Status: Complete One-Shot
Words: 3008
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Jack Sparrow, "Bootstrap" Bill Turner, Hector Barbossa
Pairings: Jack/Bill (pre-mutiny)
Warnings: hate!sex, disturbing themes
Disclaimer: Jack normally belongs to Elizabeth, but since she isn't in the story, he, like the rest belongs to the mouse
Summary: Bill tries to warn Jack about Barbossa …
A/N: This is actually a companion-piece to "Exorcism", meant to reveal more of Jack's backstory, but also works as a standalone. It's basically based on some of Bill's lines from the DMC-script and my own thoughts on why Bill participated in the mutiny against Jack.
Those who've done things to you, you tend to forget. It's the things you've done to others ... those are the things that hang on.
"Bootstrap" Bill Turner in DMC (line was cut)
Enough was enough, Bill Turner decided when he strode over to the Captain's quarters. Jack might have been his superior and a simple boatswain surely wasn't fit to question the captain's decisions, but as his long-standing companion and friend, he felt it was his duty to talk some sense into the younger man. He'd watched his intimacy with Barbossa, their less than trustworthy First Mate with growing discomfort, but normally, he wouldn't have dared to speak up – for fear, perhaps, their friendship might become even more strained if he did -, but what he'd overheard this afternoon just couldn't be glossed over anymore.
He straightened his shoulders, stroked a few rebellious strands of dark blond hair from his face and knocked.
"Who's there?" came the bored reply from inside, and Bill felt like turning on his heels and walking away. From time to time, it could be a real nuisance to talk to Jack, especially when he was in one of his moods – which, on second thought, seemed to happen more frequently since they had set sail for the Isla de la Muerta.
"It's Bill," he said as casually as possible. "May I come in?"
"No need for asking, mate!"
He carefully opened the door to find Jack grinning at him leisurely. He was lying on his unmade bed, resting on his stomach with a book in his hands. His unruly black hair was tied back with a leather strap and he'd taken off his shirt, revealing a lean but still muscular body, the angry red stripes on his back a reminder of something they both were struggling to forget. 'He's too young for this,' Bill suddenly thought, feeling his attitude soften. Jack was barely twenty-five, but what he'd gone through in his life was probably enough to bring a more hardboiled man down, and he couldn't help but wonder why it was his feelings towards him had never been of a fatherly nature. There was something special about Jack Sparrow, an inborn grace that fascinated people, drew them to him, but scared them all the same, and suddenly, Bill had to remind himself why he'd come here in the first place.
"What are you reading?" he asked, not sure how to begin this and still too distracted to think straight.
"Milton," Jack replied. "Unfortunately, it's a French edition. I really need to buy … well, pilfer an English one, next time the opportunity presents itself."
Bill had no idea what to make of the name 'Milton', and it was beyond his understanding how someone could waste his time on trying to read a book, let alone in French, but this was Jack and most of the things Jack did were unexpected and far from most people's perception of "normal". The younger pirate closed the book and dropped it to the floor, heaving himself into a seated position while he eyed his friend expectantly.
"Come on, Bill. I know you didn't come to talk about books. You cannot even read!"
He knew Jack didn't mean to say anything with it, that it was just a careless remark, but his words were like another needle to his heart, reminding him that he was just one of many, an honest merchant sailor turned pirate perhaps, but nothing more, whereas Jack was the infamous prince in disguise, fallen from grace for a crime he hadn't been able to commit.
"Jack," he finally began, "I need to talk to you."
"It's your family, right? You've finally decided to go back to England to little – what's his name? – and want me to release you from my services."
"No, that's not it." They'd talked it over time and time again, ever since Bill had decided to stay with Jack after the latter had received the brand, and his answer had always been the same. When he'd left England, he'd left for good, and now he wouldn't abandon his friend. Like hell he would!
"What then?" The young captain shifted about until he was sitting on the bed with his legs crossed, absent-mindedly playing with the rings on his fingers.
"Barbossa."
Lifting one eyebrow, he smirked, then said: "Hector? Really, Bill, I thought we'd moved on from that. Without him, we'd hardly be anywhere near the place we're at now. And besides, I rather like the man."
Bill sighed and turned away, developing a sudden interest for the pandemonium on Jack's table. He picked up one of the various instruments his friend apparently used for navigating and examined it closely, his eyes following the flickering candlelight across the cool metal. "You seem to like him a little too much … ." Hell, he wanted to slap himself for sounding so goddamn stupid.
"Ah …," Jack laughed, jumping to his feet. "So you're jealous then?"
Bill looked up as the dark-haired man approached him slowly, a panther circling his prey, and he had to keep himself from stumbling backwards.
"Don't be silly!" he retorted, swallowing hard. "Why should I be jealous of that apple-munching monkey?"
