Fic: "Contradictions 4: Win" (Part 2)
Jun. 1st, 2011 07:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
veronica_richThis is a continuation of a POTC fic. See Part 1 for disclaimers, etc.
The five o’clock shadow ringing Jack’s mouth and jawline five days later strangely comforted Will, who’d been disconcerted by the man’s overly-youthful appearance for the past few weeks. His hair was still much shorter than what Will had come to regard as normal for the captain – just past his shoulders – but at least it wasn’t as short as his own, cropped just a few inches from his scalp.
He rode across from Jack in the back of an enclosed wagon, a long, heavy chain slightly scraping the wooden floor between them, coupling their wrist irons together through a ring drilled into the wagon boards. Will resisted the urge to reach beneath his robe and scratch at his underarm – he hadn’t taken a proper bath in days and was beginning to feel its effects. Being dirty irritated him in ways he suspected was unbecoming to a true pirate.
“Wonder how th’ boy’s likin’ his berth compared to us,” Jack mused, the first words he’d spoken in almost two hours.
“I can only imagine,” Will sighed. David rode up front with the wagon driver, helping handle the horses now and again by the bits of conversation that drifted back to them. “Likes the horses more than the driving, I’d wager.”
“Elegant creatures, they are,” Jack nodded. “But a lot of work. A horse ain’t simply an overgrown pet, and there’s far too many people treat them that way.”
Not for the first time, Will was curious about Jack’s authoritative commentary on a particular subject. “You have horses?”
“Once, aye. Not much room aboard a ship, though.”
“I see. Did you ride, then?”
“A bit.”
Jack’s obfuscation frustrated Will, as it always did. No – that wasn’t quite right. It was becoming more annoying over time, whereas it had been a mild irritant at best when Will first joined the Pearl’s crew. He reasoned this was because the more he worked for Jack, the more he noticed how little the man revealed about his past; not given to subterfuge himself, Will found it difficult to relate to people who lived and died by it.
The captain fell silent again, his eyes directed somewhere just past Will’s shoulder, and he knew the man was likely staring out the little barred window at the rising sun. Milliand had awakened them at dawn and trussed them up for their ride to Paris. He had, however, also piled their belongings in the back of the wagon, along with a sizable sack of food and three generous skins of decent enough wine – weakened for David’s benefit, as most of the available water was not potable – given courtesy of Taupin Bernard and his wife. The little printer had also taken the donkey off their hands, assuring the two men before they were loaded up for the day’s journey that he had slipped payment into their belongings for the animal, which Taupin insisted his wife could put to use in their vegetable garden. The businessman had thanked them profusely one last time, with handshakes and kisses upon the cheeks, glaring at the exasperated Milliand the entire time.
Will recalled his knee-jerk reaction to almost pull away when the little man reached up, hands on his shoulders, to give him the quick peck on either cheek. He was familiar with some of the customs of society, but not being of it himself, rarely had opportunity to put any formal etiquette to use. He was more used to shaking hands to thank another man, or seal an accord, and having another man’s lips so near his discomfited him.
Looking out the opposite window himself, Will glanced briefly at Jack, in whose half-lidded gaze the morning sun was partly reflected. The man seemed almost in a trance, which Will found fortunate, given the turn of his thoughts.
Jack hadn’t pulled away from Taupin; he’d returned the gesture. Then again, by all the clues Will had observed over the past few weeks, being forced into closer quarters with his captain than normal, he concluded Jack wouldn’t have pulled back from a real kiss with another man – that, in fact, the captain seemed to enjoy that sort of thing. It was Godless and lawless, but then again, Jack was hardly the picture of holy beatitude; a holy terror, more like.
Will frowned slightly as he considered. He’d accepted Jack was a good man long ago, in the face of his flagrantly immoral lifestyle. Then again, he could hardly lob rocks, given he now, too, was eating and breathing a pirate’s life on a daily basis. Willingly, no less – he’d hardly been forced into things, despite his initial misgivings about leaving behind Port Royale, Jessy, and the respectable smithy. But the point was, if he could accept Jack’s penchant for occasionally robbing people of their worldly goods which he’d not rightfully earned, why was it much more difficult to accept something that, frankly, Will really had no business worrying about? Certainly what any adult did in privacy was his own business – Will felt quite strongly about the individual’s rights as opposed to what the king might decree to be pleasant and just for sexual behavior. He just didn’t want to think about it.
Unfortunately, Jack was forcing him to do that. This hadn’t been something Will had given any real thought until the past few weeks – until that wager in the rowboat. He still didn’t know what had possessed him to challenge Jack; it was especially odd in light of Will’s usual reticence to be touched by anyone, male or female. He wondered if being David’s comforter and caretaker was doing something to him, if his brain had reasoned that since it was all right for a child to seek physical reassurance from him, that it was all right for Will himself to seek … reassurance, elsewhere?
But, the question was, reassurance for what? And – good Lord – from Jack Sparrow, of all people? Will flicked his eyes to the man again, prepared to look back out the window just as quickly. His glance lingered a few seconds longer; for the first time, he noticed how deep the man’s eyes were, how they seemed to cast inward forever. It was startling, and Will figured he’d never paid attention because of the dark smudges generally lining the man’s lower eyelids. That and so many other dark and interestingly-shaped things, such as a moustache and beads and the flash of gold teeth, were generally enough to distract from Jack’s God-given features.
