New POTC fic: "Turning Pirate"
Sep. 13th, 2008 06:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
veronica_richTitle: “Turning Pirate”
Rating: PG
Characters: Will, Elizabeth, Barbossa, others
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. I am earning no profit off their depiction.
Summary: Will tries to come to terms with drastic changes – including within himself – following the events of DMC.
A/N: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kahva's prompt, “Mast" for the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
turningpirate ficathon. Credit goes to betas gryphons_lair, metalkatt, yoiebear, and a_silver_rose. I tried a new style (well, to me; readers of tessabeth and viva_gloria particularly will recognize it).
Still nursing a sore elbow, Will let his left arm hang at his side. The gash had long since scabbed over, but he tried to remember not to lean on the rail.
The wound would have been much worse if not for the tough hide of the leather coat Jack had pressed on him in an effort to make him presentable to Tia Dalma that first meeting. It and his wedding shirt were rent – which would be fixable if not for the great bloody stain that refused to scrub out of the linen. Ragetti had jokingly suggested they dye it either a deep red or brown to cover it. Will supposed he could buy a new shirt if they would ever stop for a market; he’d told nobody about the pouch of guineas he’d secreted in his belt since Port Royal, pressed upon him by the governor, who had also loaned him a worn greatcoat and an old baldric barely used.
–I’ll do what I must to come back and secure her freedom, Sir.
Swann had pressed his lips into a thin line, watching the young man adjust the baldric over the slate-blue coat. –I can’t guarantee another pardon if you commit certain acts, Mr. Turner. He’d sighed. –Will. I … don’t know how effective I’ll be around here after today.
–I understand, Will had said without hesitation.
He hadn’t understood at all. He’d never intended to go flying halfway around the world to find the man who’d stolen his trust and his fiancée’s heart. But here he was, adding to his list of crimes and offenses against the society and Crown he’d once labored so hard to serve.
–You know, for having such a bleak outlook on pirates, you’re well on your way to becoming one.
Will scoffed at Jack’s summation, but it came out as a half-laugh. He leaned forward to ponder some more – and put weight square on the tenderest portion of his anatomy. He withdrew his arm with a small yelp and shook it out to dispel the sharp pain. He’d thrown up the arm to block a cutlass thrust at his gut, his sword already engaged with another; it had been stupid and visceral, as had been his response when his sword was free and the merchant sailor had come at him again. A swift, savage thrust through the man’s belly had surprised them both, especially since Will had been aiming to shallowly pierce his side. As the sailor collapsed to the blood-slick deck, Will had tried to feel horror that wouldn’t come. It didn’t, until much later, in fact.
A combination of land and water might have been swifter to Singapore, but as Barbossa had (correctly, Will acceded with great consternation) pointed out, it would be easier politically to risk the Cape Horn passage and chance having to fight whomever they encountered that one of their stolen flags couldn’t convince, than to try to bluff their way through various governments and military campaigns on the same lie. A storm and barely-escaped naval attack had left their small ship badly pocked and hastily patched on the fly, and Barbossa had decreed they would attack the next comely ship that crossed their path. Will had objected – as, surprisingly, had Gibbs.
–It’s frightful bad luck to be seekin’ battle in a leaky vessel. Should put into port and fix ‘er better.
Nobody else had. Including Elizabeth. –Needs must, she’d said, looking away when he’d tried to catch her eye.
Somehow, he’d still been surprised when, upon crossing the equator, she had readily consented to a tattoo marking the occasion. Will had said nothing, but raised his eyebrows as she rolled up her sleeve and was hustled onto a crate as canvas. The steadiest hand with a needle among them was quiet Cotton, who had to wave his bird off a few times before the creature stopped trying to perch on his shoulder and supervise.
–Rough waters! the parrot had squawked. –Squall’s a-coming!
