veronica_rich (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
veronica_rich) wrote2011-06-01 06:32 pm
veronica_rich) wrote2011-06-01 06:32 pm
Fic: "Contradictions 3: Lose" (POTC)
CONTRADICTIONS 3: LOSE
Rating: R
Pairing: Eventual J/W slash
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Jack and Will, nor the details associated with “Pirates of the Caribbean.” I am simply borrowing them for a while for creative expression and writing practice (and because the boys are in my head and won’t leave me alone).
Special Thanks: To the Crow and the Spoon for beta-reading and God knows what all else. Also, thanks to Spoon for helping me write the “Just A Taste” scene at the end of the fic – you’ll know it when you read it.
Summary: This is continuation of an AU fic that began with FLIGHT and FIGHT, breaking off from the movie’s events immediately after Barbossa’s defeat and death in the caves of Isla de Muerta. The previous parts consist of, in order, FLIGHT and FIGHT.
A/N: This series was on a hosted website for several years, which recently went defunct, so I'm posting it here just for bookkeeping purposes. This series was written long ago, in 2003-06.
A sense of unease ghosted through Jack Sparrow’s bones as he studied the deck of the ship on the horizon and its bearing, trying to determine if it might be leaving laden with prizes, or returning to lay claim to more.
One might have concluded it is a simple matter to decide which way a ship is heading – namely, which way the bow is pointed. Being neither untried nor stupid, Jack could easily have deduced this, had he been able to pick a direction for the vessel’s bearing. As it was, it had been bobbing in the same spot for the past two hours. In a bay or at port, such economy of activity was necessary; out at open sea, though, any sailor worth his salt knew you didn’t waste any more time than necessary out of reach of viable land in case of storm, even an island.
The pirate captain lowered his telescope for probably the twentieth time and frowned, trying to make sense of it. The crew wouldn’t wait forever for a decision; he’d already put them off for the better part of the morning and noontime, trying to determine the best course of action.
“It should be moving.”
“Aye.” Jack didn’t turn to acknowledge his first mate as he agreed. “Can’t it, though, or won’t it?”
“I would think ‘can’t,’ since I know of no captain capable of being put in charge of such a sizable ship who would willingly drop anchor alone this far out to sea,” Anamaria reasoned.
“Only if it’s a trap of some sort.” Jack knew they both thought it, even if only he spoke the words. “I’m hesitant to go after a ship when it’s expectin’ me; besides, where’s th’ thrill of th’ chase?” he grinned, finally casting a glance back over his shoulder at Ana.
She crossed her arms, regarding him with a raised eyebrow, but said nothing. She often did this when she was confident he had more to say and wasn’t finished; Jack wondered if he’d somehow gotten too predictable – equated with “going soft” – since having his own ship back. “The crew …” he sighed, confirming her silence.
“Been a long while since they’ve made a little swag,” she pointed out.
“Yes, I know that,” Jack rebutted. “But it won’t do them any good if we’re all killed or sunk.”
“Sounds like the captain’s made his decision.” Ana’s mouth quirked lightly, but her eyes were serious, still, awaiting confirmation.
“’Ere.” He pushed himself away from the wheel. “Take th’ helm; I’ll go break th’ glum news.” Jack gave the worn, wooden wheel a fond pat as he headed for the lower deck, where various pirates worked or watched with interest. Though Jack stuck by the Articles as much as he could to allow everyone aboard a democratic vote in the pursuit of loot, the Black Pearl was his ship and as such, he made the final decisions on raids and defenses which could be hazardous for her.
“Everyone listen up!” he called in an amplified growl, stalking across the deck into their midst, hands up cupping his mouth slightly to amplify his voice. “There’ll be no raid today, least of all on that tub.” Jack inclined his head toward the distance, though not a one of his men were thick enough that they didn’t know to what he referred. “Too damn suspicious.”
A few grumbles of disapproval met his announcement – and one question. “Does she have more armaments, or maybe sailors, stopping us?” called one Will Turner, resident part-time blacksmith and pirate-in-training.
