Warning: adult content gets upped in this chapter, although I edited it considerably to fit an R rating.
Will kept his face downcast, his attention focused on the blade he was sharpening, but he watched Jack constantly out of the corner of his eye.
The pirate was nothing like what he had imagined all these years. Barbossa had described him as an undersized clown, bumbling and nancing and unfit to set foot on any deck. Most of the crew members had perfected their own impersonations of the Pearl's former captain; he had become a figure with which they could amuse the solemn little boy they'd taken aboard. Will's father was usually mentioned with disgust, but he had only been stupid; Jack Sparrow had been a foolish joke.
In reality, he was quite different. Oh, he was not a large man, that was certain, and he did have a certain sway to his walk which put Will in mind of some of the higher-priced whores he had met . But there was a delicacy to his bones that was...well, not exactly feminine, but not like any man either. His skin had an exotic color to it that was more than the sun could give an Englishman, being almost Indian in hue. The kohl he used to line his eyes emphasized how very dark and fine they were. The beads and trinkets in his hair did not put Will in mind of a child's doll, which was what the crew had likened them to. Instead he was reminded dimly of colored glass sun-catchers and musical wind-chimes, because of the way they caught the light and how they sometimes lilted in the breeze. Where it wasn't braided or twisted, his black hair was thick and looked like uncarded wool.
Likewise, Jack's famed incompetence entirely failed to manifest. Will didn't know how he'd managed to get himself caught, because his plan to take the Interceptor was clever and he had menaced the smug little bluecoat very effectively. Once they'd gotten her away, Jack had stripped off his coat and boots, throwing himself against the lines alongside Will. At sea, his mincing walk became graceful, enabling him to roll with the tides and stride across the deck like he'd been born upon it. Will considered himself an able hand on deck, and he hadn't been seasick since the first few weeks, but Jack moved like he was part of the ship, or the ship was an extension of him, or some other kind of unearthly connection existed between them.
He had seen the Pearl fight her men, usually during a storm or an important getaway. The men talked of her like a living thing, sometimes bitter and sometimes affectionate, and he'd always figured her quirks were due to the curse. Will was able to coax her better than the others, but it was only Barbossa to whom she would surrender, shuddering and groaning and punishing them all with improbable dips and lashing ropes.
Jack took the helm and asked the Interceptor for speed, stroking the polished wood of her wheel and murmuring in what didn't sound quite like English. Will had snorted in derision; here at last was the madman he'd heard so much about. But the winds calmed and the ship grew eerily quiet, as if listening to the man guiding her. When a good westerly breeze picked up, her sails billowed and she leapt in the waves, almost a match for the Pearl.
Will looked down at the sword in his hands. It was not flashy; there was no gold filigree worked into its handle, no jewel capping the pommel, and it had not been polished beyond what would take to keep it functional. It was strong and sharp, though, and he suspected it had seen its master through hard times.
"Strange that you should lack the bearings to the Black Pearl's legendary base of operations," said Jack suddenly. "Don't y' think so?" He leaned back against the wheel, regarding Will with a curiously tilted head.
Will felt color rush to his cheeks. Barbossa's lack of trust in him had been a sore point for years. "You really can't keep quiet for more than ten minutes, can't you?"
Jack shrugged, brushing off his rancor. "Just making conversation. Won't hit Tortuga till late tomorrow."
"Well, then, how about regaling me with the tale of how you managed to capture Commodore Norrington's attention? That's some unfortunate luck you must have." Will tossed the stone aside and slipped the sword back into its sheath. He didn't miss the way Jack's eyes went briefly to it before darting back to his face.
"'S really not all that exciting. Came for this ship, saved a girl, got meself caught."
Will raised his eyebrows. "You saved a girl?"
"Aye," said Jack, "the governor's daughter, no less. We've a bit of an understanding, Elizabeth and I." That explained it, then; a connection like that could very well save a pirate's life.
The name jogged his memory and he paused, trying to place it. "The missing girl?" He'd overheard the commodore and a richly-dressed man discussing a search. It was how he'd learned Jack was in Port Royal in the first place. Her name was Elizabeth, but it didn't quite fit – there seemed to be something he was missing. He disregarded it, hoping it might come clear later.
