A/N- This is it, the second part to "You The Living". There will be five? chapters, I think?, and as promised the story will be told in both Luke's and Jones' perspective, and maybe even Jack, though I honestly don't think I will write from his perspective all that much. Let me know what you guys think of this.

Alive

The water runs red where he lies, a hand splayed on his chest where the man can see the dark scar running from collarbone to the center of his chest.

He has not left the boy's side, his fingers still curled around a fragile wrist and feeling something akin to, not sadness, but loss, after he feels the pulse throbbing beneath the skin fade to nothing. The memory of that mouth on his neck, of tearful blue eyes gazing back at him, should not shake him as much as it does. The boy, giving up his life for Jones' wretched own, thinking that two nights of intimacy meant more than that, had meant nothing to him. A warm body to hold onto on nights when his dreams had been too vivid, when all the alcohol had not been enough.

It meant nothing.

There is no breath filling the boy's lungs, no heaving of his chest, but the skin touching the palm of Jones' hand is still giving off warmth. For a moment he presses his hand flat to the boy's side to feel the skin there, warm and wet to the touch, and remembers how it had felt to let his hand slide down that sun tanned chest when the boy had still been alive and breathing harshly into his neck. Remembers the sight of his body, bruised and bleeding after he had come apart in Jones' hands, and that when he had the man's heart all to himself, he had sacrificed his own.

As much as he wants to, he cannot shake him.

What did the boy's live matter to him? He who feels nothing at all?

He cuts through flesh and muscle, grasping for the root of his pain. The pads of his fingers brush along the organ beating where Luke's own heart should have been but is not, listening to the pained heartbeat he had never thought he would hear again. Even muted by flesh, it goes up the length of Jones' arm and reverberates in his chest.

Anger surges through him, anger at the boy for forcing him to face his own cowardice and shame. He would rather feel nothing than the pain scarred into his heart, would rather feel nothing than wear his feelings on his sleeve like this. He suddenly feels vulnerable, painfully exposed with his heart in the breast pocket of his coat.

He gives his men the order to pull back; let the ships and the men on them destroy themselves. He has what he came for.

Then, with uncharacteristic gentleness he gathers the boy into his arms, the dead body feeling too heavy and too light, and carries him to the offside of the ship. The tentacle wound around Luke's arm leaves his skin with his mark and, before Jones can think of the consequences this will have, he loosens his hold on him and watches as the body plunges into the dark water of the Caribbean sea...

It was not the heart shaped mouth that had him so fascinated with the boy, not the bruised body that had bared itself to his gaze as rain fell on his skin, no– It was the eyes. Those intense eyes that conveyed all of his emotions, his every thought with their brutal honesty behind them. Eyes that would narrow with anger that coursed through his blood and then became half lidded as the anger subsided. Eyes that were a vibrant blue at the slightest feeling of happiness.

The boy had been so... human. His inner feelings had bled through the skin like an open wound and stained his face with so much emotion, like his heart and his eyes were connected, that for a time Jones had felt as though he really knew him inside and out.

But that was before he died in his arms, with an unreadable expression on his face. Jones had never seen it before, had never seen him smile like he had, his eyes filled with an emotion the man had never seen there. He had seen desperation before, curiosity, anger– but as the boy was dying, all he saw in the nuances of his expression was nothing but love– an expression he is so intimately familiar with.

Those eyes had looked with so much more love than Jones had ever been given.

Luke

He feels like nothing.

There is no heartbeat in his ears as rivulets of blood run down his arms, no pulse throbbing beneath his skin. No sadness squeezing its fingers tight around his throat and no anger tearing through him. Nothing but the scar on his chest that makes him remember what being alive had felt like.

When was the last time he felt the blood pumping through his veins with excitement, or when happiness formed dimples in his cheek and tugged his mouth into a smile? When had he last stifled a laugh behind that tight lipped smirk of his? It feels as if he has poured all of his emotions and feelings into the hole in his chest, a hole where his heart should be but isn't.

He is stranded on an island with black sand covering the beach and jagged rock formations that dig painfully into his feet. Split knuckles are brushing against the rock of the cliff as he climbs and vermilion footprints from bloodied feet stick to the rough surface. He nearly falls when his hands, slick with blood or sweat he can't tell, slip from cliff's ledge and his fingernails scratch at the rock, panicking. He can hear his own breathing, every panted breath harsher than the last, as he heaves himself up and collapses onto his back.

