Title: Of Blindness and Vision: Day One
Author: Frost AND Kacey
Rating: PG-13 (for language—for now.)
Summary: Jack gets injured, and Will has to play nurse-maid. Or at least try.
Disclaimer: Don't own it. But we do own this story. So take THAT.
Archive: O_O Yes..! Tell us first, though.
Authors notes: This is a response to the plot bunny illness challenge given by glitterundine@yahoo.com. It is affectionately called "Pity Jack Please Will". You'll see why.
Uh, anyway, this is actually a part of our "Of…" series, which is ongoing and being spewed out in no particular order. Enjoy!
Oh yeah. Jack is played by Frost, and Will by Kacey. When calm waves met and lapped together they produce a washed down, continual and connected rhythm, like a slow shushing breath. When these waves met the hull of a ship, wooden planks groaned to accompany the lulling rocking movement. These sounds were clear, and they filled the room with a complete resounding hum. The smell was familiar here, an aroma of salted spice, leather and linen. Where was that other odor, burnt flesh and hair, coming from? Like a bad dream. Here the air was thick with a heavy temperature, the sensation of sunlight through windowed glass kissed skin.... But there was complete darkness. So the sun's touch must be an illusion. Why else would this room, surely on his ship, surely within his very own quarters, within the confines of his very own bed...be in complete. Undeniable. Pitch. Shadow. The sound of footsteps. A soft moan escaped the throat of Jack Sparrow. It was dry, and he felt that it would hurt if he were to attempt swallowing. Everything seemed to hurt, now that he thought about it. Hell, it hurt to think. Maybe that's why everything was so dark yet. It just hurt too much, so he didn't want to bother opening his eyes. Still, he was confused. One minute raiding a ship, the next laying in his own cabin (or at least it felt like such, he was sure). What the hell had happened? Perhaps those footfalls could explain something. He fought his exhaustion to open his eyes, and found that that just wasn't happening. Utter shock crossed over his features, but he didn't make a noise--never give away your weaknesses, after all. At the cessation of booted approach, the firm pressure of an open palm centered on the chest of that bewildered Captain. It immediately translated caution, as though it might accidently shatter Jack like glass. And a voice, as thickly heavy as the temperature, welled up from the cavern of shadow, from somewhere hovered above Sparrow. "Don't move too far." The voice held astonishment; it was edging of a quick breath that wordlessly said. I cant believe you can move at all, you reckless moron. The palm's placement was only there to calmly bring Jack from the transition of unconsciousness to reality, in all its grim details. It was William, of course, the one speaking, asking, wondering how in the hell his Captain still maintained some of his immortality. The acute smell of smoked meats was intermingled with William's masculine smell of copper and wood. "For strength." It didn't seem like he was going to be leaving soon, and guided Jack's dirty fingers with his own, to the edge of this food platter. The grimy fingers beneath William's twitched ever so slightly with the touch, and Jacks' mouth turned downward as he felt the plate with a calloused finger. His other hand was busy though--weakly making his way up to his face--touching at a cloth that was almost gently tied about his eyes. That there, could be a reason for not being able to see. "What in the bloody hell?" Other hand was snatched away from the plate, moving to the back of his head, as Sparrow sought to free himself from the darkness of the cloth around his eyes. Hands moved awkwardly, as if trying to find the tied knot there. "William?" He questioned--as if demanding an explanation. It was hard to move so much, his brain decided, and he all but passed out from the gestures that shouldn't have been so hard in the first place. His fingers throbbed in pain as he moved to untie the knot. There was anxiousness in Will's rapid response. "No, Jack, you have to let them heal." He heatedly demanded, in charge momentarily. There was no movement to intercept Jack's clumsy, pained fingers. So that he didn't unintentionally inflict any more damage, Turner only closed his hand around Jack's sleeve, fisting the material and trying his best to protest without actually using any strength to rip the fingers away from the knot. "God da-" Grunts. "For fuck's sake, Sparrow. Before you permanently handicap yourself, stop. Can you feel it?" The boy's voice pitched and dropped again in a mix of irritation and a darkly bruised fear. Fear. Hands fell limp and then dropped back down into his lap (almost disrupting the tray in front of him) at the feeling of Will pulling at his sleeve--and at the words that he used. Heal? Permanent handicap? It -all- hurt, and he wasn't too sure that he was ready to attempt focusing on the biggest hurt of all. Mouth let out a soft noise that was most uncharacteristic of him, and he took in a deep breath. His -head- hurt. The front of it, mostly. A dull, throbbing pain that very likely wouldn't go away as soon as one would hope. "William?" He questioned