In hindsight, it was all bloody typical.

Jack had pitched up at the Faithful Bride with a couple of pals, setting the place aflutter with their backslapping and demands for cards and general air of bestowing a great favour upon the tavern by gracing it with their presence. "Fine behaviour from a captain without a ship," Giselle muttered to Hannah, but nevertheless elbowed her way past several other whores (and trod firmly on Hannah's foot) in her efforts to get to him first.

His greeting was everything she could have wished: "Giselle, my lovely, how is this wicked town treating you?" patting his knee invitingly. There were riches in this, she thought, taking the proffered seat; and it was undeniably nice to be so close to Jack again. He was as pretty as ever, she was glad to feel that his legs were still slim and muscular, and he had bathed since she had last seen him. That reminded her that she was due for some ablutions herself.

The cards were dealt and the drinks purchased. Jack had some wine with him, which he offered to share with her. The bottle bore a French label that she couldn't read. Jack read it out to her: shatoh dartanyon. When he said it the sounds were all quick and lilting and reminded her of how her mother, Minette, had talked.

Giselle munched a piece of bread while she watched the card game and Jack, waiting for his turn, felt her arse. Shatoh - that was the big house where Minette had been a lady's maid before she crossed the Channel with her English merchant, Giselle's father. The merchant had not been as well-off as he'd claimed and Minette's skills at dressing hair had been of no use to her in her new role as an itinerant merchant's wife. After she died when her daughter was eight, Giselle had heard no more French spoken.

"You look struck all of a heap, love. Where are your thoughts running to?"

She shook her head and dredged up something her mother used to say to her father when she wasn't cross with him. "Tu es trés beau."

Grinning, he poured her more wine.

--

Half a bottle of wine, an ale or two, and some swigs of rum later (Jack had let her drink some of his rum, which was a very good sign) her head was swimming. She had shifted to her own chair - her weight had been making Jack's leg numb - but she kept her hold on him, and was gratified by the conviction that it was her explorations inside his shirt and up his thigh that were causing him to make mistakes at cards.

"No, I prefer storms," Jack said in response to a remark of one of his companions, and the other sailors looked at him as if he were extremely peculiar. Which he was. Giselle had had to learn to tolerate his oddities, like how he always insisted on having that damned compass where he could see it, even when he was in bed with her.

"I love fair weather, I really do, I'm just saying that storms are the spice of life -"

This sounded as if it could go on for a while. She planted a kiss on his silk-skinned cheek. Jack broke off his debate to murmur into her ear, "Spend the night with me."

"My time doesn't come cheap, Jack Sparrow. The whole night will be -"

"Spend the night with me as a dear, dear friend whom I've missed and want to be with for as long as possible before I have to put to sea again."

The melting intensity of his dark eyes and the sincerity and low tone of his deep voice made Giselle's heart go flip-flop as if he'd said he loved her, until she remembered that this was a ruse to avoid paying. Jack's hand snaked around her breast and she found herself considering it anyway. She could afford not to work any more tonight, and even if he wasn't paying, Jack could be generous with his presents.

"I've paid for the room," he said.

That settled it. Her bed was paid for. She accepted. Jack wanted to finish the card game first - said, teasingly, that he would do better without her distracting him. "You go on. I'll be ... up ... presently."

--

She spent some time draping herself in different alluring positions, and debating dress on or dress off. In the end she kept it on, since Jack liked the undressing part, but arranged her skirts to display her legs.

Jack still not having made an appearance by the time she had finished her adjustments, she started to wonder what was taking him so long. Curiosity soon gave way to annoyance, but the bed was so comfortable and it had been such a long day that instead of getting up to look for him - and slap some manners into him if necessary - she drifted off to sleep.

An unknown time later, she was awoken by a crash. Moonlight streamed through the window and Jack was falling into the room. Completely smashed and reeking of other women.

"Bloody door," he slurred, looking at it as if he'd never seen one before. "Not s'posed t' do that."

"Jack?"

"There you are, darling!" he cried. "I've been looking all over Tortuga for you!"

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and marched towards him. "I've been waiting right here, just like what you said -"

"Oh." He was drunker than she had ever seen him, having to hang on to the door handle to keep his footing. As he was weaving back and forth, more exaggeratedly than usual, this was making the door swing open and closed. "Well, I'm here now. Come on, Griselda -"

"Giselle."

"- darling, give us a kiss and let's to bed." Arms outstretched and breathing rum fumes, he lurched towards her. She sidestepped, stuck her foot out and quick as a wink tripped him up. He plummeted to the floor.

He lay very still. Giselle ground her teeth. It would be just like the daft bugger to die after going on a bender and leave her to clean up the mess. She tiptoed up to his prone form and found that he was still breathing. She moved his hat from where it had fallen over his face (she'd rather he didn't suffocate), then on an afterthought went through his clothes and removed the shillings and half-crowns she found there to her own pockets. His purse she left; he would notice the loss of that. Then she went back to bed. If she shed any tears, they soon ceased.

Dawn was glimmering outside when she was woken again by the shifting of the mattress. Jack crawled into bed. He made no attempt to touch her, just snuggled down and pulled the sheet up to his chin. Despite herself - despite him - Giselle, half-asleep, looked on the lovely face pillowed next to hers, and ... wished. Not hoped, exactly. Just daydreamed about what could be if he had any notion of the word fidelity. If he had a steady job and a house; or even if he had his own ship (what was the name of that one he was always going on about?) with room for her in his bunk.

A few minutes later her sleep was broken beyond repair when he began to snore.

--

In the morning he was all contrition and what-can-I-do-to-make-it-up-to-you-love?

"Nothing. Never again. Don't even think about it."

"Please, Giselle darling - from now on when I'm in Tortuga I'll have eyes only for you."

"Hmph."