Jack was nodding. "One your captain stole from her bed." His face had turned suddenly grave. Will hadn't noticed the way his hands were constantly in motion until now, when they'd gone still.
"Part of your motivation?" he asked. "Aim to steal your well-bred strumpet back?"
The gold in Jack's teeth flashed. "'F I can, yeah."
Will looked out to sea, checking the position of the sun. He wondered why Barbossa had bothered. The girl could doubtless be ransomed for a hefty sum, but the captain had never been interested in taking prisoners before. Perhaps they'd stolen her for Will himself? He felt a stab of guilt at the trouble he'd caused by sneaking off.
As if Jack could hear his thoughts, he said, "How exactly did you come to be left behind, Will Turner? Barbossa still up to his old tricks?"
Will found himself on his feet, angered at the implication that he'd gotten abandoned. "It was an accident. I was never supposed to go ashore. I assume they left without checking to see if I was still there." He frowned at Jack, disliking the smirk on his face. "If you are looking for qualities shared between us, Sparrow, a tendency to get marooned isn't one of them."
"Ah," said Jack, steepling his hands under his chin, "and what exactly has dear Hector told you about how that mess happened, eh?"
Will blinked for a moment, rocked by the idea that anyone would use Barbossa's first name. "He said you were planning to hoard the treasure to yourself. When he asked for the bearings to ensure it got dealt out evenly, you refused. The crew voted and cast you out as captain, but you wouldn't step down, so Barbossa left you on an island. He presumed you dead, but had no proof."
Jack showed no reaction to the account. "And your father, what was his crime?"
"He..." Will swallowed. It was difficult for him to iron out his feelings regarding his father. Some days he believed Barbossa to the letter and was furious and ashamed; some days he wondered if there was a part left out of the tale. "He wanted to go back for you, wouldn't accept Barbossa as captain. He cemented the curse by sending a piece of the treasure to me in England, so they sent him to the depths."
Jack nodded very slowly, twice, three times. "Barbossa is a lying bastard," he said evenly.
"I know that," Will replied. He swept a stubborn lock of hair behind his ear, trying not to look too eager. "I would appreciate hearing how you remember things, though of course I've no reason to believe you."
"Perhaps some other time," said Jack with a rather unfriendly grin.
Will's mouth fell open. "But –"
"I'm goin' below for a bit, you keep an eye on the wheel." Before he stepped through the hatchway, he turned to look at Will. "I'll tell you this, though." The strange somber expression was back on his face. "Your father may not've been the best husband or father, but he was a good man. B'lieve whatever else Barbossa says, but never his lies about Bill."
For a long time after he left, Will stared at the same spot on the rigging. As a child, his vision of the father he couldn't remember had squared nicely with what Jack was saying. He found himself wanting to believe him, wishing so hard for it to be true that he almost thought he might make it so.
Then he looked down at his hands clenched in his lap. It didn't matter how badly he wanted a father he could be proud of. Jack was out for himself as much as Barbossa, as much as anyone else in the world. There was no reason for Will to trust to the depth of sincerity in his eyes. Jack Sparrow had a golden tongue, Barbossa always said, one that'd tell a man what he most wished to hear and do so sweetly. But Jack was true to nothing and no one.
"The only man ye can trust, Will Turner, is yerself." He closed his eyes and was thirteen again, felt the twinge of growing pains, saw the mottled rot on the captain's skin as he bent down.
It was, he thought, the best advice he'd ever gotten. Even if it did apply to the advice-giver as well.
He couldn't trust Jack, but he could make it seem he did. He'd played the wide-eyed innocent boy often enough when he was about to get in trouble. Sometimes it even worked.
And he had to admit that he found the pirate intriguing. The way he walked, the way his eyes sparked and snapped, the set of his cheekbones...Will had only ever been with women and never thought he'd fancy a man the same way – it probably had something to do with being surrounded by so many, and with such a stench about them. But there was something about Jack that made him wonder how he tasted, what his voice sounded like when he was wracked with pleasure, how different the experience of bedding another man might be. If it got Jack to tell him more about his father, so much the better. He could decide whether or not he believed the stories at a later date.
