


Against his will, James was feeling flattered again. Jack could tell. Jack was
good at reading subtleties like that, upon which his life had sometimes
depended. "You're actually drawing me?"

"I am."

It was enough to make the man leave the sanctified window. He strolled over
with pretended casualness that only a fool would ever be fooled by. Cocked his
head. Perused the piece.

"Jack."

"Aye?"

"That is a stick figure. With a smiley face."


Jack regarded him solemnly. "Art's about interpretation, really."

A few blinks. James studied the drawing again.

"I interpret that to be a stick figure. With a smiley face. If you can
call that little line a smile."

Jack gracefully swept away the tiny curve. Exactingly drew in another, larger,
deeper, far more expressive. "This is you after you've been sucked
dry." He bared teeth. "By me."


An eyeroll. Exasperated moue. "It passes understanding why any man would
wish you to marry his daughter, honestly. Even a crimelord. Even a Spanish
crimelord."

Another elegant erasure, then Jack went with his new inspiration and
frantically scribbled in a jagged, angry line for the mouth. Considered a
moment. Added bunched up, scowling eyebrows over the little dots of eyes.
"This is you when you're resenting that you're in a place where I
have clout, and you're just a little nothing assassin who doesn't even
know how to beg in the right language."


James crouched, slowly but determinedly, and swiftly fingered his own stick
figure into being. From the (quite exaggerated) mop of hair he stuck atop the
thing's head, presumably it was meant to be Jack. "This is you..."
And he drew little X's for eyes, a sadly squiggly line for a mouth.
"...after you push the assassin too far."

Frowning critically, Jack cocked his head and examined the piece. "I don't
see the resemblance."

A long, pale finger jabbed towards James's own portrait. "I do not

have spikes growing from my head, Jack."

"That's hair!"

"Hair falls down!"

Jack leered. "Not when you're all sprawled out on your back."
Swiftly, he smeared away the angry face and redrew the overlarge smile.
"Goofy happy with your not-so-little little man taken care of. By -- and I
feel the need to mention this again -- li'l ol' me."


Standing, scowling, James kicked stick-Jack out of existence. "Yes, well.
It seems a man will do much to survive."

"It seems a man will enjoy much in the interest of survival."
He reached over. Patted a knee companionably. "Notice nobody came to drag
you to the gallows this morning."

No answer. James stepped around his friendly hand and made his way back to the
window.


Jack added dimples to the goofy happy smile. Did cute things with the eyebrows,
arching them gently down towards the outside of the face, enhancing the
expression of joy.

"We treated you better than this," James said at length. "In Port
Royal. Didn't we?"

A faint smile, utterly lacking in humor. "Not so much. The dog is a
particularly cruel touch, mate, I have to say."

Shoulders tightened noticeably. "Grey Tam. I hate that dog."


"Too harsh for you, putting freedom so impossibly close to us poor, doomed
souls?"

His head turned. Eyes revealed little. "It bit me once."

Jack snorted eloquently.

"I have the scars. Which I suspect you'll discover soon enough, if your
plan--"

"Brilliant plan."


"--works as intended."

Jack tipped his head, medallion chiming. "Just where are these scars of
yours?"

A wan smile. "Let's just say, Grey Tam was encouraged to discourage
escape attempts in the most brutal way imaginable. And if I were slightly
slower, your Alondra wouldn't have anywhere near as much to be...interested
in."

"Oooooh," Jack breathed in pained enlightenment. "That dirty,
dirty dog."


"Quite."

"Maybe you should--" But heavy footsteps on the stairs interrupted.
Jack left his stick figure commodore and gained feet, trodding over it without
much attention as he moved to the bars, waiting.

Familiar guards -- a pair of them. The smaller unlocked the door, muttering,
"Usted debe acompañarnos."

Jack smiled graciously. Glanced at James. "Time to go then."


He took a step from the window. The heftier of the guards advanced with menace
and James faltered uncertainly, something dark and furious and chary springing
to life in his eyes. Jack began to feel the first tickling of misgiving.

"Él viene también," Jack said, putting confidence he suddenly
didn't own into the words. "Órdenes de Alondra."

"La ejecución del asesino ocurrirá en el mediodía," the
smaller guard replied levelly. "Por orden del gobernador."

He kept all response from his face. Played it close to the vest. "¿Él
debe todavía ser ejecutado?"


"Sí. Él morirá hoy." With satisfaction.

Jack sent a look to the window. James's eyes slid from the threatening guard to
meet his. There was dawning comprehension on his face, and crumbling hope, and
helpless anger. Something dead and cold crept into that wordless gaze as Jack
watched.

"They plan to hang you at midday," Jack told him.

James said nothing. Stared unflinchingly. The commodore's jaw was clenched
tightly enough to make muscles along it stand out in sharp ridges.


Jack forced a tough-luck smile. "My sympathies, mate."

That wasn't betrayal in his eyes, Jack decided; James probably hadn't put
enough faith in him for that. But hope was a thing that died in agony, under
protest, and the officer had nurtured enough of that to feel its death-throes
keenly. Nurtured hope, trusted a pirate, put his body into the hands of that
pirate in the interest of a 'plan' that now fell through...

A slow blink. "Congratulations on your engagement," James said
flatly.

The guards ushered him out then. He felt the weight of despairing green eyes
against his back long after he'd left the man's sight.

***