"Contradictions 8 - Claimed" Part 2
Aug. 29th, 2005 10:52 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
veronica_richThis is a continuation of a fic. See Part 1 for disclaimers, description, etc.
Back in the smithy half an hour or so later, Will stripped off his vest and shirt, tossing the sodden items across the room’s single bench. He unfastened the thong in his hair and pulled the damp, wavy strands back tighter, then retied the leather strip. Dipping his hands into the bowl of water in the corner, he leaned over and buried his face in the puddle, exhaling hard enough to blow bubbles.
For the first time in two weeks, he’d voluntarily spoken with Jack, not in response to an order or emergency, but to discuss some of the finer points of Will’s new additional duties (including his first go at the hold’s boxes and barrels later tonight, with help from Gibbs and possibly Ana). Their conversation had been civil and amiable, and Jack had glanced up at him repeatedly, as if trying to figure out some puzzle.
It had been, for Will, an epiphany. He wanted more than that kiss back. He wanted more than any sort of sensation or sex could ever offer, with Jack, more than he’d ever wanted any of that from Elizabeth. Trouble was – none of that sort was likely to be forthcoming from Jack. Never from a pirate, who took what he could and never gave back. And Will wanted an afterwards, wanted heat and closeness and kisses and conversation, coal-dark eyes lost in his own, a Jack who was not nearly so controlled and supervisory, as desperate for Will’s comforting touch as the smith was for his captain’s. That was why he’d pulled away from Jack’s embrace. He really didn’t want to be caught by drunken sailors partaking of Jack’s charms for the first time, but had that been the only issue, he’d have dragged Jack below with him, perhaps to his cabin or right here into the small smithy, and continued their mutual explorations.
He admitted his own stupidity. Up to now, he’d tried his damnedest not to meet Jack’s eyes, and had given serious thought to bailing at the next semi-attractive shore just to get out of temptation’s path. It had occurred to him at some point that perhaps he ought to give the pirate opportunity to explain himself, that Will himself ought to lay out his cards and explain what the hell was going on in his confused mind – to be a man about it, for Christ’s sake – but he just hadn’t.
Jack hadn’t protested. In the two weeks they’d been back at sea, they hadn’t exchanged words, not even to pass the time of day. Will wondered what the crew thought, if they noticed, and quickly decided he didn’t care. For once, he was through caring about appearances and propriety. It had been a gradual journey to get here, to not worry about others’ judgments and pronouncements upon his actions, but he was finally concentrating on what he wanted.
And what Will wanted was a mate, not a roll in the hay. He wanted someone he could count on to be in his bed every night possible, to spend time with him out of bed, talking and teasing and working together and caring about his troubles and his moods. Jack was far too mercurial to be any of that in the long run, and too guarded to allow anyone to care for him in the same fashion.
Jack. Will allowed his tired mind to drift in its brief, pleasant lassitude as he straightened and shook the water from his fingers. Beautiful, dangerous, clever, strong, slippery Jack. Why was it the very wildness Will knew would keep the man from being his ideal mate was the thing he found most irresistible in the pirate? He wanted to tame Jack … but he didn’t. It was confusing and irritating and arousing all at the same time.
He supposed he ought to be ashamed for desiring a man, for sinning against how he’d been raised and properly taught and how God had created him, but the truth was that before today, he’d spent more time wondering how to make conversation with the pirate again than in beating his head against the wall for “unnatural” passions.
Besides, hell with Jack would surely be much more interesting than being in heaven alone.
*****
In order to get the new joist plate on the steps leading to the poop deck, Will had to sand down the wood around it, just enough to accommodate the differently-sized metal he’d fashioned. He frowned over the sanding, concentrating to the exclusion of all around him, only reaching up every so often to rub some perspiration from his forehead with his elbow, to which he’d rolled the cuff of his shirt.
As it happened, the bucket went to the well once too often, and his hand slipped off the sanding brick on a particularly vicious downward stroke, smacking into Pearl’s black wood. Something seemed odd at first, numb, but he didn’t register until a few seconds later, when pain throbbed through his hand. Turning it over, he blinked at a solid two-inch chunk of sliver protruding at a steep angle just above the center of his palm. Will frowned and poked at his damaged flesh experimentally with the index finger of his left hand, wincing; it was buried pretty deep. Tugging at the free end of the splinter was no better, since he was loathe to bring more pain on himself. “Dammit, Pearl,” he muttered as a coolness settled across his left side that he realized was someone’s shadow.
“What’d she do now?” He didn’t know when Jack had even left the helm, as there’d been the crew’s jogging footsteps up and down the steps, back and forth, the entire time he’d knelt here.
