Marc had been sufficiently poked, prodded, disrobed and tucked into a tiny cot, in one of the darkest and stuffiest cabins on the ship. The only personnel on the ship who slightly resembled a physician was Gibbs, who simply poked at the boy for broken bones, gave him a gulp of rot-gut whiskey, and laughed heartily in the lad's face, telling him how lucky he was to be alive.
As soon as Gibbs was satisfied that the lad was neither sick nor wounded (and the former was very much feared, considering the state of things), he wrapped the man up in bedclothes and exited the room.
Marc drifts in and out of consciousness for several hours. When he finally comes to, it's well after midnight. He blinks in the darkness, peering through the shadows, trying to associate himself. His torn clothes lay crumpled in a wet pile over on a chair, and a single candle burned blearily off in the corner. A musket and a pair of boots lay disguarded on the floor. He was, it seemed, in somebody's cabin that was, at least until very recently, occupied and in use. No sort of an infirmary to speak of, no sir. He knew by now that he was no longer on the navy ship. And then it came to him… the blast of cannonballs and the smell of blood, the sounds of naval cannons and gunshots, and then, cold, bitter water filling up his nose.
Now where was he? The man who had been caring to him earlier wasn't wearing a uniform to speak of, and his hair was in a dissarray... but he spoke the queen's english, and this, of course, was a very good sign. Marc had heard rumours of pirates, that the soulless madmen were simply overtaking the carribean waters as of late, and that it was a very dangerous time to be out at sea. But most of the pirates he'd been warned about were from Spain, or worse, further south in the barbaric islands, so the stranger's familiar accent gave the lad some relief.
He could tell it was past sun-down, because the candle at the corner of the room was now down to a dull flicker, wax licking down the sides, and there was no sunlight leaking through the walls. He wriggled out of the confining bedsheets and stood unsteadily on the planks of the floor, the air was unbearably hot inside the tiny room, and his bare skin felt slick with sweat. He wiped the wild curls of black hair from his eyes and started to explore the cabin, opening drawers, staring at carved obscenities in the woodwork. On the dresser he found a tattered tricorn hat, flea-bitten at the edges, and flopped it onto his head. With a narcissistic smirk the lad picked up a small hand-held mirror and eyed himself, tilting the corner of the hat far down over one eye, cocking a hip, and winking at his reflection. He looked good. My god, Marc, he thought to himself, for a man who should be dead, he looked quite good.
Just then, as he was admiring himself in the buff, the cabin door flew open with no announcement.
Clutching an oversized jug of rum like it was an extension of his being, Jack stood unsetadily in the doorway. His mouth hangs open as if he is about to speak, but no words escape, as he finds himself staring at the image of Marc, body all slender and nude.
Marc is standing there, mirror in hand, hat flung over his eye, naked as the day he was born.
He drops the mirror and it crashes dramatically into a hundred pieces.
"Oh shite! Shite, ah'm sorry!" He blurts, then grabs the hat, backing himself into a corner and concealing his genitals with the oversized tricorn. "Ah didn't.. oh, god... ah thought ah was alone!"
Jack manages to close his mouth, eyes still stuck to the boy's form, all white and willowy, with lean muscle and shiny sweat licked all over. He's pinker now that he's got some air going through his lungs, and his cheeks are painted a brazen crimson with embarrassment, chocolate eyes wide and long-lashed. The hair simply drops from his head like the plume of an exotic bird, so inexpilcably curly and mad he resembled a gypsy lass off an italian road, selling roses.
He was absolutely beautiful.
"I'm sorry I broke the mirror..." Marc repeated, voice quieter now. His eyes are averted, down at his feet.
Jack looked at the shards of glass scattered on the floor and shrugged. "No worries! The man it belonged to is dead anyway." He staggered across the cabin then, kicking at the glass with his bootheels. Marc continued to press himself into the walls, the hat clutched tightly in his hands.
Jack gets within a foot of the boy, then flashes a madman's smirk, golden teeth showing. "So, wot's yer name then? My name is Jack... Sparrow. CAPITAN Jack Sparrow." He puffs out his chest with the last three words, then performs an extravagant bow.
