omg scarlet hook + deserted island, i need the sass pls ;)
"This is your bloody fault."
Captain Killian Jones doesn’t answer, grimly watching his ship sail away under the command of his mutinous first mate (bloody hell, he knew Edward Thatch was trouble the first time the bastard lit his black beard afire and scared the shite out of a rabble of knock-kneed merchants). This being the case, he has far more pressing matters on his mind than the reprobations of William Scarlet, who was thrown off the ship not for siding with his captain in the mutiny, but for being too damned annoying for the rest of the crew to put up with. They have been supplied with the pistol containing a single shot, and the only thing stopping Killian from using it right now is the fact that he’s too much of a selfish bastard to want to slowly starve to death himself. He grits his teeth and tells himself that if nothing else, Will can always be offered to any hostile natives as a sacrifice. He has no idea how big this island is. It rolls away into the horizon in a tangle of thick green jungle, the crystalline-blue water dazzling the white sand. And of course, the ever-dwindling shape of the Jolly Roger on the horizon, under its new management.
Killian makes a vicious face at the tiny ship, which does nothing, not even make him feel better, then turns to tramp up the beach. “Really? My fault? I’m not the one who got chucked off just for good measure. If Blackbeard wants to go after Cortez’ treasure, he’s bloody welcome to it. He’ll get no good out of it.”
"Dunno. Think any man could do well with a big-arse heap of treasure." Will scratches his neck. "Bloody hell, the flies are goin’ to kill me."
"The flies would do everyone a favor," Killian snaps, ducking under the marginally cooler shade of the trees. He can hear the salt tide rushing in the mangroves, the twisted roots that arch high above their heads, and picks a safer path inland. If it’s not bad enough that he’s lost his command, his ship, and is a sitting duck for the four second-raters the Royal Navy is dispatching out here to curb the rampant piracy in the Caribbean — three decks, carrying over a hundred guns apiece, surely enough to write an end to any pirate king’s reign of gold and greed and glory — he is stuck on a deserted island with Will Bloody Scarlet. That is just not fair.
(Where’s that pistol again? He requires it urgently.)
He’s so wrapped up in his angry thoughts that tripping over the strange knob rising from the sand sends him almost headlong. He catches himself, then frowns. It looks wooden, and man-made. He kneels, slamming at the rotten boards with his hook, until it breaks with a crunch, and he peers in, fully expecting to get a faceful of bats for his trouble. But nothing…. except the faint, dusty glint of something that may, may just, be glass. Bottles and bottles of it, jacketed in crumbling catacombs, swollen in the hot wet tropical air. What the….
And just then, it hits him.
The rum-runners use this island as a cache.
Five hours later, they are drunk as skunks, have built a giant bonfire on the beach around which they are dancing like larks, and have slung their arms around each other to sing all the songs they know (bawdy, bawdier, and bawdily maudlin). They are on their fifth rendition of “God Save The King” and have replaced the words ever more creatively each time, mostly because they can’t remember half of them. Killian has even decided he’ll be a bit sad if he has to shoot Will first, but there are worse fates, maybe, perhaps, than to be here with a bottle of rum in his hand as the stars, fat as fists, sprinkle the sky above. He glances over at the other man, slumped against a log of driftwood with his hands behind his head. “You’re not… off the hook, you know.”
"Oy, no makin’ hook jokes." Will hiccups. "You’d just agree to go after Cortez’ gold, we wouldn’t be in this predica— predicky—-predicament."
"And here I was almost starting to like you." Killian takes another sip. "Clearly, I am not nearly drunk enough."
"So," Will says after a moment. "How’re we gettin’ off?"
"Excellent question, love. Either the rum runners will come by and we can barter passage off, we can rope a pair of sea turtles, or the Royal Navy will come by, arrest us both, bundle us promptly off to London, and hang us at Execution Dock for the moral edification of the public."
Will squints, scratching his nose. “Don’t like that last option much.”
"Neither do I." Killian stretches his legs. "So, unless we want to be trapped here together forever, I suggest we get on the bloody stick."