“It’s just a splinter.” His tone was nonchalant, and he pulled at the wood again. The fingers of the injured hand automatically curled in as if to protect its palm, and Will jerked said hand back from his left fingers.
He said nothing, made no noise, but the shadow shifted and Jack hunkered down next to him. Will bristled – he didn’t want to admit the splinter was ridiculously painful. “’S in a bad spot,” Jack explained, reaching for Will’s right hand and pointing. “See, ye’ve got all these nerve endings in your hand an’ fingers, makes them right sensitive, more than most of th’ rest of your skin. If ye’d gotten that log stuck in your belly or arm, wouldn’t hurt as bad.”
Will said nothing, not wanting to admit to the discomfort. He kept his eyes trained on his palm as Jack turned it, examining, then held it still. That prompted him to finally ask, “What’re you doing?”
“Gon’ get this out. Hold still.”
“No.” Will yanked his hand away and frowned at Jack. “Don’t touch it.”
The captain rolled his dark eyes with what Will figured was amusement. “Don’t be a child. Ye need someone else to pull it out; do it yourself, ye go too damn slow.”
“I do not need you wiggling this thing around under the skin. It hurts enough already,” he admitted in a mutter.
“Precisely why I need t’ get it out now. Ye don’t have to look.” While he was yanking his hand back to avoid Jack grabbing it, Will lost balance on his knees and tumbled to his arse, sitting hard on the deck and thrusting his hand out to avoid smacking it into the wood as well. Jack took advantage of his surprise and pulled the hand between both of his, chuckling. “Stubborn lad.”
“Don’t laugh at me.” Jack cocked his head and fixed Will with an expression that told the smith he wasn’t going to be ordered about, but which still held a hint of humor. Will turned his head and concentrated on a bolt in the planking of the rail to distract himself as Jack prodded around the entry wound. He was surprisingly gentle, but his haste left no doubt he was working his way up to just yanking the damn thing out. Will inhaled-
A sharp pain, during which Will was proud of himself for staying silent.
-and exhaled, resisting the urge to yank his hand back and suck at the wound like an injured animal.
Jack was still poking around the center of Will’s palm; when he looked, he saw blood welling out of the small hole, with Jack pushing the skin around it. “Need t’ bleed it out a bit, make sure there’s no more little planks or dirt stuck in there,” the captain explained, glancing up, then back to his work as he used the cuff of his own shirt to dab at the blood.
Will watched as Jack moved his hand so only the thumb was smoothing and bunching skin toward the wound, his fingers between Will’s, their tips underneath Will’s hand supporting his knuckles. The brush of his rough thumb grew lighter, and Will’s stomach fluttered. His skin prickled, too, and he wondered how Jack’s moustache would feel brushing his palm, the tip of his nose butting the heel of his hand. He dragged his eyes to Jack’s, which were still lowered. The man had the most beautiful eyelashes, black and thick and long, fanning his high cheekbones as he concentrated on his work; Will imagined it was how Jack would look when asleep.
When Jack raised his eyes, Will blinked into them, entranced. There was the merest hint of dark brown, they were so very onyx. And huge – he estimated Jack’s eyes took up a good third of his lower face, dewdrop and fox-like. The longer he stared, the more he noticed the change in them, from disinterested and businesslike to lambent and liquid. He realized with a start the man was allowing him to look deep, to see a flicker of something beyond captain and friend, and was startled to realize it was something Jack probably didn’t allow very often.
The thumb had slowed to small, light circles, avoiding the scabbed-over wound, barely brushing the skin. Will felt hungry, wanted to pull Jack to him and kiss him, grab his hair and shirt, wrap his arms around the man and feel him breathe, feel his heartbeat into his own chest. Gone were uncharitable thoughts and memories of the thousand-and-one little things Jack normally did to set his nerves on annoyed edge.
Jack dropped his eyes to Will’s mouth, and the smith thrilled, unconsciously leaning forward. Do it he thought, surprised at his own passion. I am so sorry I pushed you away. Make it up to me, please, what I missed that night. He wanted to abandon the work that had become his reason for existing for so many years, and give in to the unproductive emotion of lust. For once, he wanted to do something that wasn’t fixing or repairing or stacking or rolling or smelting or creating, and simply feel with his entire body and emotional awareness – wanted it enough that he was willing to abandon a short-term work goal to actually do it, if led properly along.
When Jack dropped his eyes to deck and released Will’s hand, the smith actually leaned forward, ready to speak, to coax. “Cap’n, dark clouds be comin’,” Gibbs’s voice boomed from overhead at the helm. “Mus’ be that storm ye felt early this mornin’.”