Jack looked around a bit to locate the lad, then craned his head, finding him several feet above in the rigging, seated on a crosstie where he was replacing some metal supports on the mast. He’d traded his impractical shoes for his own pair of calf-high leather boots months ago, and no longer wore a vest as much. Except for that and the longer hair leached somewhat of its former darkness, he looked much the same he had when he and Jack had hightailed it out of Port Royale and away from the Royal Navy six months ago.
“Mr. Turner,” Jack calmly explained, well aware the eyes of the crew were upon him and how he would handle this, “I am not accustomed to explaining decisions which should be apparent. However, seeing as you’re still one of th’ resident whelps, I shall enlighten you.” He was pleased to note the scowl he could see cross Will’s expression, even from this distance, punctuated by a few titters of laughter from the rest of the crew. Serves him right; he knows better than to question my decision when there’s already enough dissension from an unhappy crew. Then again, Jack amended mentally, maybe he simply doesn’t realize what it does to my image; hard enough to override democratic vote even when you‘ve got a fairly good reason. Oh well, at least David’ll get an education out of it at the same time.
“Yonder vessel has not moved from its position in over two hours. For such a large ship, there’s surprising little activity on th’ deck for so relatively early in th’ day. No sweeps up th’ mast, either; no way of knowin‘ if military or pirate, and I daresay neither‘d welcome us with a mother‘s lovin’ arms. So either it’s a plague ship – which I would have no desire to board, thankee – they’re havin’ troubles, or we’ve an ambush in th’ works. Since we are neither doctors nor Samaritans, we must by needs assume th’ worst and take the proper precautions by keeping our distance.”
Will said nothing at first, seeming to hold a brief staring contest with Jack. He turned his head away, then, toward the direction of the other ship, and Jack could go so far as to picture his face as he considered a reply or even its necessity – it was odd how well he knew this person after only a few months. Certainly he had plenty of others in his crew who’d served longer and he didn’t understand their thought processes at all. “Aye,” Will finally assented, turning back to his cross-brace work. “Captain,” he added almost as an afterthought.
Hmm. Teach ‘em a few underhanded card tricks and suddenly they know everything about running a pirate ship, he thought of what sounded like Will’s rare petulant tone.
He glanced over at the Pearl’s newest crew member, a lad of fourteen that Jack had taken on over a month ago named David. The youth was short but quick – much as Jack remembered his own self – and watching the proceedings with intelligent blue eyes. Jack had made him cabin boy, ordering him to stay below during the one raid he’d conducted during his stay on board; he refused to throw children into battle, even going so far as to order children taken below deck on vessels he boarded. Whether adults were wise enough to yield to save their own lives was one thing; people under the age of sixteen didn’t have enough sense to make up their minds about anything, he surmised, conveniently forgetting he’d been the same age as David when he’d taken up his own seafaring career.
“If they’re plannin’ somethin’, Cap’n, we could drill some lead into ‘em,” offered Quinlip, a rather rough hand who’d joined the crew that had taken possession of the Pearl with Elizabeth Swann’s help at the Isla de Muerta. “Disable ‘em outta that notion.”
Jack glanced back up at Will, who’d paused in going back to his work and was frowning openly down on the proceedings. Stifling his urge to snap at Quinlip the same way he’d corrected Turner, the captain correctly interpreted the blacksmith’s actual cause of annoyance and addressed it indirectly. “We don’t fire unless fired upon, lads,” he reminded them. “Don’t know there’s not families aboard.”
Grumbling set in, and Jack clearly heard in there “are we pirates or wet-nurses?” but could not identify the source. Setting his jaw, he gave a stamp of his booted foot to echo throughout the boards and growled loudly, “Scabrous dogs! Who the hell are you to question me?” The grumbling died down abruptly, and he fisted his hands on his hips, meeting every eye he could, slowly. “Did any of ye take and rebuild this ship?” He glared, daring answers. “Who among ye ran that whoreson Barbossa through t’ get her back?” Again, silence. “Ye all read th’ Articles when ye signed on; no killin’ whelps. Now, if any of ye’ve a mind to pilot your own vessel and ye be thinkin’ that’s your opportunity-” he nodded sharply toward the one in the distance, “believe me, you’re more ‘n welcome t’ leap in and swim over to stage a boarding party in your own name. Best o‘ luck.”