again--though this time it was a softer, breathier inquiry. Slightly confused as to his situation, though he was beginning to realize it more fully as the moments passed. His skin tingled on his arms and chest, as though it had been scratched, and he sunk further down into the bed, finding it most difficult to stay in a half sitting position. And he didn't like it. At all. Captain Jack Sparrow was -not- one to show his weaknesses. Will succumbed to the relief of a shattered breath pushed out through his nose, even allowed the wisp of long fingers to banish sweats sheen from brow's olive skin. But how long could relief comfort when the actuality of the real problem had not been solved. The invulnerable was vulnerable. The unbeatable had been floored. The conqueror had been conquered by his body's own humanity. Since that foul incident on the rum boat, Will had entered some fantasy world where Jack Sparrow, the pillar upon which everyone else walked beneath, had actually fallen. And Will felt that grasp of fear again, he had believed at first, that Jack was dead, just a tangled body among tangled explosion wreckage. But now - with the Captain pain so clearly evident and acutely real - Will truly wondered, if this was a fate worse than death for Sparrow. Palm met shoulder, careful again, like it was shards of broken glass, and used this touch just to reassure Jack of his presence. "You have severe burns, but they will heal." He attempted at confidence in his voice, but only managed a slow and exhausted tone. Worry? Exhaustion? How long had Jack been asleep? How Many nights had Will been tending him without bed rest? He added, this time, almost reassuring himself alone. "I know about burns, you can't be a blacksmith without some knowledge of that... Jack." A questioning hesitation. I'm here, Jack. But he did not say it aloud. "Burns." Captain Jack Sparrow repeated carefully. "I see." He tried his best--and almost succeeded--at not allowing himself to twitch or cringe at the touch. It wasn't all -that- bad, he told himself, re-gathering his cockiness. "Interesting," he allowed himself to say, trying to turn lighten the mood. His calloused fingers--though burned and pained, still seemed to have a mind of their own, and they cautiously played over the plate in front of him again--as if trying to figure out what it was there. It smelled all right, the back of his mind decided. Though the idea of actually attempting to eat it wasn't a pleasant one. He was rather thirsty though. It hurt to talk. Will had already foreseen this, and for a moment, he was attuned with Jack, detected that wince of parched throat and constricted voice of thirst. A leather bag of cold water was detached from it's loop at the young one's belt, where his saber still hung within its sheathe, the blade that had cut down Jack's intended killer. In triumph, like any good pirate, the blackened hue of blood still cling to that blade's laced edge...or maybe he had been far too occupied in the welfare of Sparrow to bother with cleansing the weapon. The leather's chilled surface put a soothingly refreshing cold weight against the back of Jack's long, slithering fingers. "But you need to eat, it's been nigh two days since the..." Ahem. "And sleep, and, don't bloody touch your bandage." Humph, that facade of his tough exterior was brought forth by the Captain returning pompousness. "If you can somehow do this. You just might not have to wear two eye patches the rest of your life." William actually let a snort of a chuckle out at the last part. As well, attempting at making some lightness from the dark grim realities of Jack's potentially crippling wound. Long and tingling digits closed carefully around the leather, and Jack knew then that it was water. Not exactly what he'd wanted to drink, but at the moment, it wouldn't do to open his mouth and speak needlessly. Not that he would admit that to young William. Raising the drink to his lips--with much apprehension-- he took a drink. It didn't turn out as clean a move as he'd have liked, and water dribbled messily down his chin, wetting his double braided beard and neck. Not his style. Still, the water was more soothing than he'd liked to admit, and so he cleared his throat and spoke again. It was easier this time. "I'm not tired," Lie. "Or hungry." Another lie. But he would not be treated like he was weak, nor would he let on that he actually was. Confusing still clouded his mind. Since the what? He couldn't seem to recall. There was a gunman, that William killed and then… well. He was here. Will wouldn't be bringing him rum, because the pursuit of that toxin had turned out so nicely last time. Ha! Jack would be forced to wait for the damn rum until his own legs could transport him to the sought after kegs below deck. There would be no plans for Will on assisting the man toward inebriation, not when water would help heal that much swifter. And while Jack concealed his flaw of fragility, Will's concern and fear were blanketed with his mask of impassive authority. There had been no formal discussion of it amongst the crew, but since their captain's misfortune on that rum boat, they had all assumed charge of certain things. The sprite Anamaria was the authority for navigation, while