Lost at Sea
By Clarity Scifiroots
Regular disclaimers apply, I'm dabbling in someone else's sandbox.
Pairings: Jack/Will unrequited (?), Will/Elizabeth (sidelines)
Rating: Mature, bordering on Adults Only
Warnings: Signs of het (vague moments of J/E and J/Tia... but not really)
Summary: Jack's time in the Locker is not easily shaken. (AWE)
Solitude does more than drive a man to tears. The monotony of being truly alone eats away at the brain until reality vanishes entirely. Not that there has ever been much logic in the domain into which he's been cast. In moments growing ever fewer and farther between, Captain Jack Sparrow recognizes that his questionable sanity has taken flight across the wasteland. He doesn't particularly care to attempt chasing it; he can't remember which way it went. Even with the perfectly clear, pale blue sky, he cannot see a speck out of place that might indicate its direction.
Jack occupies himself most days – and yes, he has come to formulate his own sense of time in this monotonous place – with the tasks of caring for his ship. A crew of Sparrow duplicates scurries about under his orders, though they vary in disposition as much as any crew he's had the fortune to command. He raises an eyebrow at the nervous man scooting towards the lone goat on board. There's another who swings about and drops down out of nowhere to screech like that damnable undead monkey formerly belonging to his traitorous first mate. There's even a Sparrow who busies himself more often than not telling tall tales with wild gesticulations and a disconcerting accent akin to Mister Gibbs'. At the helm he has placed the Sparrow with rather feminine curves, especially since he snarks at the Captain with spirit true to AnaMaria; how she – he – came to be on board, Jack will never know.
With all of these disturbing mirror-images aboard, one would think that he would be terrified. But they are merely disorienting at worst and quite chummy at best. The companions that scare him witless are the ones that remind him of the reality he'd been ripped from; these companions do not wear his face.
The rogue governor's daughter is the first non-Sparrow he sees. He dodges her for as long as he can until one day he enters his cabin to find Miss Swann lounging in her cream-colored shift on his bunk. Jack swallows uncomfortably but can't make himself turn away. She looks at him casually and tilts her head in question.
"What is it, Jack? Aren't you tired? Come lay down." She sits up, swinging her legs off the side and pats the bedding. At his wary look she laughs and stands up. "Really, Jack. Your lack of virtue is safe from me. I am a respectable lady trying to reunite with my fiancé, remember?" She looks like she believes that.
Jack edges toward the bed without coming within three feet of her, eyes locked on the wily female. "In case you've forgotten, luv," he says, "you're the one that put me in this fine state."
Elizabeth blinks at him, expression charmingly confused. "Whatever do you mean?"
Gritting his teeth, Jack draws his sword and waves it at her. "Don't try it, luv. You're a righ' snake, leavin' your capt'n to die!"
"You made the decision." Her words are plain and she shows no reaction to his threat. "Didn't you come back to save us?" Jack's sword wavers and he sits down on the bed, trembling with anger and something else he cannot name. "Alright, so maybe you could have made the choice on your own, but it would take you too long to see reason. I just saw a different means to an end."
"Go away," Jack mutters, throwing his sword at her feet. "Go 'way or kill me properly."
He waits in silence for long minutes, eyes closed, waiting for damning words or a physical blow. None comes and when he opens his eyes, she is gone. He curses her and spits on the floor where she stood. Girl doesn't know a thing. She doesn't know any more than he does if something else could have been done. Damned vixen hadn't given him the opportunity.
"I was taking a chance!" he shouts angrily, flopping back on the bed. There is no one to hear his protest.
Next to appear is the bewitching Tia Dalma. She sits at a makeshift crate table with one of the food-obsessed Sparrows and plays a game of shells with a peanut hidden below the clams. Sparrow eagerly watches and tries to guess where the peanut is, a crazed lust in his eyes. Jack clenches his jaw and ignores them in favor of ordering about his crew. A particularly inept sailor entertains his attention for most of the day until Jack finally has enough and shoots the bastard. As the crew nervously gathers around their fallen companion, he sees Tia stand up at her table and smile at him with her all-knowing grin. Moustache twitching, he walks toward her.
"An' what are you doin' here?" he asks, sitting down on a barrel. He wishes for a bottle of rum, anything to further the distance between him and the mambo.
Tia sits across from him and tucks the shells into the folds of her skirts. "Whad do you t'ink?"
