Title: Of Painful Dates
Author: Frost AND Kacey
Rating: PG (Pre-slash)
Summary: William muses over the death of his mother and the loss of his father. Jack stands and looks confused.
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: This is the fic where Jack is completely useless at anything but standing there and being cute. In a piratey sort of way. God help him.
Oh yeah. Jack is played by Frost, and Will by Kacey.

- - - William - - -:

The weather was amiable once the light passing tropical rain had moved on. The sky looking just newly washed, the water just freshly replaced, clear and turquoise at the same time. The ship herself seemed to have a sheen about her like treasure. A prize to be sure. This was a day far too pleasant to hold anything vile. And William Turner loathed it all. While others had gone under cover from the sheet of warm rain, so perfect that you could still see for miles through the evenly placed slashing silver falls, he had not shifted from his position, at the bow. Situated upon the railing with only a long drop beneath his boots (with those obnoxiously large British buckles, lets not forget) which hang over the side loosely, the remains of the water pooling and dripping from clothes, the tips of his fingers and his lashes, making him close those eyes and see only the visions of a past within the darkness behind them. He loathed the day. Unfortunately, he had not the day itself to blame, for weather had no will of its own, it could not be dreary and bleak - the way it should be. Today. No, the day was not at blame. William Turner was to blame.

- - - Jack - - -:

The captain had missed the tropical rain storm--having been in his cabin for a good portion of the day (leaned over at his desk, fiddling with maps and other papers. Even Jack had to do paper work from time to time, after all), but now the tanned man was making his way from his living space. Chocolate eyes viewed the rain splattered deck with some bit of approval--and bare feet (which were as tanned as the rest of him) stepped across slowly--silently, making way to where William Turner was perched at the front of the 'Pearl. Was it just the captains' imagination, or was the boy slouching a little more than usual? He stood behind him for a moment, observing the boy's quieter-than-usual demeanor. And then, fairly abruptly, he wrapped his arms around the mans' chest in something that held semblance to a hug. He was careful not to make the boy falter on his perch, however; it just wouldn't do to have the blacksmith plummeting accidentally off the ship. "Were they teasing you again?" He asked--a grin obvious in the tone of his voice. He was joking, of course--speaking of a crew that really rather liked William. There'd been nothing but good will toward the boy, but Jack could still find humor in a false sentence. Perhaps it would lighten William's mood as well.

- - - William - - -:

The sighing wind seemed to blush with words, a string of words that rolled continuously over and over with a smooth and comforting voice, so English and proper, nurturing and infinitely forgiving. A voice that had assured the tear chapped cheeks of a boy of three that it wasn't going to be the last time he saw his father. But it had been. And now, some eighteen years later, the larger Will mused with the fact those tears had been his very last, and now any emotion short of his swiftly kindled temper, was only held in check, buried, lost and etched into a gravestone that read Samantha Turner. The ground before the inexpensive slab of rock had been spongy under his small boots and he remembered the way the colors of that earth seemed to blend lifelessly together until it was all grey and brown, the way the inside of him had felt. And he detested this day in every shape. The words. The words again on the wind, the last words she had said. Don't hate him, love. If he had known, he would've come back. Your father's a good man. But she had also told him that his father was a merchant trader. And that had been false too.

A pirate in his blood, and pirate's arms flowing naturally around his body, drawing him from the chorus of the wind and into hearing real sounds, of people who were alive. Jack. In their year as partners, this was the very first August 14th that his lover would witness. And Will didn't know how to explain why nothing could comfort him for these long, endless hours. Normally, his head would fall back toward Jack's touch, seek it, and meld into it, no matter the state of his wet clothes. He might even have been as cheeky as to make Jack very damp indeed, pinned between a drenched boy and puddled deck. Not now. Will barely moved. Barely breathed. And there was NO introduction to the words he was about to ask.

"Do you think my father's still alive, Jack?"