Joshamee Gibbs took the command of crew's duties. Will, of course, had been self-assigned to preside over the one and only Captain. A difficult and feared job, but he would risk it. "Should I start making you a cane, then?" He let out an unemotional snort. "You seem quite willing to take on a life of blindness. Eh, Pirate?" A certain amount of haughtiness died from the Captain's persona for a moment, tension making itself obvious on the lines near his mouth. "Cane?" One would imagine that generally darkly kohl lined eyes would be widening in surprise just then. But they were covered and aching, and so they didn't. His fingers spasmed in his moment of painful realization at Will's words, and the leather bag of water dropped clumsily from his fingers. He didn't really notice that, however, even if the cool liquid was spilling out onto the sheets of his bed, and fully disrupting the plate there. He said nothing more though, his mouth remaining in a straight, and nearly impassive line. Shock seemed to be setting in, as his mind grasped the seriousness of his situation. Jack Sparrow, it seemed, would be a difficult patient to put up with. Will's wince of shame was cloaked in shadow, head bowed forward. Eyes trained on the descent of the cold pouch, spilling its contents in a spurted gush, flooding Jack's plate of meat in a little watery soup. Will gathered all of this from the man's lap and replaced it at the foot of the bed, just out of reach of any kicks that might flip it to the floor. There will always be more food, but for now, maybe there were more pressing matters - topics - slowly overwhelming truths rearing ugly heads. The crescents of inky onyx eyes absorb Jack, in whole, without having to answer to any of the Captain's questioning looks and sly remarks. Now Will had the advantage, to watch the man without the need for hiding any of it. Idly, he realized, that even without Sparrow's hypnotizing, intoxicating eyes spinning their wicked threads of allure, the Captain still maintained the sultry and tempting air about him. Will could not escape being haunted by the sinewy pirate dog, with his single wrap of bandage, like the blindfold of a man at his execution. Reiterating more easily without the caustic bite of his former tone, "After surviving that explosion, you must still have some immortality lingering in your blood. You wont need a cane." Certainly not if he has me to help him. Another unsaid thought cloud, foggy. Will raked at damp and inky hair, searching for his footing, where did he stand? Did Jack deserve this for his recklessness? ... At least it was better than the bullet that had been originally leveled at Jack's head. There was a long moment, in which Jack Sparrow did not respond, his face was still fixed forward--as if he was too (dare it even be said?) afraid to try and turn his head in the direction in which Will was and his mouth was still set into a tense and straight line. Long and usually hyperactive digits remained in his lap, occasionally writhing--grabbing at the sheets there. But that hurt, and so he stopped almost as soon as he started. The silence was both deafening and overwhelming at the same time, and Jack's mind begged for it to stop. For him to open his mouth and say something, but he couldn't seem to find the strength to do it just then. After what seemed like hours passed, he finally decided to speak. "No. I won't need one." He had too much pride for an instrument that only helped with the simple task of walking. With a grim determination, Turner managed to focus on his own personal mission. "I put together some burn salve, and applied most of it while you were asleep. But only to the major burns, I need you to tell me where the other minor injuries are." Will was already witnessing the delicacy with which Jack was shielding his hands as though they were sensitive to the faintest friction. A good indication of minor burns that were not visible through Jack's thoroughly tanned body. What other plane of flesh had Will missed while soothing the medication over only scolded areas? Nimble blacksmith hands shoved leafy sleeves up the hinge of his elbows, gathering them there to stay and allow more access for his tending. Surveying Sparrow, Will knelt to an eye level with the injured. Well, more like Eye to Bandage. Only a little bit of Jack's body was exposed through the open front of the man's vest shirt, and Will sought to find anymore signs of the burns around where Jack's singed hair met his neck, while revealing a capsule of salve from within pocket. Head turned in the direction away from Turner, as if too weary to even hear out the other man's words. It was all catching up with him now, and it seemed that even listening was a taxing thing. He was tired, though it wouldn't be admitted. His head was both heavy and light at the same time--not to mention on fire--and his body seemed to be considering the idea of falling back unconscious. But that was something Jack himself wasn't in the mood for, and so he willed himself to stay up. "Minor burns?" he echoed, as if trying to comprehend. Mouth twitched to the side, as if it couldn't decide whether or not it wanted to frown or conjure up a smile he wasn't feeling. Finally, something of a useful answer was