Adult-FanFiction.org : Movies

Second Chances	By : Chrysanthemum Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > Slash - Male/Male > Jack/Will Views: 7774 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Pirates of the Caribbean movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Chapter One
Jack
The day is so perfect that I can't help but smile. Under the clear lapis blue of the sky, the sea is a liquidly shifting sapphire; the sun casts a merry and warm light over ship, crew, sea, sky, and me. A light, cool breeze sings in the rigging, carrying the smoke and stench of combat off to the starboard. The day almost couldn't get better, but it does when I glance abaft the starboard beam to see the merchant ship sinking behind us and think of all the swag now packed into the Pearl's holds.
Our captives � what remains of the crew and passengers of that fine lady who is slowly descending to Davy Jones's Locker � have been subdued and herded onto the deck; my crew is busy amid them now, making sure that knots are tight and ropes are strong. It's always such a bother to have someone get loose and take it into his head to do something stupid. I've dealt with one shipboard rebellion in my life and that was quite enough, thank you.
I've turned the passengers over to Gibbs's and Anamaria's charge; I don't fancy dealing with them once the actual capturing part is over. I'd much rather take the helm. We're moving slowly now � I'm not in any particular rush just yet, and hands need to be free to take care of the swag and prisoners first � but we're moving, and that's what counts. I don't care if we're flying or creeping; as long as that horizon keeps getting closer, I'm happy. And in this perfect moment I'm really exquisitely happy. The day is divine, the thrill of the fight still buzzes in my veins, and I've got a fine breeze and a calm sea. The horizon tempts, beckons. Where to go now, I wonder, but I'm distracted just before an inspiration can take full shape.
"Captain!" It's Anamaria. She makes her way easily through the barely organized chaos on deck and climbs up to the poop. Following in her wake is-
No.
I don't believe this.
I can't believe it.
"He'd been tied with the rest," Anamaria explains as she nears me. "The newer hands didn't recognize him."
Still foundering in stunned disbelief, I can't find the breath to voice a reply. How could he be here? And yet there's no mistaking that lean and muscular body, those legs formed by countless hours of footwork, the broad waist, flat developed chest, arms strong enough to shape metal to his will, hands that can form and wield a blade with agile, near-casual ease. And then his face... the broad square chin darkened by just a hint of stubble, hair coming loose from its ponytail and straggling in sweat-dampened strings across his forehead, exertion-flushed cheeks, mouth full and luscious and set in a faint grin � and at last I meet his eyes, and the surprise and happiness in his gaze make my heart miss a beat.
"Jack," he says simply but with clear joy as he clasps my hand.
I can't resist; I pull him into a (very carefully platonic) hug, finally finding my voice. "Will." And immediately the old temptation's pulling at me again, the urge to hold on just a little longer, a little tighter, to lean in close � but no. Can't do that. Damn it, not twenty seconds and the boy's already testing my control � but he's not a boy anymore, I realize as I release him reluctantly and step back to look at him again. He's taller by a few inches, and his muscles have filled out just a bit more; he holds himself straight, confident; and his eyes are older, full of new knowledge and even pain. No, he's no boy. William Turner is entirely a man. "Will, what in hell-" I break off, again speechless. He smiles, laughing a little silently, his eyes dancing for a moment before that new sober look comes into them once more.
"It's good to see you, Jack."
"And you," I answer. "Though these are strange circumstances." Then a thought strikes me. "Where's Elizabeth?"
I've evidently struck some chord; deep pain eclipses all other emotion in his eyes in the instant before he looks down and away. His hands grasp briefly at the fabric of his shirt, wringing it, releasing it. "Elizabeth is dead."
"Dead?" I'm momentarily too stunned to think. Then a wave of horror hits me. "Mother of God � did my crew � was she-" In the two years since I regained the Pearl, much of the old crew has left and been replaced by newer hands, men who would never recognize the Turners, let alone know not to harm them.
