Title: Of Blood Stained Apologies
Author: Frost AND Kacey
Rating: R
Summary: Will stabs Jack through to show him how much he truly -does- love him.
Disclaimer: We don't own Jack or Will, or anything else here. But we can pretend, and have fine delusions of grandeur about it.
Archive: O_O Yes..! Tell us first, though.
Authors notes: …Because we like angst? Oh, and we call this one -Stab!- "I love you!"
Oh yeah. Jack is played by Frost, and Will by Kacey.

- - - William - - -:

Never mistake sleeping alone as an easy task. William Turner certainly did not. Over the last year, the occasional nights separated from his partner had been extremely few and far between. Despite any of the piracy ventures of any day, they had always managed to find each other (in sickness and in health) under that perfect fortress of night. Darkness. It was their safe haven. And when forced apart (one time even parted by the bars of a divided holding cell), it was never by free will - until yesterday. Jack's deceptions had pushed his Turner to the brink, their argument ceased on mutually sour notes, and for the first time, the two pirates chose to sleep unattached - nearly the width of a ship between them. And while Will had thought it was a fine plan last night, the morn following - he felt fragmented. Without. Simply without. Jack. There, lying in his old bunk (hardly thinking of it as his own at all), examining the pivots and grains of the swaying wooden floor, Will decided even if Jack was wrong for keeping dangerous secrets, they couldn't stay like this. The blacksmith must've been so consumed in his thought (or apprehension), for he didn't register his feet moving, until they stopped. At the Captain's cabin door. The world smelled of morning, and the faint hint of breakfast seeped out from that cabin. Knuckles rap the hollow mark of his entrance upon the planks of the door; Will breezed into his true room.

- - - Jack - - -:

Breakfast had been brought in to the Captain--per usual. Gibbs was a good man, and a good crewmate. Often there were mutterings of how the pirate Captain was just "too thin" from the direction of the plump Irishman. Jack disagreed, really. He just was overly active (in both bed and on the ship.), and felt there was really no reason to worry. But if it brought food straight to his door, he most definitely wasn't going to complain. He hadn't eaten yet--he'd been busying himself with getting dressed--and drinking. As if he hadn't had enough of the vile liquor the night before. And so, when he opened the door to his room--expression the same as it always was, twinkle in his eyes, half smile on drunken lips--the view of a full table would be seen behind him. Slightly tangled hair shifted as he canted his head to the side--beads clicking softly as he did so--to view the man in front of the door. William Turner. His expression didn't change at all, either. Still that half smile splayed on his lips, as if nothing had happened last night at all. "Oh, Will," he said and just a tad absently he shook his rum bottle, as if wondering if there were any left in there at all. "Just in time for breakfast." The door was swung out a little more, silently inviting the former Blacksmith inside--as if the boy even truly needed the invite. If Jack hadn't slept during the night, it wasn't fully obvious--there were no visible circles around his eyes. But it seemed that his kohl had been reapplied today, and so there was really no telling.

- - - William - - -:

Will did not want to admit the feeling he immediately became aware of. Invisible walls, existing in this room, invisible and unspoken. Like a ghost. It was though their argument had been just a passing spirit, that now haunted the corners and the backs of their minds. Or was it just his mind? For Jack seemed to be happily ignorant to the barriers. He tried to deny the indignation toward his Captain's pleasant-appearing mood. Guiltily, a wry frown. "Good morning." Far too polite for a pirate, but some things you couldn't shake from a boy. He just barely seemed to be aware he had spoken, searching Jack's face, scrutinizing the fair nature of it, waiting to find a falter, a signal that he wasn't well. That he did remember. Or maybe Will was hopelessly still clinging to the chance of Jack's surrender. No matter how Sparrow acted now, the younger still vaguely felt like an intruder now; unwanted. Here. His silence rolled into its place, shoulders not quiet uncoiled enough to be relaxed. Games were still being played. Lies.

- - - Jack - - -:

Jack had already seated himself at the table and was tucking his chair in underneath him as he went. Not a gentleman, but he did know better than to get food on his clothing. That was just good logic, really. "Morning," he replied to William with a quick dip of his head. A childish gesture, but one that he always did. It was a ritual thing, really. Jack couldn't remember the last time that Will -hadn't- said good morning. "Now sit down, or it'll be cold." Loose digits wiggled emphasizingly at the few dishes set out on the table. Bacon, breads and cheeses--fish, there too, along with a few different types of fruits. The captain of any ship got it that well-it was just showing who was on top, really. He was already letting his hands fidget through the food, picking out bits here and there that looked appealing to him. An apple (he picked ate those mostly out of spite now. Green apples.), and some bits of cheese and meat. His eyes though, flashed back up to Will, as if wondering if he were going to stay or not. The night had not been easy for Jack, and from Will's expression, it hadn't been for him either. Several bottles littered the corner of his cabin, obviously empty. Had those been there before? No, they had seemed to collect through the time of the night.