A few hours after sunset, Jack lashed the wheel to keep it steady and went in search of another bottle of rum. Good old Navy – mealy hardtack and salty gruel aside, they could always be expected to keep themselves well-lubricated. The captain's cabin naturally had the best supply, though it was small and spare with only a small desk and a hammock. He settled himself atop the desk and popped the cork.
"Party for one, or can anyone join?" Will came gallumphing down the stairs like an overgrown pup, his curls flailing loose above his shoulders. Jack offered him the bottle and he took a healthy swig, dropping into the chair when Jack politely moved his feet off it.
"You look much less tightly wound," Jack remarked in mild amusement. The boy actually grinned at him, and yes, relaxation suited him much better. His shoulders were straight instead of bent and the skin about his eyes was softer.
Will drank again before handing the bottle back. "I'm not always such a stick. I'm just anxious to get back to the Pearl." He thumbed a button on his worn shirt. "It's not much of a home, but it's the only one I've got." The smile disappeared, replaced by a bitter twist.
"'S not so bad, all things considered," said Jack. He was feeling downright friendly towards the boy, and why not? He had his freedom, and rum in his belly, and they would soon be speeding along behind the Pearl.
Leaning the chair back on two legs, Will propped his feet up next to Jack on the table. "So this girl they've kidnapped – is she a lover of yours?"
Jack snorted out a laugh. "No, she's barely out o' swaddling cloths, and I daresay she'd slap me if I ever tried something unmannerly." Will smiled at that. "But I do care for the lass, much to my chagrin," Jack continued, "and I'd like to see her back to her father."
"That's very noble of you," said Will.
And Jack could add that look to the list of things he was glad of – long lashes drooping over eyes like warm chocolate, tip of tongue pressing against a bottom lip. And to think he'd pegged the boy as having absolutely no interest in what he had to offer.
"What 'bout you?" he asked, tipping the bottle back again, deliberately letting his lips linger on its mouth. "Imagine you've got a girl in every port."
Will shook his head slowly, bringing a hand up to push his hair back. The buttery candlelight brought out threads of copper and gold woven throughout the dark brown. He let the chair drop down on all four legs, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Jack slid off the table, swaying a bit from a sudden swell beneath the ship's hull. He rocked forward and bent his head just as Will was tilting up to meet him. The kiss started hot and hard and it stayed that way, Will's tongue thrusting eagerly to part Jack's lips and dip into his mouth. He tasted of the rum they'd been drinking and he had all his teeth, which was more than most Jack had kissed could say.
His hands went to tangle in the boy's hair, which delighted him by being every bit as soft and fine as it looked. Will pulled at him, tugging him down with the insistence of one who was used to having his way in the bedroom. Perhaps he'd never killed a man, and Jack suspected he'd never kissed one before now, but at least he wasn't a eunuch.
Definitely not, in fact, as Jack found when he perched himself on Will's lap, angling his thighs down to rub his growing erection against the sizable one belonging to the boy. The contact gave Will pause and he pulled his head back, staring at Jack through unfocused eyes. A soft groan escaped his reddened lips as Jack ground down onto him, hands skimming chest to firm belly to sword hilt and pistol grip.
Will's eyes suddenly went flat and hard. He gripped Jack's arms hard. Jack heaved an internal sigh, trying to slide his mouth onto Will's again but not really surprised at being shoved upwards. He stood, backing against the desk to avoid the punch he could feel coming.
He was mistaken. Barbossa must have trained the boy against violent outbursts; he clenched his fists, but dug them into the tops of his thighs rather than lashing out.
"That was not your best plan," Will hissed, throwing his shoulders back.
Jack shrugged, straightening his shirt. "Worth a shot." He left Will fuming and flopped onto the hammock, peering over at him. "You know why I kissed you, then. Why'd you kiss me?"
Will touched fingers to his lips, probably checking to see if they'd split. Jack had already tasted his own for traces of blood, but there hadn't been enough time to do much damage. Most likely they wouldn't even bruise.
"Barbossa says you'll take anything pretty enough," said Will, sweeping his hair back and tying it with a strip of leather from behind his ear. "I wanted to see if it was true."
Jack stared at him for a moment before dropping his gaze to the prominent bulge in his breeches. "Understandable. And funny he should say that, since much to his dismay, he ne'er was."
Will looked at him askance. Jack grinned at the new kink he'd thrown into the boy's perceptions. "Rouse me at daybreak an' you can have the berth – 'less you want to share?"