The relief I feel when Will shakes his head is past my power of description. "It was � before," he says almost too quietly for me to hear. "A while ago, now. She � she-" He shudders faintly and says no more, running a hand through his hair distractedly.
I make a quick decision. "Take the helm," I tell Anamaria; then, putting an arm around Will's shoulders (and now is not the time to think how nice it is to be so close to him, how long it's been since I had more than just the thought of him with me), I say, "Come on, lad," and steer him down the stairs and into my quarters.
I remodeled the cabin after regaining the Pearl; now there are two rooms instead of one, the bedroom and another chamber that serves as a combination of dining room, sitting room (even dread pirate captains have need of a sitting room at times), and office. The door from deck leads into the latter, and as we step in I usher Will to a chair and go to get the rum that I keep stashed in one of the wall cabinets. I know better than anyone else I've met the way a good drink can numb your pain, and the lad looks like he needs some numbing.
I set the rum and two glasses down on the table within easy reach of Will, then pour us each a drink and settle myself in a chair facing him. For a while we say nothing. Realizing that he's not going to start this conversation, I take a deep breath and a healthy swig of rum, then ask "Do you want to talk about it?" in as quiet and gentle a voice as I can. For the moment I can do away with the carefree, oblivious mask I usually wear; this is no time to be anything but completely serious.
He raises bleary, damp eyes from the floor to my face. After a moment in which he seems to flounder, he says slowly, "I don't know. I think so. But..." He sighs. "I'm not sure I can."
"You know you can tell me anything, Will." Breathe; keep it quiet, gentle, unpressured. And keep the pain out of your eyes, for God's sake. Let him see only compassion and sorrow there, man, don't show him how it kills you to see him hurting like this.
"I do." He gives me such a look of gratitude that my heart nearly stops beating. "But it's just � I've tried already to talk to people, so many times, and I just can't-" he breaks off, pressing a hand to his head as if it aches. I consider what to do next. He's still lost in the pain, that much is clear, but what to do if he can't talk himself through it? I've been hurt badly more times than I'd like to admit, and I speak from experience when I say that holding on to pain like that will only make it worse. He reaches for his glass and downs a healthy swallow of rum, and as he sets the glass down and wipes a little at his eyes I suddenly realize what he may need even more than talking just now.
Tentatively, I reach over and put a hand on his shoulder. (I refuse to acknowledge the shock wave that rushes up my arm and settles tightly in my chest when I make contact.) He jumps a little, looking over at me. "'S'no good to hold it in. You can cry, lad. 'Tis not a sign of weakness to grieve for the one you loved."
He bites his trembling lip at that. "Even if it's been almost a year?" he asks with a high quaver in his voice that makes a lump rise in my throat.
"Even then." As he looks back at me I try to put all my sympathy and sadness (but nothing more) into my eyes. And I think I've at least gotten through to him a little, because a moment later the first tear finally traces a glistening path down his cheek. I squeeze his shoulder, trying to comfort but not force anything on him, and that must have been just the right thing to do because suddenly he puts his hands to his face and starts to cry in earnest. The sobs come one on top of the other, so violent that each one leaves him gasping for breath in the moment before the next one comes. It tears me apart to watch him tremble, to see such grief in him and not be able to do any more than keep my hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently every once in a while, and make comforting noises that I doubt he even hears. I want so much to move closer, to take him in my arms � but no. I can't really know how he'd react to that, but it'd likely be badly, and the last thing I want to do is trouble him more than he's already troubled.
Slowly his great, shuddering sobs fade away to smaller ones, then to sniffles and the occasional hiccup. He leans forward onto the table and finishes the rum in his glass; I reach for the bottle and pour him some more. He downs that quickly; unquestioning, I refill his glass again. I can understand why he might want to get drunk fast, and I'm not going to stop him if that's his desire. It's not as if he can get into any trouble here.
He's finished another couple of glasses in total silence, me drinking alongside but not nearly as much as he (can't afford to lose my control in a situation like this), before he finally speaks.
