Marked

Speckett of a PG13 nature

Not all marks lay on the skin. Some run deeper than a pirate brand.

What mark indeed?

Beckett sat down at his desk, never noticing as Mercer slipped from the room.

He hadn't meant to put the brand in the fire. He was sure he'd been reaching for a prod. And yet how had the brand escaped from its chest? Beckett pulled off his wig and scanned the room. The brand box lay on the opposite side of the room at the foot of the bookshelf.

It really shouldn't have been there either. But it was just a box. And Mercer had a tendency to rifle through his things when he grew bored of sharpening his knives. It wasn't as if Beckett minded. What did he care if his old friend took a fancy to sticking brands in the fire?

Sparrow's brand. Beckett's mark.

Young Turner had yet to learn all marks did not ride of the surface. Sparrow was lucky. He could forget. He could just pull down his sleeve, pick up a bottle and saunter off into the sunset. Beckett did not have that luxury.

For one, he couldn't saunter.

For two, while Sparrow's marks had faded in time, Beckett knew he'd never be free of them. When he looked in the mirror, he saw teeth marks at his neck and bruises on his thighs.

Golden teeth. Amber eyes. Like dark rum or muscovado. Bitter sweet.

So he wore his cravat high, even in the Jamaican heat. Even knowing those marks weren't real.

For Sparrow had left his marks far below the skin.

"Please, Jack. I need you. I lo—"

A rough tanned finger on his lips, its pirate astride his legs.

"Shh. Best not t' get in too deep, sweetheart."

And damn it all, he missed him.
The sun was setting, painting the sky a brilliant red as Sparrow swung a leg over the windowsill.

"I'll be back, mate, don't you worry."

And twice damn him; his Sparrow had never come home.
"One day, you an' I'll be the most feared men in the Caribbean." There were empty bottles between them, their last dregs gleaming gold in the noon sun. Sparrow grinned and lifted a ring-bedecked hand toward the horizon. "We'll sail from island t' island. An' every man'll know our name."

"Well, that's bloody awful." Beckett leaned back against the sand. "Every man? How droll."

"Wot?" Sparrow looked offended. "Why's that then?"

"Because," he uncorked a new bottle with his boot knife, "if everyone knows, who'll they tell the stories to?"

"Ah." He dug his bottle into the sand and fell back, curling into Beckett's side. "We'll leave some survivors yet."

His gypsy blood was not to be disputed at any rate. That much had come true. Their names struck fear.

Well, Beckett was sure his own did anyway. Sparrow's tended to conjure up slight annoyance and the hiding of anything remotely resembling alcohol in the vicinity. But for a drunk, he reasoned, that would be a pretty intense fear.

Sparrow drank well. Irish blood.

"Look, lad." The pirate leaned over the table, gold teeth flashing. "I don't care if yer the bloody king himself. I can still drink ye under the table."

"How much are you willing to bet on that, Mr. Sparrow?"

"Well, that begs the question." He smirked. "How much can you afford to lose?"

But then, he was of Irish blood too.
They staggered out of the bar together, Sparrow leaning hard on the smaller man.

"See, the problem with my wager, Becksie, s'the money."

"You don't have it, do you?"

"Well, tha's the problem. I do have it, just not at the moment, aye? It's off on a bloody island with a bunch of bloody pirates wot stole my ship. Here, I was hopin' to make a quick pence off'a you an' you go an' drink me under the bloody table." He paused. "Have you ever been t' Singapore?"

Beckett stopped in the middle of the street.

"No. Don't believe I have." He snorted. "Funny, that."

"No worries, lad." Sparrow patted him on the chest. "It'll work itself out eventually."

"Yer avoidin' the subject!" Beckett laughed and prodded the other man in the ribs. "You owe me a whole bloody hoard of money."

"Well, s'not fair wagerin' that much, is it?" Sparrow glared defensively. "Wot kind of lad keeps money like that on 'im at any rate?"

"You could have walked away."

"'M a pirate, luv. Which brings t' mind the question, how much of a pirate're you?"

"What d'you mean by that?" Beckett staggered back onto the sidewalk, nearly losing his balance in the process.

"Well, the ways I see it, we're two like minded fellows, aye?"

"Yes…"

"So how much exactly would a good fuck be worth t' you?"

Beckett snorted.

"Certainly not as much as you lost."

"Oi, com'on now. 'm Captain Jack Sparrow." He grinned. "An' wonderfully bloody clever at that. You'll not go off dissatisfied, mate."

Bloody pirate. Why did he have to go and get swallowed by a bloody stupid squid anyway? Beckett scrubbed a hand at his eyes. He wasn't crying. Of course not. It was just that someone had left the bloody window open. The stink of fish and salt was enough to make any man's eyes sting.

Wait.

He knew he hadn't left the window open. In fact, he'd made a point of shutting it. It was raining. His new carpet was bound to get soaked.

Beckett spun up from his seat and made for the offending window, only to be met full on the lips by a sodden pirate.

"Hello, luv." Sparrow murmured, grinning against his mouth. "Yer little bird's come back."

And dripping all over his new carpet. Considering the circumstances, Beckett couldn't complain.