Screwing up his face, Will retorted, "I thank you, but no."
"Suit yourself," said Jack with a yawn. "'M really quite nice once you let go a bit." A disdainful sniff told him Will's opinion of the likelihood of that happening.
Yet happen it did, at least for another fleeting moment. He was awakened not by a hand on his shoulder or a shout in his ear, but by a wet mouth on his own. By the time his eyes cracked open to appreciate the sight, Will had released him. He looked confused and mildly angry, as if Jack had been the one to start it. An attempt to pull him back down only resulted in the boy stumbling backwards, nearly tripping over his own feet. He ran cold for the rest of the day, avoiding Jack when it was possible and glowering at him when it wasn't. Around sundown, Jack got fed up with the jilted sweetheart antics and cornered Will in the hold, intending to teach him a lesson about how it felt to be at the mercy of someone's tidal whims.
Rather than kissing him into a boneless heap and leaving, however, the encounter somehow ended up with Will propped against a water barrel and Jack on his knees. He was woefully out of practice, but giving head wasn't exactly a skill one lost over time. Will certainly didn't seem to find anything lacking in his performance. It was black as pitch in the bowels of the small ship, the air compressed and damp. From that and from the way Will tried to keep silent, muffling his whimpers with a fist stuffed in his mouth, Jack was reminded of his youth, in which sex had been dark and secret and shameful rather than just another way to pass the time. The excitement of it pressed down upon him as much as the heat. His heart pounded like it sought release from his chest and he came from the strokes of his own hand, while Will was sinking down on shaky knees and gasping for breath. He laid a hand on Jack's shoulder, simply holding onto him in the sudden quiet. Then to Jack's eternal surprise, Will kissed him, tentatively tasting himself on Jack's tongue. It lasted just a few seconds before Will pulled away and scrambled up on deck.
They didn't speak much on their way to the Faithful Bride. Jack was horribly mistreated by a couple of women he maybe had not been perfectly honest with. He was miffed when both Scarlett and Giselle saw Will and cooed like doves. Will grinned and blushed and cut his eyes at Jack, clearly daring him to make some sort of crack.
When he finally managed to pull Will away from the whores and find Joshamee Gibbs amongst the pigs, Jack was craving sleep like he normally craved rum. He explained matters to Gibbs as quickly as he could, having to be a bit less than subtle about Will's presence. The man was suitably impressed, as Jack had known he would be. Gibbs liked his odds even or better, which was why Jack had come to him. He didn't exactly have Will in his pocket, but at least the boy was slightly dizzy.
He was letting Gibbs talk him into buying a second round when he noticed stares being cast his way. Will was in the far corner, deep in a conversation with a dark-haired beauty while several of her coworkers hovered nearby. It was impossible to hear them over the din of the tavern, but Will was gesticulating forcefully and the brunette seemed to arguing with him. They both turned to look at Jack as he was watching, and the expression on Will's face told him he'd been right about the lurking temper.
Bidding Gibbs goodnight, he went to tug Will away from whatever poison the girl was pouring in his ear. She looked him up and down as he took Will by the arm, seeming to be considering a generous offer, but Jack glared at her and she flounced off, shooting him a dirty look. Shame that he would probably be wanting for Tortugan company for awhile, between Will's lass and the two he'd managed to offend all on his own. Better a cold bed than a scorned whelp spoiling his plans, however.
Will allowed Jack to lead him to the room he'd paid for. Every muscle in his body was rigid, his legs so stiff he could barely climb the stairs. The sight of the bed, lumpy and ancient though it was, made Jack's resolve falter. Surely Will couldn't be so angry that he wouldn't allow Jack a few hours' rest.
Will, apparently, was exactly that angry, and more besides.
"Did you think you could manipulate me like that?" he shouted, shoving Jack back against the closed door.
Jack looked down at the arm across his throat. Will's eyes burned and his lips were white with anger.
"Might want to – explain what y' mean," said Jack hoarsely around the pressure on his windpipe.
The fingers of Will's other hand dug painfully into his bicep. "You want the Pearl. You've been after her for years and you mean to use me as a bargaining chip. Admit it!"