"We were up at the fort," he says, just the slightest hint of indefinition in his voice. He's leaning his head on his left hand, looking down at the table; his hair has mostly come out of its ponytail, and it drapes like a waterfall around his face. "On the overlook, you know the one? You fell off of it. She'd fallen off of it before. We were just talking. She was standing on the little wall there, looking out to sea, and then she turned, and-" Slowly he swivels his head to look at me. His eyes are bleary and reddened; they look dull, dead. "She � she turned, and maybe she slipped, but she was always so sure-footed, but all of a sudden she was falling-" Again he breaks off, raking his hair back from his face with one hand. "She didn't miss the rocks this time, Jack."
For a moment I imagine the body, bloodied and lying at odd, broken angles. I can't hold back a shudder. "God, Will... I'm so sorry." As if that means anything.
He doesn't answer for a while, just swigs his rum again, staring despondently at the glass. "There was the funeral... and then I had to try to keep living without her. I had the forge to take care of, I had orders to fill. But everywhere I went in that city I remembered her. All of Port Royal... it's full of her. I couldn't sleep. I went mad staying in our house, but it was just as bad to leave it. It took me a year to give up on ever being able to live in that city again. But when I finally realized that things weren't going to get better, I caught a ship for England. I hoped maybe I could learn to live without her there." He empties his glass again and refills it without waiting for me to reach for the bottle.
We are silent for a long time, I trying to be comforting however I can, he drinking as if he doesn't want to wake tomorrow. He says nothing more; I, not wanting to push, don't press him to talk. The minutes pass; the sea caresses the Pearl's hull; Will's head sags lower and lower. Finally it hits the table with a dull thud, and he begins to snore faintly.
For a time I just sit and contemplate him: one long, muscled arm stretched out across the table, half-full glass resting close to his limp hand; the curve of his back; the curtain of hair that hides almost all of his face from my eyes. Even now, passed out drunk and stinking of rum to the point that even I wrinkle my nose, he is fascinating, enchanting. Beautiful. And more precious than pure gold or the finest jewels.
I certainly can't let him spend the night here, slumped on my desk. But I haven't given any orders that the crew should prepare a bunk for him, and I don't quite want to leave him to give those orders just now. I glance at the door to my bedroom, and make my decision with a slight sigh. Will deserves an actual bed for the night; I can live without one.
As I lift him he stirs slightly, mumbling something incoherent but troubled. "It's all right, love," I soothe. "Just taking you to a decent bed." He makes a noise that sounds vaguely like "lllrghf" and obediently if somewhat clumsily shuffles his feet along as I help him � all right; half-carry, half-drag him is more like it � toward my room. When we're almost at the threshold he stands straight up for a moment and cries, "Jack!"
"What?" His sudden agitation alarms me. I look around, trying to see if there's anything nearby that might've distressed him.
"The crew, Jack, the crew an' the passengers � don' hurt them."
"Hurt them?" Apparently he's forgotten (or perhaps he never knew) that I'm not that kind of pirate. "I hadn't been planning on it."
"An' what're you goin' to do wi' them?" Incredible that he can be so lucid even when he's drunk enough that he can't keep his words from slurring into each other.
I shrug � at least, I try to shrug, but with most of his weight on the arm he's got draped across my shoulders it's not an easy thing to do. "Usually I drop them off on an island in a shipping corridor. They should get found and picked up eventually."
"No."
"No?" I turn my head to look at him, raising an eyebrow. "And just what am I supposed to do with them, then?"
"Leave them som'ere with people."
"Lad, this is a pirate ship. Forget what happened two years ago; I can't just sail the Pearl into some harbor to let people ashore!"
"Tortuga."
I sigh. So stubborn, this one, when he wants to be. "And how would they catch a respectable ship home from there, since that's clearly what you want? Will, I can't-"
"Please." He looks at me pleadingly. "You're Captain Jack Sparrow! Promise me you'll find a way."
I try to refuse. I really do. But with those beseeching brown eyes fixed on me it's really rather pointless to even attempt not giving in. "Bloody hell," I say, sighing. "All right. I'll try, at least."