- - - Jack - - -:

Jack did not move his embrace, but the question made him tense visibly--arms tightening ever so slightly around the boy. His question was so...out of the blue. Random. Pained. There was a long silence, in which Jack's mind raced. Was William "Bootstrap Bill" Turner still alive? Eyebrows furrowed together at the thought it--not that the Captain hadn't mulled over this before. He'd hoped for a long time--before he'd met William, even--that his old...friend was still alive and well. Sparrow had been stricken to learn that the pirate had been set up to drown by Barbossa. But perhaps the curse...? No. Jack shook his head absently. He doubted...quite highly that William Turner Sr. had made it out of that predicament alive. Finally, Jack moved forward a little, standing on tip toe in order to rest his own chin on Will's shoulder--his head canting to the side a tad to rest on his neck.

"No," came the soft reply then, and it was in a sad tone. "I don't think so." He would have sought out Jack Sparrow otherwise, right? Even if Bootstrap had seen the other man marooned--word had gotten around after that right? Eight years. Eight god damned years he'd had to make a name for himself--with or -without- his Pearl. Most definitely without Bill. So no. He couldn't have been alive--because surely he would have tried finding Jack in all that time.

- - - William - - -:

The Pearl lifted languorously on a wave and dipped again, the boat itself seeming to nod in agreement with it's Captain, and William Turner's fingers didn't even flinch toward the edge of the boat or the pile of coiled rope to seize any kind of extra holding incase the presence of the man behind him might not be enough to keep him from being jarred into the ocean. The boy just didn't seem to care. If he saw his father this day, it would've been eighteen years since last sighting, would his namesake still be a giant, with fantastic abilities he could never possess? No. For he was gone. And eighteen years would only become eighteen more. And Will would officially despise the man for the rest of his life. Not for piracy, no, he had squared with that blood. It was the Father part Turner disagreed with. Especially on this day. The pirate did not see his wife's death, and a strong headed little boy had made it his plan to go out in the grand ocean, find the culprit and find out why.

"He never came back. The only thing he ever gave me... Was cursed." A malice laced an orphan's sore throat. A distinct puncturing blade of malice.

- - - Jack - - -:

Worry washed over the captains' face. Was this why Will was in such a mood? Because he'd never came back? Jack felt a twinge of guilt sear him deep inside. It was partly his own fault that William had had no father growing up (and boy, that made him feel old). His fault that Bootstrap was dead, honestly. Kohl lined russet eyes closed and a soft little breath was taken in--mouth twitching downward into something of a frown. It must have been as hard for Will Turner to be without his father than it had for Jack to be without his crewmate--no, come to terms with it, Sparrow. You were lovers with your lovers' father. No matter how short a period it was, it did happen.

"He did what he had to," the shorter man attempted justifying for a dead pirate. No. For a good man. "And believe me, Will, he would have came back if he could have." Jack remembered many a-time when Bill would get that distant look in his eyes and a half smile on his lips. Jack would frown greedily, at the time, knowing exactly what the other man was thinking about. But Bill would just shrug and then let out a few soft words on the matter. "Someday, Jack. This," the man would gesture widely with his arms--the deck, the water--"this won't matter to me forever. Hell, it only half matters now. You know, Little Will is coming along on the age of 5 now!" Jack could only give a tight lipped smile and a nod at times like that. Bootstrap had been a caring man--despite that, he made no real promises to Jack himself. The captain understood it now. Family was more important than a vagrant captain who was still excited about the sea. "Kind of difficult to come home to a wife and child when you're tied and drown at the bottom of the sea." Not meant to be funny. Not implied, and not stated as such. Pained, though, it was.

- - - William - - -:

"He should have stayed with her. I hate him." The last words seemed to shutter, as though just only barely escaped, some other worldly force trying to keep them in Will Turner's mouth, but the teeth that met tightly closed had not been soon enough to stop them. Just as soon, the words were coming again. "He didn't even know she was dying. He took the sea instead of us, long before it took him." In reality, it was rare that he hated his father, some days he even missed him, understood him, also felt the thrill of life that his father must have - some days he loved the man he did not know. But on this day. This one day. He hated Bill Turner for how much his wife had continued to wait, so patiently, so true, until being without him wilted her away. And the orphan, officially at that moment, had hated his father for how much he had wanted to be with him again. To know him. And every August 14th... when Bill still never miraculously returned, his son promised himself he would wait just another year before giving up, keep a sharp eye. And then another year would come. Will's forehead bowed down to his fingers and scraped over temples into his hair, a movement that started his body functioning again, and he even rotated around to face the man standing behind him - but eyes were still downcast, lost child's eyes.