On to Part 3 ...
Back in the smithy half an hour or so later, Will stripped off his vest and shirt, tossing the sodden items across the room’s single bench. He unfastened the thong in his hair and pulled the damp, wavy strands back tighter, then retied the leather strip. Dipping his hands into the bowl of water in the corner, he leaned over and buried his face in the puddle, exhaling hard enough to blow bubbles.
For the first time in two weeks, he’d voluntarily spoken with Jack, not in response to an order or emergency, but to discuss some of the finer points of Will’s new additional duties (including his first go at the hold’s boxes and barrels later tonight, with help from Gibbs and possibly Ana). Their conversation had been civil and amiable, and Jack had glanced up at him repeatedly, as if trying to figure out some puzzle.
It had been, for Will, an epiphany. He wanted more than that kiss back. He wanted more than any sort of sensation or sex could ever offer, with Jack, more than he’d ever wanted any of that from Elizabeth. Trouble was – none of that sort was likely to be forthcoming from Jack. Never from a pirate, who took what he could and never gave back. And Will wanted an afterwards, wanted heat and closeness and kisses and conversation, coal-dark eyes lost in his own, a Jack who was not nearly so controlled and supervisory, as desperate for Will’s comforting touch as the smith was for his captain’s. That was why he’d pulled away from Jack’s embrace. He really didn’t want to be caught by drunken sailors partaking of Jack’s charms for the first time, but had that been the only issue, he’d have dragged Jack below with him, perhaps to his cabin or right here into the small smithy, and continued their mutual explorations.
He admitted his own stupidity. Up to now, he’d tried his damnedest not to meet Jack’s eyes, and had given serious thought to bailing at the next semi-attractive shore just to get out of temptation’s path. It had occurred to him at some point that perhaps he ought to give the pirate opportunity to explain himself, that Will himself ought to lay out his cards and explain what the hell was going on in his confused mind – to be a man about it, for Christ’s sake – but he just hadn’t.
Jack hadn’t protested. In the two weeks they’d been back at sea, they hadn’t exchanged words, not even to pass the time of day. Will wondered what the crew thought, if they noticed, and quickly decided he didn’t care. For once, he was through caring about appearances and propriety. It had been a gradual journey to get here, to not worry about others’ judgments and pronouncements upon his actions, but he was finally concentrating on what he wanted.
And what Will wanted was a mate, not a roll in the hay. He wanted someone he could count on to be in his bed every night possible, to spend time with him out of bed, talking and teasing and working together and caring about his troubles and his moods. Jack was far too mercurial to be any of that in the long run, and too guarded to allow anyone to care for him in the same fashion.
Jack. Will allowed his tired mind to drift in its brief, pleasant lassitude as he straightened and shook the water from his fingers. Beautiful, dangerous, clever, strong, slippery Jack. Why was it the very wildness Will knew would keep the man from being his ideal mate was the thing he found most irresistible in the pirate? He wanted to tame Jack … but he didn’t. It was confusing and irritating and arousing all at the same time.
He supposed he ought to be ashamed for desiring a man, for sinning against how he’d been raised and properly taught and how God had created him, but the truth was that before today, he’d spent more time wondering how to make conversation with the pirate again than in beating his head against the wall for “unnatural” passions.
Besides, hell with Jack would surely be much more interesting than being in heaven alone.
*****
In order to get the new joist plate on the steps leading to the poop deck, Will had to sand down the wood around it, just enough to accommodate the differently-sized metal he’d fashioned. He frowned over the sanding, concentrating to the exclusion of all around him, only reaching up every so often to rub some perspiration from his forehead with his elbow, to which he’d rolled the cuff of his shirt.
As it happened, the bucket went to the well once too often, and his hand slipped off the sanding brick on a particularly vicious downward stroke, smacking into Pearl’s black wood. Something seemed odd at first, numb, but he didn’t register until a few seconds later, when pain throbbed through his hand. Turning it over, he blinked at a solid two-inch chunk of sliver protruding at a steep angle just above the center of his palm. Will frowned and poked at his damaged flesh experimentally with the index finger of his left hand, wincing; it was buried pretty deep. Tugging at the free end of the splinter was no better, since he was loathe to bring more pain on himself. “Dammit, Pearl,” he muttered as a coolness settled across his left side that he realized was someone’s shadow.
“What’d she do now?” He didn’t know when Jack had even left the helm, as there’d been the crew’s jogging footsteps up and down the steps, back and forth, the entire time he’d knelt here.