Now, though, in the absence of anything else, Jack’s eyes stood out sharply above prominent cheekbones. The skin beneath those bones was stretched tight, slightly gaunt, and that mouth was pursed upwards into a small bow he‘d adopted over the past few weeks to hide his gold canines, as though the captain were perpetually hatching something in the back of his formidable mind. His thick, black eyebrows furrowed slightly, and Will once again trained his eyes through the bars into the light glinting off shiny leaves, considering that at least the brows were still familiar enough. The rest, though … gods, Jack looked Will’s own age! How time managed to preserve a man so exposed to the elements, who’d led a rough-and-ready life such as Jack had, was truly a mystery.
Then again, Jack’s appearance was hardly unblemished. A small white scar ridged the skin just above his upper lip, where his moustache normally filled in. Another, more jagged and longer, snaked up along his hairline from over his left ear toward his temple – again, usually covered by a dreadlock or strands of beads.
And the eyes themselves … far too knowing, too fathomless for the happy-go-lucky drunken affectations of Good-Time Jack; they belonged more in the face of Captain Sparrow, who squinted into impending storms on the horizon, assessing the damage they could do Pearl and her crew, and took appropriate actions to protect both. Good-Time Jack consulted a supernatural compass with the theatrics of a woman checking her makeup in a mirror, and spun the wheel dramatically, grabbing to it as if seeking a way to keep from falling overboard; Captain Sparrow withdrew the small metal compass from his sash and frowned over it, making minute corrections to the helm and notes in a logbook. Good-Time Jack picked a course by tacking a map up on the wall and throwing a dagger at it, usually behind his back, for effect; Captain Sparrow actually drew the map.
It was rather exhausting working for two bosses, Will concluded.
“Somethin’ on your mind?” one of the personalities drawled lazily; it took a moment for Will to place it as the Captain.
“Never been in jail before,” Will automatically responded, impressed with his own smoothness. It would hardly be polite to admit he’d been marveling at the extent of his commander’s madness. “Never been to Paris before, either.”
“Neither’s me ideal paradise,” Jack sighed. “I tend t’ like th’ islands – not as hemmed in.”
“Water all around means you can make a quick getaway?” Will guessed, and chuckled at the smile that stole across Jack’s mouth. “Actually, I was kind of curious – what’s that scar on your temple, there?” Will congratulated himself on at least admitting half the truth – he hadn’t gone totally pirate yet.
The smile turned wry. “Courtesy o’ Hector Barbossa, illustrious former first mate of the Black Pearl,” he explained, finally looking at Will. “What, you don’t think they jus’ waved a few swords and I abandoned milady quick as all that? They knocked me out, trundled me overboard – good thing I woke up when I hit th’ water, or I’d’ve drowned straightaway.”
“About that …” Will trailed off, uncertain how to proceed.
Jack gauged him a moment, undoubtedly noting his uncomfortable shifting, his troubled eyes, for he correctly guessed, “You wan’ know your Da’s role in th’ mutiny.”
“You’re the one who said he was a good man,” Will pointed out. “I guess I’m just wondering if that’s in the past tense – well, more past tense than it would be now,” he hastily added.
Shadows flicked past Jack’s gaze as he directed his eyes down at his hands, and for the first time Will could remember, the man seemed taken by melancholy. Pressing his palms together, Jack said, “I really don’t know, Will … I don’t suppose I’ll ever find out. I was set upon in my bunk by a group, an’ I fought back. Managed to throw a couple off and tried t’ get across th’ room, but someone hit me in th’ side of the head.” At this, Jack paused and laughed harshly, shortly. “With one of me own empty rum bottles, if ye can appreciate th’ irony of that.”
Will smiled weakly; he’d had quite enough irony. “The scar.”
“Aye. Didn’ see it comin’– broke clean on th’ noggin. Lots o’ blood loss; was rather weak when I came to.” Jack lifted a hand and gestured at his temple with fluttering fingers, but the familiar gesture seemed odd next to that radically-altered face. “Contrary to belief, I’m sure, the first thing I did when I found th’ rum cache on that island was dump half a bottle on me face, not swig it down. Hurt like a sonofawhore, too.”
“So … you don’t even know if my father was involved in the mutiny?”
“Like to think not.” Jack glanced up, a tight, rueful expression in his eyes. “But can’t say.”
“Jack …” Will wasn’t sure what to say, wanting to make the man feel better. “If he sent off a medallion where he thought it couldn’t be found, I can’t imagine he did it in anything but revenge for being made to participate in a mutiny he didn’t support. I mean – he must’ve thought you deserved that much consideration. Maybe they forced him into it, too.”
The thought was not pleasant, and Will shivered beneath his woolen robe. Learning his father was most likely dead hadn’t been the worst of the revelation – it was the way he’d allegedly died, and how he’d been sent off to die. The thought of that tall, laughing, strong man shivering somewhere on the ocean floor, unable to move, panic ebbing and gathering for a full decade, until one day when violent water currents rushed in to fill lungs that suddenly, desperately craved air when the curse was lifted … when Will himself lifted the curse with blood …
Shaking. Something was shaking Will, and he shook his head, clearing his head and his vision as he refocused his eyes, blinking. Jack was leaning forward off his bench, hands on Will’s shoulders, giving him a few hard shakes. “Will!” the pirate snapped harshly. “You there?”
Automatically, Will stiffened, leaning back. “What?” he demanded, eyes narrowing.
Jack sighed, backing off. “You,” he informed the smith, taking his seat once again. “Shakin’ like a wet dog. Ye don’t have seizures I ought t’ know about, do you?”
“No.” He frowned. “Not that I know of. I – don’t even know what you’re talking about. I felt fine, until you started shaking me.”
“You’re not a good liar, Mr. Turner.” Jack’s eyes were hard upon him, spearing, demanding something better. Will was reminded of being fourteen again and starting out at the smithy, the way Josiah Brown would frown over one of his freshman projects – warped blades, tangs that were too rigid, gold leafing finished too hastily. In his own way, Jack was as demanding a master as the once-sober smith had been once upon a time.
