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
- 3
- 4
- 5
Chapter Three
Jack
We are still perhaps two weeks from port � or whatever inlet or bay will pass for port when we make land � when Blue-Eye Bill (one of the sharpest lookouts among the crew despite the fact that he lost his left eye in a tavern brawl a few years back) sights sails off to starboard. It's a British merchant ship, from the looks of things through my telescope, and it's heading east, which means it's almost certainly full of all sorts of wonderful things.
"Would you mind terribly if we took a short detour?" I ask Will, who is rarely far from me when he's on deck, as I put my telescope away and turn the wheel.
He chuckles. "Far be it from me to keep a pirate from his treasure � I assume that's what the 'detour' would be for?" But then he grows sober. "Jack � I understand there'll be fighting � if you could avoid killing people as much as possible-"
I shift my attention away from steering for a moment to give him a look. "What do you take me for?" Christ � if he thinks I'm like that... He should know better, if he knows me at all. The crew's under orders � only kill the ones who mean to kill us, and don't harm anyone who's surrendered. I'd thought he knew that, but it seems he didn't; I'm shocked by the look of relief on his face. He honestly thought that I might � I shake my head.
And if he believed I'd mercilessly kill a man who I didn't have to kill � what else might he think me capable of?
But there's no time to bother myself over that just now. I have more immediate concerns. I shout out my orders, feeling the first giddy thrill shiver through me as the crew eagerly responds. Within half an hour we're close enough that I can see the people on the other ship's deck and her name � the Argo � without needing my telescope. So far we haven't identified ourselves; best not to fright the prey until there's no chance it could escape. But now there's no chance they could run from us.
"Raise the flag!" I call to Gibbs, then turn my attention back to the Argo. What'll it be, mates � surrender, fight, or try to flee? As much as it would be easier if her captain chose the first alternative, I half wish he'd take the last. It's been a while since the Pearl and I had a good chase.
Lady Luck must be feeling friendly today, because the Argo raises every sail she can carry and starts to pick up speed. I whoop. There hasn't been a ship built that can outrace the Pearl; but though I know what will happen, that won't stop me from loving the hunt. The crew begins to yell; the Pearl fairly bucks under my feet with excitement; and I laugh, knowing all too well how she feels because I feel the same thing coursing through me. Even Will seems caught up in the thrill of the chase, his eyes wide and shining as we bear down on the Argo. I'd forgotten that he's never experienced this thrill before; to my knowledge, the only time he's been in a chase like this he was on the ship being chased. That isn't a pleasant experience, but being the one doing the chasing � that is great fun.
The Argo is fast, I'll give her that � but she can't outrun the Pearl. We're gaining on her steadily. Now we're close enough that I can make out some of the expressions on her crew's faces � mostly fearful, though a few look stubbornly angry. That's worrying � a few firebrands could rouse the whole lot to fierce fighting, and I don't want to risk the lives of my crew any more than I have to. I might like a good fight as much as the next pirate, but I don't want too many men on either side to end up dead, if it can be avoided.
Knowing that at a time like this I'd rather steer and concentrate on the chase than anything else, Gibbs and Anamaria have already given all necessary orders; the crew is ready to fight. At my nod, Gibbs shouts, "Fire a shot across her nose!" This is our signal that we're going to catch them sooner or later, so they'd best stop now. But the fools don't stop running. Doesn't matter � the battle won't be long in coming, at any rate; we're no more than thirty feet from the Argo now and closing fast. I beckon Cotton to me with a jerk of my head. "Steer." I'll board the Argo with the bulk of the crew; I couldn't stand staying on the Pearl and just watching.
I gesture for Will to follow me as I head for the stairs. He falls in just behind me as we descend to the main deck. "I don't want you to fight with us," I tell him. "Stay on the Pearl, and try to keep out of sight of the other crew. If they should start winning � not likely, mind you, but if � Gibbs or Anamaria or meself will take you below and make you look to be a prisoner � and you're not to interfere with that. Savvy?"
"Yes," he says. I've already convinced him that this sort of thing would be the best plan if the Pearl were boarded while he was still on board. "We've been over this."
"I just wanted to make sure you remembered � and that you wouldn't try anything stupid."
"I'm not about to break from the plan now."
"Well, you have before," I grumble, mostly teasing. "I just want to be sure you'll be safe."
He rolls his eyes. "I'll be fine."
Just then the shouts from my crew grow even louder, as we pull alongside the Argo. With a grin at Will, I turn all of my attention to the other ship and the coming fight. The cannons are ready, as are half a dozen small arms carried by various members of my crew. The moment to fire them is not quite here... almost... now.