Jack closed his eyes. "You are very, very stupid," he whispered. Before Will could react, Jack had struck him solidly in the solar plexus with his free hand. The boy let go and bent over, wheezing, unable to stop Jack from plucking the pistol out of his belt.
Tangling his fingers in the curls at the base of Will's skull, he jerked the boy upright. "Aye, I want the Pearl back," he said, low and rough. "Like I never wanted anything in this life." He brought the gun up, pressed the muzzle to Will's temple. The pallor of Will's face and the fear in his eyes satisfied Jack because it wiped away the righteous anger so wrongly come by. "This single shot? This is the shot Barbossa left me with on that fucking island, after he took me from me bunk in the dead of night. There was no vote, only a war council an' nightshade in Bill's ale an' a lump on my skull the size of your fist." He threw the pistol aside – Will jumped when it hit the floor – and took his right sleeve in his teeth, revealing the white scars edged in red. "I woke with sand in my mouth, my ship disappearing on the horizon." Will's throat worked soundlessly as Jack thrust the mangled forearm under his nose. "This is what happens when you're so desperate t' reach something you can't see straight or think or even bloody feel it. I tried swimming out, got a jellyfish wrapped around me arm, would've drowned in the shallows 'f I hadn't latched onto a turtle's shell and trailed along b'hind." The words made it raw, made it happen again so vividly he had to choke down the bile in his throat, convinced it was seawater. Will made a noise halfway between a gag and a muffled cry. Jack shook him once, hard, and he fell silent. "D'you know why Barbossa's kept you for all these years? Why he took Elizabeth? She has the last piece of gold. He needs it to break the curse – that and your blood. Prob'ly all o' it. Even if he doesn't need to drain you, he'll kill you for the sport of it and leave your flesh for the crabs to feed on. Killed his own brother at sixteen, y'know. What's a worthless, whimpering boy compared to that?"
Will tried to speak and it sounded like nails being dragged inside his throat. "No – I – they –"
"Oh, they'll do it," Jack said grimly. He let Will go, pushed him back a step or two. "They won't like it, but they'll do what they got to. It's their lives or yours, darling. However kind they might seem at times, you've only been a placeholder for their salvation." He swallowed convulsively, tasting bitterness and slowly dawning regret.
"Shut up!" Will cried. His face was contorted with some complex melding of pain and doubt and fear. "You're lying...it isn't true...it can't be..." He faded off into a whisper, falling into a crouch with his head between his knees.
Regret stopped taking its sweet time and hit Jack full on. Every word he'd said was the truth and Will deserved to know it, but gentler than this. He was so young, and something in him remained untouched by the life he'd led even though Jack could see age beyond reason in the way his shoulders were caving in.
"Will," he said softly, and that was it – he couldn't think of anything that would possibly fix the damage. He settled for a hand on Will's head, but the boy twisted away from him, vaulting to his feet.
Will glared at him through red-rimmed eyes. "Don't touch me, you selfish son of a bitch – don't dare touch me." And he spun on his heel, slamming the door as he left.
Jack went to kick a leg on the bed, but reconsidered the probability of it surviving the attack and drove his foot into the wall instead. His neighbor on the other side thumped at him.
"Bugger off!" Jack bellowed, punctuating it with a pound from his own fist.
He threw himself down on the bed, breathing hard like a child having a tantrum. Which, after a fashion, he had in fact done. And now Will was gone.
"No matter," he said aloud, hauling a flattened pillow under his head and huffing. "Don't need 'im anyhow. I'll find some other way, never you worry about ol' Captain Jack." The silence of the room condemned him and he felt an irrational urge to defend himself, at high volume if need be. It was only remembering the mutiny, that was what was doing it, it was enough to drive anyone mad – not that he was mad, nor ever would be if he could only get the Pearl back...
Short-term goals, Jack reminded himself. Sleep would do for now. With the whelp gone, he ought to be able to sleep like an infant.
Drifting off.
Dreaming away.
"Any minute now," he assured the empty room.
Tortuga was something like a second home for Will. The crew often dropped him off there for a few days while they went on a particularly ambitious raid, or while they were depositing swag at the island. Most of the innkeepers and tradesmen knew him by name; the blacksmith even let him help out when he was in town, saying he had a natural touch with steel. The prostitutes fawned over him and were prone to dropping both drawers and rates when he came to say hello. It was a rough, uncouth town, but if Will could be said to belong to any strip of land, Tortuga would have been it.
