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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
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Chapter Two
Jack
The next few weeks pass quickly. I'm so caught up in things � first the arrangements for our captives, then preparations for the journey ahead, and finally the joy of being out on the open ocean again � that time flies past like the strong tailwind that starts up at our backs a day out of Tortuga. Having Will with me again is both the source of my happiness and a deep torment. I didn't realize just how much I missed him, how much I longed to see the flash in those gorgeous brown eyes, the smile that occasionally curves his lips. I can't imagine what it will be like to leave him in England. The finality of it haunts me. There will be no chance to see him again afterward; pickings are too slim in those waters � and the weather is too dismally abominable � for me to stay. But in a way, knowing that our time together is limited makes these few fast weeks seem all the sweeter, even if it is an ordeal to go through every day without touching him, without letting him know how I feel � not to mention living with the fear that he'll somehow find me out.
It's not as if I'm too bothered about it all. I am usually content just to be near him, to talk to him; the troubles intrude on me when I can't distract myself with anything else, but it's a pain I can live with. I am, after all, making Will happy, and that's what really matters. I don't lose any sleep over him, not really.
That's not to say, though, that I don't lose sleep over other things.
*****
I'm a light sleeper, so the soft sound of the cabin door closing wakes me as if the door had slammed shut. I listen, smiling slightly, to the hiss-rustling of clothing being shed, a few quiet thuds as several objects � a sword, guns, a compass, perhaps � are set down on the table. Then the sheets are pulled back. I shiver at the touch of cooler air, but only for a moment; he slides in bed behind me, naked as I am, and the heat of his body makes me forget the quick chill entirely.
His cock slides suggestively against my ass. I know what he wants, and the thought makes my own cock come alive, tingling and heavy against my thigh.
"Good evening, Captain." That low voice, combined with his usual slight hoarseness, never fails to send shivers up my back.
"Good evening, Mr. Barbossa," I answer, teasing a little and half-breathless already as his arms come around me from behind. He pinches my nipple with one hand, stroking my belly lightly with the other. "Is all well above?"
"Quiet as the grave," he murmurs, his breath hot and damp on the back of my neck. I bite back a quiet moan. "Bo'sun was told to keep a sharp eye nevertheless."
"Good." Then I can't speak as his hand squeezes that one place above my right hip that sends blood rushing straight to my cock. When my head stops spinning I start to turn over to face him, but he stops me with a firm hand on my shoulder.
The first kiss, placed lightly at the nape of my neck, makes me shiver. The second draws a low moan; the feeling of his tongue between my shoulder blades is too much of a turn on for me to stay quiet. Inch by inch his mouth makes its way down my back, each slow, sucking kiss making my cock throb harder. By the time he gets to my ass I'm so wound up that I moan more from relief than need as he bites not too gently into my right cheek. I roll from my side onto my stomach, spreading my legs for him, and feel his hands settle on my ass, spreading me open. For a long moment he does nothing. The tease only makes me hotter, as he knows it will; I'm hard put to keep from squirming. I can feel his gaze on me, as solid as a caress, and it's driving me crazy.
His beard rasps against my skin only an instant before his tongue finally touches my asshole. The first jolt of pleasure is almost unbelievably intense; I jerk beneath him, clutching at the sheet. "James! Ah- oh, God-"
He chuckles and continues to slowly, almost gently, lick me. His tongue swirls around my hole and then slips inside once, twice, and I sigh in ecstasy and give myself over entirely to the pleasure. The slightly rough slide of the sheet against my cock is breathtaking. Every slow swirl of his tongue, every teasing stroke of his hands or almost rough pinch drives me closer to coming, and I dig my nails into my palms to hold myself back. I know that he doesn't want me to come just yet. This is only the beginning; he likes to see me writhe, likes to push me to the very edge. And he does push me; with a skill he's gotten through much practice he takes me right to the very brink, to the point where I can't get enough air and I'm bucking violently under him, the point when I think that it's unavoidable, that there's no way I can hold back and in just a few more seconds I'm going to-
Just before I finally let myself go he pulls back, slides up the bunk, and rolls me onto my side so that I'm spooned up against him. The position leaves my cock bobbing in the air with no contact at all; I nearly scream in frustration, fighting him when he grabs my hands to prevent me from touching myself and, when that fails, squirming frantically and in vain to try to get any sort of friction at all. But I still immediately when I feel his finger at my hole, pushing but not really penetrating. "What do you want, Jack?" he breathes in my ear. I moan wordlessly, pressing back against him; he knows damn well what I want. But he nips sharply at my earlobe, and his next words carry a hint of warning. "Ask for it."