- - - William - - -:

There was just no looking at Jack now. Sooty lashes of sienna fan down to shield Will's eyes, which were set about on a mission to bore through the table with their attention. Significantly un-eased by the total lack of acknowledgment toward their tiff. It was too foreign for the boy, and he could barely tolerate this. Being locked out. Eyes away from Jack provided opportunity to absorb the state of the bedroom corner of the cabin, ah yes, bottles hard to miss, strewn, drained - unfulfilled. Like they were now? Empty. He sat, but and he tried not to make it look forced when he claimed only a bit of pear, one of those semi exotic fruits that had become his favorite. An amount of food far different than his hardy, working seaman morning appetite (for food and occasional other morning traditions between them), surely Will's routinely largest meal of the day was not taking place now. Say something, Turner. Unable. Throat knotted. His height wilted away as he slouched somewhat in the wooden chair.

- - - Jack - - -:

If William was expecting Jack to break the silence, he was sorely mistaken--the shorter Captain seemed fully preoccupied with his breakfast. Even if he wasn't really eating it. Attention was so fully fixed on the apple he was peeling. Dark chocolate--near black--eyes stared at the green fruit as it moved slowly in his fingers. Deftly, his knife moved around the thing, leaving a long and unbroken coil of shockingly green skin in it's wake. Once this task was done, he just stared at the whitish orb in his hands. Then, he flicked again with his knife, slicing it into pieces. Easier for chewing, or just wasting time, Jack? He wasn't sure he knew the answer. Discarding the knife, he finally bit into a piece of said fruit--eyes moving back up to gaze upon Turner--who was nibbling at a pear (something Jack himself, had no fondness what-so-ever for) and trying his hardest to stare a hole into the table. Hum. Shrugging to himself he went back to chewing for a moment before reaching for the thing he was really in the mood for--his already more than half empty bottle of rum. He never had been a breakfast person (dinner was always his most favored meal), and so not a lot would seem changed with his behavior. Fiddle with food, drink rum. Then again, he was generally always able to finish at least an apple...

- - - William - - -:

Pears bruise easily, their flesh delicate, and Will was puncturing his nicely with calloused thumb - knowing it or not. Come ghosts, come from the corners. Haunt. Fighting was better than this, this was torture. A simple puff of breath now becomes tight, gradually the silence pilfering away at the blacksmith's composure. The table had enough punishment (not to mention the pear, it's blood making a silver drip down tan olive palm), and a muscle in the plain of his cheek ticked once, eyes surfacing to take a pirate captive in their view. Maybe Jack wanted to intoxicate himself out of memory, but Will knew that wouldn't end anything. Could he let it just go on? It would never stop. Nor would the intensity festering through his muscles, needing release. A harried mind needing resolve. Needing to just scream at Jack, shake the fool to his senses. But Will would stifle this urge to battle until it did erupt from him, he could feel it coming. It started with the sear of disapproval he gave now. And the silence just went on.

- - - Jack - - -:

Gaze met William's own once Jack finally finished being occupied with his liquor (and only for the moment) and the Captain had the nerve to cant his head to the side and turn his lips downward. "Does this make you mad, too, then?" And there it was, the straw that would very likely break the camel's back. Jack's eyes did not show anger--mostly because he really wasn't angry, he was just annoyed. Annoyed with his own behavior, annoyed with the fact that he'd had to drink himself to unconsciousness last night (something he hadn't done in a long, long while) and with the fact that Will was being so bloody... well... himself. He gave up his bout of glaring then, and just went back to nursing his bottle of rum. At least the alcohol wouldn't yell at him for having a rough night. Fingers shook the bottle again, and eyebrows knotted in another bit of annoyance. Almost gone.