- - - Jack - - -:

Eyes opened to meet Will's gaze, and he just couldn't keep the sympathizing expression from them--it was no secret to anyone that Jack's eyes were overly expressive--his head canted to the side, and he moved again, to embrace the confused boy on the railing. Jack was not generally a comforting sort of fellow--but he tried, on occasion. And now seemed a good time to attempt.

"Don't say that, William." Was that pleading in Jack's tone? "Don't say you hate him. You don't have to respect him, or his memory but.. just.." A sigh was given then, and Jack found himself playing his fingers through the wet curls on the back Will's head. "He tried hard--for you and your mother." Not all treasure is silver and gold--but sometimes that helped out the treasure you were really looking after, eh? "What brought this mood on?" Jack was curious enough to question--while tugging softly at a wet sleeve to give the suggestion of dismounting his perch to stand on the deck. Maybe even go back to the cabin and get into some different clothes. Not a command, though, just a suggestion.

- - - William - - -:

Limp fingers finding place at the belted sash looping Jack's narrow waist, they might've held fast to it if it weren't for the cold numbing of feeling in their tips, not sure if he was really touching Jack or not. But just having them there seemed to help with the fluid ease of getting from the railing, leaving only the slick puddles of rain water up there to brood alone. With feet on the floor, which swayed and lulled, but not even that could sooth the past, what real comfort could exist that would fill the gaps in himself, the holes in who he was, where he had come from, an empty cavern was all that was left to him when William thought of what he was made of during this day. Maybe a boy that came from two graves was only made of the mud of those graves.

"She died today. When I was ten. I was on a ship the next day. With nothing but the shirt on my back and a medallion." He seemed to only be vaguely conscious of the way Jack was touching his hair, and his neck would roll ever slightly toward the contact to increase it and then it would roll back away, undecided. "I couldn't let anyone see it. I didn't even know where I was going, it didn't matter. He was somewhere. And then they found us." His whole body seemed to lower in temperature, and revert into a blank, stone statue lifelessness. Dark onyx eyes slack with nothing, lips only parted a slip, water still slithering down the contours of his face, " And they killed them all."

- - - Jack - - -:

It was startling--so blank an expression on a face such as Williams'. A face that was usually as expressive as Jack's own. Heart wrenching, almost. Jack knew that the "they" he spoke of was Barbossa--the Black Pearl. The very ship they were standing on the deck of right now. Eyebrows lifted upward, and his mouth opened into a little "o" of understanding. Everything was clicking together now. Slender digits still moved through those wet locks, and Jack's hand moved to take one of Will's into his own. A comforting gesture. But the boy was so -cold-. Had he made himself sick by foolishly sitting out during all the changes of the weather today? (Something Jack was guilty of, more often than not.)

"I see," was all he said for now, leading the boy--without him seeming to notice--across the deck toward their cabin. "They didn't kill you," Came the soft comment--Jack, for once, was out of words. Awkward. Unsure of how to conquer Will's demons. That had been all he'd managed to come up with, for the moment. Sometimes Jack forgot how much younger Will really was--today was one of the days that the reality came back to him--much like a hard smack in the face.

- - - William - - -:

In a few hours, the fortress of night would cloak itself over their world, a few hours after that, maybe the day will have passed again, and the ghosts and last words that repeat themselves in a small child's mind will finally receded into that dark and hide away until their time comes again. It would only be a few more hours, just get through those. Don't think about the peaceful way she died, as though she already knew that she would meet her husband somewhere within that untouchable last rest. Will's fingers tightened around the spidery ringed digits between them, a sign of life. A sign of Will.

"I didn't die." A tongue took a drip away from his upper lip and a bitterly morose and signature Turner grin tempted the licked corner. But it looked cracked, shattered. But he knew that he liked the feel of Jack's hand, he knew that was not less. That would not change. The hand had not chosen anything other than to hold his own. Which was all Will deserved to ask of anyone tonight. "Thank you."