"Fuck me." It's really a wonder I can get the words out.
"Ah." He almost purrs the word, he sounds so self-satisfied. "And how bad do you want it?"
"Very badly," I groan, shifting restlessly. My cock is pounding in time with my heartbeat, begging for touch along with the rest of my body. "For God's sake, James, please-"
"That's not very descriptive," he chides. Then his voice drops a register as he says, "Perhaps you should show me how bad you want it." It's not a request.
I roll over and look him in the eye, feeling the coy smile on my lips although I know it doesn't reach my eyes. So that's tonight's game, then. All right. It's an excellent chance for revenge, and Jack Sparrow never passes up such an opportunity to exact his vengeance. I'm an accomplished tease when I want to be, and I will make him pay for the agony of frustration he's just left me in.
"Go on, then," he murmurs. I warrant I'll wipe that smug grin off his face in less time than it'd take to bring the ship about. Slowly I slide down his body, trailing my lips and fingertips lightly over his skin, pausing here and there to nip or to stroke a little more firmly.
I pause for a moment when I reach his cock, savoring the anticipation. Then, slowly, I lean forward and lick the head once. He grunts; I grin, and trail my tongue up the length of his shaft. The old familiar pain shoots through my scalp as he grabs two good handfuls of my hair. I wince. I wish he'd stop doing that, but despite his apologies and vows to stop, almost every time my mouth is on his cock I find his hands tugging at my hair. Well, so much for teasing. I know what he wants, and giving him anything other than what he wants is going to result in some terribly painful hair-pulling. So, without any more teasing, I deep-throat him.
Suddenly everything changes. I'm kneeling before him now, still naked although now he's clothed save for his open fly. Rough wood scrapes at my knees, replacing the coarse but much more comfortable cloth of bedsheets, and the warm, moist air of a Caribbean night strokes my body. I hear evil laughter drifting through the night around me, and comments that hurt only because they are so awfully true. The only things that are the same as they were a moment ago are his cock in my mouth and the sting of my hair being pulled out in his cruel grip.
I glance up at him. The smug pleasure on his face is sickening. I kept a little too much of my pride when I lay with him before, it would seem; he must be really enjoying seeing me finally submit myself completely to his will. Bastard. I loved you once, you know � at least, I thought I did. And you led me on for all that time, you let me believe it, and then-
No. Don't show it, don't show him the pain. It's what he wants to see. And it's the last part of me that's me; it's all that's left... well, maybe that's not quite true. I do have love, I suppose. Why else would I be doing this...? And suddenly he's coming, so suddenly that I nearly choke. I used to enjoy making him come, used to savor the cutting salt taste of him. Now his come tastes bitter and faintly rotten, burning my mouth and throat as I swallow.
I swear I will pay you back for this, Barbossa. I will take my vengeance in blood.
Another abrupt change of scene, though the shift in time and place is much less. At first I only feel cold. Icy metal presses up against my chest, an edge digging painfully into my belly. I only have an instant to process this before I am completely distracted from that particular discomfort. Pain tears through my ass and back as someone takes me from behind, shoving himself roughly into me with no warning or preparation. Dimly I hear myself scream. But no, none of that, now, that's what they want to hear. Don't give them any more than you have to. I try to relax, to make this easier for myself, but it's so hard when I'm in such pain, such terrible pain. Somehow this is worse than anything, worse even than the time that whaling hook caught in my arm and pulled the flesh right off of the bone. But God, God, it hurts so much... I hear my grunts of pain despite my best efforts to keep silent. And it's not that I'm unused to being taken roughly � I've been on the receiving end of a hard fuck more times than I can count � but always there was at least some tiny bit of concern for my comfort. Here the only purpose is to hurt me, and to take pleasure from my pain.
But I can stand it. I can take it. Because if I weren't enduring this, it would be Will bent over this anvil. And it's much better this way.