In this case, however, Jack’s implied derision was deserved – Will had lied, and badly. He remembered feeling cold and clammy, frightened, almost as if were channeling the elder Turner. It was too strange to be borne alone. “I was thinking about how my father likely died, stuck to the ocean floor … unable to do a thing about it when his time finally came.” He raised his eyes to Jack’s. “I killed him.”
“Barbossa killed him, lad. Twasn’t your doing, and you bloody well know it.” Despite the acerbic words, the tone was not. “No use beatin’ yourself up over things ye can’t control, as there’re enough things in this world ye’ll cock up anyway that ye shouldn’t.”
Will pulled his lips into a reflexive frown, but the corners drew up instead, into a grin, of all things. “I haven’t cocked up anything,” he defended.
“Well … lately, no,” Jack acknowledged.
“Hey!” The pirate laughed, and the melancholy dissolved like that. Will reflected this was one of the man’s better traits, and marveled how someone who could hold a grudge for a decade could also let go of a mood as easily as dropping a stone. He lowered his voice. “So, how’re we going to get out of this, then?”
“I’m just following your lead, mate. Your idea t’ ask ‘Lizbeth for help; waitin’ to see where you take us, here. Ye need th‘ practice. I can‘t always bail ye out of ever’thing.”
He couldn’t help himself. “The legendary Captain Jack Sparrow has no idea what to do, eh?”
“I said-”
“I’m not deaf. What I’m saying is you’ve run out of ideas and you’re just winging this like you do everything else,” Will asserted.
“Have I ever let your arse fall through a crack?” Will rolled his eyes at the obvious pun. “You’re here, right? In one piece?” Jack frowned over him, his nostrils flaring and brow creasing. “You’re not a mirage, are ye?”
“No, fine, all right – you win. You can get yourself out of anything; hell, you can probably get yourself and the entire population of Port Royale out of anything.” Will threw his hands up for effect.
Jack grinned and gave a small shrug of his left shoulder. He nodded toward the burlap sack on Will’s side of the wagon. “Let’s see what’s in there – gettin’ a bit peaked, goin’ without breakfast.”
Will scooted to the end of his bench and leaned over, opening the sack and glancing inside. No more skins. “Well, no rum,” he reported. “I tell you, after the past few weeks and now, you may end up a teetotaler when all is said and done.”
Jack’s expression was horrified. “Ye gads, man – you’re worse ‘n th’ Grim Reaper!” he hissed. “A couple days locked up, and you’re already trumpeting Judgment Day.”
“Being off your rum is hardly cause for summoning the Apocalypse,” Will muttered, his head halfway in the bag as he dug through the provisions. “Let’s see – some grapes, apples … other dried fruit … some ham, a roast fowl of some sort, carrots … bread, cheese – oh, look, he sliced it up for us! – a bit of-”
“By the time you get done reciting your list, I’m gon’ look like I’ve got th’ bony curse again.”
Withdrawing the bread and cheese, Will handed over the latter and set to work breaking off a hunk of the loaf. The crust was tough, but inside was pillowy and snow white. He held it out toward Jack, who exchanged the paper of cheese, having taken two thick slices for himself. Will truly hadn’t been hungry until he lifted the first slice of fragrant cheese to his lips, and grew hungrier as he nibbled it. “Pretty good,” he mumbled through the bite.
“Aye, th’ Gallic know their cheese,” Jack nodded. “Speakin’ of things they know, hand me some o’ th’ wine, eh?”
They ate sparingly, not knowing how long the food would have to last past this three-day trip, since it was probably better than whatever fare the cells in Paris would offer. Too, having no control over the wagon’s stops, they didn’t want to risk needing to relieve themselves by consuming too much at once. When they were finished and Will had packed the sack away once again, Jack lowered himself off the bench to the floor of the wagon, crossing his legs and scooting a bit forward, leaning back against the bench. He sighed, closing his eyes, and his head dropped back.
Will took the hint, saying nothing more, but after a few minutes of solitude, he too was yawning. “Blazes,” he cursed softly, eyeing the space between the benches; his legs were really too long for this, but the bench itself was too narrow for a nap. Carefully, he scooted to the floor and took up the same position as Jack, about a foot from the man’s side, facing the opposite way. The last thing he remembered was the way the jostling wagon rocked him over the rocks in the road, lulling him into slumber.
*****
Foreign accents murmuring in the distance stirred in his consciousness. Somewhere behind his eyelids, Will began to awaken, but was still too firmly ensconced in dreamland to be of much use. He shifted, wondering why his pillow seemed to have two hard sticks in it, but yawned pleasantly and curled an arm beneath it, wrapping his fingers around the top. He topped off the stretch with a small smile, content in this stolen sleep.
At least for the next minute or so. Someone cleared their throat, and for some reason, Will’s first reaction was to notice his world was no longer gently rocking around him. Forcing himself up through heavy slumber, he pulled his eyes open, seeing nothing at first but dark brown. Moving his head experimentally, he felt something slightly rough rubbing his cheek and realized it was wool. Wool from his robe. No, not that – wool, all right, but not of his robe. Wool from … someone else’s robe?
Will lifted his head a few centimeters and raised his eyes higher, seeing thin-veined hands with long, knobby fingers. A bit over that were a pair of familiar brown eyes, regarding him somewhat merrily. Will frowned, not quite understanding what was going on.
“Well, look – th’ princess must’ve found her pea, finally,” Jack’s voice cut in, and Will realized that’s who he was looking at. Raising a bit further, he glanced around and saw he’d been pillowing his head on Jack’s lower shins, his arm snaked up under his legs and gripping a slender calf. He was on his side lengthwise in the back of the wagon, and Jack was in his same position he‘d been in previously, except with his legs out in front of him, feet flat on the floor, knees pulled up to make up for the lack of space.