"Thank you!" he says, smiling blissfully and leaning more heavily on me. By this point we've made it to my bedroom. I pull back the bedsheets and lift him into my bunk. He seems to have either dozed off or passed out again; he flops limply onto the bed and doesn't move at all of his own accord as I remove his boots and arrange his body in what I hope is a comfortable position. But he stirs as I pull the sheets over him and tuck him in. "Jack?" he mumbles almost inaudibly.
"Yes, love?"
"I'm glad I found you."
The faint smile stays on his lips even as his eyes flutter closed again and his breathing grows deep and slow. "So am I," I murmur, though (or perhaps because) I know he won't hear me.
Then I realize what I called him a moment ago � and once earlier, if I'm not mistaken. I curse (but softly, now, wouldn't want to wake Will) and flop down onto the old, battered chair wedged between the cabinets that line one wall and the wall that contains my bunk. "Love." How could I have been so stupid, so careless? I'm just lucky that he's drunk; he's not likely to remember it in the morning, and even if he does I can tell him that he must have imagined it.
But God, what if I'd slipped like that while he was sober? I imagine the confusion in his face, his insistent questions before he finally figures it out � not always the brightest one, that lad, but give him enough time and he'll understand how things are � his bewilderment shifting into anger, scorn, hatred � no. That won't do. Better to bear the secret; far worse to have him loathe me. I've been letting my guard down too much. I need to be more careful.
That sounds so simple, doesn't it? Too bad that my resolutions to be careful seem to end up getting shot to hell every time I'm near him.
I sigh. Stupid to fall in love in the first place. What good is it to love when you're only going to end up alone anyway? And just how did it happen? It certainly wasn't as some say love happens, at the very moment you meet; in fact, at the moment we met, I thought he was just a tad dull-witted, overly stubborn, and not too bright to boot. Good-looking, yes, but I like my men (and my women for that matter) with a bit of personality.
Turns out Bootstrap's son had, in fact, inherited a bit of the old Turner personality. It took me a day or two to see it, but it was there � the flash in the eyes, the grim set of the mouth, that look that tells me that its owner thinks I'm a damned fool and mad to boot, the blasted dogged pursuit of right as if it were something just out there, as if right isn't a thing that a man makes. The willingness to fight for that idea of right even if it meant losing his life. Oh, it was there, all right. I suppose that interested me. But that doesn't change the fact that he was a bloody pain in the ass, nearly got us killed more than once, and trampled on my plans � plans that would have worked everything out perfectly well � as often as he wasn't putting our lives in mortal danger. He was not attractive; he was a bloody nuisance.
And yet when Will and I were heading back to the Interceptor after inspecting our new crew I just happened to glance over at him, sitting next to me in the boat, and just like that I knew that I loved him. It was there, and do what I might I couldn't get rid of the feeling.
Any storyteller worth his salt would know what happened next. Captain Jack Sparrow always gets his man, after all. But this isn't one of the legends echoing in the inns of port towns; it is, in fact, a story that I pray is never known by anyone other than Gibbs and myself. (I wouldn't even want Gibbs to know, but he has a way of reading me like I read the clouds and breezes and waves, so I tell him everything. It's easier that way � if he's going to know anyway, I'd rather he actually heard it from me.) Because Captain Sparrow's love has � had, I correct with a wince � a love of his own, a love who is of rather the wrong sex, and Captain Sparrow himself is utterly unworthy of the man he adores. Anyway, Captain Sparrow isn't really Captain Sparrow � or I suppose I should say that Jack Sparrow isn't really Captain Jack Sparrow. I wish I could be him. I wish that I could have that cunning, that courage, that self-assurance, that skill with a blade and with attractive members of either sex. But all I've got is his damned luck. It's a shaky thing to have one's whole life stand on the whims of fate. It's dangerous. You can't be weak, and I'm not � not really, not in the ways that really count for staying alive. But I'm nothing of the glorious creature that is Captain Jack Sparrow of the legends. I'm just Jack, Jack Sparrow to those who can't call me by my first name alone, Jack Kent to the few who knew me as a child (none of them here; they're all back in England, where I'm sure I won't see them while we still walk this earth). Captain Sparrow is the mask. A very few people have known about it; a very few people have seen me as just me. I hate it. Without the shine of Captain Sparrow's grandeur, all of the dirt just stands out more. Most of those who see past the mask have long since left. But Bootstrap stayed with me, and Gibbs stays with me now. I can't fathom why they did it, why each took care of me in their own way � Bootstrap's earnest and irritating, Gibbs' gruffly affectionate. It's not as if I'm worth it.