Again, nobody spoke or moved. “No?” Jack echoed the silence, cocking his head and glaring at all in turn. “Then I’ll be thankin’ th’ ungracious lot of ye to shut th’ hell up an’ let me steer the course in me own-acquired ship. Savvy?” A few nods, several defiant glares as men milled about, some going back to activity resembling work. Jack bristled, but let it pass; he knew better than anyone a man couldn’t be punished for what went on in his head, so long as it stayed strictly in his own head. Besides, he really was pushing it by making the crew‘s decision, his ship or no. “Boy,” he gruffed at David, motioning him over, “did ye get to the hold yet?”
“No, sir. I just finished helping in the mess.” The lad was unfailingly polite, shaking his head. Clear speech, good skin and teeth – again, Jack wondered where he’d sprung from and if it had been wise to take him on. Still, he’d checked about Port Minuese, where the boy had approached Gibbs to barter passage, to see if any such child was reported missing or runaway, and had found nothing. Jack and Gibbs had eventually granted passage, realizing Will was the youngest crew member they had and was already engaged in his own share of work. With more than a little humor at the time, Jack had also considered that had he tried to order Turner to do the menial work of a cabin boy, the smith would’ve likely narrowed his eyes, lifted a brow, and smartly suggested the captain learn how to swing a forge hammer himself – preferably at himself.
“Well, now’s as good a time as any,” Jack cocked his head toward entrance to belowdecks. “Should be finished tidyin’ up by th’ time it’s cooler this afternoon, if ye wan’ come back up and help Will.”
“Aye.” David bobbed his head and strode off, but not before Jack caught a glimpse of the grin Will’s name had brought to the boy’s expression. He’d taken to the blacksmith immediately upon coming aboard, most likely recognizing Will was the one closest to his own age as well as having the same type of personality. Both were chivalrous and polite, though Jack was pleased to note Will had loosened up a bit in the past few months, no longer offended by the jokes or salty language that was a daily staple at sea, especially on a buccaneer crew. He would still occasionally frown if David were present during such commentary, and Jack couldn’t help mentally factoring it into his own attraction toward the blacksmith.
Thinking of David’s newest hero made him tilt his head back and direct his gaze once again at the mast. With one lower leg and foot wound securely around a crosstie, Will draped himself along its length sideways and was doing something to the center mast that involved some prying and, by the looks of things, a great deal of restraint on the language. His face was furrowed in concentration, his lips pursed, and when it came free, Will had to catch himself from falling by throwing an arm around the timber; Jack watched him shake his head and his lips move in what was undoubtedly at least a silent curse.
Bill, you’re not making life easy down here. Jack silently conversed with his dead friend on occasion, as he had since discovering years ago the pirate had been sent to the depths by Barbossa‘s crew. The one-sided conversations had increased in frequency since Will came aboard, usually consisting of Jack asking forgiveness for his dirty thoughts about the younger man and help from The Beyond in resisting his baser impulses on that score. You’d beat me within an inch of my life, but God help me, I want him. He’s not your little William anymore, and I know a lot more about him than I ever did from all the stories you used to tell about his antics. I know him a lot better than you ever did, he added with a slice of bitterness, immediately feeling guilty for thinking uncharitably about a dead man. Besides, what right did he, of all people, have to chastise a man for not paying better attention to his child than he did to the sea?
“Jack!” He realized Will was trying to get his attention. “I think you’re going to need something more than a new brace on this one. Looks like the wood’s eaten away, somewhat.”