I am able to keep on telling myself that this is bearable only until I open my eyes and look around. The sight of the scurvy lot that I used to call a fine crew is not too terrible � but then my eyes light on Will. And oh, the horror and disgust on his tear-streaked face... He sees it now, everything, sees what I really am. And he will hate me for it, I know. He'll hate me, and how will I face him ever again, he'll turn away from me and I'll deserve it-
This thought jolts me awake and straight upright in bed just in time to swallow the scream about to burst from my lips. For several minutes I don't move at all � well, apart from shaking uncontrollably � and try to just breathe normally instead of in convulsive, panicked gasps. Still I see that awful image, the repulsion on Will's face. As soon as my breathing is something like normal I blink and shake my head, trying to clear my vision. Slowly the real world fades into view � there the end of my bunk; beyond it the wall, the door to the outer room closed; my clothing and effects hung on pegs; the low bank of combination cabinets-drawers-counters that follow the curve of the wall to my right; the deep blues and violets of night sliding into the cabin through the windows lining two walls. And now little sensations slip into my awareness, all of the tiny feelings that prove to me that I'm really here and now � the sheets faintly scratchy on my legs and belly, the tickle of a stray hair on my nose (I brush it away before it becomes irritating), a piece of straw in my mattress poking me in the leg.
I take a deep breath. Only a nightmare. Nothing new. It's all over now, just remember that. But I'm still tense, my shoulders and neck in knots as I lie back and close my eyes, and it doesn't take me half a minute to figure out that I won't be getting to sleep again any time soon. The room is close and confining suddenly, squeezing me, shutting me in. I have to get out, get someplace where I can breathe, where I don't feel so trapped- I all but leap out of bed, pulling on the first pair of breeches that I find. I don't bother with a shirt � I have never known a Caribbean night so cold that I couldn't go shirtless � I just run for the door.
The first soothing touch of the night on my sweaty skin is blessedly calming, the salt spray's damp caress an immense comfort. The night and the sea will always take me as I am, and theirs is an acceptance that I can't argue with.
The stars are tiny diamonds set off to their best advantage against the indigo velvet sky. No need for the helmsman to use his compass tonight; the stars are so clear that only a fool wouldn't be able to see them, see the patterns and signs that every sailor worth his salt can use to find his way. But the moon exceeds even the stars' beauty and brightness; full and radiant, it hangs midway between overhead and horizon. Its pure glow lights the Pearl in a most flattering way. She seems to truly be a ghost ship in this moment, shimmering and almost looking as if there's no more to her than air; the few men on deck appear flimsy shadows in the moon's brilliance. Only one seems even faintly solid. He stands at the rail, leaning slightly on it, his face upturned and thoughtful. Instead of being lessened and obscured by the moonlight, he is spotlighted by it. I think I could pick out every hair in his eyebrows and every stitch in his clothing even from this distance, the moon reveals him with such clearness.
"Good evening, Jack." He doesn't shift his gaze from the sky as I come up next to him.
"Come, lad, it must be morning by now." I don't know why I keep calling Will "lad;" he's certainly no longer a boy. But he never protests, so I guess he doesn't mind.
"Good morning, then." Though he still isn't looking at me, I see the faint smile at the corner of his mouth. Of course neither of us is surprised to see the other. This doesn't happen nightly, but it's not the first time we've met on deck in the middle of the night, and I doubt it'll be the last. It has in fact become common enough for us to do this that the crew has grown used to it and all hands know that the men on watch are not to disturb us, indeed not even to come too close.
We stand in silence for a while, leaning our elbows on the railing. He still watches the sky; I keep my eyes on the sea. Eventually I ask, "Bad dream?" I almost add "again," but I don't even though of course it's again. And of course it's a bad dream, but I won't get him talking about it if I don't start somewhere.
"Yes," he sighs.
"The same one?" His nightmares � at least, those that he's told me about � are usually the same: he standing helplessly on the cliff, watching Elizabeth fall. Sometimes he stops describing it there; at others, he mumbles something about the terror in her eyes just before he trails off. I'm sure that the dream continues, but I can imagine well enough what happens and I never press him for details. Even a nosy old man like me can recognize when something's just too delicate to push.
"The � first one, yes."
I blink. The first one? But I only suggest and lead; as I said, I never press him about these things. If I get him started, he usually says all that he wants to without any more prompting on my part. So I leave it be and say as comfortingly as I can, "She was a fine lady."
He sighs, and there is an awful, despairing sound to it that near breaks my heart. Again we are silent for several minutes. Seconds after I think that this will be one of those nights when he isn't in the mood to talk, he says quietly but clearly, "I didn't love her enough."
For a moment I completely lose all of my carefully upheld composure. I think my jaw near hits the deck, and it's a good thing I've got the railing to hold on to because my legs nearly go out from under me. "What?"