Grumbling at the too-short nap, Will sat up, rubbing at his eyes, wondering how in the world he’d ended up turned perpendicular to his original position and stretched across Jack’s lower legs. “Where are we?” he asked a bit sourly, rolling his head to work out the kinks.
“Many hours outside Paris, still, I’d imagine,” Jack supplied, pushing himself upright, still having to stoop a bit to avoid hitting the top of the wagon. “Bit o’ stretchin’ and a relief break. Glad I didn’t have any more wine, or I’d really have t’ piss worse ‘n I do.”
Will turned in time to see the gendarme unhooking the long chain from Jack’s irons and helping him step out of the wagon. Motioning Will over, the lawman next did the same for him, and Will inhaled deeply of the breeze as his feet hit the grass, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. Much as he loved the sea, a measure of his heart still belonged to solid ground, and it was good to see greens and flowers and trees, especially after being locked away from them for a couple of days.
“You all right, Will?” David had finally begun calling him that instead of “Mr. Turner” at the smith’s insistence during their rowboat escape from the Spanish pirates.
He lowered his gaze to the boy, who looked none the worse for wear on this trip. Will was again grateful Milliand had given the deputy orders to let David ride up front with him, instead of locking him in the back with the two men – the boy had no business being treated as a prisoner. Neither did they, Will could argue, but that seemed a moot discussion at present. “Well, once I was able to ignore the equestrian lesson coming through those thin walls from the front of the wagon and get a nap in, I was fine,” he teased, reflexively reaching over to smooth some of the boy’s wind-tousled hair.
David frowned. “Eques … equestr-” he tried to say.
“Equestrian.” Will repeated it slowly. “It means having to do with horses. Or someone who rides or raises horses.” He suddenly realized he needed to take care of something rather urgently, and glanced around, spotting a large tree not too far away. “I’ll be right back, David,” he promised, before heading for the small wooded area. It occurred to him the gendarme must have realized David’s value to him and Jack, since the man hadn’t insisted on accompanying them one at a time to do their business, to make sure they didn’t run away.
Several minutes later, Will stood at a small nearby stream, shaking the water off his clean hands and glancing around at the verdant woods and rolling hills; he just wished he had as good a view on his trip to Paris. With a sigh, he violently threw his hands back by his sides a couple of times for good measure, getting the last of the water off, and was immediately remonstrated by a cross yelp. Whirling, he faced Jack, who had his head down but eyes cast up, lips pursed, brow furrowed, cross as a bear waking in January. “I gener’lly prefer t’ take me own baths, as have them given to me,” the pirate spoke, brushing at a large damp spot on the stomach of his robe.
“Might try taking them more often, then,” Will shot back, pursing his own lips hard in an effort not to grin.
“I take enough.”
“Swag doesn’t count, Jack. Nobody’ll miss a bath if you take it.” He wrinkled his nose pointedly. “They certainly won’t miss you if you don’t.”
“Y’know, I’m about gettin’ to where I’ve had enough of your fresh mouth, Mr. Turner.” The words were spoken with no real malice or threat. “S’posed to have some respect for your captain, no matter where ‘is ship is.”
“I’ve enough respect not to lie to you,” Will retorted, wiping the remaining moisture from his hands on the sides of his robe. “And the truth is, everyone on the Pearl could use a bath more often; as could everyone, generally, really.”
“I’d like t’ see ye suggest that to ‘Lizbeth,” Jack snorted. “I’m guessin’ her reaction wouldn’t be as good.”
“No, she bathes regularly enough, from the little time I got to spend around her,” Will shook his head, suddenly recalling her powdery, flowery scent. He was surprised it was something that was no longer on his mind as continuously as it had been between the ages of seventeen and nineteen; he supposed he had other problems to worry about on a daily basis now. “She always smelled good, like she did, anyway.”
“Living on a pirate ship don’ give ye many opportunities t’ smell fresh an’ daisy-like,” Jack pointed out, kneeling to scrub off his own hands in the stream.
“No, it doesn’t,” Will admitted, crossing his arms and looking about, making sure they were far enough away from the wagon and the officers that they could speak this freely; after all, they were supposed to be wandering clergy. “But that’s no excuse not to be clean as much as you can be. Just think about it, Jack: Dirt and grime can make you sick. I’d bet on it; haven’t you ever considered maybe one of the reasons people who have a chance to bathe more often seem to be healthier is because of that? I mean, look at you – why are you washing your hands now?”
Jack’s head swiveled and the pirate gave him a dry look up through long eyelashes. “Exactly,” Will continued. “You know it’s not healthful to go touching things after … well, that. Same principle all around, really. And as for Elizabeth, I rarely remember her ever being sick – or me, after the Governor took me in and his maid started making me keeping more clean, too.” He shrugged. “It’s just an observation I’ve had over the past several years, is all. Certainly doesn’t hurt anyone, and it makes more sense than that claptrap about people getting sick from scrubbing too hard or too much.”
Standing and rubbing his palms to sluice off the excess water, Jack finally spoke. “Well, Mr. Turner, should we see th’ bonny Pearl again, I suspect you’ll have t’ stump pretty hard t’ get th’ men to see your way of things.”
Just then, a voice called for them: “Fathers? Uh … Brothers? Whoever you are? Time we headed off, again!”
“An opportune save.” Jack paused in turning to head back and flicked his fingers at Will, who squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head slightly at the last second as sparse water droplets showered his face. “Come along, Brother Jessy.”