Instead of answering, Jack strode to the mast and hauled himself up into the rigging with the ease of a natural climber. He swung up the short distance onto the other side of the crosstie and threw a leg over to straddle it so he wouldn’t be as likely to fall off, balancing on the back of his knee. “See,” Will pointed, still stretched out, his head less than two feet from Jack, “right there. It’s turning green. And rotting – maybe termites. You have any pitch on board?”
“Maybe some in th’ hold,” he answered.
Will flicked his eyes over, looking at Jack from an essentially upside-down position. “I’ve not seen any down there,” he referred to sharing his gradually-growing forge area with the ship’s hold. “And I’ve looked, just in case.”
“Guess we’ll have to add it to th’ list for-” The bow pitched a bit roughly and Will, who’d eased his grip to twist a bit to hold the conversation, was jarred backwards, his hand coming loose from the mast, cutting off Jack’s rumination.
“Hold it!” the captain ordered, instinctively throwing his nearest arm around the mast and pitching forward past his own crosstie, grabbing a fistful of the front of Will’s shirt with the other hand. Luckily, the man’s ankle was still wound around the other crosstie, so Jack only had to provide a counterbalance instead of hanging on to Will‘s entire weight. He shifted, levering his forward boot beneath Will’s shoulders as much as he could without falling backwards himself, pushing the suspended man back toward the mast at the same time he pulled at the shirt.
A brief look of panic had flashed through Will’s dark eyes as he’d initially been thrown off, and when his fingers were in range of the mast again, he scrabbled, but they wouldn’t make contact. The flicker appeared again as he struggled, falling back a few more inches, but Jack continued to balance him, ignoring the strain in his own muscles as they worked to bring him back within grasp of the wood. “It’s alright, now,” Jack reassured him in an oddly low, gentle voice. “We’ll get you back up ‘ere – just gimme a minute.”
Instead of the mast, then, Will took the far more sensible approach and grabbed onto Jack’s arm, hauling himself up until he could again throw one arm up around the mast. Briefly, he dropped his forehead to rest and it landed on Jack’s knee as he panted, trying to catch his breath. “Thanks,” he managed.
Jack released his grip on the material and reflexively rested his hand against Will’s head, smoothing back a couple of stray locks that had escaped the leather thong clubbing it at the nape of his neck. “No problem, mate. What ol’ Jack’s here for.” He was buffeted by a strong wave of protectiveness, a warm diffusion that dissolved his own panic from the moment he’d seen Will’s head plunging for deck.
He pulled his fingers back, realizing what he was doing, then, and tamped down his reaction. Dammit, Bill, you’re supposed to be keeping a better eye on him than that. And me. “If you’d sit up instead of hangin’ like Barbossa’s monkey up here, you’d have a better grip,” he chastised in his normal gravelly voice.
“Well, it’s hard to get to these things without a proper ladder,” Will grumped, his voice straining a bit with the effort of pulling himself to an upright position. Soon, he was balanced across from Jack in much the same way the captain had adopted sitting on his own crosstie. “Unless you’d like to line up the crew to stand on each other’s shoulders to provide one for me?”
Jack rolled his eyes at the asinine suggestion, but not before he’d caught a glimpse of Will’s lips twitching in a suppressed grin. “Your mouth’s too fresh,” he complained.
“As though you have room to criticize.” Jack arched an eyebrow, letting him silently know that had such a thing been uttered in the hearing of the crew, it would border on subversion. He was willing to let much pass when it didn’t diminish his effectiveness among the crew, and more from Will, especially during their personal discussions about books and people and such – but he needed the blacksmith to remember the time and place for everything. “I know … I’ll keep it to myself,” Will added, catching the look on Jack’s face.
“See ye do.” Jack swung his leg back over the crosstie to climb back down. “I’ll see if I can get someone t’ find some pitch, or look for it meself,” he informed the blacksmith. “But if there’s not any, we’re not likely to see port for a couple weeks; will a patch job hold?”
“Yes, I don’t think the Pearl’s going to fall apart before then.” Will patted the mast as an accompaniment to his comment, directly his gaze up the height of the timber pole, and Jack thought he detected a fondness there. Turner was more sailor than his heart dare admit, and for some reason it restored Jack’s good mood from before he’d had to call his crew upon the carpet.