If Will were ever to see through that mask...
But he has already; at least, I'm sure he's seen through some of it. That night on the Pearl, when they took us out on deck and made Will watch as Barbossa (James) � well, anyway. That night I couldn't keep it up. It became a choice between maintaining the fa�ade and bearing the pain, and of course that isn't really a choice at all. Will had to have seen through me then, and I can't believe that after two years he hasn't realized what he saw. He's not that stupid. And yet he doesn't act like it. He invited me to the wedding, was glad enough to see me then and again tonight. He hasn't turned away, hasn't acted as if anything's different. It's frighteningly puzzling. But I'll take what luck hands to me. Maybe he is that stupid. For surely if he saw what I really am he'd hate me.
He shifts slightly, mumbling something in his sleep; I come out of my thoughts with a jolt and watch him carefully for a few moments. When he doesn't appear to be having a nightmare or in any other sort of distress, I start to look away � but my eyes are drawn back to him almost against my will, and I lapse into a slow contemplation of his face: the richly brown hair, which I have always imagined to be as soft as the gentle ocean waves that lap at one's toes at the shore; the fine features reddened from too much sun (and perhaps too much drink, at the moment) that are still unmistakably those of the man I love, though age has taken off the last of their former rounded softness; that beautiful, stubbled long line of jaw. In sleep he is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. No pain or anger mars the perfection of his face; he looks calm and strangely young.
Again I find myself wondering things that I should just forget so that I could get on with my life. Why him? Why not � God, anybody else! Someone who wouldn't be dirtied by the mere touch of this beaten, filthy creature that passes for a man. He is so beautiful, so above me � so not interested in men, the wry part of my mind whispers � I'd never have a chance with him. I sigh. I'm certainly not getting any sleep tonight. Might as well do something with the time, then. If I go take the wheel now, it'll put an end to any more of this damned brooding. I can never resist the sheer joy of being at the helm, of having the freedom to go where I want and do what I want, and I know that that joy will leave no room in my head for a certain heartbreakingly beautiful young blacksmith.
With one last, lingering glance at Will, I leave my cabin and head out on deck.
*****
Night has begun to fade into morning, the moon having sunk nearly to the horizon, when Gibbs comes up the stairs to the helm and stands at my side. "How is he?" he asks quietly.
"He's been better." I pause, check the fading stars, make a quick calculation, and turn the wheel slightly to the right. "Then again, I've seen worse."
"Been worse, I think ye mean."
I sigh, irritated. "Would you stop doing that?" But I know the answer that's coming � could mouth the words along with Gibbs if I wanted to.
"I can't help if I know ye too well for your comfort, Jack. But if ye'd rather I kept my thoughts to myself-"
Now it's my turn to give a well-expected answer. "Don't dare," I half-growl. "I'm not having you knowing everything about me without my knowing what you know."
"Aye, sir." As always, there is a hint of humor in his otherwise respectful tone.
The old, familiar script dispensed with, we are silent for a moment or two. Then he says, in a strange and cautiously tender voice that I have only ever heard him use when speaking with me in private, "He grieves for Miss Elizabeth?"
"Deeply." Another question, unspoken, hovers in the air; in answer I say, "She fell from a cliff. It was an accident."
I catch movement out of the corner of my eye as he bows his head. He murmurs something under his breath � whether a prayer or a superstitious saying I have no idea; with Gibbs it could easily be either � and then says more loudly, "She was a fine lady."