Annoyance makes him twitch again. Bloody women and their many ways of making him out to be the fool. "I think you're 'ere to gloat. Make a man a promise of safety and what becomes of 'im? Well, look 'round, darlin'." He spreads his arms wide, encompassing his beautiful ship, somehow undamaged in this strange realm of un-reality.
The obeah woman shrugs her shoulders, unconcerned. She reaches into her skirt and withdraws something that she hides with both hands. Her yellowed eyes stare at Jack unwaveringly and he squirms under the intense gaze.
"Mebbe I be here to help," she says, tone undulating ever-so-slightly as power fills the air. "You wan' to live, Jack Sparrow. Your life's no' done." She grins devilishly and Jack shivers at the sight of dark-stained teeth. Without knowing how it happens, he finds himself holding onto a sheathed fishing knife that Tia offershim. "Cut ou' him heart 'n I ken bring you back." She moves to stand beside him. He does not look up from the knife when her hand settles on his shoulder. "Bu' ken you do id, fair Jack?"
He doesn't understand what Tia Dalma means. Whose heart? He thinks for a time that she means Davy Jones, though the blackguard's heart has long been locked in a chest, separated from body. But if not Jones, then who? Perhaps she meant his own, but that doesn't make sense either, given that he would probably need the heart in his body to be brought back.
He entertains for a day that she used the male pronoun as a generic form, a sort of "mankind" as it were. If that is the case, he thinks, perhaps she means Elizabeth. The thought of cutting out the girl's heart excites him for only a moment before his stomach lurches. He takes out his frustration on the crew of Sparrows and ends up spearing the Cotton-Sparrow for failing to answer a simple question; he threatens the man who protests such treatment.
He awakens from a dreamless sleep one "night" – though the sky never darkens – when feminine curves press his side and a soft fall of hair caresses his cheek. His killer's voice whispers in his ear false promises of faith and trust and endearments, calling him a good man. Jack can't shut her out, although he keeps his eyes closed so as not to see her innocent face that hides the truth. He tenses when her lips travel to his face, breathing lies over his skin and then searing words on his chapped lips. Her soft body lightly descends on him and even though her actions seem to convey sensuality, he does not respond nor does he believe sex is on this phantom's mind.
Tia Dalma entertains the crew from time to time. Her laughter makes Jack's teeth ache. He can hear the mockery underlying her every tone. Even though he wants to shout at her to go away, he avoids confronting her and makes sure he finds something better to do when she's around.
He is visited in bed by his charming murderess frequently in the coming days. On one occasion Tia Dalma stares back at him as she holds his hand to her naked breast. Jack tries to shut out both of them. He attempts more than once to imagine better company. Although very much not feeling the urge to knock about with the women making their presence known, he's feeling jumpy and fervently clings to the idea that sexual release may loosen him up. The many women who come to mind fail to appear – Giselle or Scarlett, those twins in Singapore, headstrong Ana. Nor do any men come to mind.
"You're ignoring me, Jack," Elizabeth complains, hurt coloring her voice. He doesn't deign her with a reply and instead busies himself with checking the knot-work of one of his men. "Jack, please. Won't you listen to reason?"
"Chris'!" He whirls around, hands up in surrender. "What reason? You tied me to me own ship like I'd leave 'er to die alone! All this after tryin' to kiss me senseless an' singin' out me suppos'd virtues. What the 'ell's the matter with you, lass? 'M beginnin' to feel bad for William." He sees the slap coming and moves an arm to block its path. He grins at her disappointed expression. "You'll not be slappin' me for the truth."
"You'd 'ave gone wid yer Pearl, Jack?" Tia Dalma steps around him and moves to Elizabeth's side. "You spent all dat time runnin' an' let Davy Jones take on dem souls – would you really give up?"
With a snarl Jack returns, "I don't bloody know! Didn't get the chance to find out, now did I?"
"You came back," the murderess says quietly, wide eyes shining with sadness and admiration.
Tia stares at him, gaze penetrating his skull and soul. "You knew whad you wanted."
He ignores her in favor of accusing, "Yer bloody compass weren't helpin' a wit! If it worked I could 'ave avoided this whole mess! I wanted – want – to live." He stabs a finger at Tia. "'Stead of leadin' to 'ow I could rightly save meself, the cursed thing whirls every which way."
Elizabeth spots the compass on his belt and eyes it wearily. "It wasn't working for me, either," she says, casting Tia a sullen glance. "What's wrong with it?"