It wouldn’t last.
On to Part 2 ...
Rating: R
Pairing: Eventual J/W slash
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Jack and Will, nor the details associated with “Pirates of the Caribbean.” I am simply borrowing them for a while for creative expression and writing practice (and because the boys are in my head and won’t leave me alone).
Special Thanks: To the Crow and the Spoon for beta-reading and God knows what all else. Also, thanks to Spoon for helping me write the “Just A Taste” scene at the end of the fic – you’ll know it when you read it.
Summary: This is continuation of an AU fic that began with FLIGHT and FIGHT, breaking off from the movie’s events immediately after Barbossa’s defeat and death in the caves of Isla de Muerta. The previous parts consist of, in order, FLIGHT and FIGHT.
A/N: This series was on a hosted website for several years, which recently went defunct, so I'm posting it here just for bookkeeping purposes. This series was written long ago, in 2003-06.
A sense of unease ghosted through Jack Sparrow’s bones as he studied the deck of the ship on the horizon and its bearing, trying to determine if it might be leaving laden with prizes, or returning to lay claim to more.
One might have concluded it is a simple matter to decide which way a ship is heading – namely, which way the bow is pointed. Being neither untried nor stupid, Jack could easily have deduced this, had he been able to pick a direction for the vessel’s bearing. As it was, it had been bobbing in the same spot for the past two hours. In a bay or at port, such economy of activity was necessary; out at open sea, though, any sailor worth his salt knew you didn’t waste any more time than necessary out of reach of viable land in case of storm, even an island.
The pirate captain lowered his telescope for probably the twentieth time and frowned, trying to make sense of it. The crew wouldn’t wait forever for a decision; he’d already put them off for the better part of the morning and noontime, trying to determine the best course of action.
“It should be moving.”
“Aye.” Jack didn’t turn to acknowledge his first mate as he agreed. “Can’t it, though, or won’t it?”
“I would think ‘can’t,’ since I know of no captain capable of being put in charge of such a sizable ship who would willingly drop anchor alone this far out to sea,” Anamaria reasoned.
“Only if it’s a trap of some sort.” Jack knew they both thought it, even if only he spoke the words. “I’m hesitant to go after a ship when it’s expectin’ me; besides, where’s th’ thrill of th’ chase?” he grinned, finally casting a glance back over his shoulder at Ana.
She crossed her arms, regarding him with a raised eyebrow, but said nothing. She often did this when she was confident he had more to say and wasn’t finished; Jack wondered if he’d somehow gotten too predictable – equated with “going soft” – since having his own ship back. “The crew …” he sighed, confirming her silence.
“Been a long while since they’ve made a little swag,” she pointed out.
“Yes, I know that,” Jack rebutted. “But it won’t do them any good if we’re all killed or sunk.”
“Sounds like the captain’s made his decision.” Ana’s mouth quirked lightly, but her eyes were serious, still, awaiting confirmation.
“’Ere.” He pushed himself away from the wheel. “Take th’ helm; I’ll go break th’ glum news.” Jack gave the worn, wooden wheel a fond pat as he headed for the lower deck, where various pirates worked or watched with interest. Though Jack stuck by the Articles as much as he could to allow everyone aboard a democratic vote in the pursuit of loot, the Black Pearl was his ship and as such, he made the final decisions on raids and defenses which could be hazardous for her.
“Everyone listen up!” he called in an amplified growl, stalking across the deck into their midst, hands up cupping his mouth slightly to amplify his voice. “There’ll be no raid today, least of all on that tub.” Jack inclined his head toward the distance, though not a one of his men were thick enough that they didn’t know to what he referred. “Too damn suspicious.”
A few grumbles of disapproval met his announcement – and one question. “Does she have more armaments, or maybe sailors, stopping us?” called one Will Turner, resident part-time blacksmith and pirate-in-training.
