Title: The Revenge
Rating: PG for typical Sparrowesque flamboyance
Disclaimer: Jack and Tortuga belong to the POTC guys. Inigo belongs to the Morgenstern estate, so please don't tell them or they'll have my kneecaps by the end of the week.
Author's Note: Kyri wants, Kyri gets. She made me a pretty icon to go with it!
Feedback: shadesofbrixton@yahoo.com


Inigo Montoya knew two things: fencing and liquor. And because he knew two things, there was really not much room for a third. He could not, for example, rightly learn knitting, or cooking, or puzzle carving with the same flawless ability he dazzled his opponents with when it came to his steel. A man only has room in his body for two passions (and it’s a miracle Inigo had even that much room, considering his size), and that was that.

It hadn’t been a problem until now.

If Inigo had thought there was no money to be made in the revenge business, he was positively astounded how much farther into debt he could fall as a pirate who could not run his ship.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. Westley had been in an awful hurry, what with a King to run from and a Princess to marry, so the training had been fairly brief. The basics of swabbing and buckling of swashes and bellowing had all been covered before Inigo had performed his first successful raid, deemed fit to the title, and switched crew to become the new Dread Pirate Roberts. Everyone had thought he was ready – even Inigo had thought he was ready.

What Inigo hadn’t counted on, though, was that he wasn’t really used to so much thinking. Or his inherent inability to give orders, or to come up with a game plan, or do anything short of admiring the horizon and practicing his footwork under the added challenge of the swell of the deck. They passed ships loaded from fore to aft with riches and women, and Inigo never gave the order to attack.

Because, really, what was the point? Why bother? He had avenged his father, and aside from needing to pay his men, there was no reason for him to want the riches – no Princess for him to squirrel money away for.

When they hit Tortuga, needless to say, the crew disappeared.

It was Inigo’s own fault, allowing the shore leave under the assumption that the crew would return, as most crews do. But return they did not, not even after two days, and not even after Inigo went looking and found only a steep pub tab for his troubles.

Proceeding to get well and truly soused, because who needed the bastards anyway, Inigo spent the evening wondering why he hadn’t gotten the knack of this. He was born for the job – the Spanish blood, the Spanish steel, the Spanish passion. Hadn’t his father always told him, “Inigo, I’m busy, I’m working, go play Pirates with the other village boys”? And of course he hadn’t listened, because his father never really meant it and he didn’t really want to be a Pirate, he wanted to make swords.

The problem was the Spanish brain, he finally decided. Because surely there could be nothing wrong with his footwork, or his strength, or his dexterity, or the propensity he had developed to rhyme in his sleep. Even the occasional bout of seasickness that pursued him could surely be overlooked. It had to be the Spanish brain – it had grown too used to following orders and could on longer come up with any of its own.

“Damn you, Vizzini, and damn you, Man In Black,” he muttered to his belt buckle as he stumbled back to his abandoned ship. Only he didn’t really mean it. “I didn’t really mean it,” he said. “You both taught me so much. Really. Thank you.” He would have gone further if he hadn’t been suddenly and violently accosted by the gangplank, and had to work very, very hard on walking.

And his abandoned ship wasn’t quite as empty as he had thought.

“Hey,” he demanded of the figure attached to the wheel. “Hey, hey. I didn’t mean it. Westley, I didn’t mean it. Let me keep the boat. It’s very nice.” He grasped the wheel and clung as best he could, waiting for the shadows to melt around the Man In Black.

Only they didn’t.

In Westley’s stead there was a taller, lankier fellow of the dark complexion usually found in southern ports. Which, Inigo reminded himself with severity, was exactly where they were. The figure’s face was drawn into an expression of intense regard, the pull of his jaw exaggerated by the furrow of braids and beard and shell and bead that framed his angular mouth. There were intense brown eyes to contemplate, and Inigo wasn’t sure if the man was alright in the head, the way he rolled against the sea – at countermeasure, left when the ship rocked right, up when the bow plunged, and so on.

Now this, Inigo thought, was a proper pirate.

And then the storm of silence in the pirate’s face broke and he slid forward over the wheel until the wheel locks met his elbows, and the pirate pointed one of his highly decorated fingers at Inigo.

“You,” the pirate said with a bit of a forward lurch and a flash of gold teeth, “are the Dread Pirate Roberts.”

Their sudden change in proximity caused Inigo to stumble backwards and put his hand to his hip, feeling the reassuring coolness of his blade. It didn’t matter how drunk he was, he could still take out one meandering pirate – even if he did look to be the best pirate he’d ever seen. Better than Westley, even, because a lot of the mystique was gone after you got to know him a little. “I take no prisoners,” Inigo remembered to say, because Westley had said that was the best thing to go with if you weren’t sure who you were dealing with.

“So I’d heard,” the pirate said, and slid forward a bit farther, until the wheel locks were under his shoulders, and he extended a hand. “Captain Jack Sparrow. The pleasure is all mine.”

Inigo shook twice, sharply, and then let go. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of you,” he said with as much respect as he could, considering the hour and the two empty bottles of brandy he’d left at the pub.

The pirate’s face fell quite impressively. “You haven’t?”

“I didn’t think you’d take it so hard,” Inigo said, leaning against the bulk of the rail behind him to see if it would take a bit of the swaying away.

“Yes, well,” Jack tried to recover himself. “I’m just not used to…ah…” he gestured widely.

“I don’t get out much,” Inigo reassured him. “Plundering and…not taking prisoners. And whatnot. It’s quite taxing.”

Jack made a noise of assent, and then cleared his body from the wheel in one fell movement. His weathered jacket swayed wildly in the off-shore breeze, and his hair danced under his hat. “Here’s the thing, mate,” he said with an air of confidentiality as he slung an arm over Inigo’s shoulder. “It appears you’re lacking a crew.”

“Only temporarily,” Inigo informed him stiffly.

“Exactly,” Jack said, happily, and poked him in the middle of his chest with three fingers. “It also appears that my crew,” and here motioned to himself with those same fingers, “is lacking a ship.”

Now, Inigo was no fool, under normal circumstances. He was a bit gullible, certainly, but he wasn’t what anyone within sword’s reach would ever call foolish. And even when he was a bit under the influence, he could still tell when he was being set up for some kind of detrimental situation.

The trouble was, of course, that these weren’t normal circumstances. Inigo wasn’t supposed to be in Tortuga, nor was he supposed to be a pirate, and he certainly wasn’t supposed to want to hear what this Jack Sparrow had to tell him. So what he said, instead of “Get off my ship before I gut you from nose to stern,” was: “I have a bottle of brandy in the hold.”

Jack squeezed his shoulders in hearty agreement. “Then by all means, Captain, lead on.” He spread the way with a sweep of his hand, and they moved off together, somewhat shakily, toward the Captain’s quarters beneath the deck.