given--though probably not all William was looking for. His hands rose upward for a moment, and his fingers wiggled in the air absently, as if trying to explain for themselves that they were pained. "Everything hurts, William." He didn't bother with pride for the moment. He was too tired for that. Without hesitation, some of the pain medicating mixture was deposited into cupped palms. The palms colliding together like those weaving and interlacing ocean waves, equally distributing the silky salve between them. "That's all I wanted to know." And with that, Jack's wiggling fingers were captured within the coils of slippery ones, both of the captain's expressively gesturing hands gathered together between Will's, working the aiding formula over swell and dip of each sharp knuckle and down the tendril length of each of Jack's digits, even over the top of each loop of polished rings. Will worked the pads of his lotioned fingers up under Sparrow's hands to the palms, kneading the creased plains of those palms with a massage targeted for the centers. Until finally, each coated bit of Will had been transferred to Jack, with a quick soothing and comforting sensation to momentarily nullify the burns there that were hidden in his deeply tanned skin. With a sharp intake of breath, Jacks' hands spasmed once between Will's and then he forced himself to relax some as the blacksmith turned pirate played nursemaid to his burning digits. The feel of the salve was an icy burn, but a relieving one, and so he remained silent. His head was faced in Will's direction, then, and if his eyes hadn't been covered by thick cloth and bandage, they'd have been fixed on Will and glittering with mirth. If. But even now, as he had the direct attention of Turner on him, he couldn't seem to find the strength to fully enjoy--or goad. His fingers wiggled again, once freed of Will's grasp. "Better," he sighed out softly, with a slight nod. Tone was mixed with both exhaustion and pain, yet still managed to be lusty. Velvet rubbed against silk--but just a tad more breathy than usual. There was just no use in pretending he was fine--not when the pirate to the side of him held relief in his hands. There would be time for pretending later. "Shoulders," came a soft murmur, his head turning to the side again--as if he were wishing to be gazing out of a window, or at the sea, "Chest..." He was beginning to compare his shirt to a hot knife when he moved too much. Never a good sign, really. The bed dipped subtly at one corner to compensate with the weight of Will, climbing to perch in the gap between the wide bed's head board and Jack, the man himself. Focus. Keep that focus, the last solid foot hold for Will. The more swiftly he applied the medication, the sooner Jack won't be in his care. And that was what he wanted, wasn't it? The salve held a pungent earthy aroma, which saturated that heavy air mingling between the two pirates. The captain and his convert, his pirate pupil, his devotee, Will. To comply with the request, the shirt would have to be removed, but that wasn't too difficult to maneuver, but the youthful one distinctly caught Jack revealing a wince at one point when that last sleeve was liberated free from his arm. There should be words that healed as well as this homemade, blacksmith's lotion - but Will did not know them, and wouldn't attempt such a dangerous feat. Why should he risk ruining Jack Sparrow in a rare moment of submission? Yes. Jack was actually being obedient to Will's tending - And the boy wouldn't disappoint on this. Slippery palms were invested onto the stretch of sinewy expanse connecting the two shoulders. There were knots beneath that layer of sun-toughened skin, the long fingers seem to locate those spots on their own accord while sweeping to the medicate the exposed area. A small grunt made way from Jack's mouth, and the injured man found it in his best interest to lean back against the headboard of his bed. His head was swimming and his eyes--sightless damned things were tingling to the point of near distraction. Blackness was everywhere--a never-ending void that was sucking him in without any remorse at all. And then, there were the hands of the blacksmith. Keeping him anchored, pulling him back to reality and consciousness. The salve was cold against his skin, a change from all the burn. He leaned his head backward a little, long, dirty locks of hair dripping down his back and into the way on his shoulders. Through the exhaust and almost mind numbing pain, Will's hands were a distraction in themselves. His usually quick mind was far too deluded and slow to think of words, and so he remained quiet, mouth shifting ever so slightly, as if to signify a release of some bit of tension there. Glazed streaks were left in the path of the swordsman's traveling fingers, fixating themselves past the corded shoulders to alleviate the injuries on Jack's chest. There was a battle flaring within Will concerning the placement of his gaze's attention. Was he to look upon that tranced expression splashing Jack's features, or was he to concentrate on the workings of his hands over the sultry pirate's chest? A difficult debate, but Will wasn't a very patient creature and decided to end the war by closing his own