Jack looked around a bit to locate the lad, then craned his head, finding him several feet above in the rigging, seated on a crosstie where he was replacing some metal supports on the mast. He’d traded his impractical shoes for his own pair of calf-high leather boots months ago, and no longer wore a vest as much. Except for that and the longer hair leached somewhat of its former darkness, he looked much the same he had when he and Jack had hightailed it out of Port Royale and away from the Royal Navy six months ago.
“Mr. Turner,” Jack calmly explained, well aware the eyes of the crew were upon him and how he would handle this, “I am not accustomed to explaining decisions which should be apparent. However, seeing as you’re still one of th’ resident whelps, I shall enlighten you.” He was pleased to note the scowl he could see cross Will’s expression, even from this distance, punctuated by a few titters of laughter from the rest of the crew. Serves him right; he knows better than to question my decision when there’s already enough dissension from an unhappy crew. Then again, Jack amended mentally, maybe he simply doesn’t realize what it does to my image; hard enough to override democratic vote even when you‘ve got a fairly good reason. Oh well, at least David’ll get an education out of it at the same time.
“Yonder vessel has not moved from its position in over two hours. For such a large ship, there’s surprising little activity on th’ deck for so relatively early in th’ day. No sweeps up th’ mast, either; no way of knowin‘ if military or pirate, and I daresay neither‘d welcome us with a mother‘s lovin’ arms. So either it’s a plague ship – which I would have no desire to board, thankee – they’re havin’ troubles, or we’ve an ambush in th’ works. Since we are neither doctors nor Samaritans, we must by needs assume th’ worst and take the proper precautions by keeping our distance.”
Will said nothing at first, seeming to hold a brief staring contest with Jack. He turned his head away, then, toward the direction of the other ship, and Jack could go so far as to picture his face as he considered a reply or even its necessity – it was odd how well he knew this person after only a few months. Certainly he had plenty of others in his crew who’d served longer and he didn’t understand their thought processes at all. “Aye,” Will finally assented, turning back to his cross-brace work. “Captain,” he added almost as an afterthought.
Hmm. Teach ‘em a few underhanded card tricks and suddenly they know everything about running a pirate ship, he thought of what sounded like Will’s rare petulant tone.
He glanced over at the Pearl’s newest crew member, a lad of fourteen that Jack had taken on over a month ago named David. The youth was short but quick – much as Jack remembered his own self – and watching the proceedings with intelligent blue eyes. Jack had made him cabin boy, ordering him to stay below during the one raid he’d conducted during his stay on board; he refused to throw children into battle, even going so far as to order children taken below deck on vessels he boarded. Whether adults were wise enough to yield to save their own lives was one thing; people under the age of sixteen didn’t have enough sense to make up their minds about anything, he surmised, conveniently forgetting he’d been the same age as David when he’d taken up his own seafaring career.
“If they’re plannin’ somethin’, Cap’n, we could drill some lead into ‘em,” offered Quinlip, a rather rough hand who’d joined the crew that had taken possession of the Pearl with Elizabeth Swann’s help at the Isla de Muerta. “Disable ‘em outta that notion.”
Jack glanced back up at Will, who’d paused in going back to his work and was frowning openly down on the proceedings. Stifling his urge to snap at Quinlip the same way he’d corrected Turner, the captain correctly interpreted the blacksmith’s actual cause of annoyance and addressed it indirectly. “We don’t fire unless fired upon, lads,” he reminded them. “Don’t know there’s not families aboard.”
Grumbling set in, and Jack clearly heard in there “are we pirates or wet-nurses?” but could not identify the source. Setting his jaw, he gave a stamp of his booted foot to echo throughout the boards and growled loudly, “Scabrous dogs! Who the hell are you to question me?” The grumbling died down abruptly, and he fisted his hands on his hips, meeting every eye he could, slowly. “Did any of ye take and rebuild this ship?” He glared, daring answers. “Who among ye ran that whoreson Barbossa through t’ get her back?” Again, silence. “Ye all read th’ Articles when ye signed on; no killin’ whelps. Now, if any of ye’ve a mind to pilot your own vessel and ye be thinkin’ that’s your opportunity-” he nodded sharply toward the one in the distance, “believe me, you’re more ‘n welcome t’ leap in and swim over to stage a boarding party in your own name. Best o‘ luck.”