"I didn't love her enough." He turns to face me at last. The pain in his eyes is sharp in contrast to his calm tone of voice. "I tried to, and I just couldn't."
"What in hell are you talking about? Of course you loved her! For God's sake, Will, you near died for her! And look at you now! You wouldn't be so bloody maudlin if you hadn't loved her!"
"But I didn't love her enough," he insists. "I just � damn it, you won't understand-"
"Try me, mate." I fix him with my levelest, most serious gaze. He looks back at me intensely, and for a minute I can see the words forming on the tip of his tongue � but then he turns his eyes away, his expression growing closed. So I'm not the only one who has secrets he won't share, then.
"I can't."
"Will-"
"Let it be, Jack," he says in the harshest tone of voice he's ever used with me. Then, more gently, "Anyway, that dream wasn't the one that woke me up."
"No?" I really want to figure out what in hell he's thinking, but I remind myself again not to press with something like this. I'll let him change the subject. I'm curious about this too, at any rate, so at least I'll find out one thing of interest.
"No." He takes a deep breath. "I also dreamt about... well... about the night you � I mean, when they were going to � and you-" Stopping abruptly, he pinches the bridge of his nose. Then he gives me a weighted look. "You know." And I do know, though I'm praying that I don't, that somehow I'm misinterpreting. Just the mention of it, although so indirect, is enough to bring my nightmare back with almost full force. I feel my insides torn apart again, hear the laughter and jeers, see them leering � see him-
Whoa. Lord, Jack. Okay. Breathe. Control yourself, man.
And I know that for an instant every one of my walls and pretenses, all of the defenses that keep me safe and unhurt, came crashing down. I pray that he didn't notice. But of course that's too much to ask. As my eyes focus again, as I try to fake only interest and concern, I see the knowing worry in his eyes.
"Jack," � and oh, don't look at me that way, love; it makes me almost feel like I could tell you everything � "are you all right?"
This has got to be the most na�ve man to ever walk the earth. But maybe I can use that for my advantage. Maybe he'll believe me when I smile and say, "I'm fine," even though the words sound too clipped and falsely bright and I'm pretty sure that the smile is more bitter than reassuring.
"No, I don't think you are," he says, his brow wrinkling.
Damn it.
So what now, Jack? Should you keep playing pretend even though he knows it's a lie? Or should you tell him the truth � some of it, at least? Neither is all that attractive. The first will keep me safe, but I know that it'll hurt Will, maybe deeply; the lad places so much importance on bloody honesty. But the second is dangerous. It would bring Will that much closer to finding out what I really am, and I don't know how much more it'll take for him to wake up and see how unworthy of his company I am. But, in the end, I'd rather be hurt myself than hurt him. So I take the second choice, though I can't keep the bitterness out of my voice as I say, "Of course I'm not fine. Bloody hell, do you think I should be? Shall I just go merrily on without giving it another thought?"
I almost regret saying that, for he looks well and truly stricken � eyes wide, his brows coming down in that peculiar little frown of his, mouth slightly open. "I'm sorry," he says, sounding more distressed than he looks if that's even possible. "Of course you shouldn't. But I mean � I just thought-" he breaks off, pauses, and then continues quietly, "I wanted you to be all right. And... you did just go merrily on, or at least it looked like you did, so I let it be. You seemed all right."
The laugh that escapes me sounds painful and harsh even to my ears. "I've become quite good at hiding things I don't want other people to see, lad." And what a perfect irony it is that he has no idea of all that that really means.
"But, Jack � can I � is there anything I can do? To help you, I mean."
"No. There's nothing." The weakest part of me says that there is, that if he'll just hold me and see all that I am without turning me away he could heal fifteen years of damage and more. I shut it up roughly. "But thank you."
"You're welcome. And you know, if you ever need anything-"
"I know."
His hand on my shoulder is so unexpected that I almost jump. "Anything. I mean it."
Anything... oh, but he wouldn't mean it if he only knew just what "anything" means to me. But he's so earnest, and there is such compassion on his face... And damn it, he's making me forget myself again because the words, "I don't understand," slip out of my mouth as soon as I think them.
"What don't you understand?"
I sigh. Again the question � truth or bluff? I think this time I should bluff, take the safe option. But he's looking at me in that damned concerned, caring way again, and I feel my control crumbling a little under the weight of those brown eyes. God, Will, would you just stop it? Can't you see what you're doing? I need these walls, damn it, and I need to be able to pull the fool's smiling mask over my real face.