A jolt of fear suddenly pierces at Marc's chest. Capitan Sparrow? The name sounded frighteningly familiar, and as the lad lifts his eyes to take in the man he nearly faints. Jack most definitely had the word "pirate" written all over him; kohl-streaked eyes, all manner of bead and trinket spun into his mane of black dreadlocks, garish bejeweled rings on every knuckle. Marc begins to tremble, and darts his eyes to the musket stuffed against Jack's hip. What should he do? Will be attacked? Will he be made to walk the plank? What sorts of things do pirates do to unfortunate little buggers like him?
Jack notes the boy's hyperventilation and bites his lip: "Oh, but where are my manners? Here, mate, sit down.. let me get you some trousers..." He guides Marc back onto the cot, throwing a pair of breeches at him that are at least twice as big as what would fit him. Never the less, Marc silently slips into them and tightens the waist, glad, at least, to no longer be exposed in the presence of this.. capitan Jack.
"So, mate, yer name is...?" Jack sits down next to Marc, hanging his legs off the cot and taking a hearty swig of his bottle. "Or 'ave ye forgotten it? Ah know how these shipwrecks are... amnesia... confusion... water on the brain, eh?" He laughs and slaps the boy on the back, nearly sending him flying across the room. Marc clutches the sides of the bed for dear life.
"My.. My name's Marc." The boy says, and politely takes the bottle of rum when Jack hands it to him, taking a sip and coughing.
"Well, Marc, ye're aboard one of the finest pirate ships in the carribbean, the Black Pearl. We saw yer ship off northeast, already in ruins I'm afraid, too late to save anybody else. Looked like you were the only lucky lad!"
"I.. I don't really know what happened, to be honest with you." Marc pouted, taking another drink before Jack snatched the handle of the jug up in his ringed fingers and poured half of the bottle down his gullet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Marc noted that Jack smelled like the sea, an ocean musk that was overbearing and stung his eyes. Jack smelled like spices and rum, too, and there was something charismatic about his dirty fingers and the way they waved through the air as he spoke. Marc didn't feel as uneasy as he had before, although he was still very aware of the musket wedged at the Capitan's belt.
"That's not unusual. I'd say ye were blown up, from the looks of it." Jack passes the bottle between them, gesturing in the stuffy cabin air; "We saw ye floating on a piece of wood and decided to pick you up. If it weren't for us, mate, who knows how long ye would've been floatin' there. Shark bait, an' all that."
"Well, thank you." Marc said quietly, making an effort to be as polite as possible. He did have manners, a few of them.
Jack peered at the lad then, looking at him with a hardened gaze. His posture suddenly shifted, and he was staring straight on into the boy. "What divison are ye?" He asked quite soberly.
"What?" Marc was taken aback at the Capitan's sudden serious tone. And truly, Marc didn't have the answer for such a question, not the answer Jack was no doubt seeking.
"Don't be crass, mate." Jack bore his teeth then, making it perfectly clear with his tone that he was no longer making idle chit-chat. He needed to know.
"I'm not." Marc said, plainly.
Jack looked confused for a moment. He stood up and leaned his body against the dresser, staring at the ground. "Not what?"
"I'm not Navy. I'm not in the service."
There was a heavy silence and Jack's head sagged for a moment, then he turned around, pointing his eyes at the boy. "You were on the boat with them, mate, that's evidence enough for my liking that ye're involved somehow with the ranks. I'm not going to hurt ye, ye know, I just need to know WHAT your SHIP was doing in these waters…. Savvy?"
Marc pleaded to Jack with his eyes; it was one of the tricks he had learned how to do. After all, he wasn't lying; he was no Navy boy, he hadn't held a sword in his life; a few knives, a dagger or two, a musket, yes, but no fancy naval swords, never. It was just that Marc was... something else, something different, and he wasn't prepared to reveal his occupation to the drunken pirate at this juncture. With a stubborn tilt of his brow he repeated himself: "I'm in no way affiliated with the military or any rank of notoriety whatsoever! Ah'm just a commoner! Ah don't know anything!"