The cold night air on his skin is a strong contrast to the warm blood filling his mouth after he finds the inside of his cheek with his teeth. He tastes copper, thick and heavy on his tongue as he gets up and faces the dark water of the ocean.

The waves crashing on shore are deafening.

The sky above is of the darkest blue.

His feet pad closer to the cliff's edge.

One. Two...

What am I doing?

He is no coward. He has never thought he would die through cowardice.

Could he close his eyes for long enough, and if he shatters his skull on the jagged rocks– Will he die? Tears spill from his closed blue eyes and a muted whimper spills past his lips. He is alone, so utterly alone, and it is all self inflicted. He did this to himself. And love– love did this, too.

Through his blurred vision Luke can barely see the fading bruises on his arm where he last touched him, and as his fingers trace the reddened circles, his toes curl over the edge. His last thought is of the man's hand on his arm...

Stop.

A whisper. A hallucination. It has to be all in his head, but still doubt plagues him, weighing heavily in his stomach. What am I doing– His soul shrinks, horror and self-loathing trickling through into his consciousness.Can I really go through with this?

The heels of his hands cover his eyes and he stumbles back. He realizes with a hard swallow the enormity of what he is, was, about to do. It isn't blood he tastes on his tongue then, but bile. His knees give in. He is terrified, and suddenly a bright flash of green lights up the sky and bleeds through the back of his eyelids.

I am coming.

When Luke opens his eyes he thinks he can see the sails of the Dutchman, but this too has to be in his head...

Jones

Jones eyes drink in the sight of him sleeping, curled up on the bunk with his knees bent and hands fisted into the sheets, his jaw clenched and brows furrowed. The waves of relief he feels washing through him are so strong he thinks that even in his sleep, the boy will have sensed them.

For a moment Jones listens to his breathing, lips parted to drag in soft breaths, and suppresses the urge to move his hand onto Luke's chest to reassure himself of his presence. The boy's hands need bandaging, as do his feet, but the wounds, however he had gotten them, do not disturb him half as much as the dried blood mottling that skin. There is so much of it, clinging to his wrists and the beds of his nails. Jones would have asked about them if Luke had not been unconscious when his first mate had carried him in.

He tells himself there will be time for all of that later, and shuts his eyes. The Dutchman groans as the waves crash into her, water leaking through the gaps of the rotting boards that are bending from the pressure of the storm. Thunder shakes the darkened night, and through it all the boy never wakes. It is hard for Jones to think of him as a man when his face seems so gentle, if somewhat weary in the darkness of these quarters. There is a softness to his features that belies nothing but innocence. Still, the body beside him, trembling from the cold, is not the body of a boy, but a man– softness or no.

And it does not make sense to him. He cannot seem to figure it out– how this boy, this boy with his mouth open in his sleep and soft hands, could have done what he did for him.

It is barely audible, but nevertheless he hears the pause in Luke's breathing as he wakes, and listens to the rustle of the sheets behind him with something close to anxiousness. He feels it surge through him in waves, this feeling of the storm outside suddenly raging inside his chest, for he has no explanation as to why he did what he did, at least no explanation that will not expose his guts to the boy, how fractured he really is.

The movements have stilled. From where Jones is sitting with his back turned, he glances at the small form on his bunk. He would have thought Luke to still be asleep, so unmoving is he, if it were not for the widened blue eyes staring at him, and the look in them has his own mouth tighten noticeably. His fingers glide over the keys of the organ, like a caress to a lover he has not seen in he does not know how long, but there is no noise coming from the pipes. He has not played in a long time.

The boy's voice is hoarse when he asks, in a tone that is dripping with too much emotion, "Why...? I thought–"

If only he knew himself. He should not have saved him, should not care if the cuts on his soft hands will scar. He should not care, so that at least he would know what to do with him. He cannot have him on his ship, and he cannot let him go.

"Think nothing of it."

"Nothing...?" Luke croaks out, and Jones can feel the frustration bubbling up inside of him.

"Nothing."

His mind made up, he grabs the clean bandages from his desk and settles onto the chair in front of the boy. A look in such close proximity shows him blonde hair mused with sleep and red, wriggly lines where the sheets have dug into the boy's cheek. The heel of a hand is rubbing at bleary blue eyes and then Luke is back to staring at him.