"Why you don't hate me," I admit finally, self-control losing the inner battle. "Why you're still on the Pearl instead of going to England on another ship. Why you care in the slightest about one mad old fool of a pirate."
As I frantically try to repair the crack in my composure � which I swear I could do in a heartbeat if he'd just stop looking at me like that � he says, "How could I hate you? You're my friend. At least," he looks even more troubled, "I consider you a friend, though I don't really know what you think-"
"But I don't understand that either!" I exclaim. Warning bells begin to sound somewhere in the back of my head. This is bad. This is very bad. Stop this now, man, get a hold on yourself, find your balance again because if you let yourself go you will ruin everything, savvy? And yes, I understand perfectly well, but it's too late. Now that my control's slipped enough to let a little bit out I just can't stop myself. "Damn it, you've seen what I really am!"
"I've seen that you're a good man at heart, despite a somewhat... unsavory appearance," he answers, a slight smile showing that there's no malice to the last bit. "I've seen that you're generous and kindhearted. If that's what you really are, I don't see why I should hate you for it."
"That's not what I am." How can this boy be so damnably dense? "Will, I'm... I'm a coward. A fool. A � whore." The word tastes like rotten meat when I finally get it past my lips.
"Jack!" He actually sounds almost angry. "How can you say that? You're the bravest man I've met. And I know you're a good deal smarter than you pretend to be, so don't try to make me believe along with everyone else that you're a fool. And third-" his mouth works silently for several moments before he throws up his hands and finishes, "I don't even know where to start with the third."
"How about right there," I point to the area of the deck that used to be a smithy, "two years ago? You know what I'm talking about, don't give me that look." I hold his gaze until I can't bring myself to meet his eyes any more. "What was I that night, then?" I say, turning away from him to lean on the railing and look out at the horizon.
"You were a victim of rape." Restrained fury gives his words a violent edge. I wonder what he's so angry about.
"Last I checked, you need force to call it a rape, mate." I feel tired suddenly � no, not tired... weary. I don't want to talk about this. "I don't recall being tied up or having a gun held to my head." No, I just opened my mouth and spread my legs, let them do whatever they wanted with me.
"You were forced. Maybe not physically, at first, but you were protecting me. Or have you forgotten that part? That you saved me from them? You told me you couldn't stand by and let them � ...well. You know. And you can't tell me that wasn't force of a sort."
"Maybe not. But still, I had a choice. And nobody but myself made me choose one way or the other."
"But-"
"Please." I almost cringe at how tired, how pleading I sound. "Please, just � don't."
He is silent for a moment. Then, quietly, "All right." He sighs softly; I hear movement and he leans on the rail beside me, close enough that I can feel the faint heat coming off of him in this already warm night.
We don't speak for a long time. The silence doesn't bother me; it gives me a chance to breathe, rebuild everything that Will just tore down, and thoroughly tell myself off for having let him tear it all down in the first place. I kept my control through ten years of sticky situations, close brushes with death, people trying to get too close, relationships, fights... why can't I seem to hold on to it when confronted with this one man barely out of his boyhood? I glance over at him and am struck all over again by how damned beautiful he is. He doesn't keep his hair tied back for bed, apparently, because it's loose and falling around his face, half-hiding those deep eyes that look even more tempting in the moonlight than they do by day. I let my gaze linger on the strong, masculine lines of his face, his nose and jaw which seem fine and almost delicate next to the rest of his features. His tongue flicks out of his month slightly, moistening his lips, and I have to forcefully remind myself that he doesn't know what that does to me, has no idea even that I'm attracted to him, and even if he did there wouldn't be a chance in hell of him actually trying to seduce me. But God, it should simply not be possible for a man to look so lovely, so captivating.
"Jack?"
I'm so caught up in him that I nearly miss the soft, hesitant word. In fact, if I wasn't watching his lips I might not have noticed that he'd spoken at all. I blink once, coming back to the moment. "Hmm?"
"Why did you step in to save me?"
The muscles all along my spine clench. Damn it, I thought we'd finished this topic. "I told you already," I say as calmly as I can.
"You gave me a reason," he answers. "But I don't think it was the whole truth."
"Why?" It comes out sounding a little more hostile than I meant.
"Because-" he stops, sighs. "Well � just because. I just have a feeling that there's something you aren't telling me."