Again, nobody spoke or moved. “No?” Jack echoed the silence, cocking his head and glaring at all in turn. “Then I’ll be thankin’ th’ ungracious lot of ye to shut th’ hell up an’ let me steer the course in me own-acquired ship. Savvy?” A few nods, several defiant glares as men milled about, some going back to activity resembling work. Jack bristled, but let it pass; he knew better than anyone a man couldn’t be punished for what went on in his head, so long as it stayed strictly in his own head. Besides, he really was pushing it by making the crew‘s decision, his ship or no. “Boy,” he gruffed at David, motioning him over, “did ye get to the hold yet?”
“No, sir. I just finished helping in the mess.” The lad was unfailingly polite, shaking his head. Clear speech, good skin and teeth – again, Jack wondered where he’d sprung from and if it had been wise to take him on. Still, he’d checked about Port Minuese, where the boy had approached Gibbs to barter passage, to see if any such child was reported missing or runaway, and had found nothing. Jack and Gibbs had eventually granted passage, realizing Will was the youngest crew member they had and was already engaged in his own share of work. With more than a little humor at the time, Jack had also considered that had he tried to order Turner to do the menial work of a cabin boy, the smith would’ve likely narrowed his eyes, lifted a brow, and smartly suggested the captain learn how to swing a forge hammer himself – preferably at himself.
“Well, now’s as good a time as any,” Jack cocked his head toward entrance to belowdecks. “Should be finished tidyin’ up by th’ time it’s cooler this afternoon, if ye wan’ come back up and help Will.”
“Aye.” David bobbed his head and strode off, but not before Jack caught a glimpse of the grin Will’s name had brought to the boy’s expression. He’d taken to the blacksmith immediately upon coming aboard, most likely recognizing Will was the one closest to his own age as well as having the same type of personality. Both were chivalrous and polite, though Jack was pleased to note Will had loosened up a bit in the past few months, no longer offended by the jokes or salty language that was a daily staple at sea, especially on a buccaneer crew. He would still occasionally frown if David were present during such commentary, and Jack couldn’t help mentally factoring it into his own attraction toward the blacksmith.
Thinking of David’s newest hero made him tilt his head back and direct his gaze once again at the mast. With one lower leg and foot wound securely around a crosstie, Will draped himself along its length sideways and was doing something to the center mast that involved some prying and, by the looks of things, a great deal of restraint on the language. His face was furrowed in concentration, his lips pursed, and when it came free, Will had to catch himself from falling by throwing an arm around the timber; Jack watched him shake his head and his lips move in what was undoubtedly at least a silent curse.
Bill, you’re not making life easy down here. Jack silently conversed with his dead friend on occasion, as he had since discovering years ago the pirate had been sent to the depths by Barbossa‘s crew. The one-sided conversations had increased in frequency since Will came aboard, usually consisting of Jack asking forgiveness for his dirty thoughts about the younger man and help from The Beyond in resisting his baser impulses on that score. You’d beat me within an inch of my life, but God help me, I want him. He’s not your little William anymore, and I know a lot more about him than I ever did from all the stories you used to tell about his antics. I know him a lot better than you ever did, he added with a slice of bitterness, immediately feeling guilty for thinking uncharitably about a dead man. Besides, what right did he, of all people, have to chastise a man for not paying better attention to his child than he did to the sea?
“Jack!” He realized Will was trying to get his attention. “I think you’re going to need something more than a new brace on this one. Looks like the wood’s eaten away, somewhat.”
Instead of answering, Jack strode to the mast and hauled himself up into the rigging with the ease of a natural climber. He swung up the short distance onto the other side of the crosstie and threw a leg over to straddle it so he wouldn’t be as likely to fall off, balancing on the back of his knee. “See,” Will pointed, still stretched out, his head less than two feet from Jack, “right there. It’s turning green. And rotting – maybe termites. You have any pitch on board?”