- - - William - - -:

It would start somewhere around his feet, the rupture. They scrape booted heels sharply closer to himself for standing. Then it moves up the legs that look too long to have any sort of balance, the pear is discharged from his hands, for they are used now to land on the table with open palms, rattling dishes and rum bottles alike, crumbling a stack of bread to scatters. The combined effort of legs and hands propel the boy up, not full height, for the inhale of air that flared out his chest put those sharp shoulders into a defensive posture of leaning just subtly forward over the table between them. "Lets settle this." A demand. Words were simply not working. Another method would have to be applied for any results. And William's bottled mixture of restlessness and stress only had one outlet, an outlet he had perfected over all the years of anxiety a governor's daughter put him through. Like this, there was just no thinking about consequences, he was being hasty, he was being brash. He had reverted into impatient child again. Jack was his challenge. A hiss. "Now."

- - - Jack - - -:

If there was one difficult thing to do in the world, it was to truly surprise Captain Jack Sparrow. In this instant, Will had succeeded. But only for an instant. Jack, with wide kohl pronounced eyes, let his mouth hang open in a little "o" of shock. And then it closed, and his eyes narrowed. Surprise was over, and anger easily taking it's place. He stood himself then, and there was no drunken sway in that smooth gesture. Feet hit the floor with more noise than was necessary and his hand moved to his sword belt in full understanding. "Fine," he seethed out in anger. "On the deck." He was the Captain, and even through anger he would think of what his room would look like after a fight--and he would not stand for it. Left hand dropped an apple slice, and his sword was pulled free of its sheath with his right. He could use either to fight with, but was best with his dominant hand-the right. He did not wait for William Turner. He was already furiously making his way for the door---over coat and vest being torn off and laying in messy piles in his wake. By the time that he got the door open, and stomped onto the deck, his crew mates already knew to be out of the way, and his billowy-sleeved cotton shirt was laying in a pile near a barrel. Long and almost delicate digits held the sword tightly, and a snarl was in the makings on his face.

- - - William - - -:

He had succeeded, hadn't he? Not allowing Jack to escape reality, forcing him to face some kind of brawl. Then why did Will feel the cold fingers of imminent disaster creep his back. No, no, that would entail thought - and Will could conjure none of it. Only one message being perceived to his mind, exert all this straining pressure before it shattered him alive. Duel it out. Make Jack pay for his deceit, make him pay for being selfish and unwilling to face his own past. But there was a misstep in this plan, and the incensed boy just did not realize that his own intense pain stemmed from seeing Jack suffer so often, now he was intentionally threatening the man to show how much he wanted to help? A flawed plan indeed. And he would know it soon. He was on the deck, having heatedly followed suit, with hilt of blade already in grip, balanced before him with a direct and precise meaning to triumph. None of the crew was taken under a flicker of glance, they didn't exist for now. The world swam away and left Will and Jack alone, without escape, to get it out. One circling step and he executed the first offensive flash of metal, not even then did he realize how wrong this all was.

- - - Jack - - -:

Jack, himself, didn't seem to care about how flawed any plan was, at the moment. He didn't know of the plan, really, nor was his mind quick enough (dimmed by far -too- much rum) to figure it out on his own. He only knew that he was angry, and this seemed a good way to end things. The offensive was blocked with a quick turn of his blade--his feet not slowed at all by his large consumption of that rum, they danced to the left before striking forward with his own offense--a near straight jab. His blade glinted harshly in the morning's sun, and it was uncommonly quiet on the deck. All hands seemed to have found a place to be that wasn't near the two fighting. Fine by Jack Sparrow.

- - - William - - -:

In battle, a swordsman felt not the heat of the sun nor the slither of wind over the deck, a swordsman maintained focus on the eyes of his foe and lover (how often those two traits coincide). Will had been captivated by those smoldering eyes during a clash like this in the forge of an armory. Since then, he had witnessed those eyes in many different lights, spilling many different emotions - and now once again, they absorbed everything and he never looked away. Their gait was unbroken, and each swivel of Jack's led to an equal, if not longer-reaching, maneuver of Will's. They matched, and the planks of the deck pulsed with the drum of each stomping foot fall, each attempt to get closer, to narrow in, to strike. If it had been a usage of technique, Will wouldn't have rushed his advances, he wouldn't have charged, but he was hurt beyond flesh wounds and just churning out that coiling rage of fear that he'd never be able to stop Jack's suffering, that he wasn't good enough, angry that he was powerless to rescue his Captain this time. The attacks were aimed at backing Jack into some kind of corner, he was acting impulsively. Amidst the sharp chords of saber's connection, gritting out through teeth. "Wake up, Jack! It's never going to stop!"