“Arse,” Will muttered, brushing water off his cheek.
“I’m not the one named after a donkey.”
On to Part 3 ...
The five o’clock shadow ringing Jack’s mouth and jawline five days later strangely comforted Will, who’d been disconcerted by the man’s overly-youthful appearance for the past few weeks. His hair was still much shorter than what Will had come to regard as normal for the captain – just past his shoulders – but at least it wasn’t as short as his own, cropped just a few inches from his scalp.
He rode across from Jack in the back of an enclosed wagon, a long, heavy chain slightly scraping the wooden floor between them, coupling their wrist irons together through a ring drilled into the wagon boards. Will resisted the urge to reach beneath his robe and scratch at his underarm – he hadn’t taken a proper bath in days and was beginning to feel its effects. Being dirty irritated him in ways he suspected was unbecoming to a true pirate.
“Wonder how th’ boy’s likin’ his berth compared to us,” Jack mused, the first words he’d spoken in almost two hours.
“I can only imagine,” Will sighed. David rode up front with the wagon driver, helping handle the horses now and again by the bits of conversation that drifted back to them. “Likes the horses more than the driving, I’d wager.”
“Elegant creatures, they are,” Jack nodded. “But a lot of work. A horse ain’t simply an overgrown pet, and there’s far too many people treat them that way.”
Not for the first time, Will was curious about Jack’s authoritative commentary on a particular subject. “You have horses?”
“Once, aye. Not much room aboard a ship, though.”
“I see. Did you ride, then?”
“A bit.”
Jack’s obfuscation frustrated Will, as it always did. No – that wasn’t quite right. It was becoming more annoying over time, whereas it had been a mild irritant at best when Will first joined the Pearl’s crew. He reasoned this was because the more he worked for Jack, the more he noticed how little the man revealed about his past; not given to subterfuge himself, Will found it difficult to relate to people who lived and died by it.
The captain fell silent again, his eyes directed somewhere just past Will’s shoulder, and he knew the man was likely staring out the little barred window at the rising sun. Milliand had awakened them at dawn and trussed them up for their ride to Paris. He had, however, also piled their belongings in the back of the wagon, along with a sizable sack of food and three generous skins of decent enough wine – weakened for David’s benefit, as most of the available water was not potable – given courtesy of Taupin Bernard and his wife. The little printer had also taken the donkey off their hands, assuring the two men before they were loaded up for the day’s journey that he had slipped payment into their belongings for the animal, which Taupin insisted his wife could put to use in their vegetable garden. The businessman had thanked them profusely one last time, with handshakes and kisses upon the cheeks, glaring at the exasperated Milliand the entire time.
Will recalled his knee-jerk reaction to almost pull away when the little man reached up, hands on his shoulders, to give him the quick peck on either cheek. He was familiar with some of the customs of society, but not being of it himself, rarely had opportunity to put any formal etiquette to use. He was more used to shaking hands to thank another man, or seal an accord, and having another man’s lips so near his discomfited him.
Looking out the opposite window himself, Will glanced briefly at Jack, in whose half-lidded gaze the morning sun was partly reflected. The man seemed almost in a trance, which Will found fortunate, given the turn of his thoughts.
Jack hadn’t pulled away from Taupin; he’d returned the gesture. Then again, by all the clues Will had observed over the past few weeks, being forced into closer quarters with his captain than normal, he concluded Jack wouldn’t have pulled back from a real kiss with another man – that, in fact, the captain seemed to enjoy that sort of thing. It was Godless and lawless, but then again, Jack was hardly the picture of holy beatitude; a holy terror, more like.
Will frowned slightly as he considered. He’d accepted Jack was a good man long ago, in the face of his flagrantly immoral lifestyle. Then again, he could hardly lob rocks, given he now, too, was eating and breathing a pirate’s life on a daily basis. Willingly, no less – he’d hardly been forced into things, despite his initial misgivings about leaving behind Port Royale, Jessy, and the respectable smithy. But the point was, if he could accept Jack’s penchant for occasionally robbing people of their worldly goods which he’d not rightfully earned, why was it much more difficult to accept something that, frankly, Will really had no business worrying about? Certainly what any adult did in privacy was his own business – Will felt quite strongly about the individual’s rights as opposed to what the king might decree to be pleasant and just for sexual behavior. He just didn’t want to think about it.
Unfortunately, Jack was forcing him to do that. This hadn’t been something Will had given any real thought until the past few weeks – until that wager in the rowboat. He still didn’t know what had possessed him to challenge Jack; it was especially odd in light of Will’s usual reticence to be touched by anyone, male or female. He wondered if being David’s comforter and caretaker was doing something to him, if his brain had reasoned that since it was all right for a child to seek physical reassurance from him, that it was all right for Will himself to seek … reassurance, elsewhere?
But, the question was, reassurance for what? And – good Lord – from Jack Sparrow, of all people? Will flicked his eyes to the man again, prepared to look back out the window just as quickly. His glance lingered a few seconds longer; for the first time, he noticed how deep the man’s eyes were, how they seemed to cast inward forever. It was startling, and Will figured he’d never paid attention because of the dark smudges generally lining the man’s lower eyelids. That and so many other dark and interestingly-shaped things, such as a moustache and beads and the flash of gold teeth, were generally enough to distract from Jack’s God-given features.
Now, though, in the absence of anything else, Jack’s eyes stood out sharply above prominent cheekbones. The skin beneath those bones was stretched tight, slightly gaunt, and that mouth was pursed upwards into a small bow he‘d adopted over the past few weeks to hide his gold canines, as though the captain were perpetually hatching something in the back of his formidable mind. His thick, black eyebrows furrowed slightly, and Will once again trained his eyes through the bars into the light glinting off shiny leaves, considering that at least the brows were still familiar enough. The rest, though … gods, Jack looked Will’s own age! How time managed to preserve a man so exposed to the elements, who’d led a rough-and-ready life such as Jack had, was truly a mystery.