Jack cocks his head curiously, wondering what the lass means. Tia Dalma grins at them both. "Is hard to t'ink on whad one wants most." She adjusts her shawl and places a hand over her heart. "Do you really wan' yer life back, Jack?" Her smile is full of dark promise, danger.
Turning away from them, perhaps an unwise move, he flips open the compass and glares at the spinning arrow. He concentrates on escaping this cursed place and returning to the living. If only to bloody well be rid of the both of you, he thinks. The arrow slows and eventually stops, pointing behind him and to his left. With a frown he turns. At first he notes that the women have vanished and only a handful of his crew remains – the Sparrows taking on the characteristics of his more faithful crewmembers.
Still frowning, he takes a few steps forward, then to the left. Then turns again and walks the other way. The arrow changes to match its initial heading with every pace. Jack moves in the correct direction this time, looking about to see what might have the slightest possibility of interesting him. He has to climb the quarterdeck before he sees something unusual. He doesn't understand why the compass would be pointing there, but the man walking across the sand below the Pearl is the only thing out of place.
Jack shuts the compass with a snap and turns away. He curtly orders the diminished crew to their duties and storms into the hold. He has never found a drop of rum on his ship – which does not seem like him, though he supposes the lack certainly fits in with a form of Hell – but he is determined to search again; especially since there should be no reason for William Turner the younger to be approaching his ship.
He needs to light a lamp in the hold and when he reaches for the flint he keeps on his person, his palm brushes against the knife Tia gave him. He freezes, shock running through him as an idea skitters through his mind. "Cut ou' him heart… Bu' ken you do id?"
He never did find the rum, but he feels drunk when he wakes up to the feel of a naked arm shifting over his chest. Jack blinks groggily and comes to the realization that he and his bed partner are starkers without a thread between them. Unlike his previous visitors, this body is all firm planes and bony hips. No soft breasts flatten against his flesh. Instead he can feel the heavy weight of a man's genitals press into his thigh and the coarse hair of a beard rasp against his shoulder.
For a long time Jack doesn't move, doesn't do anything but stare up at the ceiling that is still too bright even with curtains drawn tight over the windows. He is fairly certain he does not want to confirm the identity of the man next to him, the one who probably holds all the answers if his other visitors are to be believed. It is one thing to discuss bartering someone's soul in stead of his own and quite another to personally deliver said soul on knife-tip.
The head on his shoulder shifts, nose pressing into the hollow of his collarbone. Against his better judgment, Jack's hand smoothes up the other man's bare back. He's surprised and horrified to feel half-healed welts stretching crisscross the expanse of skin.
When he glances down, a dark brown gaze captures him with little effort. There should be anger in these eyes, he thinks, and instead there is pain and uncertain trust. Jack remembers the first time he met the younger Turner. In particular he remembers the confused hurt in the boy's eyes at the end of their duel – You cheated.
"You don't belong here, Jack," Will says with certainty. His arm tightens around Jack's chest and he tilts his head to kiss the nearest shoulder.
Feeling dazed, Jack mumbles, "You don't know the half of it, luv."
He lays silent and still as Will shifts position and crawls further on top of him, laying so that a leg brackets each of his. A stiffening prick hangs heavily next to Jack's and the pirate bites back a gasp, a sudden fear clawing his heart even as ministrations from Will's mouth and fingers melt his body. In the back of his mind he hears the voices of his phantom ladies, the slicing comments from an ex-commodore, self-righteous anger from the man sucking his chest right now, and hatred dripping from Davy Jones' tentacle mouth.
Jack nearly yells when Will simultaneously bites Jack's nipple and inserts a finger into his hole with astonishing ease. Will finds the pleasure spot quick as an expert and rubs it just right, making Jack buck his hips and scramble to take hold of the body above him. He groans as Will travels up his neck, leaving aching, damp marks where his mouth has been.
Between suctioned kisses, Will murmurs encouragingly. "Wanted you, Jack... Always seen you looking. You should have just asked..." His chuckle sends an overwhelming tingle of desire down Jack's spine. "You should have just taken. Take what you can, give nothing back! Or was this," and his finger circles inside, "what you wanted?" Will's mouth travels Jack's ear, tongue and teeth sensitizing the flesh.
Jack manages to wrap one leg around Will's waist and moves his hands down to clench the man's arse. The voices in the back of his mind grow louder; he counteracts them by screaming and throwing himself into the sensations driving him mad with desire. Delicious, filthy promises fill his ears from Turner's lips and he refuses to let himself think about any of this now.
