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Hum. Thought I'd Posted This Before

Here is the one Becket-centric fic I've ever written.  I generally can't stand the anoying little man.  Though he did have a BEAUTIFUL death scene.  Seriously, that was some amazing editing.

Author: Me
Disclaimer: I do not own POTC, Disney owns POTC, Ted & Terry own the screenplay, and heck, Bruckhimer might own Ted & Terry.  Just know I own NOTHING!  :D
Characters/Pairings: Lord Cutler Becket & ???
Rating: Um, maybe PG13?
Warnings: Angst
Summary: The Choices we make...
Word Count: 943

Dedicated To: Hans Zimmer for writing such AMAZING music! 

 Author's Note:  The track I listened to while writing this was track #3 Davy Jones on the soundtrack CD of Dead Man's Chest.  I love it.  And I have NO IDEA where the idea for this pairing came from!!!!?!?!?!?  I just thought of it out of the blue.  So I wrote it.  I may have some more little fics to write in this verse.  And I know I've taken some liberties with the storyline, my excuse is I've only seen the film once so far. <-----At the time that I wrote it.  :)

            The former Commodore had left the office, his scent slowly following after him. Becket’s nose wrinkled slightly, clearly offended. He cared not that the former man had once occupied this very same office. His eyes were drawn to the small black bag sitting on his desk. It writhed as though a very small kitten was tangled in its dark folds.
            Mercer watched this, still saying nothing.   One eyebrow raised slowly, his arms unfolding.
            “I have business down at the docks, I shall return this evening.” Mercer slowly rolled away from the doorframe, crossing the room and leaving by the same door as Norrington. 
            Becket paid little heed, nearly startling as the door clicked softly shut behind Mercer. As he watched the small bag, he began to discern a rhythm to its movement. After the rhythm, he next noticed the soft thumping sound issuing from it. 
            A heartbeat.
            Sweat began to itch under the white wig atop his head. He walked to the door Mercer had left from and turned the lock. Next he went to the wall of windows with the door in it, and locked that as well; pulling the heavy drapes closed. The room was bathed in semi-darkness. 
            He removed the wig; his hair was black and cropped very short. So short it was nearly shaved. His finger racked through the stubble, his face scrunching up like that of a young boy. If he allowed it to grow, it came in curly as a lass’s; he despised it.
            The heart seemed to beat louder in the unearthly twilight. Becket’s began to beat in tandem with it. 
            He swallowed hard, he tasted fear; his own.
            He blinked, across his closed eyelids lightening flashed and he saw a ghost ship made of bones sail across a stormy sea.
            His eyes flashed open and he took a slow, deep breath; he could taste the musk of the ocean. He swallowed again, his throat suddenly gone dry as the parchment strewn across his desk.
            His hands slowly shaking he opened the bag, the thumping growing louder.
            Sweat was now rolling down his temples and the back of his neck. In his head he could hear a pipe organ, a mournful waltz playing.
            He blinked again, this time he was on the storm-tossed death ship. He stood behind the creature playing the organ. His whole body swayed before it, a gigantic monstrosity, made of bones as well. There were several levels of keys and the pipes soared high above Becket’s head.
            He shivered. He despised being short as well as the angelic curls that graced his scalp.
            “Why?” The creature playing the organ wailed the word over his sad tune. “Why did ye shave yer head? Ye were nay infested.” His tone was matter-of-fact. He stopped playing abruptly, the keys making a discordant noise. He turned and the full horror of what the creature was became apparent. His head was that of a many-tentacled octopus, some of the tentacles appeared to have been cut and healed. He had been playing the organ with them, for one of his hands was that of a giant crab, vicious pincers that could deliver a man of his head rather neatly.
            “I have wigs; I have no need for a mop of curls.”   Becket stood tall before the creature. 
            “Wigs.” The creature snorted. “The East India Trading Company.” He shook his head, tentacles seeming to move in slow-motion. “Yer Father dies, ye inherit the title of Lord and suddenly ye are not the man I once knew.
            Becket’s face contorts in annoyance. “I am trying to be the man I was meant to be, Davy.” His voice rose on the name, Davy. It was softly pleading.
            The creature’s eyes seemed to go dim at the sound of his name. “Nay, Cutler, yer becoming the man yer Father wanted, nay the man ye wanted.” He took a soft breath. “Nay the man I wanted.” It was a whisper that was almost lost to the sounds of the Caribbean Sea, washing against the dead hull.
            Becket swallowed hard, like the British Navy; buggery was not tolerated in the East India Trading Company. Certainly not with the likes of Davy Jones. “Nevertheless, I must leave; the position must be filled as soon as I can make my way back to London.”
            Jones turned away from him, “Ye shall have yer wish, but know this; we shall forevermore sail on opposite sides. Our flags will always be at war. Is this what ye want?” His eyes slammed shut in shame at the begging tone in his voice.
            Becket’s head fell forward, he was glad of the fact that Davy wasn’t looking at him; his hand went to the locket under the open collar of his shirt. “It’s what I choose to  do.” He pulled locket from his neck and left it at the floor where he stood, then turned and left the room without a backward glance; back straight as a rod.
            When Becket opened his eyes again, he was back in his office in Port Royal. His heart hammering far faster then the one sitting on his desk. The bag had slid open and he saw a glint of sliver.
            The locket. With shaking fingers he removed it, it took his fingers several tries before it sprang the catch and it opened. A tiny music box played the same waltz Davy Jones had played on the organ.
            Becket nearly fell into his chair, hands shaking and bile rising in his throat.
            Davy Jones’s heart sat on his desk.
            The heart of his lover.
            The tears he had held for years finally fell.



( 3 comments — Leave a comment )
Oct. 30th, 2007 06:05 am (UTC)
love your writing. love your stories, have I mentioned I love your writing? ;)
Oct. 30th, 2007 02:13 pm (UTC)
You have, but I thank you nonetheless. :)

I love your sewing. So we're even. ;) Oh, and your Steampunk coat, I drool in ENVY. ;)
Oct. 30th, 2007 02:54 pm (UTC)
lol! thanks. ;)
( 3 comments — Leave a comment )


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