"There's nothing I'm not telling you," I say, lying through my teeth and feeling bad about it for once.
"That's not true and we both know it!"
"Yes, it is! Why would I lie to you?"
"Come on, Jack, you certainly haven't told me the whole truth more than once before now. I don't know why. I'd like to know why, actually."
Cursing silently, I decide to try another tack. "Well, why does it matter to you, anyway? I saved you, didn't I? Why does the why of it matter?"
"Because I don't like being lied to. Because I think that whatever it is, it's got to be something important or you wouldn't be trying so hard to hide it from me. Because it still confuses me, and damn it, I don't like being confused!" He stops short, running a hand back through his hair, then turns a pleading look on me. "Please. Whatever it is, just tell me."
"William." I fold my arms across my chest, meet his eyes, and say as seriously and convincingly as I can, "There is nothing I'm not telling you."
I already feel bad enough for lying to him. But I feel so much worse when for a moment he actually looks as if I'd walked up and dealt him a solid blow to the face. I blink, surprised; I'd expected annoyance or frustration, maybe even anger, but not such a depth of hurt. Before I can say anything else his face becomes emotionless and closed, and in a flat voice he says, "All right, then," turns, and walks away, disappearing down the stairs that lead belowdecks.
I stand there for a moment, stunned and not entirely sure how I managed to upset him so. Then faint motion catches my eye. Looking up, I see Gibbs a ways away, watching me. He raises an eyebrow and moves as if to come over to me, but I give him a half-glare that says let me alone and he stops. He shoots me a look of his own, one that I can't quite read but that bears a suspicious resemblance to his Jack-you're-being-a-stupid-ass look � what am I doing that's stupid? I'm keeping myself safe, is all � and then he turns away, walking to the fore rail. I sigh, leaning on the railing and gazing up at the moon. What in hell just happened? Why did Will do that?
I don't expect I'll ever have an answer. But that's all right; I can muddle through without knowing. And there have been times, haven't there, when I would have been much better off if I'd never gotten answers to my questions...
With my mind already partway on Barbossa, the memory comes too easily. And for perhaps the ten thousandth time, I curse my curiosity. If only I hadn't asked. But I did, fool that I was. Hands bound, blood soaking into the rope from a long, shallow cut on my arm, more trickling into my eyes from a gash I'd gotten at some point in the midst of the fight, I turned to him before stepping onto the plank and said, "Why?"
He smirked gleefully, and remembering it I can't help being viciously glad that the bastard will never smile in that repulsive, oily way again. "Why, Jack? Well, why not? I think I'm much better suited to the position than you are, and these lads seem to agree." The crew shouted in accord. "Now, off you go."
"But what about us?" I persisted in a voice pitched to reach only his ears. (The depths of my idiocy still surprise me.) "James � I thought-"
His laugh cut me off. "'Us?'" he crowed loudly enough that I'm sure he startled the birds nesting on the island we'd passed several hours back. "What about 'us?' Y'think that would change something?"
"Yes." I didn't add "seeing as earlier tonight you were screaming my name as you fucked me through the mattress," as badly as I wanted to. Instead I said, "For God's sake, James, don't I mean anything to you?"
He laughed again, loudly and for a long time, and in that moment I realized two things � first, that I suddenly hated him more than I'd hated anyone or anything before in my life, and second, that the reason they call it "heartbreak" is because it actually physically feels like someone's put their hands in your chest and torn your heart in two. When he recovered his breath he said, "What, beyond the chance to acquire such a lovely little ship as this one, and get a good fuck into the bargain?" I must have looked stricken � God knows I had no skill at hiding my feelings back then � because he went on, "Oh, did you expect something else? And what would that have been? It's not as if I could've loved you or the like. � But you look so surprised, Jack! You mean you actually thought that I � By God, you did! Jack, Jack, Jack..." he put his arm around my shoulder, ignoring my flinch, and said in the tone of voice you'd use to explain something to a very small child, "Really, now. You think someone would actually bother to love an empty-headed, foppish, sentimental little fool like you? Especially when you're so pretty," � I jerked my face away from his hand as he tried to cup my cheek � "and all they'd have to do to get you in bed would be to give you a little bit of flattery and squeeze that round little ass? And what've you got to offer? You can't command a ship, can't even keep control of yourself � always acting so strangely, you. There's nothing more to you than a pretty face and a fuckable ass."