After he'd stormed out of Jack's room, however, he had no interest in any of his usual pursuits. The girls pouted and called after him when he passed them without a word. The drunken, cavorting faces roaming the streets seemed to leer at him, and past every corner dark shadows lurked.
He finally found a spot of relative privacy, around back of a tavern and next to a chicken coop. The birds made breathy night noises, ruffling their feathers as he slid down to the ground.
It wasn't true. It wasn't. Jack was a liar and a thief who had only his own interests in mind.
Going by that logic, a treacherous corner of his mind argued, Jack would have done everything in his power to keep Will complacent and in the dark, because he needed the curse lifted. There was no way Barbossa would give up the Pearl to Jack while he still lived, and therefore Jack needed to kill him, and therefore Jack needed him uncursed and vulnerable. He needed to send Will to Barbossa like a lamb to the slaughter, and that would be far easier if Will remained ignorant.
All that was supposing he believed Jack in the first place. Which he didn't.
Still – still, there was the way they were always so concerned about keeping him from harm. Banning him from combat would be a good way to ensure that his blood wasn't wasted before Barbossa got the last piece of gold.
But at the same time, though he and Barbossa had clashed more than once over the years, these men had cared for him when he had no one else in the world. Pintel had made shadow puppets on the wall when he was a child and couldn't sleep. Ketchum always made sure to get him fresh fruit when they could find it. Monk had taught him scraps of Spanish and Russian. Pintel begged him for stories of his mother and would listen with rapt attention, one eye slightly misty. When he'd been washed overboard in a storm, Grapple had pulled him out and Twigg set his broken arm so neatly that it never pained him after it healed. He'd learned the sword from the captain himself.
He knew that they were capable of atrocities – had seen them fight each other over trivialities until they'd torn flesh and bone, which healed so quickly they could do it again in minutes. But Barbossa had never allowed anyone to lay a hand on Will unless he was being punished for something.
Of course he hadn't, said a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Jack's. They'd gone half mad from the curse, they would rip Will apart before they even realized he was bleeding, and Barbossa had obvious reason to keep that blood safe.
And there was the flogging. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, where the highest of the scars began. It was the only time Barbossa had gotten angry enough to employ something other than a cuff to the head or arm. He remembered the pain and the humiliation, but mostly he remembered the looks on the pirates' faces as they'd gathered around to watch the bo'sun swing the cat. The way their eyes greedily followed the crimson trickles down his back, their fascination at the way his flesh split and spilt life and then would not seal itself back up. He had expected amusement, maybe even pity, but this unwavering concentration was something else entirely. It was not the first time he'd been made aware of how the pirates envied his ability to feel, but it was the first time he was frightened by it. He'd been fifteen, and he never mouthed off like that again.
Will shivered, though the night was warm, and wrapped his arms around himself. One thing was certain: he couldn't sit here and think about these things all night. It would drive him insane, and besides which, he'd probably wake up to find his purse stolen or his throat slit.
He walked back to the Bride feeling like his limbs were about to give out. Climbing the stairs was an ordeal and it took him several minutes before he could make his arm obey him to open the door.
Jack was sprawled on his back on the small bed, but he wasn't asleep. He raised his head as Will entered, quietly shutting the door behind him. He leaned against it, hands clasped behind his back, unsure of what to say. Jack sat up and swung his legs over the side. His eyes were unreadable in the dim light.
Will bit his lip. "I – I'm sorry." He surprised himself by actually meaning it. "For everything."
"Me too," said Jack with evident relief that he hadn't had to say it first. "Shouldn't have gone off like that. Need a little drink in me, I think." Will met his smile with one more thin and watery.
Jack tilted his head to the side, looking disarmingly like the bird for which he was named. "I was sure you'd be gone f'r good after that little encounter." He paused, standing up and crossing the small room to stand in front of Will, noticeably shorter in bare feet. His eyes scanned Will's face intently "Why're you here?"
"I have nowhere else to go," said Will, dropping his chin onto his chest.
Jack didn't argue with him. He merely raised a hand to Will's cheek, stroking a thumb beneath his eye. Will waited for the kiss he could feel humming between them, but Jack didn't make a move. He bit back a sigh.
