Something to Hold On To
by InvisiblePen
Rating: K+ for fairly tame gore and zombie pirates
Pairings: Pintel and Ragetti. While not written as a slash fic, you're more than welcome to interpret it as such.
Summary: A series of vignettes that look into the relationship between Pintel and Ragetti.
Spoilers: Massive spoilers for, like, all things PotC.
Disclaimer: As much as I wish it weren't so, these guys don't belong to me. If they did, they'd have more screen time.
Notes: I promised myself I wouldn't write fan fiction, but Ragetti's tendency to latch himself to Pintel in DMC was too cute to leave alone. Also, this is my first honest-to-gosh fanfic. A little kindness would be appreciated.
Something to Hold On To
Jagged lightning sprang from dark clouds. Thunder rolled, speaking with the voices of a thousand cannons, as wind tore at the sky. The ocean rose in powerful waves.
The Maiden Fair shuddered as she was assaulted by wind and wave. Far below deck, fetid water rose to fill the bilge with each bucking swell of the ocean. Pintel manned the bilge pump. It was not a pleasant job; the water that gathered in the bilge was thick with rotand the heavy stench of decay permeated the still air. It was a job reserved for the lowest of the low, and not one that Pintel relished.
Pintel's disdain for the job at hand manifested itself in the form of loudly uttered curses. He insulted the captain's ancestors in a most creative manner with each pump, trying to ignore the frantic bucking of the ship and the muck that found its way into his worn leather shoes.
His mutinous grumbling was cut short by the sound of a short whimper. Pausing in his duties, Pintel stared into the rotting gloom of the bilge, looking for the source of the noise. So intent was he on his search that he neglected to notice the figure behind him until it latched onto his arm.
"Begad!" he roared in surprise, nearly jumping out of his own skin. Pintel's shock quickly turned into annoyance when he saw the cringing lad attached to his arm.
The Maiden Fair had picked the boy, Ragetti, up at the last port. The skinny wretch, a stuttering neurotic from the get-go, had been placed under Pintel's care. Pintel, needless to say, was not pleased with the arrangement. He was a man who appreciated his privacy, and his charge's tendency to follow him about the ship irked him to no end.
"Whot d'ye fink yer doin,' whelp?" he growled, shaking the boy loose. Ragetti's thin arms immediately found their way back to their original positions around the older man's limb.
The boy looked up at Pintel with scared blue eyes. "Th-th-the ship," he stuttered, his voice shaking almost as much as his body. "I k-k-keep f-finkin' she's s-s-sinking, Mister Pintel."
Pintel rolled his yellowed eyes at Ragetti's show of cowardice and pushed the boy away. "The ship ain't sinkin,' ye daft idiot."
As if to prove him wrong, the Maiden Fair lurched to one side. Stinking bilge water soaked the two sailors. With another whimper, Ragetti resumed his hold on Pintel's arm.
The older man, thoroughly fed up with his shaking charge, pushed him away once more. "Whot's yer problem, lad? 'Tis but a storm. Long as I keep pumpin' this 'ere water away, she'll stay afloat." Pintel was mildly taken aback by the comforting tone that sneaked into his last sentence. Slightly embarrassed by his slip, he turned back to the bilge pump and said, "Git outta 'ere, runt. I got no time ter coddle ye."
Ragetti stayed put, shivering in his wet rags and whimpering like a beaten puppy.
Something in Pintel's gut twisted uncomfortably as he glared at the lad. Mentally cursing his growing softness, he resigned himself to the boy's company.
"Awright, lad, Ah'll let ye stay down 'ere wif me. But if ye plan on keepin' all yer limbs," Pintel added in an effort to reestablish himself as a cold and uncaring individual, "ye'd best be keepin' yer arms ter yerself."
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Pintel stared at the blank ceiling above his cot, trying to push the memories of the day out of his head. Thus far, it was proving useless. Even in the heavy silence of the night, he could hear the roar of cannon fire. The smell of blood and gunpowder still lingered in his nose, overpowering the familiar stench of unwashed sailors. In the darkness, he could almost see the flash of bayonets...
Scowling, Pintel shut his eyes. Maybe sleep would chase away the ghosts of battle.
"Pinters?"
Pintel feigned sleep, hoping the speaker would go away. Not that that particular tactic had ever worked for him in the past.
"Pintel?" the voice persisted. This time, an urgent prod accompanied the soft query.
Pintel reluctantly opened his eyes. He wasn't surprised to find Ragetti standing by his cot, nervously wringing his slender hands. "I ain't much feelin' like talkin,' Rags," he grumbled, pulling himself into a sitting position in spite of his words. He looked away from Ragetti. Too many of the day's unpleasant memories involved the younger man.
Ragetti sat next to Pintel on the hard cot, ignoring the older man's statement. "I cain't sleep, Pinters," he whimpered, shifting closer to his friend. "Me 'ead is hurtin' sumfing terrible."
Much to his chagrin, Pintel felt a painful sort of concern well up in his belly. Trying to mask the emotion, he replied with a gruff, "Ye'll live, lad. It were yer eye, not a bloody limb."
"It still 'urts," the younger man protested. He pulled a thin, shaking hand up to touch the bloody bandages that encircled his head.
Pintel grabbed the reaching arm roughly. "Don't touch it, ye fool. Ye'll only make it 'urt worse." He pulled away from Ragetti, eyes still avoiding the young man's face.
Ragetti wordlessly followed his companion's movement. Both of his skinny arms wrapped around the nearest of Pintel's arms.
"Now whot are ye doin,' ye daft git?" Pintel snarled wearily, giving Ragetti a half-hearted shove. The younger man gripped his arm all the tighter.
"Ah'm scairt, Pinters," he whimpered, resting the uninjured side of his face against Pintel's grimy shoulder. "Whot if it don't 'eal right? Whot if I gits an infection in me skull?"
"Stop yer whinin,' the man replied, perhaps a bit too harshly. "Ye still 'ave one whole eye left, doncher?"
"Whot if I lose that 'un?"
"Jest leave me be, Rags. Ah'm too tired ter put up wif yer foolishness."
When Ragetti whimpered yet again and, if possible, squeezed his friend's arm more enthusiastically, Pintel chanced a look at the younger man. Dried blood still covered the parts of his thin face that weren't bandaged. His one blue eye, wet with fear and pain, was fixed on Pintel's face.
Pintel was abruptly thrown back into the battle they had fought earlier. Shouts and the screams of dying men assaulted his ears; the cutlass in his hands seemed to move of its own accord. He cut through flesh and bone, staring into his enemies' eyes even as he gutted them. Sticky blood from a fresh head wound dripped into his eyes, but he ignored the injury. The thrill of battle had made its way into his very being; his deadly actions were mindless and automatic.
Suddenly, a pained cry rose above the din of battle and caught Pintel's attention. Half a decade with Ragetti as a shadow had made the younger man's voice as familiar as his own. After a moment of desperate searching and fighting, Pintel located his companion.
Ragetti was curled up on the ground, thin hands clutching the right side of his head. His face was twisted with pain and blood fell in sluggish streams from between his fingers.
"Git up!" Pintel screamed at the young man. It was a miracle no one had ended the cowering boy's life yet; it was only a matter of time until someone decided to finish him off. "Git up, ye fool!"
Moving slowly, like one in a dream, Ragetti looked up at Pintel and lowered his bloody hands. A black hole, oozing blood and other fluids that Pintel didn't care to examine too carefully, stared into nothing. Ragetti's tortured face was all darkness and blood...
Pintel blinked fiercely, trying to shed the nightmarish images. Ragetti was still attached to his arm, his empty socket covered by a bloodied bandage and his face buried in Pintel's shoulder. They were safe. The battle was long over.
Regaining control of himself, Pintel wriggled out of Ragetti's grip. He forced a scowl onto his face and growled, "Go ter sleep, whelp. Ye ain't doin' no one no good wif all yer whinin' and frettin.'"
"But Pinters..."
"Go!"
The word seemed unusually loud and final in the small cabin. Cringing, Ragetti stood shakily and started for the door.
With one look at the defeated slump of the younger man's shoulders, the hated feelings of guilt and concern stole into Pintel's gut. He was too tired and strained to force the bothersome emotions away.
"Rags," Pintel called out, loathing his own weakness with a passion, "ye can stay in 'ere, if it makes ye able ter let me 'ave some decent shuteye."
Ragetti bounded over to Pintel's cot like an excited puppy, his gaunt face lighting up. Before he could make himself comfortable on his friend's bed, however, Pintel fixed him with a glare that was capable of freezing the sea solid in midsummer.
"No ye don't, ye scoundrel," Pintel growled, albeit in a kinder manner than usual. "This be MY cabin. If ye stays, ye sleeps on the floor."
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Darkness washed over the deck of the Black Pearl as the full moon vanished behind clouds. An eerie stillness descended on the ship. The crew didn't bicker below deck, no wind stirred the limp black sails. Even the mangy rats in the galley were silent, their skittering paws hushed by the ominous night.
Pintel sat in the crow's nest, but his mind was wandering far from the job at hand. Everything had moved so quickly after the marooning of Sparrow. One minute they were watching Jack disappear as they sailed away, the next they were sending sanctimonious Bootstrap to the depths, and then...
The balding pirate shuddered.
"Are ye awright, Pinters?"
Pintel started. In the oppressive silence, Ragetti's voice seemed unnaturally loud. "I were plenty awright 'til ye near scairt me ter death," he growled, although his heart clearly wasn't in it.
"'M sorry," the younger man replied, ducking his head. In the stillness that followed, Ragetti pulled his feet close to his thin body and rested his chin on bony knees. When the silence became too heavy, he moved closer to Pintel and said, "Ah'm glad the moon's not out, Pinters. 'S easier ter pretend nuffin' 'appened that way."
"It'll come back, Rags," Pintel responded, his voice flat and empty. "Ye cain't pretend yer problems away. We's damned, lad, sure as the moon'll shine 'gain."
"Damned," Ragetti repeated, hugging his knees worriedly.
Silence reclaimed the crow's nest as Ragetti's whispered word drifted off into the night. Pintel repressed another shudder. Damned was right. Never again to feel the bite of the cutlass in battle. Never again to enjoy the softness of a wench or the numbing burn of grog sliding down the throat. True joy and anger and fear had vanished, leaving a gaping hole in Pintel's soul.
Pintel looked at his companion. Ragetti's real eye was unfocused, staring blankly out at the calm sea. His wooden eye, facing a completely different direction as usual, rested on Pintel. Feeling suddenly uneasy under the wooden gaze, Pintel cleared his throat and asked, "Whot d'ye miss the most, Rags?"
Both of Ragetti's eyes turned to Pintel and his hollow face assumed its customary confused expression. "Miss 'bout whot?"
"Feelin,' ye addle-brained dolt. Whot sorts of feelin' d'ye miss?"
Ragetti paused as if giving the question serious thought. In the brief intermission of silence that ensued, the younger pirate's wooden eye drifted inwards, giving its owner a decidedly cross-eyed look. "I miss me splinters."
"Splinters," Pintel parroted, narrowing his yellowed eyes.
"Aye, splinters. They's still in there, but I cain't feel 'em now. If I's gonna 'ave splinters in me 'ead, I wants ter feel 'em." Ragetti smiled widely, as if recalling a fond memory. "An' whot d'ye miss, Pinters?"
"Everyfing," the older pirate answered quietly, his habitual gruffness absent. Ragetti didn't need to ask for clarification.
Overhead, the full moon cast off its cloudy shroud. Moonlight sparkled on the dark ocean water and whispered across the deck of the Black Pearl, painting worn planks and sails silver.
Pintel grimaced. The soft light found him, peeling back his flesh and showing the night his bare bones. Next to him, Ragetti covered his head with shaking hands as the moon transformed them into monsters.
With a heavy sigh, Pintel turned away from his skeletal friend. As hard as it was to watch his own hand melt away into glistening tendons and pulsating muscle, seeing it happen to Ragetti was for worse. A month ago, the first time they had seen what they turned into by moonlight, Pintel had wanted to vomit at the sight of peeling flesh and gleaming bone. Bile and a scream had lodged in his throat, strangling him as he watched Ragetti crumple under the weight of the curse.
Pintel breathed a sigh of relief as the moon ducked back behind a cloud. As his skin returned, he became acutely aware of the bony hands clutching his arm.
Ordinarily, Pintel would have lashed out at Ragetti for being a cringing coward. Even with the curse in place he was capable of experiencing enough irritation to snap at his companion. Tonight, though, apathy held him in her clutches. Pintel was in no mood to push Ragetti away.
Pintel wished he were mad at the younger man. He wished he could feel that painful mix of anger, concern, and protectiveness that Ragetti's presence used to invoke. Anything! Pintel would have given his undead life to feel anything at all, to be rid of the gnawing darkness that had devoured his soul. He wanted to feel the cool ocean spray on his face, the hard wood beneath his fingers, the warm, trembling hands on his arm. Anything would do. Anything.
Pintel turned to look at his only friend. Something akin to sorrow pulled at his heart when he saw the emptiness in Ragetti's single eye.
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Pintel couldn't quite explain the regret that accompanied Sparrow's demise. He and Ragetti had no reason to love the double-crossing man with roundabout logic and superfluous gestures, but his death had left its mark. Perhaps Jack's death reminded Pintel that all mortals, even ones as uncanny in their luck as Sparrow, were doomed to die.
The thought of death unsettled the seasoned pirate. After ten years of immortality, the prospect of dying was even more frightening, and Pintel often imagined he could see his imminent death lurking around every corner. Of course, with the kraken alive and well, death was lurking around every corner. So why had he been among the first to join Jack's rescue party?
Pintel, decidedly cleverer at escaping death than anything else, reasoned that his chances of remaining among the living were greater if he joined Bootstrap's whelp. After all, better to be on Turner's side than at the end of a noose. Additionally, Pintel didn't trust the whelp's crew or his wench. Elizabeth had been shooting Pintel and Ragetti strange looks since the ordeal on the island, likely trying to choose between befriending them and beheading them. At least if the two pirates aligned themselves with Turner, he would keep them safe from Elizabeth.
Pintel pushed his thoughts aside. He was a pirate; a man of action, not of reflection. Unfortunately, there was little to do besides reflect in Tia Dalma's hut. The others were too wary of their newest crew members to engage in small talk, and Pintel had a healthy fear of Tia Dalma herself. Crossing her did not seem like a particularly wise idea. The pirate glanced over to his right to see how Ragetti was occupying himself.
The younger man was unusually quiet. He sat as far out of the way as possible, long legs pulled up in front of him and shoulders hunched protectively. Slight tremors shook his thin frame.
"Rags," Pintel whispered gruffly, trying to avoid unnecessary attention. "'Ey, Rags! O'er 'ere!"
Ragetti stirred, both of his eyes swiveling to meet Pintel's. His real eye was puffy and rimmed with red. "Whot?" he replied softly, voice thick with emotion.
"Are ye awright?" Pintel winced at the audible concern in his words and searched frantically for something characteristically rude to add. "Not tha' I care or nuffin,' mind, so don' let it go ter yer 'ead."
Ragetti nodded despondently.
His companion's silence was unnerving. If he didn't know better, Pintel would have guessed that Ragetti was mourning Jack's passing. "C'mon, mate. Ain't like yer ter mope like this."
"Ah'm scairt, Pinters," Ragetti answered quietly, his words reminding Pintel of times past. The younger man hugged his bony knees closer and shrank into himself a little further. "I don' want Jack ter be dead, an' Ah'm scairt of sailin' ter the ends o' the world."
That odd feeling of concern and fondness that only Ragetti could inspire twisted Pintel's gut. The younger pirate looked for all the world like the lost, frightened child he had been when Pintel first assumed responsibility of him.
Taking a deep breath and saying farewell to any respect he may have retained, Pintel placed a broad, dirty hand on Ragetti's thin arm.
Ragetti smiled.