- - - Jack - - -:

Sword deflected blow after blow, and Jack saw that this was soon going to be a problem. Will was harsh with his movements and stayed on the offensive--striking and allowing no time for Jack to respond with an attack of his own after the defensive move. This would call for some fancy footwork if he wanted to do anything drastic. The back of his mind was whispering at him, even as he moved. Do you want to? Want to what? He feinted forward in a rush, almost fully sliding -past- William. That would catch him off guard. It had been only harsh and brute hitting before. Now, Jack would play his upper hand. Speed, and cheating. Do you want to hurt him? I... Jack struck forward anyway--flicking his blade smoothly over the other mans' side before he was given time to react--to adjust to the fact that Jack Sparrow--Captain Jack Sparrow-- was still on his knees, with his sword in William's side. Only a small cut, but first blood, none the less. Do you want to hurt him? No. Oh, god no. Jack's eyes widened at what he had done, and his own sword loosened in his hand--quickly moving away from Will's skin--from the blood that was shallowly escaping from that wound. "Will," he gasped out lightly--ready to apologize in a heart beat. It shouldn't have come to this--not over something like nightmares. The past was bad, but he was the one making the presentworse.

- - - William - - -:

There was a simultaneous increase in senses and blinding of them that accompanied the fall of a blade to your own skin. Will 's practiced, agile shape had not evaded for one brief lapse of unfocus, and that was all it took, there was the cool metal and hot dampness that followed. It was not pain he felt at all, the wound minor - it was the awe that it had happened, it was the reckless fierce reaction to this shock that delivered his saber to Jack's shoulder, arm and weapon flowing as one, and yet so utterly detached from the man himself, who saw the blade skewer flesh and fought against it the whole time, like one sickening slow motion repeat. No! I didn't- But the inertia of the sent sword was never stopped by Will, instead - Jack met an inch of its point. The nauseating lurch in the boy's stomach sent him reeling backwards, weapon tumbling to a great clank beside him, the thunder clap of the sound sealing his crime, marking him traitor - to himself and to Jack above all. Eyes fitful of rage gone round with terror - an animal faced with the sight of an arrow aimed for this throat. Any last words, Will? "Jack." Blood... Get help.

- - - Jack - - -:

Jack just gaped, surprise evident on his face. His eyes--wide on their own, but the black lining around them making them look even larger--trailed from William's face down to his shoulder--it was going numb in a tingly sort of manner, he noticed somewhere in the back of his mind--which was bleeding openly. The dark red and sticky substance was already starting to trail down the side of his chest. He blinked very slowly; as if he were trying to make sense of what his eyes were seeing. He looked at William again, and then spoke, his voice soft--like he'd startle -himself- if he raised his voice any more. "Oh." Left hand moved to touch at the not so shallow wound on his overly numb shoulder. "William. I didn't mean for this..." The words didn't seem to want to come out correctly. Even now, after he'd caused pain to Will and himself, he couldn't seem to find the apology that there should have been in his vocabulary. He tried again--mouth opening and then closing without words at all. Slender and wispy digits moved awkwardly in the blood, as if not fully grasping the situation. And then he tried again. "I didn't mean to be so..." A pause. "I'm sorry." Third time seemed to be a charm. He was still on his knees, so it didn't take a lot of effort to fall back into a sitting position. His gaze never left Will's face, even as his fingers continued to run amuck in his own wound. The idea of bandaging didn't even occur to him--he wasn't thinking of himself just now. He was more concerned with Will. Why is he looking at me like that?

- - - William - - -:

Jack was sorry. If its true you bleed the ones you love, William Turner had quite an affection for this villainous pirate commander. There was a clamor and unbalanced sway of weight forward that had not a damn thing to do with the throes of waves that sent the boat into its rocking, Will cascaded to his knees, numb, aware of the floor vibrating tremulously with some approaching crew, after all this was the center of the deck. Jack was sorry. He had manipulated himself around the wounded, still conscious enough not to try and disturb the wound - they were bringing bandage and water, he could hear sparse chorus reporting this - and supported the Captain with his chest, lowering him back onto it. Jack was sorry. It was horribly askew from what Jack SHOULD be. He should be murderous - betrayed by his own Turner. There should be no apologies from the one who fell beneath a criminal sword. "Shh.. " His voice was shaking, breathing shallow. Jack, daft Jack-- Why do you not hate me now? They delivered the appropriate, and swift, materials for stopping the blood flow, and Will, with fingers as weak as his voice, fought to keep himself aloft his grief and tightly noosed the cloth under tan arm and winding it up into the cradle between Jack's neck and shoulder, securing it with a knot marked by blood finger tips, his hands smeared red with their sin. Disgust folded him, in against his lover's back, drawing sinewy arms around the wilted, damaged shape of the man. Jack was sorry. "Jack." A child's pitiful noise.