"She was." I cross myself, remembering her spirit, her liveliness. A fine lady, indeed.
For a long time we say nothing more. There is a comfort in just standing here together, knowing that each of us feels the same sorrow. Though he's standing a few inches away from me I can feel Gibbs' presence, warm and solid and entirely there, at my side. I don't know why or how he puts up with me, but at times like this I am unspeakably glad to have him as a friend.
"And how are you?" Gibbs asks. It would have been completely out of the blue if I hadn't heard his indrawn breath moments before � and if I didn't know him so well.
"All right. It was a shock to hear that she's gone. I'll miss her. A fine woman, Elizabeth."
"With all respect due to the dead," he growls, "that is not what I meant and ye know it."
I do know it, but I was hoping that he wouldn't push it. Now the choice � draw this out further or give in now instead of letting him pry it out of me. With a sigh, I choose the second option. I don't particularly feel like being stubborn tonight. "It's � hard," I say, looking out to the first rays of dawn lighting the horizon. "Somehow I never expected to actually see him again."
"And it's bad?"
"Not bad," I answer forcefully. Being around Will is never bad. "Just... I'd gotten used to the idea of never seeing him again. Almost made things easier, I guess."
"Ye still love him," he says. I snort. That was the most obvious statement I've ever heard. "All right, then," he answers immediately. "Sorry for saying what's clear." He doesn't sound a bit sorry.
"It's all right." And it is, really. I'd rather have it out in the open, anyway, instead of unspoken but understood. I probably would've gotten around to saying it myself in time.
Gibbs nods once and, with a solid hand on my shoulder, says, "Don't worry about it too much, Jack. It'll come out right." He deliberately knocks twice on the nearby wooden railing; then, with one last smile over his shoulder at me, he goes down the stairs to the main deck and busies himself with an inspection of the rigging, leaving me alone to think.
*****
Will
For once, I don't dream. Sleep is a welcome blackness, no more, and I wake with the weight of grief's weariness at least slightly lessened. I don't notice that for a while, though. What I do notice is first, that my head feels as if it's been caught between my hammer and an anvil instead of a blade and second, that I'm in a strange bed.
�Bunk, I correct myself as I slowly and carefully open my eyes and look around, wincing at the light slanting full into my face. The bunk is larger than most, the sheets of a surprisingly fine quality, and the room itself is quite big for being on board a ship. That, along with a familiar hat and greatcoat hung on pegs on one wall and my returning memories of yesterday, is enough to make me think that I'm in Jack's bed. Bunk. Whichever.
I sit up a little too quickly, and grip the bedsheets as the room spins and the pounding at my temples intensifies until my vision goes black. Slowly the pain dies and vision returns until I feel like I can move again. This time I go very slowly, taking a few minutes to get my feet on the floor, carefully smoothing my hair down and tying it back in a (hopefully) somewhat neat ponytail with one of the scraps of ribbon I keep in my breeches pocket. I walk to the door at what would be something less than a leisurely pace if I weren't so hungover.
There are sounds coming from the other side of the door; I pause with my hand on the knob. My behavior last night was more than a little shameful. It wasn't exactly sociable of me to come on board, say hello to Jack, and almost immediately turn maudlin and get falling-down drunk. Jack, being Jack, probably doesn't care too much, at least not about my getting drunk � he supplied the rum, after all � but that's really no excuse. Being in the company of pirates doesn't mean that I can stop behaving like a civilized man. And even if Jack doesn't mind, what about Gibbs? Anamaria? The rest of the crew? I didn't even say hello to most of them.
But I'm going to have to face everyone sometime, and standing here won't do anything about that. I suppose I'll just have to hope that they'll accept my sincerest apologies. I take a deep breath � wince again at the spike in my headache that results � and open the door.
Jack looks up from a table on which are several platters and dishes, some covered, others open to the air and piled with food. His face lights up like a child who's just been given a piece of candy; for a moment, seeing such simple joy directed at me, I feel the hangover lift and can almost smile back.