“Maybe some in th’ hold,” he answered.
Will flicked his eyes over, looking at Jack from an essentially upside-down position. “I’ve not seen any down there,” he referred to sharing his gradually-growing forge area with the ship’s hold. “And I’ve looked, just in case.”
“Guess we’ll have to add it to th’ list for-” The bow pitched a bit roughly and Will, who’d eased his grip to twist a bit to hold the conversation, was jarred backwards, his hand coming loose from the mast, cutting off Jack’s rumination.
“Hold it!” the captain ordered, instinctively throwing his nearest arm around the mast and pitching forward past his own crosstie, grabbing a fistful of the front of Will’s shirt with the other hand. Luckily, the man’s ankle was still wound around the other crosstie, so Jack only had to provide a counterbalance instead of hanging on to Will‘s entire weight. He shifted, levering his forward boot beneath Will’s shoulders as much as he could without falling backwards himself, pushing the suspended man back toward the mast at the same time he pulled at the shirt.
A brief look of panic had flashed through Will’s dark eyes as he’d initially been thrown off, and when his fingers were in range of the mast again, he scrabbled, but they wouldn’t make contact. The flicker appeared again as he struggled, falling back a few more inches, but Jack continued to balance him, ignoring the strain in his own muscles as they worked to bring him back within grasp of the wood. “It’s alright, now,” Jack reassured him in an oddly low, gentle voice. “We’ll get you back up ‘ere – just gimme a minute.”
Instead of the mast, then, Will took the far more sensible approach and grabbed onto Jack’s arm, hauling himself up until he could again throw one arm up around the mast. Briefly, he dropped his forehead to rest and it landed on Jack’s knee as he panted, trying to catch his breath. “Thanks,” he managed.
Jack released his grip on the material and reflexively rested his hand against Will’s head, smoothing back a couple of stray locks that had escaped the leather thong clubbing it at the nape of his neck. “No problem, mate. What ol’ Jack’s here for.” He was buffeted by a strong wave of protectiveness, a warm diffusion that dissolved his own panic from the moment he’d seen Will’s head plunging for deck.
He pulled his fingers back, realizing what he was doing, then, and tamped down his reaction. Dammit, Bill, you’re supposed to be keeping a better eye on him than that. And me. “If you’d sit up instead of hangin’ like Barbossa’s monkey up here, you’d have a better grip,” he chastised in his normal gravelly voice.
“Well, it’s hard to get to these things without a proper ladder,” Will grumped, his voice straining a bit with the effort of pulling himself to an upright position. Soon, he was balanced across from Jack in much the same way the captain had adopted sitting on his own crosstie. “Unless you’d like to line up the crew to stand on each other’s shoulders to provide one for me?”
Jack rolled his eyes at the asinine suggestion, but not before he’d caught a glimpse of Will’s lips twitching in a suppressed grin. “Your mouth’s too fresh,” he complained.
“As though you have room to criticize.” Jack arched an eyebrow, letting him silently know that had such a thing been uttered in the hearing of the crew, it would border on subversion. He was willing to let much pass when it didn’t diminish his effectiveness among the crew, and more from Will, especially during their personal discussions about books and people and such – but he needed the blacksmith to remember the time and place for everything. “I know … I’ll keep it to myself,” Will added, catching the look on Jack’s face.
“See ye do.” Jack swung his leg back over the crosstie to climb back down. “I’ll see if I can get someone t’ find some pitch, or look for it meself,” he informed the blacksmith. “But if there’s not any, we’re not likely to see port for a couple weeks; will a patch job hold?”
“Yes, I don’t think the Pearl’s going to fall apart before then.” Will patted the mast as an accompaniment to his comment, directly his gaze up the height of the timber pole, and Jack thought he detected a fondness there. Turner was more sailor than his heart dare admit, and for some reason it restored Jack’s good mood from before he’d had to call his crew upon the carpet.
It wouldn’t last.
On to Part 2 ...