Then again, Jack’s appearance was hardly unblemished. A small white scar ridged the skin just above his upper lip, where his moustache normally filled in. Another, more jagged and longer, snaked up along his hairline from over his left ear toward his temple – again, usually covered by a dreadlock or strands of beads.
And the eyes themselves … far too knowing, too fathomless for the happy-go-lucky drunken affectations of Good-Time Jack; they belonged more in the face of Captain Sparrow, who squinted into impending storms on the horizon, assessing the damage they could do Pearl and her crew, and took appropriate actions to protect both. Good-Time Jack consulted a supernatural compass with the theatrics of a woman checking her makeup in a mirror, and spun the wheel dramatically, grabbing to it as if seeking a way to keep from falling overboard; Captain Sparrow withdrew the small metal compass from his sash and frowned over it, making minute corrections to the helm and notes in a logbook. Good-Time Jack picked a course by tacking a map up on the wall and throwing a dagger at it, usually behind his back, for effect; Captain Sparrow actually drew the map.
It was rather exhausting working for two bosses, Will concluded.
“Somethin’ on your mind?” one of the personalities drawled lazily; it took a moment for Will to place it as the Captain.
“Never been in jail before,” Will automatically responded, impressed with his own smoothness. It would hardly be polite to admit he’d been marveling at the extent of his commander’s madness. “Never been to Paris before, either.”
“Neither’s me ideal paradise,” Jack sighed. “I tend t’ like th’ islands – not as hemmed in.”
“Water all around means you can make a quick getaway?” Will guessed, and chuckled at the smile that stole across Jack’s mouth. “Actually, I was kind of curious – what’s that scar on your temple, there?” Will congratulated himself on at least admitting half the truth – he hadn’t gone totally pirate yet.
The smile turned wry. “Courtesy o’ Hector Barbossa, illustrious former first mate of the Black Pearl,” he explained, finally looking at Will. “What, you don’t think they jus’ waved a few swords and I abandoned milady quick as all that? They knocked me out, trundled me overboard – good thing I woke up when I hit th’ water, or I’d’ve drowned straightaway.”
“About that …” Will trailed off, uncertain how to proceed.
Jack gauged him a moment, undoubtedly noting his uncomfortable shifting, his troubled eyes, for he correctly guessed, “You wan’ know your Da’s role in th’ mutiny.”
“You’re the one who said he was a good man,” Will pointed out. “I guess I’m just wondering if that’s in the past tense – well, more past tense than it would be now,” he hastily added.
Shadows flicked past Jack’s gaze as he directed his eyes down at his hands, and for the first time Will could remember, the man seemed taken by melancholy. Pressing his palms together, Jack said, “I really don’t know, Will … I don’t suppose I’ll ever find out. I was set upon in my bunk by a group, an’ I fought back. Managed to throw a couple off and tried t’ get across th’ room, but someone hit me in th’ side of the head.” At this, Jack paused and laughed harshly, shortly. “With one of me own empty rum bottles, if ye can appreciate th’ irony of that.”
Will smiled weakly; he’d had quite enough irony. “The scar.”
“Aye. Didn’ see it comin’– broke clean on th’ noggin. Lots o’ blood loss; was rather weak when I came to.” Jack lifted a hand and gestured at his temple with fluttering fingers, but the familiar gesture seemed odd next to that radically-altered face. “Contrary to belief, I’m sure, the first thing I did when I found th’ rum cache on that island was dump half a bottle on me face, not swig it down. Hurt like a sonofawhore, too.”
“So … you don’t even know if my father was involved in the mutiny?”
“Like to think not.” Jack glanced up, a tight, rueful expression in his eyes. “But can’t say.”
“Jack …” Will wasn’t sure what to say, wanting to make the man feel better. “If he sent off a medallion where he thought it couldn’t be found, I can’t imagine he did it in anything but revenge for being made to participate in a mutiny he didn’t support. I mean – he must’ve thought you deserved that much consideration. Maybe they forced him into it, too.”
The thought was not pleasant, and Will shivered beneath his woolen robe. Learning his father was most likely dead hadn’t been the worst of the revelation – it was the way he’d allegedly died, and how he’d been sent off to die. The thought of that tall, laughing, strong man shivering somewhere on the ocean floor, unable to move, panic ebbing and gathering for a full decade, until one day when violent water currents rushed in to fill lungs that suddenly, desperately craved air when the curse was lifted … when Will himself lifted the curse with blood …
Shaking. Something was shaking Will, and he shook his head, clearing his head and his vision as he refocused his eyes, blinking. Jack was leaning forward off his bench, hands on Will’s shoulders, giving him a few hard shakes. “Will!” the pirate snapped harshly. “You there?”
Automatically, Will stiffened, leaning back. “What?” he demanded, eyes narrowing.
Jack sighed, backing off. “You,” he informed the smith, taking his seat once again. “Shakin’ like a wet dog. Ye don’t have seizures I ought t’ know about, do you?”
“No.” He frowned. “Not that I know of. I – don’t even know what you’re talking about. I felt fine, until you started shaking me.”
“You’re not a good liar, Mr. Turner.” Jack’s eyes were hard upon him, spearing, demanding something better. Will was reminded of being fourteen again and starting out at the smithy, the way Josiah Brown would frown over one of his freshman projects – warped blades, tangs that were too rigid, gold leafing finished too hastily. In his own way, Jack was as demanding a master as the once-sober smith had been once upon a time.