"Will!" He rises, pulling out the chair beside his. "'Ave a seat, lad. Hungry?"
"Thank you, and yes." The words catch and run together on my dry tongue, emerging as an almost indistinct mumble. The silence leans toward awkward for a moment as we sit (he plops into his chair as if falling; I take my good time, trying not to move too much and especially not to jostle my head). I think of any number of light things I could say, all sorts of small talk I could make, but in the end guilt gets the better of me and I blurt, "I'm sorry about last night."
His brow furrows. "What for?" Classic Jack. Oblivious and unable to find fault with any vice or slight. I'm surprised by the sudden realization that I missed this part of him quite a bit.
"Well, for drinking myself under the table, to start. And I'm afraid I'm not going to be much company for the rest of the morning � afternoon � whatever it is now."
"Afternoon, but barely." He looks like he's both concerned and faintly amused, and trying to hide the latter. "An' don't worry about it. If I'd minded I wouldn't 'ave let ye do it. I think ye needed it." A ridiculous statement, but once again typically Jack.
"Nobody needs to get drunk-" I try to insist.
"Bollocks." Something strange and very close to real pain flashes in the depths of his eyes. "There're times when a man jus' needs t' forget." He looks oddly different in this moment, serious in a way that contradicts his usual happy-go-lucky attitude. For once he appears a knowing, experienced, intelligent man, not a foolhardy and reckless pirate. I've seen Jack like this only a few times before, and every time I've found myself thinking that it half seems I'm looking at an entirely different person. But then the expression passes and he gaily continues, "An' as for not bein' good company, 's not as if ye're expected to be. Ye're grievin', for the love o' God, an' I'd bet my ship you have a hell of a hangover."
I can't hold back a rueful smile at that. "I'm afraid I don't take well to liquor."
"I've got something' of a cure for tha', ye'll be happy to hear. The hangover, I mean, not the takin' well t' drink. Me own discovery, though I won't be so bold as t' say it hasn't been discovered before." He winks, looking so much the rascal that I have to smile. "There're two things ye have t' do. First � eat." He indicates the full table before us with a characteristically fanciful sweep of his hand. "Jus' a bit, mind, not enough t' make ye feel sicker."
Somehow Jack being Jack has managed to lift my spirits a good deal. It's a comfort to have him here, acting the buffoon as always. But I still shock myself when I tease, "Your own discovery? It's truly a wonder you thought of eating, Jack, else we'd all starve to death."
He only manages to look almost indignant for a moment before he breaks out in a grin, gold teeth flashing. "Well, ye clearly can't be feelin' too bad if ye're jestin' with ol' Jack. But ne'er mind. You go an' eat a bit. An'-" he picks up a bottle from the table and pours two inches of a dark, cinnamon-colored liquid into my glass.
I catch a whiff of sweetness and strong alcohol, and groan. "I should have known that you'd find a way to bring liquor into this."
"Jus' drink that, no more. Helps t' take the edge off the headache."
My stomach shifts threateningly just at the thought. "If I have any more rum I'm going to be violently sick."
"Nonsense. Drink up, lad. It works, I swear on me mum's grave, bless her soul." He flashes me a broad Jack-grin. "Ye know I won't let ye be till ye do it."
With a sigh and a roll of my eyes I down the stuff, trying not to grimace at its over-sweet taste. "Happy?"
The light in Jack's eyes says he's more than happy � I'm too hungover to think on the reasons behind that just now, if there are any other than that he's mad � but all he says is, "Quite. I'd be happier if ye'd eat somethin', though." I take his not overly subtle hint and start to fill my plate. The food is quite good for shipboard fare � one of the advantages of being captain, I suppose � and I'm hungrier than I thought. But after wolfing down a few rolls and some roast pork, I manage to slow down and eat like a person rather than an animal.