A bucket beside him contains clean water and he picks up a rag, taking a hand into his own and putting it on his knee. Jones cannot see the expression on that face, but he hopes that Luke will fall back asleep after he has seen to the worst of his injuries.

The cuts are deep. Ragged lines on both of his palms that will take time to heal. They will leave scars, and the thought is like a weight crushing his chest. He roughly cleans the dried blood off that darkened skin and if Luke is in pain he doesn't show it. The only indication that Jones is being too rough is the frown tugging at the boy's mouth. He drops the rag negligently back into the bucket and then none too gently wraps up his hand. Loop after loop he wraps around it and pulls so tight that he can hear a small whimper leave those lips– and then tighter still.

"Ngh–!"

"What ye did for me–" Jones starts and then pauses, the part of that is still human wanting to brush his thumb over the back of Luke's hand, though he keeps from doing so. "I have not forgotten."

It is as close to a "thank you" as he will give him. When he is done with the boy's hands and there is nothing more for him to do he is clutching for an illusion of composure. His eyes narrow and his lips quirk into a harsh smile.

"You had better put on your clothes."

Jones notices with some amusement the flush creeping into the boy's cheeks as he realizes that he is very much naked and that the sheets have long slipped past his groin. He mutters something like "fuck" and hastily covers himself, looking away with his fists clenched around the thin material of the sheets. Jones can smell the rain and old blood still clinging to his skin, and below that a scent that is uniquely him, warm and strong. As unimaginable as it seems and as absurd as it is, the boy smells of sunshine. That is the only real word Jones can explain it with.

And he would have taken him then, breathed in that scent of him, mixed with the smell of sweat and sex, if it were not for the time running through the gap of his fingers faster than he thought it would.

"We will reach land soon, so be ready to leave."

"Land?"

He doesn't elaborate, handing him the bandages for his feet. Luke doesn't need him for that, he tells himself. The boy can take care of them on his own.

Luke

Land, it turns out, is the port of Padres. It is home, but from where he stands it doesn't look anything like he remembers. I guess it has been more than nine years. Nothing lasts forever. He takes in the sight with a dark look on his face, his eyes moving from the lights of the town to his bandaged hands, and from there to Maccus staring at him, all teeth and his side of friendliness.

"What's with that look, hm?"

"What look?"

"That look. You don't look too happy to be livin' again 's all." Maccus shrugs, as if he couldn't care less, and pats him on the shoulder. "Personally, kid, I didn' think I'd ever see your sorry arse again. But after what you did for the Captain..." Luke thinks he can hear a touch of respect in the man's tone.

"He's my Captain." he argues and tugs at a loose thread from the bandages. The knot Jones' has tied around his wrist is too tight and he wonders if it was done on purpose.

"Aye. He's mine too, but I wouldn't have done what you did. Not for anything."

Running a hand through his hair and ruffling the blonde strands as he looks away from Maccus, jaw set in a hard line, Luke can feel anger bubble up inside him. Anger at what, he doesn't know. Maccus has been the closest thing to a friend he has had on this ship, but sometimes the man doesn't know when to leave something alone.

"It's not like that." he snaps, walking past him to get a closer look at the town. But it is, and by the wide grin on Maccus' face he knows it too. To his right, Koleniko elbows him painfully in the ribs to get him to go back to work. Together they lower the boat that will take them to the docks into the water. Luke has to bite his lip to keep from crying as the rope touches the skin of his hands and he nearly lets go of it.

"Leave the kid alone, mate. Can't you see he doesn't wanna talk about it?"

"Shove off. You didn' notice the look on the Capt'n's face when he saw 'im? I haven' seen that look before and I've been on this ship longer than you."

"And in your head, you think that means they're in love? You're even thicker than I thought."

Maccus grins at him, "Makes sense, doesn't it? I mean they did fuc– "

Luke punches him in the stomach, hard, murder in his eyes and he looks to Koleniko when he hears the man's amused snort, but he only holds up his hands. Seconds later a laughing Maccus straightens to his full height to stare down at him.

"Your lucky I like you, lad."

He huffs out an annoyed breath.

"Flynn. Captain wants to see you."

Koleniko rolls his eyes and gets back to work. Maccus, still staring at him with that grin on his face, tilts his head to the Captain's quarters. Ignoring the argument that picks up soon as his back is to them, Luke marches off.

