Author name: Vera Dune, veradune@hotmail.com
Category: Drama
Subcategory: Action/Adventure
Keywords: pirates Bootstrap Bill Turner Jack Sparrow slash
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sequel of sorts to Memoriter. Bootstrap Bill Turner and Jack Sparrow reunite after 10 long years. Slash.
Disclaimer: Though I would *love* to own Jack Sparrow, he's not mine. Nor are any of the other characters; three words: Disney Disney Disney.
***
Mare Liberum
Jack Sparrow has rolled to his side on the inn's dingy bed and he is staring
at Bootstrap Bill as if he still can't quite believe it. The expression is an
echo of his first one upon opening the oak door to see someone who he has thought
dead for more than ten years, or perhaps hasn't, Bootstrap hasn't had the time
to ask yet: a barely perceptible widening of the eyes and, more importantly,
a lack of words. For the remarkably verbose Jack Sparrow, thirty entire seconds
of speechlessness before ordering the whore lying still half-dressed on the
bed out is a sign of his utmost surprise. They stood staring at each other in
silence a while more after that. Bootstrap doesn't even remember the harlot
leaving.
"Well, that's interesting," Jack finally said, and things went from there.
His thick, twisted locks form a beaded curtain spilled to one side when his head is tilted, and Bootstrap loses himself in those small ornaments that he knows by heart but hasn't seen for so long. There have been some new additions, but very few considering the time passed and the quantities Bootstrap has seen Jack add within the years of his captaincy of the Black Pearl. He wonders what this means; that hardly anything of note has happened to him within eleven years, or that Jack Sparrow has changed despite all appearances. Time has been kind to him; his tanned face is still smooth, his body still lithe and compact, and the roguish charm is still heavy about him, in his grin, his laugh, the way he moves. Watching him, Bootstrap feels self-conscious, as if the lines on his brow are absurdly prominent and premature. He has seen himself, and knows that he is not as young as he used to be.
"I was wondering when you'd finally come to see me, mate," Jack says after a moment. "I was beginning to worry you'd forgotten all about Captain Jack Sparrow."
"I went to England." Bootstrap hears the mild reprimand and knows that only this will satisfy Jack as an explanation, not how difficult he was to track through rumours of clashes with the King's Navy and hangings or how impossible the Black Pearl is to follow.
"Ah."
A strained silence falls between them. It had been pirates, after all, according to all witnesses, and Bootstrap does not want to appreciate the bitter irony of it. He wonders how much exactly Jack knows; his constantly changing expressions make him ridiculously easy to read save at the most crucial moments, when he is on guard (or perhaps off-guard?) and madness, as it so often does, slips into brilliance. Bootstrap tethers a sudden budding annoyance and braces himself for the next question.
"Tell me it wasn't the Pearl."
Jack frowns. "What wasn't the Pearl?"
Bootstrap's resolve shatters like a vase of fragile glass and he feels a fulminant surge of anger rise in him. He leaps at Jack without thinking, and within moments he is kneeling on top of him and holding his wrists down on either side of his head. Jack struggles briefly, looking genuinely surprised, but Bootstrap tightens his grip ungently. He knows deep inside that he is being unreasonable, but that knowledge is eclipsed by the aimless rage that has been blossoming inside of him ever since he left England.
"Don't pretend, Jack, that you don't know what I'm talking about. You have no idea," he says in a dangerously low voice, "what I have been through because of you. It took me eight months floating in the middle of that sea before reaching land, eight fucking months without food or water or anything but memories, and then when I finally gather enough money for a trip to England I find another family living in my wife's house because she died three years earlier and I wasn't there. And Will, little Will is gone too, on a ship that never arrived at Port Royal because it was destroyed by pirates. He was eleven years old. Pirates! That's you and me, Jack. That's us. We're pirates."
Their faces are inches apart. Jack is staring at him, eyes unreadable. Bootstrap realizes that he is breathing noisily and fights to calm himself; he can feel his frustration draining away like water. Each breath he takes in the ringing silence leaves him emptier than he has ever felt.
"All right, mate." Jack's voice is a little unsteady, but otherwise emotionless. "I in fact did not know what you were talking about, but now I do, so no worries there. It was the Pearl, and it was Barbossa. You may also like to know that dear William is alive and happily married; only his blood could have lifted the curse." The corners of his mouth are twitching slightly, but he manages a childishly disapproving frown all the same: "And you're hurting me, Bill Turner."
A pause follows these words and Bootstrap Bill guiltily slackens his grip on the slender wrists but does not let go. The news passes him by like a dream; relief floods him briefly, hope, curiosity. He feels foolish, which is a rare thing in Jack Sparrow's eccentric company, but he knows he is getting what he deserves for his outburst. Slowly, he relaxes, letting his muscles untense for the first time in years, and can sense Jack doing the same beneath him. He sheepishly makes a mental note to apologize later.
"He looks exactly like you," Jack murmurs in answer to the unasked question floating between them. "He's so well-mannered, you see, it's almost impossible to notice at first. But he's good with his hands, like you are." He grins, and Bootstrap feels something twist in his gut. "And he's a very impressive swordsman."
"You fought him?"
"Aye," he admits, "I did, and I wouldn't have won if I wasn't Captain Jack Sparrow."
There are a number of ways to analyze this statement, but Bootstrap's mind is set on neither because his eyes are glued to the figure beneath him and he has at some point lost control of his senses. He finds himself gazing at the angles of Jack's cheekbones and nose, the curve of his lips, the golden hollow of his throat, and something stronger than his anger, buried so deep inside of him that he has forgotten its name, awakens. He listens to Jack's voice telling him about his son and wants to answer, but is unable to bring himself to do much more than try to control his breathing, which is becoming heavier with every moment. Jack does not seem to notice that he is the only one holding the conversation; answers had always been optional when sharing a room with him as one could listen to his slurred speech carry on uninterrupted for hours, a particularly advantageous trait in situations such as these.
But Jack shifts and, feeling the hardness against his stomach, laughs. The sound shocks Bootstrap in a not wholly unpleasant manner and sends a direct jolt to his groin.
"Why, Bill Turner, you dirty-minded scoundrel," Jack says with childish affection. Bootstrap knows he is flushing, and cannot help letting out a surprised grunt when, without further ado, Jack carefully raises his neck so that their lips touch.
Ridiculous as it is, Bootstrap feels as if he has returned into the skin of the fumbling schoolboy experimenting with strange and forbidden sensations for the first time. It is only when he has paused long enough to reacquaint himself with Jack's taste – seawater, exotic spices and the ubiquitous sweetness of rum – that he recognizes the body beneath him and the full extent of his desire. Jack's lips are soft, not a pirate's, but supple and talented as only his are, and when his hand reaches beneath Bootstrap's clothes to brush against his skin, suddenly very little seems important in the world anymore.
"It seems that all that trouble with cursed coins and blood repaid was worth it." Jack murmurs as they pause for breath.
Bootstrap Bill Turner considers his apology accepted.
***
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