Elizabeth had picked her left shoulder so her sword arm would not be impaired while recovering from the bloody scarring. The sparse crew shouted out suggestions, lewd and sacred, but in the end she’d gone with Pintel’s wry idea of a reproduction of the cursed medallion she’d been wearing when they first accosted her at her father’s mansion. (My God, was that only last year?) Will almost mistook the brief look she threw him for shared humor; he barely resisted suggesting she get a miniature of Jack’s swallow and wisely shut his mouth before the words shot out from his brain. It wasn’t the way to bring up the subject, nor was it worthy of their relationship … what it was, or what it had been.
–We wait for the opportune moment.
He couldn’t decide if he was tired of Jack chattering in his ear on occasions like this, or if he should take comfort that the man must surely still exist, somewhere, if he could continue to harass and twist at Will’s conscience even in absentia.
Will had turned away when Cotton started jabbing the needle into Elizabeth’s skin, staring out to sea from their newly commandeered brigantine. He knew the coast of Africa was somewhere off port; it was never a place he’d dreamed he would ever see, let alone Singapore. Still have to get there alive, first, both his brain and Jack’s voice pointed out, in one of their rare agreements.
A cheer broke the noisy chatter, getting his attention and making him wonder how long he’d been woolgathering, and he turned to see Elizabeth standing, rotating her arm experimentally and craning to look at the small circle Cotton had left upon her skin. He was already wiping his needle, and the crew was looking next to Will.
–Where you want yours? one asked with a less challenging tone than he’d been using since they all set sail. Will knew he’d gained status by standing ruthlessly with them against the merchant crew Barbossa had deprived of nautical liberty.
–Leg’s best, one opined.
–Nay, the foot, another put in. –Keeps sharks off. There ensued a minor argument as the makeshift shipboard parliament debated anatomy.
Gibbs was sensible on this point. –If you injure th’ lad’s footwork, what’ll you do without ‘im in another fight? Can’t go for his arm, neither – one’s cut, other’s th’ sword.
That shut them up. It wasn’t the first time Will had marked that Gibbs had unofficial charge despite Barbossa’s presence. It amused Will that the old bastard seemed to ignore the seadog, but nonetheless likely knew his authority was split with Jack’s old quartermaster.
–How ‘bout his ear? Pintel suggested.
Ragetti frowned. –Awful small for a tattoo, idn’t it?
–You fool. Pintel frowned at his mate. –An ear ring?
Finally, Barbossa – who’d turned the helm over to Boggs to come forward and watch the tattooing – took a verbal interest in the proceedings. He dug into his greatcoat pocket and fished about, withdrawing something wrapped in his fist.
–Use this. He opened his fingers and flashed a small gold hoop. –From Mr. Turner’s friend, the generous captain who loaned us this fine vessel.
Barbossa narrowed his eyes and smirked at Will, as if he could read his reluctant crewman’s soul. The hoop would be a constant reminder of the innocent honest life (even if it had been in self defense) Will had taken … and they both knew it.
–You son of a bitch. He pressed his lips together and glared.
Barbossa only smiled. –Come now, young Bootstrap. Can’t blame me forever and save your poor, tragic father, can ye?
He barely noticed he was being pulled toward the same crate Elizabeth had been on, or forced to sit, still angrily watching their captain. The rage that had sparked when he realized Jack had deliberately withheld information in sending him to the Flying Dutchman and had caught when he spotted the perfidious schemer kissing Elizabeth, bold as brass, flared brighter within. It melted all rashness in its path and boiled Will’s thoughts down to core, central need.
Find Jack.
Secure the Black Pearl.
Catch up with Jones and free his father.
He didn’t include Marry Elizabeth in his mental calculations because … well, because. Too uncertain by half. And the closer he came to the other three aims, the further he was taken from the fourth.
You’ll have to square with that someday.
He couldn’t remain Will Turner, tradesman or prospective society husband, if he was going to do this. As Cotton took hold of his left earlobe and stretched it in preparation for the needle, he set his jaw, waiting with new patience for the man to wave off his bird yet again. It left quicker this time, complaining again.
–Sailor before the mast! Sailor before the mast!
Will knew he would never make a sailor. So he would have to be a pirate, instead.