“It’s just a splinter.” His tone was nonchalant, and he pulled at the wood again. The fingers of the injured hand automatically curled in as if to protect its palm, and Will jerked said hand back from his left fingers.
He said nothing, made no noise, but the shadow shifted and Jack hunkered down next to him. Will bristled – he didn’t want to admit the splinter was ridiculously painful. “’S in a bad spot,” Jack explained, reaching for Will’s right hand and pointing. “See, ye’ve got all these nerve endings in your hand an’ fingers, makes them right sensitive, more than most of th’ rest of your skin. If ye’d gotten that log stuck in your belly or arm, wouldn’t hurt as bad.”
Will said nothing, not wanting to admit to the discomfort. He kept his eyes trained on his palm as Jack turned it, examining, then held it still. That prompted him to finally ask, “What’re you doing?”
“Gon’ get this out. Hold still.”
“No.” Will yanked his hand away and frowned at Jack. “Don’t touch it.”
The captain rolled his dark eyes with what Will figured was amusement. “Don’t be a child. Ye need someone else to pull it out; do it yourself, ye go too damn slow.”
“I do not need you wiggling this thing around under the skin. It hurts enough already,” he admitted in a mutter.
“Precisely why I need t’ get it out now. Ye don’t have to look.” While he was yanking his hand back to avoid Jack grabbing it, Will lost balance on his knees and tumbled to his arse, sitting hard on the deck and thrusting his hand out to avoid smacking it into the wood as well. Jack took advantage of his surprise and pulled the hand between both of his, chuckling. “Stubborn lad.”
“Don’t laugh at me.” Jack cocked his head and fixed Will with an expression that told the smith he wasn’t going to be ordered about, but which still held a hint of humor. Will turned his head and concentrated on a bolt in the planking of the rail to distract himself as Jack prodded around the entry wound. He was surprisingly gentle, but his haste left no doubt he was working his way up to just yanking the damn thing out. Will inhaled-
A sharp pain, during which Will was proud of himself for staying silent.
-and exhaled, resisting the urge to yank his hand back and suck at the wound like an injured animal.
Jack was still poking around the center of Will’s palm; when he looked, he saw blood welling out of the small hole, with Jack pushing the skin around it. “Need t’ bleed it out a bit, make sure there’s no more little planks or dirt stuck in there,” the captain explained, glancing up, then back to his work as he used the cuff of his own shirt to dab at the blood.
Will watched as Jack moved his hand so only the thumb was smoothing and bunching skin toward the wound, his fingers between Will’s, their tips underneath Will’s hand supporting his knuckles. The brush of his rough thumb grew lighter, and Will’s stomach fluttered. His skin prickled, too, and he wondered how Jack’s moustache would feel brushing his palm, the tip of his nose butting the heel of his hand. He dragged his eyes to Jack’s, which were still lowered. The man had the most beautiful eyelashes, black and thick and long, fanning his high cheekbones as he concentrated on his work; Will imagined it was how Jack would look when asleep.
When Jack raised his eyes, Will blinked into them, entranced. There was the merest hint of dark brown, they were so very onyx. And huge – he estimated Jack’s eyes took up a good third of his lower face, dewdrop and fox-like. The longer he stared, the more he noticed the change in them, from disinterested and businesslike to lambent and liquid. He realized with a start the man was allowing him to look deep, to see a flicker of something beyond captain and friend, and was startled to realize it was something Jack probably didn’t allow very often.
The thumb had slowed to small, light circles, avoiding the scabbed-over wound, barely brushing the skin. Will felt hungry, wanted to pull Jack to him and kiss him, grab his hair and shirt, wrap his arms around the man and feel him breathe, feel his heartbeat into his own chest. Gone were uncharitable thoughts and memories of the thousand-and-one little things Jack normally did to set his nerves on annoyed edge.
Jack dropped his eyes to Will’s mouth, and the smith thrilled, unconsciously leaning forward. Do it he thought, surprised at his own passion. I am so sorry I pushed you away. Make it up to me, please, what I missed that night. He wanted to abandon the work that had become his reason for existing for so many years, and give in to the unproductive emotion of lust. For once, he wanted to do something that wasn’t fixing or repairing or stacking or rolling or smelting or creating, and simply feel with his entire body and emotional awareness – wanted it enough that he was willing to abandon a short-term work goal to actually do it, if led properly along.
When Jack dropped his eyes to deck and released Will’s hand, the smith actually leaned forward, ready to speak, to coax. “Cap’n, dark clouds be comin’,” Gibbs’s voice boomed from overhead at the helm. “Mus’ be that storm ye felt early this mornin’.”
On to Part 3 ...