Jones

He never knew anger had a scent, but as he breathes in the the boy standing so close to him that he can feel the angry breaths brushing the side of his face, he thinks he will not ever forget this scent.

It is a scent that tells Jones that the boy staring up at him will not go quietly. He smells like sun and damp earth and coppery violence, like control slipping from bony fingers and anger dragging its tongue along that dark skin. He would never admit to it, but he admires the display of tightly wound anger, the expression on his face Luke has masked with bared white teeth and narrowed blue eyes.

"What are you talking about?" he grits out between his teeth, brows furrowed in anger. He looks so much like the petulant, arrogant boy Jones has always thought of him as. The flaring nostrils and the muscle jumping in his jaw– he is angrier than Jones' would have thought him to be, if not angry enough to make the leap into violence. He would not last for long, and they both know it.

"A lifetime of servitude, if I remember." The tentacles that make up the thick of his beard are tense and his eyes are narrowed into slits. "Ye have given your life."

"Then what was all of this for? So you can throw me off your ship, like Jack did?"

"I am giving ye yer freedom, ye unthankful whelp! Do ye not realize that every man on this ship would do anythin' to be in yer position?"

"You think I care about freedom?"

The words have something so violent within him take control of him that he grabs the boy's throat between the claw of his hand, digging brutally into the soft skin there and crushing the breath out of his lungs. The whelp's feet are barely touching the floor.

He would do anything for even the slightest grasp of freedom. He longs for it with every fiber, every shred of his wretched being and would do anything to take back what he gave away so freely when he was still lovesick– and this boy, this damned, immature, ignorant boy, he would give it away as if it meant nothing to him.

With every breath he feels the absence of his freedom like a disease spreading from his heartless chest to his soulless insides and beyond, to the dark and damp recess of his chest where feelings and emotions used to reach, but do no longer. He has not felt what it is like to be free in so long– has not felt anything...

The impulse to touch suddenly rips through him, tearing at his self imposed self control. Blood is spilling down that neck– so red that he loosen his grip. Still, he feels a sense of conciliation at the sight of the red splotches there that will latest come morn darken into purple bruises and the blood that stains the collar of his shirt.

He will not need bandages.

A pained whimper that leaves Luke's lips, and Jones' fingers slide into the soft hair at the back of his head, nails scratching at the boy's scalp. His voice never changes tone or cadence as he murmurs, "Nothing is ever simple with you, is it, Mr Flynn?"

The hand in his hair curls into a fist and Jones tugs the boy's head back roughly. He can see the bob of Luke's throat as he swallows, the dots of perspiration on his skin, and the image nearly makes him change his mind to keep him by his side, to make him his and break him apart in the only way he knows how. There is no rationality to it, all he really wants is to keep this human part of himself as close as he can, no matter how much it bruises him.

He leans in and shuts his eyes to breathe in the boy's scent for the last time, soaking in the warmth clinging to his skin, and then lets go of him. The moment of vulnerability passes and he is left grasping for some semblance of his control.

"Go." he orders him in a voice that is not as cold and not as hard as he would have liked. "If yer not gone by sunlight, I will take ye back to the locker myself. Leave," Live, he thinks, "and do not come back again."

He does not know why the sight of tears pooling in those eyes makes him feel the way it does, when he should not be feeling anything at all with his heart still tucked out of sight in the folds of his coat, but the boy turns abruptly, rubbing at his face and exhaling a breath that makes his whole body tremble. The anger has fled his features and all Jones can see on his face is quiet acceptance. He nods, walking for the door– and then pauses.

"How long?" he utters in a voice that trembles just as much as his body does, his chin nearly touching his chest and eyes squeezed shut.

"I don't know what yer referring to."

"How long– how long till you can come on land?"

Jones goes very still. What little fragment of control he thought he had slips from his fingers when he looks at him and sees the sincerity on that face. His expression conveys honesty, and Jones has to avert his eyes to keep his face blank.

"Five years. Give or take." he answers honestly. "I don't imagine ye to be there after that."

At his last words Luke looks at him, eyes narrowed, though if it is out of anger Jones cannot tell. He keeps his eyes on Jones' face, as if he is gauging the meaning behind his words. His mouth turns into a frown.

"I won't abandon you."

And with those parting words he walks out, leaving him to his thoughts.