Will's finger is suddenly gone and then there's the pain of a spit-slick cock delving inside, and he latches his mouth to Jack's as he begins to thrust. Jack can hardly breathe but is grateful for that fact as his oxygen-deprived mind is unable to do little more than operate the most vital brain functions. Will makes a keening noise, desperate, as their hips meet. After a few moments of struggle, Will pulls away and kneels on the bed, tugging Jack's legs until they're over his shoulders and Jack's in a position more vulnerable than he's been in for a long, long time. Will gazes down at him with half-lidded eyes, smile a little nervous despite his seeming expertise.
"Move, damn it!" Jack shouts. When Will complies, the pirate claws at the bed sheets and holds on for all he's worth. The voices in his head blessedly don't make any sense now; he knows they're saying nothing good. Right now he needs this...
"Jack," Will's head dips forward, his chestnut hair curling with sweat as he continues to drive in. "Jack. Did you want me?"
Christ, what a ridiculous question at a time like this!
"Jack... God, please!" Will moves up just a bit and Jack's hips tilt further to accommodate. "Did you – do you want me?"
Jack isn't entirely sure whether he answers, he's distracted by Will's hand milking him to completion and the overwhelmingly blissful oblivion that embraces him.
The next time he sees Turner is two nights later when he walks into his cabin. The blacksmith is laying sideways across the bed, looking for all the world like he's been there for hours, bored out of his mind. When he sees Jack, he smiles lazily. One of his hands slides down his naked side and disappears behind him. The thrust of his hips makes sure that Jack knows exactly what the implications are.
The fourth time Jack finds himself gasping Will's name, he decides to leave Tia's knife on a crate out on deck. He fights the voices lurking in his head every second from the moment he steps outside his cabin to the moment he goes in again and grabs Will.
His determination to block out both the voices and the reappearance of Elizabeth or Tia Dalma holds up for a time. For days he is able to find some bizarre form of sanity as he lays with Will, fucking or being fucked. He comes to believe it is real and not all trapped in his mind. He convinces himself that Elizabeth and Tia were the dreams, mere flights of fancy that are safe to ignore. He refuses to fit the knife into his equation.
Jack wakes up knowing that it is the middle of his self-determined night. Wondering why he's awake, he takes stock of his situation, surprised to still feel the heat of Will at his side. He turns his head and smiles crookedly at the lax face of his sleeping lover. He hasn't been able to see Will asleep before now; his lover usually vanishes by the time he wakes.
"Jack." He startles badly at the sound of her voice and jerks upright. For a moment he can't figure out where she is, then her head and shoulders appear at the bedside as she gets up from sitting on the floor. He eyes the murderess warily. She smiles at him, but it is sad and sympathetic. "It's alright to come back, now. I know you can't stand it here."
"Well, lately it's no' so bad," he mutters. He inches closer to his sleeping bedmate and places a hand on his lover's shoulder.
Elizabeth bends over Will and smiles sweetly at the relaxed face. She continues to address Jack, "But you know that these memories will fade." She glances up and he sees pity in her eyes. "Wasting away isn't your fate, Jack. You have the opportunity," this time is implied.
It's true, he wants out of this empty place where he's stuck on a ship that won't move in spite of the most desperate attempts of imagination.
"Whad do you wan' most?" Tia Dalma appears at Elizabeth's side.
The answer's simple, really, and he doesn't have to think about it. He wants his freedom. He wants his life back and the sea and his Pearl. But he knows there's a catch.
"I ken bring you back," Tia says.
Jack looks down and is surprised to find a familiar knife in his hands. His fist closes around the handle in a grip suited for stabbing a downed enemy. The longer he stares at it, the more familiar it becomes. Eventually recognition dawns on him: Bootstrap's knife, the one Will came back with from the Dutchman.
"You don't have to suffer," Elizabeth says.
He wonders how this is supposed to work; one of his inner voices – of which there have been many, these days – jumps in to demand who comes up with these crazy rules about bringing back the dead?
Tia Dalma intones, "Cut ou' him heart."
He feels sick as his arm rises of its own accord. He bites back a gasp as arm and knife slice through the air—
An inch above the bare chest he stops. Jack can feel his pulse throbbing through his body and he aches with longing. He can't look up at the women waiting at the bedside, he doesn't want to know what they're thinking.
"Do it, Jack."
The voice makes him catch his breath. He stares at Will in disbelief. Jack trembles when he feels someone else's hand wraps around his fist; he knows it's Will's.