We make small talk over lunch for the most part. Jack tells me about what he's been doing since we last saw each other; his activities, I'm unsurprised to hear, can be summed up with the phrase "being a scoundrel." I wouldn't have expected to feel comfortable with him again so quickly, had I thought about it. But somehow, though it's been a long time since we last saw each other, and though we were only barely friends by the end of our adventure, sitting here and talking with him over a meal feels more like being at home than anything in Port Royal did. The food slowly disappears, and after a while we find ourselves lingering over the remnants of our meal, the conversation fading into a companionable silence.
"I don't know if you recall," Jack says suddenly, "but ye got a promise from me last night."
Oh, hell. I do recall, impressively enough, and I really can't believe myself. Jack might be Captain Jack Sparrow, but he's only human. He's not a cruel man, either, and I imagine he treats his captives as well as he can without putting his crew, his ship, and his life in too much danger. Asking him to do more was selfish and stupid. "I remember. But I can't hold you to it in good faith. I mean, I don't like the situation they'd be in, but it's better than it could be. I really can't ask you to risk-"
"I've thought of somethin' that might work."
He says it so calmly and matter-of-factly, so without the flamboyance that I've come to expect from him, that for a moment I just stare, movement and speech temporarily beyond me. When I can talk again I say, "You have?"
"Aye. Your friends are still t' be marooned on an unpeopled island, mind ye. But some are closer t' people than others. An' I was lookin' through the swag � the boys took a boat off o' your ship. She's really too fine t' part with � ye should see her, she's a beaut � but I don't have room aboard for an extra. So I have one more dinghy on me hands than I can manage. Seein' as I'm unloadin' somewheres anyways, I might as well get rid of everything I don't need at once. Savvy?"
"I savvy." And I'm stunned. This is the heights of generosity for a pirate. "Jack � I � thank you. You don't know how much this means to me. They aren't exactly my 'friends,'" indeed, I barely know any of them, "-but they've been... very kind." That's an understatement, but it's all that I can think of to say that could even start to describe their compassion and understanding.
"If they've been kind, then I call 'em friends," he answers, grinning. "Oh, an' another thing. D'ye still wan' t' go t' England?"
The answer is easy; there's nothing left for me here. "Yes." I pause, thinking. "I suppose I can find a way to slip back ashore somewhere reputable and get passage on another ship-"
"If ye don't object t' sailin' on a pirate ship again, I was thinkin' I could take ye there." His suddenly sober, "If ye like," seems an afterthought.
I can feel my jaw drop. "You're serious?"
"Quite, luv."
To say I'm stunned would be like saying that Jack's plans and motives are sometimes a little difficult to figure out. "You're offering to cross the Atlantic just because I happen to be on board and want to go to England."
"I've made a mess of your trip. I may's well make it up t' ye, aye? An' I've been thinkin' of headin' eastwards anyway. So what's your answer, aye or nay?"
"If you're sure..."
"I'm sure, lad."
"Then... aye, I suppose. If you really don't mind. But, Jack-"
"Aye?"
"Why?"
He furrows his brow, but his confusion doesn't quite ring true. "What d'ye mean?"
"I've never seen you so... altruistic." Well, I have once before, but I'm not going to dig up old scars just now. "Where's the profit in this for you? It can't just be that you want to go east; there are faster ways to get there than going all the way north to England."
He says nothing for a moment. Then, suddenly, he asks, "Are we friends, Will?"
"Yes, I consider you my friend."
"Then what's in it for me is what's in it for you. Savvy?" I know I look confused, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He smiles gently, almost tenderly, and says, "I like t' see ye happy, lad." And for the second time today, there's another odd moment. But before I can really question what just happened he's abruptly back to his normal self, hands dancing madly about his shoulders as he continues, "B'sides, ye didn't think old Jack wouldn't take care of his friends, did ye? I do have a heart, mate, though it's a black one." He grins wildly and rises. "Now come on. I'm sure ye didn't get a chance t' look 'round yesterday. The Pearl's changed since ye last saw her, and ye should come take a proper tour! With a proper guide, of course."
I follow him out of the door, blinking in the bright sunlight as I wonder if I was just the victim of a diversion.
- 1
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Second Chances