eyes instead. Casting them both to the vacuum of black shadow. But this wasn't going to last, because, with no vision, the sensation of that warm skin under greased fingers was heightened to a fever pitch, as well as their mingled smells and the subtle mewl of a groan from Jack. That's about enough, Will swiftly disengaged his ministrations and filled more space between them by propelling himself backwards on slippery hands. In his frantic separation, prompted by that fear of liking Jack's submission too much, and the reaction his body was now painfully making itself aware of now - Will flipped the dish of food and spilled water over to the ground with a clatter, and likewise, tumbling off with a comedic 'ker-fump'. Jack--who had been between painful bliss and sleep a moment before, sat up straight in a moment of (truly) blind panic. It hurt to do, even with the salve. Such a quick movement shouldn't have been allowed, or done. His ligaments and body ached with both burns and unuse. One hand had shot outward, moving to the left and right as if seeking out the now missing form of William Turner. His position turned to one where he was kneeling on the bed, and leaning forward--still probing the air. "William?" He asked, his voice confused--not having fully understood the noises that had just happened. His balance was bad, he realized. The one arm keeping him up was weak, it trembled with his weight and his body swayed ever so slightly. All in all, he hated himself and his weakness at the moment. That glorious landing had included broken pieces of a clay plate. Will emitted a long drawn out throaty groan, unable to perceive which hurt more, the clumsy backwards tumble amongst ham slices and sloshing water or the fierce aching constriction at that lace up front of his trousers. God damn good thing Jack was blind. Slick back head of ink hair connects to the ground with a defeated fall, through lidded, frustrated eyes, he gazed upon the wobbly Captain, like a drowning man looking up through the surface at the one last hope for rescue. Of course Will's rescuer would be crippled, bah! He was just being bitter now, embarrassed. Gathers up his cool, balanced exterior, he responds smoothly, as though he weren't lying halfway tangled in Jack's sheets and partially under his bed at this point. Calm. "I'll go get some more food, Jack." He needed to get out of here, just long enough to uncoil his severely strung tensions. "Aye?" He swiveled to rise up without haste and escape. Giving up on balance, and the idea of actually taking the time or effort to go back to a sitting position, Jack just let his arms collapse, so that he ended up laying on his stomach on the bed. The impact against the bed, along with the quick movement was enough for him to let out a groan of pain. One that he tried covering by giving a quick smile in the direction he assumed Will was. (But the boy's voice had seemed muffled, which was really just confusing the hell out of the captain of the Black Pearl.) "Aye," he responded, then, in a soft tone. Idly, he wondered why it was so hot in the room. He'd noticed it before, but now it seemed more obvious. The back of his mind laughed at him, offering mean words. He deserved fever, among other things, it seemed. Semi-achy hands moved upward to touch gently at his bandaging, paying no more attention to temperature or William. Taking advantage of Jack's temporary distraction, not a surprise, since the Captain had trouble with keeping his attention on any one thing for any amount of time, Will didn't bother to collect the mess he had conjured up - his top priority being the escape, the cleaning of broken dish and food would be reserved for a time after he had figured out why the extreme close proximity and contact had sparked that frightening result in him. But didn't the swordsman know all too well? Banishes the inkling of that thought and rids the grease from his fingers on to his pants, dry hands yanking back the cabin's portal, and boot's hurried stomp crossing the threshold out, and post shut of door, the foot falls dissipate far to a separate end of that great black whale of a ship, the Pearl. Down to the galley.
Author: Frost AND Kacey
Rating: PG-13 (for language—for now.)
Summary: Jack gets injured, and Will has to play nurse-maid. Or at least try.
Disclaimer: Don't own it. But we do own this story. So take THAT.
Archive: O_O Yes..! Tell us first, though.
Authors notes: This is a response to the plot bunny illness challenge given by glitterundine@yahoo.com. It is affectionately called "Pity Jack Please Will". You'll see why.
Uh, anyway, this is actually a part of our "Of…" series, which is ongoing and being spewed out in no particular order. Enjoy!
Oh yeah. Jack is played by Frost, and Will by Kacey.
- - - William - - -:
- - - Jack - - -:
- - - William - - -:
- - - Jack - - -:
- - - William - - -:
- - - Jack - - -:
- - - William - - -:
- - - Jack - - -:
- - - William - - -:
- - - Jack - - -:
- - - William - - -:
- - - Jack - - -:
- - - William - - -:
- - - Jack - - -:
- - - William - - -:
- - - Jack - - -:
- - - William - - -:
- - - Jack - - -:
- - - William - - -:
- - - Jack - - -:
- - - William - - -:
- - - Jack - - -:
- - - William - - -:
- - - Jack - - -:
- - - William - - -:
