Author's Notes: Thanks fabu and dove. Glad to know I am on the right track.
Christ, the second one was so much worse.
Mr. Gibbs could hear the thump, thump, thump of feet behind him as the crew followed him up the ladder to the deck. Jack stood at the base of the crow's nest, where Will escaped to when upset or angry. Based on that scene down in the mess, Mr. Gibbs thought Will was fair ate up with both.
This at least had some semblance of being normal like. With the small dust-ups, Will'd scramble up the rigging to escape Jack, Jack would give him an hour, then follow up to coo nonsense and jokes and sailor shanties and silly promises into Will's ear. Within two hours there'd be laughing and joking and then the both of them would race down the rigging, Jack moving so fast his hands barely touching the ropes as they made their way to their cabin. Shortly thereafter, the cauterwauling'd start as they fucked the stuffing out of each other.
Mr. Gibbs had a sneaking suspicion that Jack actually enraged Will on purpose, because the noises coming from their cabin once they'd kissed and made up were not to be believed.
Take that time when they were berthed in Nassau. Jack began concocting elaborate plans with the cats on how to finally enact the parrot's demise. Mr. Gibbs had a good chortle over that one. Jack stroking the sleek backs of those coal-black cats of his, them winking and swishing their tails at his nibs as Jack would whisper nonsense like, "Now, you have to make sure Cotton's below deck, savvy? Then one of you comes at that sorry excuse for a bird from the front, and the other from behind..."
Will caught the tail end of these nefarious plans and didn't think it was one bit funny. He told Jack in no uncertain terms that he and his bloody cats better keep their paws away from that parrot or there would be cat stew on the menu or his name wasn't William James Turner. Will was halfway up the rigging before Mr. Gibbs yelled at him that it was only in jest, Jack was teasing the lad. "Jest, my arse!" Will snorted. "The man can talk to dolphins. Cats should be child's play to him. He's half cat as it is!" and then continued to scuttle up the ropes. Mr. Gibbs had to admit Will had a point.
But Jack let Will have his pout and then swayed across the deck, his hips rolling with the waves. Then up the rigging he went and not an hour later Mr. Gibbs was hard pressed to know who made it to the deck first, Jack or Will.
A penitent Jack was always a randy Jack. A mollified Will was always a lusty Will. The crew tried to ignore the grunts and moans and if it got too loud, stuck cotton in their ears and went about the business of sailing the ship. The pair of them'd emerge for dinner, Will's curls twisted a hundred different ways to Sunday, a permanent blush on his cheeks; Jack not blushing in the least but grinning like the cat with a pawful of cream. At dinner, Will would sit on Jack's right as usual, his hand on the table casual like, but he'd move his hand close enough to Jack's so that he could rest his pinky on Jack's, like Jack was his compass. Funny that, William Turner so shy about Jack that even touching Jack's hand was considered a bold move, and yet not two hours earlier the crew had winced and pushed at the cotton a mite firmer to drown out Will's moaning at the top of his lungs, "Fuck me, Jack. Oh, just like that. Just like that."
But t'were different this time. Jack wasn't scrambling up the rigging, he stood stiff and proud. No coy smiles, no sea shanties.
"Mr. Turner. Come down this instant. You and I need to parley about yer disrespect and lack of manners. I'll not be asking you again. Now, Mister."
The tone in Jack's voice caused all of the crew to flinch. Was like what the eye of a hurricane might sound like. Calm, but one knew all hell was going to break loose any minute.
"Fuck off," was the reply.
Oh Jaysus, thought Mr. Gibb. Will probably couldn't see from where he was but Jack wasn't Jack, he was Captain Sparrow. His hat was on straight, his left hand alight on his sword, his boots firmly planted on the deck. Will clearly didn't realize that this had spilled out of their cabin and onto the decks of the Pearl. It wasn't a matter of them fightin' no more. Twas Jack being made to look like a fool in front of his crew. Twice.
"William," Jack said it once, but no one knew what else he was going to say because no sooner did the "m" leave his lips than a blade come hurtling through the air, landing with a sharp thwack in the finger's-width space between Jack's feet, hilt perfectly straight up. If it'd been half an inch to the left or right, t'would have speared Jack's foot.
Later, the none of the crew were sure whether the wail that split the air was from Jack or the Pearl herself. So fierce that it rattled the sails, tore at the ropes, strained the lapboards of the Pearl's sides like a wave. The scream nightmares are made of.
And Will knew. He knew that whether it was Jack or the Pearl that he'd done something terrible. Something wrong. The sort of wrong that may be impossible to forgive. He made his way slowly down the rigging. Mr. Gibbs watched as Will's hands followed one over the other with none of his usual confidence or speed.
All eyes watched him except Jack. Jack only stared at the knife between his boots, wedged in the deck of the Pearl. He didn't glance up when Will stood in front of him, trembling like a leaf the boy was, his hands clutched into fists.
"Jack, I'm sor.."
Jack didn't even let him finish.
"Take him to the brig, Mr. Gibbs. A week with bread and water for rations. Closest port is Singapore. Set course."
Jack didn't look at Will when he spoke, didn't look at the crew, didn't move a bloody muscle, just kept his eyes at that fucking knife. His eyes held that same fear, same dread when a blade pierces a man's skin and he can't yet feel the pain but he knows that it might be fatal, knows it went in deep. And all one wonders in those few seconds before the god-almighty pain begins is how deep? How deep?