"You're not supposed to be here," Will says with a small smile. He acts like this is the most reasonable solution in the world. "You're needed. Listen to them." He presses on Jack's hand. "You've got to do it yourself, Jack." He smiles encouragingly and lets his hand fall away. He closes his eyes and leans back into the pillow.
He whispers, "Do it."
From far away Jack watches the knife lift and plummet downward until it pierces flesh, tears muscle, breaks bone, and lodges just short of the beating heart. He can't feel blood pooling under his hand though he sees it. For a long time he can't drag his eyes from knife.
In time he looks to Turner's face and stares at the open, unseeing eyes. The man looks again like a boy, a naïve blacksmith who knew nothing of pirate heritage. Jack sits and stares, the voices in his head silent. He waits, unsure what for, and barely breathes.
The body is still in his cabin the next night so he sleeps restlessly on deck. He throws himself into the preparations of the Pearl the following day, sensing that soon it will be time to move. He tells one of his men to check his cabin but every Sparrow gives him a horrified look before scurrying away to do some task far from their captain. Jack stays away as long as he can.
He's prepared to turn back if he finds the body – only a body, no blood or soul left. In spite of this, Jack makes himself step into the cabin and stand by the bed. Someone has put a sheet over the body and with shaky hands he pulls back the cloth. Turner looks to be made of wax rather than flesh and the color has leeched out of him as evidenced by the dark bloodstain in the bedding.
Protruding from the chest is the knife, a macabre monument to Jack's sin and failure. He cannot bring himself to be the butcher and his inability has, he is sure, cost him his chance for escape; he also believes he has condemned Will by wasting such sacrifice.
Jack is prepared to lay forever on the hard plain of sand and bake under the sun that never sets. After a while, he adjusts and feels warm rather than boiling hot. His eyes are closed as he lets his mind wander and tries to remember. Memories and dreams blur together now and he has long given up the fight to determine reality.
When one is bein' followed by rocks, he tells himself, one should be doubtful 'bout one's ability to suss out what's real an' what's not.
Amidst all the bright heat it becomes immediately apparent that something is awry when the sun fails to reach him. He opens his eyes quickly and glances around without moving. Strange, the shadow over him extends quite a ways... He sits up and blinks at the sight of funny little gray creatures swelling like waves at the bottom of his Pearl. As he continues to watch, it strikes him that Pearl is moving, gliding across the sand due to the creatures crawling over themselves to keep the motion going.
There's somethin' you don't see every day.
It takes him another minute to realize he should be following. Muttering a curse, he jumps to his feet and dashes after his ship.
His blood sings at the sight of the sea and for the first time in days he feels almost alive. Maybe there is still a chance for escape and a way to outrun his latest sin. He also thinks it might be a good sign that he is no longer seeing an innumerable crew of Sparrows.
"A sight for sore eyes! Jack!"
"Mister Gibbs!" he calls, striding towards his first mate. Damn the man. "I thought so. I expect you can account for your actions, then?"
Gibbs blinks at him in surprise, confusion widening his eyes. "Sir?"
"There has been a perpetual an' virulent lack of discipline aboard my vessel! Why is that, sir?"
After glancing over his shoulder, Gibbs leans in and says quietly, "You're in Davy Jones' locker, Cap'n."
"I know that." Of course he's known. "I know where I am." Didn't he? "And don't think that I don't." He snorts and turns to check on the rest of his crew.
"Jack Sparrow."
Well, this is a surprise. Jack pauses and eyes the tall man. "Ah, Hector. It's been too long," well, everything seems so long ago, "hasn't it?"
Barbossa's eyes narrow and it's hard to tell if it's amusement or suspicion. "Aye, Isla de Muerta, remember? You shot me."
"No I didn't." He walks by and bumps into the mambo. Soaked as she is from the sea, Jack can't dredge up any fear for this usually intimidating woman. "Ah, Tia Dalma, out an' about, eh? You lend an agreeable sense of the macabre to any delirium." He smiles and sketches a shallow bow.
He congratulates himself for imagining a more detailed reality but reminds himself not to get caught up in fantasy. They are not here. This is not real-real, like living real.
"He thinks we're a hallucination." Ah, the voice of reason.
The voice is nearly as familiar as the hum of his sweet Pearl. Since the first time they crossed blades Jack has been aware of Will and his inaudible tune that Jack finds all too easy to sing to. His chest aches with the need to reach out to a living Will, touch warm skin so as to drive away the horrible memory of death.