In this case, however, Jack’s implied derision was deserved – Will had lied, and badly. He remembered feeling cold and clammy, frightened, almost as if were channeling the elder Turner. It was too strange to be borne alone. “I was thinking about how my father likely died, stuck to the ocean floor … unable to do a thing about it when his time finally came.” He raised his eyes to Jack’s. “I killed him.”
“Barbossa killed him, lad. Twasn’t your doing, and you bloody well know it.” Despite the acerbic words, the tone was not. “No use beatin’ yourself up over things ye can’t control, as there’re enough things in this world ye’ll cock up anyway that ye shouldn’t.”
Will pulled his lips into a reflexive frown, but the corners drew up instead, into a grin, of all things. “I haven’t cocked up anything,” he defended.
“Well … lately, no,” Jack acknowledged.
“Hey!” The pirate laughed, and the melancholy dissolved like that. Will reflected this was one of the man’s better traits, and marveled how someone who could hold a grudge for a decade could also let go of a mood as easily as dropping a stone. He lowered his voice. “So, how’re we going to get out of this, then?”
“I’m just following your lead, mate. Your idea t’ ask ‘Lizbeth for help; waitin’ to see where you take us, here. Ye need th‘ practice. I can‘t always bail ye out of ever’thing.”
He couldn’t help himself. “The legendary Captain Jack Sparrow has no idea what to do, eh?”
“I said-”
“I’m not deaf. What I’m saying is you’ve run out of ideas and you’re just winging this like you do everything else,” Will asserted.
“Have I ever let your arse fall through a crack?” Will rolled his eyes at the obvious pun. “You’re here, right? In one piece?” Jack frowned over him, his nostrils flaring and brow creasing. “You’re not a mirage, are ye?”
“No, fine, all right – you win. You can get yourself out of anything; hell, you can probably get yourself and the entire population of Port Royale out of anything.” Will threw his hands up for effect.
Jack grinned and gave a small shrug of his left shoulder. He nodded toward the burlap sack on Will’s side of the wagon. “Let’s see what’s in there – gettin’ a bit peaked, goin’ without breakfast.”
Will scooted to the end of his bench and leaned over, opening the sack and glancing inside. No more skins. “Well, no rum,” he reported. “I tell you, after the past few weeks and now, you may end up a teetotaler when all is said and done.”
Jack’s expression was horrified. “Ye gads, man – you’re worse ‘n th’ Grim Reaper!” he hissed. “A couple days locked up, and you’re already trumpeting Judgment Day.”
“Being off your rum is hardly cause for summoning the Apocalypse,” Will muttered, his head halfway in the bag as he dug through the provisions. “Let’s see – some grapes, apples … other dried fruit … some ham, a roast fowl of some sort, carrots … bread, cheese – oh, look, he sliced it up for us! – a bit of-”
“By the time you get done reciting your list, I’m gon’ look like I’ve got th’ bony curse again.”
Withdrawing the bread and cheese, Will handed over the latter and set to work breaking off a hunk of the loaf. The crust was tough, but inside was pillowy and snow white. He held it out toward Jack, who exchanged the paper of cheese, having taken two thick slices for himself. Will truly hadn’t been hungry until he lifted the first slice of fragrant cheese to his lips, and grew hungrier as he nibbled it. “Pretty good,” he mumbled through the bite.
“Aye, th’ Gallic know their cheese,” Jack nodded. “Speakin’ of things they know, hand me some o’ th’ wine, eh?”
They ate sparingly, not knowing how long the food would have to last past this three-day trip, since it was probably better than whatever fare the cells in Paris would offer. Too, having no control over the wagon’s stops, they didn’t want to risk needing to relieve themselves by consuming too much at once. When they were finished and Will had packed the sack away once again, Jack lowered himself off the bench to the floor of the wagon, crossing his legs and scooting a bit forward, leaning back against the bench. He sighed, closing his eyes, and his head dropped back.
Will took the hint, saying nothing more, but after a few minutes of solitude, he too was yawning. “Blazes,” he cursed softly, eyeing the space between the benches; his legs were really too long for this, but the bench itself was too narrow for a nap. Carefully, he scooted to the floor and took up the same position as Jack, about a foot from the man’s side, facing the opposite way. The last thing he remembered was the way the jostling wagon rocked him over the rocks in the road, lulling him into slumber.
*****
Foreign accents murmuring in the distance stirred in his consciousness. Somewhere behind his eyelids, Will began to awaken, but was still too firmly ensconced in dreamland to be of much use. He shifted, wondering why his pillow seemed to have two hard sticks in it, but yawned pleasantly and curled an arm beneath it, wrapping his fingers around the top. He topped off the stretch with a small smile, content in this stolen sleep.
At least for the next minute or so. Someone cleared their throat, and for some reason, Will’s first reaction was to notice his world was no longer gently rocking around him. Forcing himself up through heavy slumber, he pulled his eyes open, seeing nothing at first but dark brown. Moving his head experimentally, he felt something slightly rough rubbing his cheek and realized it was wool. Wool from his robe. No, not that – wool, all right, but not of his robe. Wool from … someone else’s robe?
Will lifted his head a few centimeters and raised his eyes higher, seeing thin-veined hands with long, knobby fingers. A bit over that were a pair of familiar brown eyes, regarding him somewhat merrily. Will frowned, not quite understanding what was going on.
“Well, look – th’ princess must’ve found her pea, finally,” Jack’s voice cut in, and Will realized that’s who he was looking at. Raising a bit further, he glanced around and saw he’d been pillowing his head on Jack’s lower shins, his arm snaked up under his legs and gripping a slender calf. He was on his side lengthwise in the back of the wagon, and Jack was in his same position he‘d been in previously, except with his legs out in front of him, feet flat on the floor, knees pulled up to make up for the lack of space.
