Jack Sparrow, they say, can tell any tale and make you believe it.
So when he looks at you, grinning with his crooked teeth, metal glinting in the flickering light, you can’t help listening.
When he tells you about the moon, about old Luna with her silver hair, and how she smiled and rotted his flesh away, how he was nothing but pearly bone–“Like yer necklace, m’lovely, just like that, I was,”–you can’t help catching your breath to listen.
It’s impossible, of course, but then...he is Captain Jack Sparrow, as he reminds you, with a laugh, fingers running across your neck.
And when you wake, to hear him speaking to someone you can’t quite see, you listen, face buried in the moldy pillow.
“You’ll dance with me again, Captain.”
“Aye, love, that I will. But the pleasure of the flesh, now...I’m not quite ready to give them up, even for a fellow like yerself.”
A laugh that’s like the wind. “Did you miss the flesh, Sparrow, when it fell from you, then?”
“Oh, you ached, my friend, but the lightness, the dance, now, the freedom, when all that weight was pulled from you–you and I both know you liked it.”
Another laugh, from the captain this time. “I’ll not argue with ye, when the truth’s already known.”
“Dance with me, Sparrow.”
“Not yet, love. I’ll dance with ye, and more, before the year is up. But not yet.”
“Put that flesh to good use, then, Captain. My night’s about up.”
You think you hear the silent sound of lips against something smooth, and then you feel him crawl back into the bed with you.
And when you turn your head to look at the window, you think, for a moment, that you see something flash.
Like pearls in the moonlight.