He clears his throat and bluffs, "William, tell me somethin'. Have you come because you need my help to rescue a certain distressing damsel?" Being murdered is quite stressful and enough to turn a man from even the prettiest of women. "Or rather, a damsel in distress? Either one."
Turner arches an eyebrow at him as he answers in the negative. The expression is so familiar of his estranged past that Jack has to reign in the urge to hug the man. Reasonably he continues, "Then you wouldn't be here. So you can't be here. Q.E.D. you're not really here."
That's right, let these buggers know where they stand.
"Jack, this is real, we're here."
His moustache twitches in annoyance. Why is she back? He eyes Elizabeth warily and side-steps her outstretched hand. No, he will not have her touch him. As he backs away he realizes that the woman standing before him wears an expression of guilt, something always lacking when she has visited before. He glances quickly at the other people gathered on the beach; he wonders who the Orientals are and questions why he would invite Barbossa or Pintel or Ragetti into his world.
A disturbing suspicion creeps into his thoughts and he goes to Gibbs to check on it. "The locker, you say?" He strokes his beard in thought, staring blankly at the sand underfoot. It would make sense, right?
He still hasn't come up with a satisfactory answer when Elizabeth insists, "We've come to rescue you!"
And the statement sounds utterly ridiculous when he casts an eye around the crowd. Everywhere he looks he can see evidence that rescue plays very little part in this venture. Gibbs, bless him, and his few remaining crew members seem to be without ulterior motives, but he knows that can change in time.
He rakes his gaze over Turner, noting the fading bruises on the man's face and recently healed cut on his hand. It takes a moment to find, but Jack's eyes settle on the knife at Will's belt. His heart skips a beat and for a moment he feels it in his hand again, sees the blood welling up from the depths of a cooling body.
"Cut ou' him heart." He spins toward Tia Dalma with an accusation ready on his lips and stops just in time when he realizes that she is exchanging a concerned glance with Gibbs.
You're lost, Jacky. He tells the voice to shut up and launches into a classic Captain Sparrow display practiced long enough that he doesn't have to worry about the performance being perfect. Dazzle 'em 'til they can't see straight.
The voices in his head haven't stopped. Jack hears them taunting him when he tries to block them out and pay attention to the real people around him. At night when he's alone with the voices he wonders how no one knows. Then again, he considers, who would see fit to call him on it? Barbossa needs him at the moment, Elizabeth has been absent more than not, same with Turner – who is not the Will of his fantasies – and Gibbs hesitates to question his captain too deeply.
Alrigh', then. By your onesies.
'Cepting for us, a'course. Bugger. Nice of you to vote our murderess into kinghood.
Weren't no better way, he argues. He narrows his eyes at the noisy Court, as if he needed a reminder of why he hates meeting with so many fellow pirate captains. Self-important lot without a sense of humor, all of them. He snorts and turns away, only to come face-to-face with a captain he's less inclined to see than the others.
His lips twitch, attempting a smile. Well... "How's it, then?" Noticing the dissatisfaction in eyes dark as his own, Jack says, "What? You've seen it all, done it all." He waves his hands in a grand gesture. "You survived. An' that's the trick, innit? To survive."
Captain Teague's eyebrow arches at his tone. When he replies, it's with something Jack does not expect of the man he'd watched grow hard and cynical. "It's not just about livin' forever, Jacky. The trick," he makes a familiar hand gesture, "is living with yourself, forever."
Gettin' a bad feelin' 'ere, one of the voices complains.
Don't pay attention to 'im. Dads're apt to frighten the kiddies.
The first voice reminds, Not been a kid for a while, Jack. An' you know 'e knows it.
Shut up, all of you!
"So..." he grabs for something completely different. "How's mum?"
Oh. Not so lovely these days. Vaguely he wonders what happened, but it's been a couple decades since he'd been near either parent. "She looks great." He sees a real grin reflected back at him and some of his fear dims.
Might've visited sooner, Jacky.
He sighs, wishing he had a moment's peace. He dreads the night ahead, knowing it will be all the worse after having abandoned Turner for Beckett to find. But it's part of the plan, he tries to console himself.
"The trick is living with yourself." Jack looks up quickly but is unable to tell if Teague repeated himself. Either way, the words weigh heavily on his shoulders like an accusation. He really wishes he didn't have to be involved.
