The Nature of Marks

Author: Kytten

Pairing: Real slight Speckett

Rating: PG13 - R

Summary: Sparrow gives Beckett as good as he gets, punishment included. Slight Speckett slash.

Turner looked at him in distained amusement.

"And what mark did he leave on you?"

He'd been tied to the bed whilst sleeping. Someone had managed to get into the house. And judging by the rolling footsteps in the next room, it was Sparrow.

"You do realize I'll have you hung for this!" He called, managing to keep the desperation from his tone. "Ask yourself, is it worth it?"

"Oh, most definitely." Sparrow grinned and poked his head around the corner. "Now you just hold onto them sweet cheeks o' yers, lad. Ol' Jack'll be with ye in a wee bit."

"You'll never get away with it, Sparrow."

"Usually, I tend to find that whenever someone shouts that at me." He walked into the room. "I most always do."

Two realizations hit Beckett just at that moment.

One, he was naked.

And two, Sparrow was holding the brand.

"What are you doing?" Fear won control and still Sparrow only smiled.

"You can imagine how put out I was t' have yer less than loverly mark upon my arm, luv. So I'll be paying you back in kind."

"But… But," he floundered, attempting to wrench his arms free of their restraints. "You're supposed to be in jail!"

"Not a jail in the world wot can hold Captain Jack Sparrow, savvy?"

"Oh, lord." He rolled his eyes but kept a careful watch on that brand. "So I imagine this is to be your revenge of sorts. Terribly uncreative of you."

"Ah, but it's the delivery of said revenge wot really counts." He frowned down at the brand and glanced up at Beckett. "An' with all your blathering it's gone and cooled off. I don't suppose you fancy my doing this twice." His brows creased a little further. "Then again, you lot have odd kinks."

Sparrow disappeared into the next room. Beckett heard the clink of metal returning to the grate and then the ripping of fabric. He snorted to himself, attempting to find humor in thinking the drunkard had tripped over something and ripped part of his damned silly ensemble. But when the man returned, he was holding a torn bit of Beckett's own nightshirt, fashioned into a gag.

"Figured I'd not want you screaming afore I make my escape. Open up."

Beckett refused and clenched his jaw. But Sparrow only sighed, perched on the edge of the bed, and held his nose shut. And just when Sparrow was beginning to fear Beckett was going to pass out from his own stubbornness, the gag slid in place.

Grinning, Sparrow patted him on the head and flounced back to retrieve the brand.

"Now I figure I'll do a lad like yerself a favor an' not put it in a place where the world's liable t' see, aye?" He pulled off the blanket and leaned down. "Unfortunately that leaves only the one. Hold tight."

Beckett didn't scream. Not even when Sparrow took hold of his equipment and pressed the brand into the soft flesh. Nor after, when the brand was removed and the air bit just as hard.

"Someone'll find you, aye?" Sparrow's voice was gentle now as he stroked the smaller man's hair in a sort of tenderness. "I'll not come back in a week an' find ye tied up the same?"

Beckett shook his head no. There were tears in his eyes. Sparrow smiled and pressed a kiss to his brow before swaggering over to the windows.

"Right then. I'll be seein' ye, Beckie." He pushed open the latch and swung a leg out onto the balcony. "Ta."

Turner crossed his arms and frowned, repeating the question. Beckett was silent for a moment more before replacing the brand in the fire and turning.

"More than has been made visible by the passing of time, Mr. Turner." He smiled wolfishly and without humor. "Sparrow, on the other hand, has grown careless."