"Oh for heaven's sake, Jack," Will said, exasperated. He caught Jack's face between both hands, holding him still. "Just –" Leaning forward, he touched his forehead to the pirate's and let his hands drift down to clench in the stained linen shirt. His voice came out more softly than he would have preferred. "Just fuck me."
He couldn't see Jack's face, but he could hear the sharp intake of breath and feel the faint tremor run through the body so close to his own.
"Will –" Jack said, and damned if he didn't sound a bit tentative. In any other situation, Will might have laughed.
"You want to," he said instead, the words hollow to his own ears but strangely insistent. "You wanted to earlier and I wouldn't let you. I'm letting you now."
"Are you indeed," Jack murmured. One hand tightened on his hip while the other crept up between them to tilt his chin, forcing him to meet simmering coal eyes.
Will wanted to say a thousand things – that he didn't know what he was doing, didn't know why he was doing it. That Jack was a madman and that the light shone on copper tones no one would have thought to look for in his hair. That he wanted it too, or wanted something at any rate.
But it had never seemed to matter what he wanted. So instead he said, rather sulkily, as he lowered himself onto the bed and Jack turned the lamp down, "I'm not promising I'll like it, mind."
The older man chuckled, the gleam of his teeth turned silver in moonlight badly filtered by a filmy scrap of curtain. "I'll take that wager, lad." His voice stroked along Will's skin as easily as his rough sailor's hands, sliding beneath the hem of his shirt, nimbly undoing buttons as they went. When Will reached for him, trying to draw solid weight atop his hips, Jack shook his head, trinkets rattling, and leaned away.
"What is your damned problem?" Will hissed, taking matters into his own hands and tearing at the laces of his breeches.
"Too fast," said Jack, sitting back on his heels to watch with interest as Will tugged the fabric down over his hips. "You're taut as a bow and I don't fancy makin' you shoot off too early."
"I have some semblance of self-control, thank you," Will replied. Jack smirked and cast a significant look downwards. Rubbing a hand over his eyes, Will sighed. Of course Jack was right. There were too many things clamoring for attention in his head and he was aching for some kind of release before he went mad. Even this kind – even from this man.
Jack held his hands out, fixing Will in his current position with thumb and forefinger. "Don't move, now," he said before he began to shimmy out of his own clothing. Will was glad for the low-burning lamp – it had been dark in the hold, and he appreciated the opportunity to now see what he had briefly touched after Jack had brought him to climax. The shirt went first, revealing a lean torso, tanned all over and badly scarred. There were two blackened pits left by gunshots on the right side of his chest and the nasty, jagged mess of scar tissue running down the underside of his left arm, in addition to less serious scars. Will could also see, when Jack twisted and flicked his hair with a toss of his head, the edges of lash marks on his back.
Though Jack noticed his stare, he merely shrugged, not a bit self-conscious. "Been around a few," was all he said, rubbing thoughtfully at his scarred forearm before slipping his fingers into his breeches. They tangled together for awhile, heat building, kisses growing deeper and more demanding, Will's tongue pushing against Jack's even as Jack won the upper hand elsewhere. He moved more like a woman than Will would've expected, in the slow roll of his hips, but large, callused hands grasped and pinned like no girl he'd ever tumbled. Will struggled beneath him and enjoyed that too, not knowing quite who was winning and really not caring, because he planned to surrender anyway.
Disappointment bit at the fever burning his thoughts away as Jack suddenly wrenched his head up, propping himself up on knees and elbows. Making a noise somewhere between a whimper and a growl, Will lifted his hips to seek out damp friction again, but Jack evaded him, sitting up and placing palms flat on his belly. He stroked outward, touching bruises Will hadn't realized he was getting.
"You're trembling," Jack murmured, his face in shadow, reaching up to touch Will's cheek. Will flinched away from him, then grabbed him by the shoulders to conceal it.
"I want you," he panted, pulling Jack down for a wet, savage kiss. He closed his teeth on Jack's full bottom lip, trying to get him to respond in the same way, but the other man carefully twisted free.
Will could feel himself shaking, shaking so hard he thought he might come apart if Jack didn't – didn't do something to him, something he could look back on as the focal point of a tangled web of fear and doubt and regret.