Jack's lips curled. He pulled at the corner of his moustache, stabbing his eyes at the boy, who looked a little shaken up. This was not the answer he had predicted--if anything, he was hoping the lad could've been more use to him as a First Mate or Steward, someone who knew where the ship was headed and why the British Navy was out in the carribean at all. Then again, he was lying. Jack could tell a liar apart from an honest man because, after all, Jack was one of the best liars there was.
So, with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulder, Capitan Sparrow drew his sword and placed the blade gingerly against Marc's throat.
"Ah'll ask ye again, mate..." He spoke, lips pulled back like a wolf; "...what's the Navy got in store for the hot waters of the Carribbean, mm?"
Sweat beaded on Marc's brow, and he gasped as he felt the cold steel prickle across his neck. He squeezed his eyes shut. "I told ye ah don't know! Ah'm not in the Navy!"
"Then wot were ye doing on their ship??" Jack snarled, pressing the blade against the lad's clavicle, tasting copper in the back of his throat.
"I'M A BUGGER BOY!" Marc cried out, then glared with black hatred at the Capitan, his brows heavy and cheeks brazen with frustration, chest heaving with anger. Tears stung his eyes; the truth had been revealed. He felt the blade slip away from his neck. "Ah snuck on for some good coin... ah had no idea they were settin' out to sea, thought they were just skipping ports and that I would get to another town that way. I'm just a hustler, I was just on the boat for a week before we sank. I don't remember how. Ah don't know anything else."
When Marc opened his eyes he saw Jack smirking devilishly at him. The way Jack grinned made Marc feel naked again, made the sweat break out on his arms, made his forehead hot.
Jack didn't consider himself to be a sucker, and he was going to get the information he sought after, one way or another. With his men dying on his own ship and the possiblity of the navy being on his tail (not to mention the threat of other pirates competing for the carribean), Jack's patience had run thin and he leaned heavily on the hilt of his sword, chuckling dryly in the back of his throat. The lad's story was amusing, but Capitan Sparrow doubted it's authenticity. He had seen port hookers--hell, he had even slept with a few (or more)--and they never looked as fine as this one (claiming to be one, anyway) sitting in front of him, wearing nothing but a pair of loose breeches slung low at the waist.
"So, ye say yer a bugger-boy, eh? That's an creative piece of fiction... I ain't heard that one before." Jack slowly advanced on the boy, his dreads hanging in front of his face, a smirk tilted on his lips. In the darkness, his eyes shone behind their kohl masks, and when he got within a few inches of the lad's naked form he felt the boy breathing heavily, and felt the animal sweat radiating off of him.
Marc swallowed clumsily, nearly pinned to the bed by now, Jack's body hovering over him.
"Prove to me you're an honest man, then, Marky-boy... if ye're such a buggerer, then bugger me!"
With that he grabbed the lad's chin and slanted his mouth, pushing out those plump pink lips. He admired the lad's beauty for a moment, the way the dim candle-light made his skin golden, the way his frightened eyes darted around the room and then came back, again and again, to meekly connect with the Capitan's harsh gaze, his fingertips tightening at Jack's wrist as he squeezed the boy's face painfully.
"What... do you want me to do?" Marc breathed out, a quiery Jack Sparrow did not quite anticipate.
Feeling a coil of lust twist in his belly, the Capitan said what any drunken pirate would say in a moment on intense interrogation such as this; purely for the acquirement of truth, of course... "Take off yer trousers... and suck me off."
Still holding Marc's face, Jack saw the eyes darken and shift to the wall behind him, he saw the white fingers loosen from his wrist and glide down a bare stomach. Those narrow hips lifted off the cot and the breeches slid from the legs, weightless. Jack let his eyes wander, but kept his hand tight on the boy's jaw... he saw the nest of ebony pubes, the pinkened organ laying half-swollen at the thigh.
Jack swallowed. Marc's fingers were undoing the ties on his trousers now, unclipping his belt and toying with the tangled sash. The heavy clothes slumped to his knees. He stayed put, knees crushing Marc's thighs to the cot, his hand moving to the lad's throat, keeping him pinned as the nimble, slender fingers found his flesh (which was already, notably, stiff) and began to work him over.
Marc found Jack's eyes again, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he whispered, "I can't put you in my mouth if you're holding me here like this."