- - - Jack - - -:

Jack stared at his shoulder for a long moment--eyes glazed over in numbing shock--before he sagged back into the man holding him. The man who'd damned near just ran him through the shoulder. That didn't seem to matter. He'd had it coming, and all but set himself up for it. Gaze moved slowly to his left hand, which was coated and sticky with blood. The Captain laughed then, and it was a truly pathetic noise, not proud or over confident in any way. "That rather hurt," he said in a tone that seemed very far away. Perhaps the pirate captain was about to pass out? Shock and blood loss--not to mention no real sleep the night before--did that to a man. Attempting to shake his head--a subdued and slow gesture--but he went on talking-rambling- anyway. "I am sorry, William. Are you still bleeding?" That idea seemed to upset Jack more than anything, and so he swiveled abruptly in Will's arms--finding that his right arm didn't want to move at all at the moment--to get a look at where he'd cut the other man. Such a quick movement made the world swim, though, and he fell back into Will's embrace, head finding harbor on the younger boy's collar bone. Hewas sorry. If he'd just told the boy what he wanted, none of this would have happened in the first place. Could telling something about the past be that bad? Surely not as ghastly as all that had transpired in the last twelve hours or so. He gazed at his bloody hand again, as if he -still- wasn't quite getting it. Dilated chocolate eyes seemed to have a hard time focusing, making things even harder to comprehend.

- - - William - - -:

Its possible to be so attuned with another, one's abuse pierces the other's skin. Will had executed the skewer of Jack's shoulder that now sapped the man of himself, just rivets of red Jack streaming from the cracks of the bandage material, seeping. And now, in punishment, the boy felt the laceration ten fold, a measly gash under the ribs not a factor in this horrible ache that seemed to mercilessly course through him, through the fingers that went to Jack's cheek, easy to reach with the man's head craned back to Will's collar, streaking that wet residue of blood over the skin, until palm cradled the paling face and his own cheek went to it, eyes closing. He'd get Sparrow back to his room; he wouldn't leave it, through nightmares, through hell itself. Every layer. "Aye..." That voice. Such a horrible sound, it belonged to William Turner and that was no one he wanted to be. Not THE Turner who made this folly, too many follies. And Jack always forgave. Jack only wanted to know if the rash and foolish boy was bleeding. Well he was, oh aye, he was, but not from that silly wound. Will was bleeding from Jack's shoulder, and no bandage could be tight enough to cease this truth. "I'm sorry - Why did I... I should never have left last night."

- - - Jack - - -:

Eyes closed half way, as if it were just far too much effort to keep them fully open and Jack let out a soft sigh--breath shaky and wavering. His head bobbed downward, only supported by William's hand there. Bright and colorful beads moved with his head, clacking happily together in a way that just didn't make sense for the situation. "Don't be," he breathed out, eyes closing fully now. Too much effort to keep them open--and they wouldn't focus anyway. "My own fault," Jack went on, keeping the blame to himself. His shoulder tingled--which was probably a good thing, since he then didn't notice the amount of wet and blood that had trailed down his arm and onto the deck below. Not quite sure what else to do--and mind too lost to think of something--he stayed there in Will's tight embrace. It was odd, what arguments came to. Two men near collapsed on the ships red stained deck in the hot morning sun. Both bleeding in more than one way. Jack let out another broken laugh, though he wasn't quite sure way. Perhaps it was the irony of it all. The back of his consciousness heard his crew asking if he'd be fine, if he needed help to his cabin. He wasn't so sure he had the strength, or voice to answer them (answer one question and a barrage more would come, after all), and so he left it to William. ...Was that wrong too? Automatically assume Will would do something for him, just because he didn't want to? Jack Sparrow, it seemed, needed to truly think out what was going on at the moment. Too hard to focus on that, though. So later. Most definitely later.