"Because that apple-munching monkey, as you choose to call him, is my First Mate – a position you wanted for yourself, as I recall." Jack watched him closely, and Bill felt caught. He didn't like to admit it, but his friend was right; yes, he knew it had been necessary, the only way to gain some advice in the new life they'd been forced into, but it still hurt.
"A position I already held, until I choose to give it up willingly," he finally said, smashing the chart dividers he'd picked up back onto the table, "to a man whom we were naïve enough to put our trust into."
Jack blinked, looking at his manhandled possessions, but didn't comment on them. Instead, he stepped closer, his bared chest bathed in candlelight. "And didn't he deserve it? He promised to get us started in the whole pirate business, and that's what he did. Without him -"
"- we'd have made it anyway!" Bill interrupted him fiercely, suddenly feeling more confident again. He didn't owe anything to Barbossa, and neither did Jack. "You and I, we –," he went on, but fell silent when Jack's hand came to rest on his shoulder. Warm and reassuring, but too close. Far too close.
"Oh, come on, Bill," he said. "Nothing has changed between us. You're still my best mate, if that's what you need to hear. Nobody can erase all the memories we share … the good and the bad ones." Jack looked into his eyes, his gaze too intense to bear, and Bill stared at the marred skin on his friend's left shoulder, like the ship's blackened interior and the ever-present bandana a reminder of the starlit night that had seen the "Wicked Wench" in flames.
"You gave away the position of the Isla de la Muerta!" he whispered almost tonelessly, carefully avoiding to look at the dark shade now moving behind his back, hand still resting on his shoulder.
"Aye … because he asked for it, and it so happens I trust him."
"Well, I don't." Bill straightened himself, desperately trying to hide the trembling in his voice. He didn't move, concentrating on the creaking floor beneath his feet to distract himself from the warmth of Jack's body right behind him, so close he thought he could feel his breath ghosting down his neck.
"Too fierce?" Jack asked mockingly, only the slightest trace of cruelty in his voice. "I wonder -," he went on, and suddenly, both of his hands were on Bill's shoulders, stroking him through the worn fabric of his shirt, " - if your jealousy is of another kind. Let's say … more personal." His lips! It must have been his lips that brushed his throat, a seductive wetness on his skin, and Bill struggled to regain his composure.
"I've seen you … with men," he croaked, knowing he should push his friend away, but it seemed as if he had forgotten how to move, how to breathe, just everything, apart from the painful awareness that his body would betray him on this. He'd never felt any attraction to men, not even after months at sea, but Jack was different, and he hated him for it, hated him for having named something he'd refused to believe himself.
"And did you like what you saw?" A dark voice, mirroring the smoky heat around them.
"Jack -" He knew he should protest and end this before the damage was done, but there were those teeth, scraping alongside his throat, and when a pair of hands slid across his shoulders and over his chest, he found he was lost.
"This," Jack cooed into his ear, groping his growing erection through his breeches, "is not what's between Hector and meself. And I have to admit, I didn't think it's what's between us, either." He began to rub him, slow and tentatively, and Bill held his breath while his cock was coaxed to full hardness. "Quite obviously, I was wrong … ."
"No, please … stop …," he moaned while his body betrayed his words, pushing rhythmically against the devilish hand pressed to his crotch.
"But why? This is what you wanted, isn't it?" A hand tangled in his hair and yanked his head back, a voice hissing softly against his ear, "The thing you believed me withholding from you while sharing it with Hector."
He rubbed him harder, the friction provided by the rough material almost painful against his arousal. "Now tell me, for how long have you wanted this? Since you've seen me with other men? Or maybe ever since the day we met?"
Letting go of his hair, he ran his hand across Bill's exposed collarbone, slipping it into his opened shirt to pinch one of his nipples. "Have you fantasised about me, about my hands on your body and my mouth on your cock?"
Jack nudged closer, his hardness pressing into the small of his friend's back, and Bill closed his eyes, no longer fighting the inevitable. "Or is it my cock you want? Do you want me to bend you over my table and fuck you senseless? Or should I rather have you on my bed, your legs wrapped around me so you can look me in the eyes while I take the last bit of honour and decency from you?"
The hand on his crotch stilled, and Bill thrashed helplessly, his eyes squeezed shut while his mind was caught in a hell made from pleasure and pain, from love and desperation, and what he found there, in the midst of it all, was bitter hatred.
"Tell me, William," the familiar but yet strangely menacing voice said, "tell me what you want."
He didn't reply, just stood there, his body throbbing with an aching need for release, and never had he felt such an intense craving for violence.
"What do you want?" Jack repeated, more softly, this time, and when his hand started unfastening the laces of his breeches, Bill realised that there was no use in wanting to preserve a kind of dignity that had been lost the moment he'd entered this cabin.
"Suck me …," he groaned, his voice sounding foreign in his own ear.
"That wasn't so hard, was it?"