I stop the memory there � no point in recalling the crew's laughter and my shame. Not to mention the pain as I realized that he was right. That's an old ache now, one I've grown used to, but at that moment I didn't think I'd ever known worse. Though he could be an arrogant, condescending bastard, though he could be pointlessly cruel enough to turn my stomach at times, I still somehow loved him till that moment.
Or at least, I thought I loved him. Now I know that what I felt was no more love than the Pearl is "only" a boat. But that thought will take me down a path I'm sick and tired of walking. So I force myself to stop thinking, to just watch the moonlight dance on the water. The Pearl rocks, nudging up under my feet reassuringly, and I have to smile. Barbossa was almost right, but not quite. Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to have the love of this fine lady. Without it, I don't know how I would have gotten through the long, empty time after regaining her, when I came to realize that Will means more to me than even she does.
Gibbs has the courtesy to make some noise as he walks up behind me. I don't acknowledge him, though. He knows that I want to be left alone, and he's going to have to do something bloody spectacular to get me to talk to him.
"I think you should tell him."
Well, that counts as "bloody spectacular." I spin to face him. "What?!" He says nothing, only looking at me in total seriousness. "You can't be serious, mate."
"It's doing you no good to keep it a secret. It's just tearing you up. And I don't think he'd react as bad as you think he would."
I snort. "'Course he wouldn't react badly. He'd just hate me for life, is all. Damn it, I am not going to make him loathe me if he doesn't already!"
"And what reason would he have?" Gibbs fires back. "He hasn't a problem with you being a pirate, and what else is there to hate?"
I fix him with a glare. "For seeing right through me, you bloody well miss a lot."
"Mother of God, Jack," he growls. "When will you see what you're actually worth?"
"I know very well what I'm worth." I don't add my appraisal because I know it'll just make him argue more, and I really am sick of this. He grunts disagreeably, but doesn't say anything else.
We stand quietly for a long time; thankfully, he seems to have given up on this argument for tonight. But no such luck; when the moon is only a few fingerwidths above the horizon he stirs and says softly, "You know as well as I that Barbossa couldn't be trusted to say anything without twisting it around. I don't know why you keep on believing what he said."
I stiffen, and almost look around to see if there's anyone nearby. But of course Gibbs knows better than to speak of such things when others could overhear us. So I only say, equally quietly, "He only lied when he could do more hurt by lying than by telling the truth. I believe what he said because I just have to look at myself to see the truth of it."
Gibbs shakes his head. "You don't give yourself enough credit, Captain."
It's been a long night, and on top of everything else his refusal to see the truth when he sees right through me in so many other ways is the last straw. "I give myself just what I deserve, Mr. Gibbs. You give me far too much. Savvy?" I snap, then turn abruptly and go back into my cabin to get dressed for the new day.
*****
Will
I pause at the door to the cabin I share with Gibbs and Anamaria, my anger suddenly vanishing to be replaced with a strange sort of guilt. Even if Jack is holding out on me, I shouldn't just walk away like that. It's not as if this behavior is anything new, after all. Jack has always had his secrets. Why do I care so much about this one?
It's Gibbs' fault. This time, at least. If he and I hadn't spoken I probably wouldn't have brought up old memories with Jack. Gibbs is sly, much more so than he seems. For all that he's superstitious and sometimes says more than he should, he knows how to make a point when he wants to. I don't even know what happened � one moment we were discussing gambling, and the next thing I knew we'd started talking about Jack.
"'S good we came across ye," he said. "The Cap'n wouldn't have liked it if ye ran off t' England without tellin' him. And it's good to see him smilin' so much."
"What, because of me?"
Gibbs gave me a sharp look. "Cap'n Sparrow thinks right highly o' ye. Ye haven't figured that out yet?"
"Apparently not," I murmured.
Gibbs snorted. "Hides too much, he does. I keep thinkin', if he'd only tell ye-" Abruptly he broke off, the look on his face making it clear that he'd said more than he thought he should.
"Tell me what?" I got no answer. "Mr. Gibbs?"
He turned away, muttering something about making sure that the crewmen on watch hadn't fallen asleep at their posts.
And then Jack came out, and we started talking. And when it came down to it, something about what Gibbs had said made me ask about things that I know I really shouldn't. But I couldn't help it. It's like picking at a scab; it hurts, but there's something fascinating about watching the bloody flesh reveal itself as the scab pulls away. There's something hiding beneath the surface of all of our conversations now, something that we dance around and don't quite touch � something that has to do with that night now two years past. I'm not even quite sure what it is. I just sense that whatever it is, it's important that I know it.