- - - William - - -:

A laborer's strength belatedly put to good use. Others offered to aid, but Will would accept none of them. This burden was his own and something he's become as territorially possessive of right now as he was of the limp- weight drawn with him to stand. Jack's laugh was eerie in its fragility, as painfully delicate as pear - and just like that unsuspecting fruit's flesh, Jack had been punctured by a boy senselessly letting anger impel him. Don't do anything stupid. The fluttered echo of a memory. A memory of Sparrow. Always a step ahead. Always ready for Will. To evade him, to order him, and to accept him back. How long had he gone on undeserving of this? The world no longer smelled like morning. The cabin door no longer seeped invitingly with the smell of food, just a stale promise of safety. Get out from under the wonderment-gawking of the crew - never stunned by bloody battle, but always over fascinated by inter-crew skirmishes. The ones on deck who witnessed the stunt would live on to tell the tale - making up reasons for the brawl and never knowing the truth.

"I've got you, Jack." Turner's boot snapped the door closed, those boots heavy, feeling as though he were treading through deep waters. Get Jack on the bed without tripping over your self. There was relief when this was done. Lie back... Please, be mad. Tell me to leave, less I suffer a Captain's wrath upon health again. Don't love someone like this Jack. "God... Jack. Can you feel my hand?" Their fingers were knotted, wet and stained, the jeweled fingers of Jack at the end of the injured arm. Don't. Love me.

- - - Jack - - -:

Jack hadn't bothered to reopen his eyes during the trip from the deck to his own bed. Not worth it. His head danced in another world for a few moments longer--at least until he readjusted to his surroundings. Cool sheets where at his back, and pillow below his head. And as for Will's hand... Jack's lids lifted open to show blurry eyes that were fighting to clear themselves as he glanced up at William. "A tad." Just barely, through tingling nerves--but enough. What is that expression in his eyes? Jack wondered this idly, his mind flitting around just as quickly as his fingers usually did. "Are you still bleeding?" He asked again--and for the Captain to mention anything twice while in a predicament such as the one he was in just now, it had to have meant a lot to him. No, William Turner. I will not stop loving you, just as I'll never stop loving the Sea or the 'Pearl. A mistake won't stop me. Not as if I don't make enough of my own. ...I do. His eyes drifted half way shut again, and his mouth moved to a straight line, as if he just couldn't decide on what expression to make--and so he made none at all.

- - - William - - -:

Digits unheld skated Jack's bare torso, upon swerving into the cascading streaks of velvet liquid, the swordsman, with sword abandoned upon deck, used all the extraneous material of his sleeve to sweep up the red, no longer gleaning in the sun, but faded in the darkness of their cabin. Their cabin. And their bed. With as many good memories as bad, and didn't that just make it all worth while - to somehow, no matter after what degree of fall you take, always be forgiven again and gifted with the chance of doing better some other day. I'll do better. But was ignoring problems really doing better? Don't linger on it, damnit. Not now. Dreams or confessions wont seal the inch deep slice you carved, a twisted and horrible way of branding someone as yours, don't you think, stupid boy. He TOLD you to let it lie. And you did alright, lay on the deck, burbling blood up through it's sun kissed brown fingers. "Blo--No, no." But Turner didn't even make an effort to actually look, he rolled up the sleeve that was just used to banish the disloyal red paint from the canvas of Jack Sparrow. He'd clean Jack's face with the next swab of shirt he could reach. "It wasn't your fault." Getting it off his shoulders. "For wanting to keep your demons." Will was shaking his head, the extreme peak of his energy suddenly plummeting and he was exhausted, and thus sinks into the bed beside the man, collecting arms around him with gentle patience.

- - - Jack - - -:

Jack couldn't think of a response right away, and so only moved--slowly, so not to jar his right arm--to rest his head on Will's shoulder; his favorite spot when laying in bed. Not particularly worried about the blood that was still smeared (though dry at being wiped at) on his body. His was almost sure that his shoulder wasn't fully finished bleeding. So whenever he moved next, there'd be a new spot to clean. Not a big deal, for the moment. "Maybe not, Will," he finally replied, his voice careful and soft, like he was worried about angering anyone. "But it could have been done differently." There was no arguing with that one, he hoped--because it was the honest truth. If Jack hadn't lapsed into that 'I'm drunk and uncaring' mode, all of this would very likely never have happened. Very easy to place the blame on himself when he thought of it like that. Eyes closed all the way then, and the man fell into something between sleep and unconsciousness. It was just too hard focusing to stay awake, and so the fiendish Captain simply gave up trying for the moment. They would talk later--Jack and William--but for now, they would sleep. Like they should have done during the night.