He abandons the distracting voices back in the Dutchman's brig and pursues his original purpose of being on the ship. The chest is heavier than he remembers and the beat of the heart vibrates throughout his body even as he dodges Jones' blows and quips with the squid-faced captain.
Then he's flying through the air and catching hold of a rope by pure luck. His body moves fluidly, instinctively keeping him from revisiting death's door. His only goal is uniting chest and key and stabbing that heart to claim his immortality and leave behind all mortals' fear.
Jack laughs aloud when the key clicks into place. Eagerly he opens the lid but amidst the elation he feels a sudden stab of fear as he looks down at the bloody heart. For a moment the image of a lifeless Will laying in his bed overwhelms him.
It's not 'im, you fool! he scolds himself. He glances up, sees Davy Jones mocking Turner as he removes the sword from his body. Now! Or it could bloody well be. Jack grabs the heart and pulls it out with both hands.
Scrambling to his feet, he withdraws his broken sword and waits for the opportune—
"Do you?" He can feel the grin lighting his face and resists the urge to laugh at Jones' stunned expression. "Heady tonic, holdin' life an' death in the palm of one's 'and." He ignores the slimy feel of the heart as blood trickles between his fingers. Part of him remembers Will's blood blossoming red beneath the knife.
Jack pulls his blade up, preparing for a grand performance to sever Jones' ties from the world when the other captain accuses, "You're a cruel man, Jack Sparrow."
"All a matter of perspective, mate!" he returns.
"Is it, now?"
Jack is sure he didn't blink. Swears it, but he did not see anything until the sword is protruding from the whelp's chest. Again he is forced to watch dark crimson well to the surface at an alarming rate, spilling over the edges of the wound and trailing down skin to soak into cloth. Jack isn't sure he can breathe, frozen in shock.
He doesn't realize he'd gone deaf until a fury of sound crashes in on him and he's moving. More than moving, he's practically flying across the deck to reach Will's side. Elizabeth is sobbing as she uselessly runs her hands over the dying man's body. Jack watches in wide-eyed silence and wishes he could see Will's eyes. He wants someone else to tell him what to do; his recent choices have led to such disaster.
"Please!" Elizabeth is begging, but not of Jack.
Will's eyes are losing focus, and Jack can see now that the man has turned his head. In his mind he can hear echoes from the wasteland and that strange period of bliss he doubts he will ever regain.
"Cut ou' him heart." "You don't belong here, Jack." "You have the opportunity." "Whad do you wan' most?" "Do it, Jack." "You've got to do it yourself."
The hand in his is chilly but not yet waxen. He guides the weak fingers around the hilt of his sword and raises their joined hands. He looks away from the heart and stares at Will as the broken blade descends and sinks into flesh. As the light fades in Will's eyes, Jack fancies he sees a tiny smile. He glances away, not wanting to watch the final moment when breath escapes for the last time.
Jones freezes above Bill Turner, Calypso's name escaping his lips before the Dutchman's captain falls over the rail and into the eye of the whirlpool. Elizabeth screams behind him and Jack closes his eyes, praying to whatever gods will listen that he hasn't made another mistake.
Gradually he becomes aware of the murmured chant sweeping over the ship as the misshapen crew draw closer. "Part of the ship, part of the crew. Part of the ship, part of the crew."
Goosebumps creep up Jack's arm at the repetition. He knows it's time to go, suddenly realizing how deep the Dutchman is swirling into the whirlpool. Elizabeth fights to get away when he grabs her, but he is the stronger and by the time he miraculously gets them airborne, she is clinging to him and sobbing into his chest. She doesn't see what he does. Jack watches with sick fascination as Bootstrap employs his knife in the task of ripping into his son's chest. And oh, there is so much more blood...
The Dutchman continues its downward spiral as Jack and Elizabeth float through the air towards the Pearl. He foolishly wonders how any of this is possible. He's been acting on instinct and now he feels lost in the absence of action and adrenaline. As they near the ocean's surface he can hear Pearl's call and smiles a little to himself, knowing now that she called them back – probably with a little help. He gives Elizabeth a boost before climbing up the ship behind her. He glances up at the clearing sky and spares a thought to Calypso, acknowledging the part of the goddess that will always be Tia Dalma.
Can't escape bein' human, he thinks. He feels amazingly calm as he steps on deck. Calm and confident.