Grumbling at the too-short nap, Will sat up, rubbing at his eyes, wondering how in the world he’d ended up turned perpendicular to his original position and stretched across Jack’s lower legs. “Where are we?” he asked a bit sourly, rolling his head to work out the kinks.
“Many hours outside Paris, still, I’d imagine,” Jack supplied, pushing himself upright, still having to stoop a bit to avoid hitting the top of the wagon. “Bit o’ stretchin’ and a relief break. Glad I didn’t have any more wine, or I’d really have t’ piss worse ‘n I do.”
Will turned in time to see the gendarme unhooking the long chain from Jack’s irons and helping him step out of the wagon. Motioning Will over, the lawman next did the same for him, and Will inhaled deeply of the breeze as his feet hit the grass, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. Much as he loved the sea, a measure of his heart still belonged to solid ground, and it was good to see greens and flowers and trees, especially after being locked away from them for a couple of days.
“You all right, Will?” David had finally begun calling him that instead of “Mr. Turner” at the smith’s insistence during their rowboat escape from the Spanish pirates.
He lowered his gaze to the boy, who looked none the worse for wear on this trip. Will was again grateful Milliand had given the deputy orders to let David ride up front with him, instead of locking him in the back with the two men – the boy had no business being treated as a prisoner. Neither did they, Will could argue, but that seemed a moot discussion at present. “Well, once I was able to ignore the equestrian lesson coming through those thin walls from the front of the wagon and get a nap in, I was fine,” he teased, reflexively reaching over to smooth some of the boy’s wind-tousled hair.
David frowned. “Eques … equestr-” he tried to say.
“Equestrian.” Will repeated it slowly. “It means having to do with horses. Or someone who rides or raises horses.” He suddenly realized he needed to take care of something rather urgently, and glanced around, spotting a large tree not too far away. “I’ll be right back, David,” he promised, before heading for the small wooded area. It occurred to him the gendarme must have realized David’s value to him and Jack, since the man hadn’t insisted on accompanying them one at a time to do their business, to make sure they didn’t run away.
Several minutes later, Will stood at a small nearby stream, shaking the water off his clean hands and glancing around at the verdant woods and rolling hills; he just wished he had as good a view on his trip to Paris. With a sigh, he violently threw his hands back by his sides a couple of times for good measure, getting the last of the water off, and was immediately remonstrated by a cross yelp. Whirling, he faced Jack, who had his head down but eyes cast up, lips pursed, brow furrowed, cross as a bear waking in January. “I gener’lly prefer t’ take me own baths, as have them given to me,” the pirate spoke, brushing at a large damp spot on the stomach of his robe.
“Might try taking them more often, then,” Will shot back, pursing his own lips hard in an effort not to grin.
“I take enough.”
“Swag doesn’t count, Jack. Nobody’ll miss a bath if you take it.” He wrinkled his nose pointedly. “They certainly won’t miss you if you don’t.”
“Y’know, I’m about gettin’ to where I’ve had enough of your fresh mouth, Mr. Turner.” The words were spoken with no real malice or threat. “S’posed to have some respect for your captain, no matter where ‘is ship is.”
“I’ve enough respect not to lie to you,” Will retorted, wiping the remaining moisture from his hands on the sides of his robe. “And the truth is, everyone on the Pearl could use a bath more often; as could everyone, generally, really.”
“I’d like t’ see ye suggest that to ‘Lizbeth,” Jack snorted. “I’m guessin’ her reaction wouldn’t be as good.”
“No, she bathes regularly enough, from the little time I got to spend around her,” Will shook his head, suddenly recalling her powdery, flowery scent. He was surprised it was something that was no longer on his mind as continuously as it had been between the ages of seventeen and nineteen; he supposed he had other problems to worry about on a daily basis now. “She always smelled good, like she did, anyway.”
“Living on a pirate ship don’ give ye many opportunities t’ smell fresh an’ daisy-like,” Jack pointed out, kneeling to scrub off his own hands in the stream.
“No, it doesn’t,” Will admitted, crossing his arms and looking about, making sure they were far enough away from the wagon and the officers that they could speak this freely; after all, they were supposed to be wandering clergy. “But that’s no excuse not to be clean as much as you can be. Just think about it, Jack: Dirt and grime can make you sick. I’d bet on it; haven’t you ever considered maybe one of the reasons people who have a chance to bathe more often seem to be healthier is because of that? I mean, look at you – why are you washing your hands now?”
Jack’s head swiveled and the pirate gave him a dry look up through long eyelashes. “Exactly,” Will continued. “You know it’s not healthful to go touching things after … well, that. Same principle all around, really. And as for Elizabeth, I rarely remember her ever being sick – or me, after the Governor took me in and his maid started making me keeping more clean, too.” He shrugged. “It’s just an observation I’ve had over the past several years, is all. Certainly doesn’t hurt anyone, and it makes more sense than that claptrap about people getting sick from scrubbing too hard or too much.”
Standing and rubbing his palms to sluice off the excess water, Jack finally spoke. “Well, Mr. Turner, should we see th’ bonny Pearl again, I suspect you’ll have t’ stump pretty hard t’ get th’ men to see your way of things.”
Just then, a voice called for them: “Fathers? Uh … Brothers? Whoever you are? Time we headed off, again!”
“An opportune save.” Jack paused in turning to head back and flicked his fingers at Will, who squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head slightly at the last second as sparse water droplets showered his face. “Come along, Brother Jessy.”
“Arse,” Will muttered, brushing water off his cheek.
“I’m not the one named after a donkey.”
On to Part 3 ...
