PotC Fic: A Knack for the Fallen

[corrielle]

Title: A Knack for the Fallen
Characters: Groves, Scarlet
Summary: Scarlet knows a former navy man when she sees one. Set after At World's End.
Rating: PG -13
Author's Notes: I wrote this for the "Random Draw" challenge over at potc_land, which assigned us two characters at random and had us write an interaction between them. 
Disclaimer: Pirates? Not mine.

Scarlet was very proud of her knack for spotting fallen naval officers. No matter if they were French, Spanish, or British; no matter if they were just as drunk and dirty as the rest of Tortuga's common tars and pirates, they all had the same tells: a stiffness of the spine, a precision of movement, and an accent that spoke more of parlors than of poverty.  She knew how to approach these men.  The vulgar calls that worked on lust-crazed sailors who needed everything laid out plain were of no use with them.  A girl needed a defter touch than that if she wanted to part a former navy man from his coin.

 

The fellow sitting alone at a table against the back wall of the Faithful Bride had all the signs. His dingy grey coat hung large on him, and it was missing buttons, but the stained white shirt he wore beneath it was a fine, close weave.  He had good boots, too, the kind a man could get killed for in Tortuga. The one spot of color on him was the red sash tied around his waist and the polished brass on the handle of the pistol tucked behind the sash. 

 

She sat down uninvited across from him, but he didn't look up from his half-empty mug of ale.

 

"You're a long way from home, aren't you, Sailor?" she said, putting on her best compassionate face and leaning over the table toward him. "You want to tell me what a man like you is doing here?"

 

"Following in the footsteps of a friend, it would appear," he said, chuckling bitterly.  If he'd meant it as a joke, his meaning was lost on her.

 

"If it's as bad as all that, you're going to need something stronger than the Bride's ale to wash it down," Scarlet said, and she set her flask down on the table.  "Try a bit of this, if you've a mind to." One gulp of rum was a small price to pay for loosening his tongue a little.  

 

He did look up at her then, and he nodded in thanks as he opened her flask and took a long pull on it. It was strong rum, a bit harsh on the throat, but he didn't wince or make a face when he set it back on the table. Though he wasn't drunk tonight, he was no stranger to strong liquor.

 

"Thank you," he said, and leaned back against the high wooden bench's back as the warmth of the rum spread through him. For the first time, she got a good look at his face. He was still clean-shaven, and Scarlet suspected that the sea bag that was protectively stashed under the table had a good, sharp razor in it.  His dark hair was cut short, and she could just make out the line on his forehead where his missing wig had kept the sun from his skin. His eyes were a warm gold-brown, and they seemed made for smiling, though there was no merriment in them now.

 

"It's no trouble," she said.  "I haven't met a pain in the world it wouldn't take the edge off."  

 

"Do you have a barrel of it?" he asked.

 

"Not unless you're paying for it," she shot back. 

 

He answered her with another mirthless laugh, and she began to worry that she had pushed too fast too soon.  But then, he started to speak, and she knew her instincts had led her true again.

 

"My ship is lost," he said, looking her right in the eye.  "The navy won't have me back after I resigned, and the Company won't have me back because the man I worked for cost them a great deal of money and embarrassment."

 

"Ships sink." Scarlet said, laying her hand on his forearm.   "Good men do their best to stop it, but still it happens.  It's the way of things."

 

He shook his head. 

 

"No! I should have known.  I saw that the Dutchman wasn't coming up alongside like a friendly ship, I knew they'd have us trapped between them and the Pearl…" His eyes darted to Scarlet's face at the mention of Jack Sparrow's ship, but she kept her expression smooth. "I might have given the order to run, or fight, or something other than wait like a lamb for the slaughter.  But I was afraid.  I knew what he did to men who crossed him, and to fire on the Dutchman would have been a terrible risk to the heart…  I was sure he'd kill me where I stood if I lost him that."

 

Though she didn't understand half of what he said, Scarlet couldn't mistake the derision and self-loathing in his voice.

 

"Eight hundred," he continued.  "That's how many souls were under my command on that ship.  And do you know how many survived?"

 

"How many?" she asked.

 

"Seventeen.  Less than one in forty." 

 

That the figuring came so easily to him told Scarlet he'd worked it out beforehand.  Men often liked to torture themselves with numbers, as if putting precise figures on their sorrow made it cut deeper.

 

"Heavy load to carry, that," she said somberly. She thought about telling him he was lucky to be alive with so many dead, but she suspected he wouldn't see it that way. "Is drink and low company doing much to ease it?"

 

"No."

 

She offered him her flask again.  "Sorry to hear that, Mister…" She let her voice trail off.

 

"Groves," he finished for her, and took a long drink that looked to have drained half her flask before setting it back down on the table with a loud thunk.

 

"You've got a first name, Mister Groves?"  She knew she was halfway to triumph if she could pry a Christian name out of him.

 

"Theodore.  My friends call me Theo."

 

"Well, Theo Groves, have you given a thought to where you'll be sleeping tonight?"

 

He slapped the table with the flat of his hand three times.  His eyes were unfocused now, and he spoke more loudly than he had before.

 

"After a few more ales, right here, if they'll let me." 

 

She laughed, but she made sure she did so gently.  "And you'll be picked clean in the morning, lucky if you even have your stockings left," she said. "You need a bed and a safe room."

 

"And where do I find that?  Tortuga's full up.  Every inn on the island is sleeping three to a bed, and I'd rather take my chances here than bunk with strangers who might slit my throat in the night with no one the wiser."

 

"There's my room," Scarlet suggested, leaning forward until her face was only inches from his. "Pay my fee for the night, and you'll have the comfort of a bed, and a warm woman's body, if you'd like it."

 

It was a gamble, making him this offer.  It meant she'd not take in any more coin before morning, but the risk was worth it.  If he remembered her with kindness, he'd come to her again when the winds blew him back to Tortuga.

 

He considered for a moment, and she did not press him.  She'd found it wasn't prudent to rush men who didn't often pay good coin for whores like her.

 

"Name your price," he said at last.