Gibbs nervously tries to give a report and none too subtly suggests fleeing. Barbossa calls out orders that Jack quickly belays. Gibbs tries again to encourage retreat. "Kindly shut up!" Jack snaps at the crew as he strides towards the helm. He waits, watching the waves, knowing that soon— And he's not sure how he knows, though he's aware that Pearl in humming and he seems to hear the faint thump of a heartbeat...
The Flying Dutchman breaks the surface. He grins and calls, "Full canvas!" Elizabeth looks ready to faint for a moment; she quickly regains herself and competes with her fellow captains for attention as they each shout orders to the crew.
He stares for a long time at the pristine beach in the light of the setting sun. He tries to imagine what it would be like to watch the land from afar for years on end, knowing that he could only set foot on land for one day every ten years. The ocean is his home and a closer companion than any lover, but even Jack needs his time ashore, if only to remember how much he belongs to the sea.
The wind picks up and Jack's eye catches on the ghostly flag flying above the Dutchman. The otherworldly ship waits with the Pearl for the morning to come. She's changed a little having shed much of her sea creature accoutrements like the crew. Despite the change of captains, she'll continue to be a terrifying sight as she comes to guide her souls, but Jack will never fear her tattered sails again.
A lone figure leans against the rail on the other ship and after squinting a bit, Jack can tell it's Bootstrap; (he looks much better without the starfish and the barnacle-encrusted coat). For a moment Jack feels a little uncomfortable realizing that the only other person watching the shore so intently is the father of the recent groom. Bootstrap has a justifiable claim on concern for his newlywed son; Jack isn't sure he could defend his own spying if asked. His interest has little to do with concern for the newlyweds and more to do with an emotional investment Jack is reluctant to admit.
"Cap'n." Gibbs steps up to the rail. Jack motions him to speak but doesn't turn to face his first mate. "Be there a plan for mornin'?"
Gaze again turned to shore, Jack considers what the new Mrs. Turner is apt to request upon return. "To Shipwreck Cove, I think. Her majesty needs 'er own ship." He caresses Pearl's rail affectionately. "Already 'ave me 'ands full with bloody what's-'is-face." Gibbs snorts quietly, making Jack grin.
"Aye, an' what ye be plannin' about that?"
Jack glances sidelong at his friend and smirks. "A secret, Mister Gibbs. All in due time." Truthfully he hasn't thought very far ahead given the recent overwhelming events, but he'll be damned if he lets Barbossa take away his Pearl again. Maybe he should enlist Elizabeth's help before seeing her off. After all, she seems to feel indebted to him at the moment, and he isn't sure how long that will last.
Lass seems to've made quite the impression with ol' Hector. That, along with her craftiness will prove a good asset in retaining his beloved ship. Yes, he decides, he'll set her to work. Maybe they'll even avoid some bloodshed if Elizabeth can convince Barbossa to take on a different ship. Never would've figured 'im to be fascinated by anyone but 'isself.
"Jack?" Gibbs looks like he's been waiting to catch his attention. "The crew'll be wantin' some... rewardin' venture after all this."
Ah. That he has thought of, though he'll not admit to why. "I know just the thing, mate." He grins and meets his friend's curious gaze. "E'er 'eard of the Fountain of Youth?" Gibbs opens his mouth but doesn't say a word, a strange expression crossing his face – a dawning realization that Jack is not particularly fond of. "Bit of shiny 'long the way, to be sure," he adds. This proves enough of a distraction.
Jack's eyes wander back to the Dutchman where Bootstrap has begun to pace. Eternity would be more'n a might lonely. Wonder if your girl understands it yet.
"I'm to take watch if ye want, Cap'n," Gibbs says expectantly.
Shaking his head, Jack leans against the rail and waves the first mate away. "I'll be 'ere, Mister Gibbs. Get your rest 'fore our travels, savvy?" He's already refocused on the shore when Gibbs responds. The sun has set but already a full moon bathes the sand in silvery light.
For a moment he imagines he can feel the sand beneath his feet and the surf lapping at his ankles. He turns toward the gentle touch at his shoulder and finds Will standing beside him, a small smile on his face. They stare at one another in peaceable silence. Jack moves his gaze to Will's open shirt and eyes the long jagged scar across an otherwise unblemished chest. His heart aches at the sight but before he can say anything gentle fingers press against his lips. He looks up, expecting to fall into the other man's mahogany gaze, and instead can only see the Flying Dutchman bobbing gently in the waves.
With a sigh, Jack slumps against the rail and wonders if he has the energy to find a bottle of rum. Come morning, he'll be needing it.
January 21, 2008 – January 30, 2008