Well, I won't be able to do anything about it tonight. Might as well get some rest.
But as much as I try to clear my thoughts and get to sleep, I can't settle enough. My mind keeps turning over that conversation with Jack. It felt like he opened to me a little, like I was getting somewhere with him � and then he shut me down so abruptly that I'm still not quite sure what happened. That stung, somehow; it's the only reason I can think of for why I got so angry at him for not being honest with me. But it's just as strange that it hurt as much as it did. And it hurt me, too, to hear that he thinks I might hate him. A ridiculous idea, but he seems to believe it. But � hate him? How could I? What reason would I have? If anything, I should love him as my dearest friend. He took me on the greatest adventure of my life; he showed me what strength and courage are, and I used that knowledge to find strength and courage enough to win the woman I loved.
Or thought I loved, at least. But I really don't want to think about that right now. I concentrate on Jack instead.
Strange, too, that Jack � carefree Jack, who seems to come untouched through crises that would have killed a weaker man � is still hurting, and badly. Shivers run up my spine when I remember the look on his face in that moment when it seemed that all of his shields had come down. Even after all this time, the pain in his eyes was as raw as if that night had been yesterday. I know, of course, that Jack couldn't be as completely fine as he seemed. Something like that has to leave deep scars on a person. I thought that I wasn't fooled by Jack's lightheartedness, but I suppose I was.
Maybe I wanted to be fooled. The thought is terrible � what kind of good and honorable man would want to ignore others' distress? � but it rings true. I wanted everything to be all right. I wanted each of us to win what we wanted and go on unscarred by the trials we'd had to endure. And when I found that I had been scarred, and deeply � when I woke shaking in the night and distressed Elizabeth by calling Jack's name in my sleep as I tossed � it only made me want Jack to have escaped unharmed all the more.
To find out that he's more badly hurt than I am twisted the blade that's speared my heart since the night he sacrificed himself for my sake. I'm not so na�ve as to think that the world is fair, but of all the unfairnesses on this earth this one has to be the worst. I should be the one to suffer as he's suffering. He's the better man, after all; he stepped in to save me, sacrificing himself for my sake, and I... I stood by and watched his violation. I did nothing. I'm a coward and a fool, and I'll never be half the man is. My failings are beyond my ability to count. But that's not really why I'm crying now.
I'm crying for Jack.
*****
Jack
The days pass far too quickly for my liking. They fly by like the wind that ripples through my hair and plays merrily about the rigging before rushing ahead of us, toward the east.
Toward England.
Every day brings us closer; it's getting to be a fact I can't avoid. Already I have to start planning, figure out how in hell I'm going to make it close enough to land to drop Will safely and then get out of there fast � all while avoiding the clutches of the world's finest navy. Not that I think it'll be too hard; I am Captain Jack Sparrow, after all � at least, I am when it counts. Where the plans fail, I have to trust on luck to bring me through � and she hasn't deserted me yet.
I have to decide, too, what to do afterward. If I don't have something I'll be too badly tempted to stay around just a little while longer... and that little while might turn into a long while. It'd be pointless, and it could well lose me the Pearl. If the navy didn't get me, the crew would likely tire of the weather and the difficult pickings and might well choose another Captain to take them back to the balmy days, pleasant nights, and more profitable prey of the Caribbean.
I plan because I have to, but I hate it. I don't want to be reminded of what we're doing; I want to let myself think that this journey will never end, that I'll have Will here with me forever. Impossible, of course. And so I plan and fret and lose much of the sleep that I'd otherwise be able to fit in between my duties and my nightmares.
Will and I still regularly meet each other on deck at night. And is my taxed mind playing tricks on me, or has he grown a little more distant? Sometimes now I seem to make him uncomfortable, confused. I start to wonder if there will come a time when I never do anything but. Damn my idiot self! Whatever I did that night that hurt him so � it has to have been that night, that conversation � damn the bloody thing.
Mostly we talk about little things now, insignificant things, when we don't simply rest quietly at each other's side. We never discuss the conversation that hangs gray and threatening over our heads, and I'm not sure whether I should pray for that storm to hold until we reach England or to break now. Never again has either of us mentioned, nay, so much as made the most roundabout reference to, the other night whose memory overshadows us.
The days pass. We move ever eastward. And I try, with only some success, to forget that these are my last days ever to be spent in the company of William Turner.
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