Rating: PG
Characters: Will, Elizabeth, Barbossa, others
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. I am earning no profit off their depiction.
Summary: Will tries to come to terms with drastic changes – including within himself – following the events of DMC.
A/N: Written for
kahva's prompt, “Mast" for the turningpirate ficathon. Credit goes to betas gryphons_lair, metalkatt, yoiebear, and a_silver_rose. I tried a new style (well, to me; readers of tessabeth and viva_gloria particularly will recognize it).Still nursing a sore elbow, Will let his left arm hang at his side. The gash had long since scabbed over, but he tried to remember not to lean on the rail.
The wound would have been much worse if not for the tough hide of the leather coat Jack had pressed on him in an effort to make him presentable to Tia Dalma that first meeting. It and his wedding shirt were rent – which would be fixable if not for the great bloody stain that refused to scrub out of the linen. Ragetti had jokingly suggested they dye it either a deep red or brown to cover it. Will supposed he could buy a new shirt if they would ever stop for a market; he’d told nobody about the pouch of guineas he’d secreted in his belt since Port Royal, pressed upon him by the governor, who had also loaned him a worn greatcoat and an old baldric barely used.
–I’ll do what I must to come back and secure her freedom, Sir.
Swann had pressed his lips into a thin line, watching the young man adjust the baldric over the slate-blue coat. –I can’t guarantee another pardon if you commit certain acts, Mr. Turner. He’d sighed. –Will. I … don’t know how effective I’ll be around here after today.
–I understand, Will had said without hesitation.
He hadn’t understood at all. He’d never intended to go flying halfway around the world to find the man who’d stolen his trust and his fiancée’s heart. But here he was, adding to his list of crimes and offenses against the society and Crown he’d once labored so hard to serve.
–You know, for having such a bleak outlook on pirates, you’re well on your way to becoming one.
Will scoffed at Jack’s summation, but it came out as a half-laugh. He leaned forward to ponder some more – and put weight square on the tenderest portion of his anatomy. He withdrew his arm with a small yelp and shook it out to dispel the sharp pain. He’d thrown up the arm to block a cutlass thrust at his gut, his sword already engaged with another; it had been stupid and visceral, as had been his response when his sword was free and the merchant sailor had come at him again. A swift, savage thrust through the man’s belly had surprised them both, especially since Will had been aiming to shallowly pierce his side. As the sailor collapsed to the blood-slick deck, Will had tried to feel horror that wouldn’t come. It didn’t, until much later, in fact.
A combination of land and water might have been swifter to Singapore, but as Barbossa had (correctly, Will acceded with great consternation) pointed out, it would be easier politically to risk the Cape Horn passage and chance having to fight whomever they encountered that one of their stolen flags couldn’t convince, than to try to bluff their way through various governments and military campaigns on the same lie. A storm and barely-escaped naval attack had left their small ship badly pocked and hastily patched on the fly, and Barbossa had decreed they would attack the next comely ship that crossed their path. Will had objected – as, surprisingly, had Gibbs.
–It’s frightful bad luck to be seekin’ battle in a leaky vessel. Should put into port and fix ‘er better.
Nobody else had. Including Elizabeth. –Needs must, she’d said, looking away when he’d tried to catch her eye.
Somehow, he’d still been surprised when, upon crossing the equator, she had readily consented to a tattoo marking the occasion. Will had said nothing, but raised his eyebrows as she rolled up her sleeve and was hustled onto a crate as canvas. The steadiest hand with a needle among them was quiet Cotton, who had to wave his bird off a few times before the creature stopped trying to perch on his shoulder and supervise.
–Rough waters! the parrot had squawked. –Squall’s a-coming!
Elizabeth had picked her left shoulder so her sword arm would not be impaired while recovering from the bloody scarring. The sparse crew shouted out suggestions, lewd and sacred, but in the end she’d gone with Pintel’s wry idea of a reproduction of the cursed medallion she’d been wearing when they first accosted her at her father’s mansion. (My God, was that only last year?) Will almost mistook the brief look she threw him for shared humor; he barely resisted suggesting she get a miniature of Jack’s swallow and wisely shut his mouth before the words shot out from his brain. It wasn’t the way to bring up the subject, nor was it worthy of their relationship … what it was, or what it had been.