And before he could even tell what was going on, Jack was kneeling on the floor in front of him, tugging his breeches down. At this very moment, he stopped thinking, stopped caring about anything at all, as long as this nightmare ended – even if it meant he had to surrender to the devil himself. Grabbing Jack's hair, he forced himself inside the other man's mouth, no longer regarding him as a friend, but as the nemesis he'd become to him, and when he began thrusting into warm wetness, he could pretend he was still in control, even though he knew it was just wishful thinking.
If it was a game they were playing, Jack had already won, and he knew it. He didn't put up a struggle or attempted to pull back when Bill held his head in place, fucking him roughly. He could almost feel this demon of a man grin around his cock, savouring his victory, while he forced himself even further inside his mouth, desperately trying to get the better of him.
And suddenly, he was pushed away, felt the cool metal of countless rings on his hips while he stumbled backwards, falling down on the bed. He had barely time to lie back when he felt Jack crouching over him, and again, he thought of him as a dangerous, feline-like creature rather than a man. Lifting his head, he watched him from heavy lidded eyes and was surprised to find he wasn't grinning, no trace of cruelty or sarcasm on his face, but an emptiness he'd only seen on him once before, the day he'd escaped from Beckett's grip, and Bill's dazzled brain realised that there were games that could not be won.
When Jack took him into his mouth again, he just laid back and put an arm across his face, unable to take any more of it, the sheer horror of what they'd just done to each other. He came with a silent cry, his fists clutching the sheets while Jack kept on sucking him until he was completely drained. Unable to face reality, he kept his eyes closed and remained motionless, the shifting on the mattress and the sound of restless steps telling him that Jack had gotten to his feet and was now pacing the cabin.
He didn't know how much time had passed when he heard him speak up again. "There's something you should know," Jack whispered, sounding desperate. "This is not about love for me - with no one. It's about violence and control … power, if you want."
Whatever Jack meant to tell him, Bill wished he could press his hands to his ears and just shut it out, but he kept on listening, every word a dagger to his heart, a revelation he could not bare.
"You don't know what it is like … you haven't been there, in that cell … you haven't felt the cold and the darkness. You cannot even imagine … cannot possibly know … part of me is still there. And maybe that's my way to deal with it … I don't know. But I never wanted it with you … never. "
A long silence fell between them, a silence so heavy and menacing he couldn't help but lift his arm to flee the crushing darkness. It took some time for his eyes to adjust to the dim candlelight, and when he could finally see clearly again, he found Jack was standing at the extensive window front, staring out into the night.
He got up from the bed and pulled his breeches up, grateful Jack had his back to him so he didn't need to look him in the eyes. The man over there was not his friend anymore, he was a complete stranger that had taken on the name and looks of Jack Sparrow without possessing his spirit, and he felt uncomfortable in his company. Had it really taken this for him to realize that the cleft between them had nothing to do with Hector Barbossa, but with three days spent in a hell he even failed to imagine? Had he really believed the man who'd returned from Cutler Beckett's personal jail was still the friend he'd watched being dragged away on a Saturday afternoon? Completely out of context, he suddenly remembered it had been the sole day of rain in an exceptionally dry winter …
He wondered whether Jack expected him to say or do something, but there was no reaction that seemed adequate, nothing to make the past undone, and so he just stood there, his mind racing with memories and emotions thought long forgotten and without meaning: Love, guilt and regret, all centred around a woman and a boy he barely remembered, brought back to him by a man he now had to learn how to hate.
"Go," Jack finally said tonelessly, making the choice for him. But he just couldn't move, couldn't bare to see him standing there, shaking and with quivering shoulders, couldn't leave him like that … .
"Jack?" A faint whisper, maybe carrying the promise of forgiveness and redemption, and when the one spoken to turned around, facing him, Bill almost believed they both could make up for what they'd just done to each other. Almost, for all hope was defeated when he looked into Jack's eyes, a mad glitter lurking behind the tears, handsome features forced into a horrid grimace.
"Leave!" he cried, and in shock and horror, Bill turned away and hurried past him and out of the cabin, not daring to slow his pace until he could hear the door fall shut behind him, shortly followed by the piercing sound of shattering glass. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the cool night air while something was growing within him, a new, changed William Turner, a man no longer bound to a friend whom he'd just found dead and gone, and he felt like part of him had died along with him. Leaning back against the Pearl's wooden safety, eternally shrouded in the mystery of rebirth, he fought the tears that were welling up in his eyes, every single one born from shame, guilt and a kind of hate so close to love he wished he could just shake it off.
"How is our mutual friend feeling tonight?"
Bill startled at the familiar voice and found himself facing Jack's First Mate, taking a hearty bite from one of his ever-present apples.
"Barbossa," he said in acknowledgement, surprised how calm and steady his own voice sounded. "I think YOUR friend is feeling alright. For me, I don't know if I'd call him a friend. More of an acquaintance … ."
And Barbossa grinned.