"Not like this," Jack was saying, trying to steady his own breathing. He pushed Will's clenching thighs down and moved to kneel beside him. "I'll not have your first time with a man be somethin' to blister and sear inside your head until you hate us both for it."
It was so close to what he'd been thinking that Will gasped, his hands coming up to cover his face. "Please," he cried out, biting into the fleshy heel of one hand. Please let it not be true, please take it back, please make all this not have happened...
"Shhh," Jack whispered, and he bent down, pried Will's fingers from his face and clutched them in one hand as he kissed Will again, shallowly and sweetly. "Relax, sweet. I'm not going to stop, I just want you t' calm down – you're scarin' me..." He let out a shaky laugh. Will closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the worry that should not have been there. This man had held a pistol to his head not three hours ago, for God's sake.
He found himself clinging to Jack, licking at his lips, tasting the salt of the sweat they had already worked up. This was not what he'd thought he wanted, this strange tender exploration that was nothing like the fun he had in back tavern rooms, and nothing like the way he and Jack had gone at each other on the ship. It was something new, and he wasn't entirely certain he was willing to let it happen.
Nevertheless, he could feel himself beginning to come down from the fringes of panic, feel his muscles relaxing as Jack found unexpected points of comfortable pleasure – a kiss to the hinge of his jaw, a hand running through his hair with light pressure to his scalp, a mouth sucking on the bone of his wrist. Eventually Will stopped fidgeting and trying to move into Jack's touch, just letting the sensations come and wash over him like the waves lapping a shoreline or a ship's hull right after a storm has passed. He was distantly surprised when Jack prodded him, shifting onto his side with a murmured protest. Jack kept pressing, turning him over, and he understood.
Jack sat beside him, inspecting the scars on his back without comment. After a moment's hesitation he ducked his head to trace the healed wounds with his tongue, dragging it across each pale, raised stripe. Will had never allowed a woman to touch those marks; the girls passed the word amongst themselves that the pretty Turner boy was shy about his scars, so he didn't even need to ask them to grip him by the shoulders or arms. He twitched under the attention Jack was paying them, uncomfortable.
"We need something, don't we?" he asked, craning his neck to fix Jack with a raised eyebrow. The other man's eyes were eerily grave. Will tightened his lips. He had not asked for Jack's pity, and he didn't intend to accept it. The marks on his skin were nothing compared to what Jack's past had gifted to him. There was no reason for Jack to look at him like that.
"Aye," said Jack absently after studying his face for a moment more. He leaned over the crate serving as a bedside table, hair and beads swinging, to blow out the light. Will welcomed the darkness that spread to every corner of room, the moon having hidden herself behind fat clouds. It was easier, somehow, knowing that he could close his eyes or leave them open and it would make no difference.
When it was over, some part of his mind was grateful that Jack didn't collapse atop him, because in the aftermath of climax he suddenly felt averse to any touch. It was all he could do to remain still as Jack pulled out with a sigh and flopped over onto his bed.
"Damnation, lad," he panted, flinging an arm above his head.
Sated but dreading the prospect of being so near him for the rest of the night, Will briefly considering taking the floor. He didn't want to waste an hour arguing with Jack, however, so he merely rolled onto his side.
Behind him, he could hear the rustle of the bedclothes as Jack propped himself up on his elbows. "Feel better?" His voice was too loud in the quiet room, bordered with a hint of uncertainty.
"Yes," said Will, aware that he sounded harsh and upset. "I'd like to get some sleep now, if it's all the same to you."
"No problem, mate," said Jack easily, letting himself fall back down with a thump. Will curled up, disliking the way the sheet stuck to his skin. He could feel Jack's gaze at the back of his head, but he deepened his breathing and stayed silent. After awhile Jack relaxed into genuine sleep, lying flat on his back. Will spent most of the night cursing himself, using a number of colorful phrases he'd learned from Barbossa's crew and the whores of various ports. He lamented the soreness he could already feel creeping up on his body. He gnashed his teeth at the smirk and the bounce in his walk Jack was bound to have come morning. He tried not to think of the look on Barbossa's face during the flogging and what that meant in the face of Jack's claim. Mostly he hoped not to roll over in the middle of the night, pressing himself to the warm, snoring body beside him.