–We wait for the opportune moment.
He couldn’t decide if he was tired of Jack chattering in his ear on occasions like this, or if he should take comfort that the man must surely still exist, somewhere, if he could continue to harass and twist at Will’s conscience even in absentia.
Will had turned away when Cotton started jabbing the needle into Elizabeth’s skin, staring out to sea from their newly commandeered brigantine. He knew the coast of Africa was somewhere off port; it was never a place he’d dreamed he would ever see, let alone Singapore. Still have to get there alive, first, both his brain and Jack’s voice pointed out, in one of their rare agreements.
A cheer broke the noisy chatter, getting his attention and making him wonder how long he’d been woolgathering, and he turned to see Elizabeth standing, rotating her arm experimentally and craning to look at the small circle Cotton had left upon her skin. He was already wiping his needle, and the crew was looking next to Will.
–Where you want yours? one asked with a less challenging tone than he’d been using since they all set sail. Will knew he’d gained status by standing ruthlessly with them against the merchant crew Barbossa had deprived of nautical liberty.
–Leg’s best, one opined.
–Nay, the foot, another put in. –Keeps sharks off. There ensued a minor argument as the makeshift shipboard parliament debated anatomy.
Gibbs was sensible on this point. –If you injure th’ lad’s footwork, what’ll you do without ‘im in another fight? Can’t go for his arm, neither – one’s cut, other’s th’ sword.
That shut them up. It wasn’t the first time Will had marked that Gibbs had unofficial charge despite Barbossa’s presence. It amused Will that the old bastard seemed to ignore the seadog, but nonetheless likely knew his authority was split with Jack’s old quartermaster.
–How ‘bout his ear? Pintel suggested.
Ragetti frowned. –Awful small for a tattoo, idn’t it?
–You fool. Pintel frowned at his mate. –An ear ring?
Finally, Barbossa – who’d turned the helm over to Boggs to come forward and watch the tattooing – took a verbal interest in the proceedings. He dug into his greatcoat pocket and fished about, withdrawing something wrapped in his fist.
–Use this. He opened his fingers and flashed a small gold hoop. –From Mr. Turner’s friend, the generous captain who loaned us this fine vessel.
Barbossa narrowed his eyes and smirked at Will, as if he could read his reluctant crewman’s soul. The hoop would be a constant reminder of the innocent honest life (even if it had been in self defense) Will had taken … and they both knew it.
–You son of a bitch. He pressed his lips together and glared.
Barbossa only smiled. –Come now, young Bootstrap. Can’t blame me forever and save your poor, tragic father, can ye?
He barely noticed he was being pulled toward the same crate Elizabeth had been on, or forced to sit, still angrily watching their captain. The rage that had sparked when he realized Jack had deliberately withheld information in sending him to the Flying Dutchman and had caught when he spotted the perfidious schemer kissing Elizabeth, bold as brass, flared brighter within. It melted all rashness in its path and boiled Will’s thoughts down to core, central need.
Find Jack.
Secure the Black Pearl.
Catch up with Jones and free his father.
He didn’t include Marry Elizabeth in his mental calculations because … well, because. Too uncertain by half. And the closer he came to the other three aims, the further he was taken from the fourth.
You’ll have to square with that someday.
He couldn’t remain Will Turner, tradesman or prospective society husband, if he was going to do this. As Cotton took hold of his left earlobe and stretched it in preparation for the needle, he set his jaw, waiting with new patience for the man to wave off his bird yet again. It left quicker this time, complaining again.
–Sailor before the mast! Sailor before the mast!
Will knew he would never make a sailor. So he would have to be a pirate, instead.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-09-14 12:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-15 12:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-14 06:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-15 12:11 am (UTC)(I wish you would've signed up for it; you do belong to the Will community, don't you?)
no subject
Date: 2008-09-16 03:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-16 06:28 am (UTC)