"Fire!" I yell over the noise, and when the roar of cannons and gunfire quiets for a moment I follow that order with, "Prepare to board!"
As I snatch up my own rope, the Pearl rocks violently under me; the Argo's return fire has hit. I wince, hoping she isn't too badly hurt; but she's probably all right, since she's steady under my feet once more as I step to the railing, looking for the best place to swing.
Several of my men have already made it onto the Argo. The ship itself is in trouble; our cannons were well aimed, and she looks to be taking on water. As I watch, another volley smashes into her side. One cannonball flies high, putting a large hole in the ship's railing near her stern; the rest hit lower and close to the water.
Well, enough watching. I through my rope, snagging the hook on the rigging; after making sure it's secure, I get ready to-
"Jack!"
I turn, one foot on the rail, to see Will standing behind me. He looks a little sheepish, but says, "Be careful." Then the awkwardness is gone; his expression is sly as he adds, "Try not to do anything stupid." I mock glare at him, then turn, step up on the railing, and swing across to the Argo's deck, drawing my sword on the way over.
As soon as I hit the deck, two men rush toward me. A pistol shot dispatches one (not for the first time, I'm thankful for all the time spent practicing fast draws with my left hand); the other closes and fights with me for a few moments before he makes the mistake of thrusting too low. I parry him in eight so that the tip of his sword passes to the side of my right hip, then step in. He's fighting with a long rapier, which is little good at the close distance I've just put us in. My short sword, on the other hand, is perfect for this situation. I only have to pull my arm back far enough that my elbow passes my hip before stabbing him in the gut. He gurgles and stiffens; I push him away and turn to meet the next man coming at me.
Time stops existing for a while. I hear nothing but steel on steel, the occasional gunshot, the roars of fighting men and groans of injured or dying ones; I smell only blood and fear � someone nearby has shit his pants � I see only the man or men in front of me. The only sensations I pay any attention to are the deck under my feet, the shocks that run up my arm when my sword hits another's, and the fierce exhilaration that drives me on, numbs me to pain and protects me from tiredness, and allows me to forget everything but swordplay. I don't like to kill or even to hurt, usually, but I love to fight. This is the only pure joy in life beyond sailing the Pearl; here, in the clatter of swords and the ages-old rhythm of attack-parry-riposte, I can find peace or something very much like it.
One man falls before I can pull my sword from him, dragging my arm down as he collapses. It takes me a moment to bend and remove the blade from his chest � and in that moment I hear Gibbs shout my name, warning in his voice. I look up and follow his gaze, turning to my right to see the point of a sword coming at me. My weapon comes free just in time for me to parry, but I don't have enough time to get the other man's point completely clear of my body.
Being stabbed is always an odd feeling. At first I only feel something like pressure, but not quite the same, as the sword pierces my right shoulder just above my collarbone. For an instant the wound feels freezing cold, as if it's been packed in ice. Then the pain hits, sharp and fiery, and I bite back a gasp.
This all happens quickly enough that my opponent has only just realized that I've parried him (judging by the look on his face) when I shake myself out of the pain. I don't plan on giving him any more time to kill me; the position our blades are in leaves his neck wide open, and I riposte through his throat before he has a chance to do anything � never mind that this drives another two inches of steel into my shoulder; better hurt than dead.
He lets go of his sword as he falls; I suppose I should be glad for that, since it gives me the chance to pull it out in a controlled way. But it's awkward to try to move with a blade through my shoulder, as I discover when I run for a nearby spot behind some boxes that seems sheltered from the fighting. At some point Gibbs appears at my side. I crouch down in the space behind the boxes; he stands facing away from me, guarding me. "Are you all right?" he says over his shoulder.
"I've been better." I grit my teeth against the pain as I slowly pull the sword out of my shoulder. My headscarf is sacrificed for a bandage; it won't do much, but hopefully it'll last till I get back aboard the Pearl. This is not good. When I try to raise my arm at all, the pain is so bad that my hand goes numb and I nearly pass out. Or maybe that's not because of the pain... I'm feeling rather lightheaded in general. Looking down, I notice for the first time that blood has stained half of my shirt, if not more, a deep red. Well, that probably explains it. And between that and the way my shoulder feels, I don't think I'll be able to do much more today.
I'm no coward when it comes to a fight like this, but I'm not "brave" to the point of getting myself killed either. I know when I'm so bad off that fighting would be suicidally stupid, and I'm perfectly willing to get out if I'm in that position. Now is definitely the time for me to get the hell out of here. I take stock of my options. The first and most obvious choice is to go over the side of the ship. That usually wouldn't be a problem � but I'm not sure I could swim to the safe side of the Pearl, let alone climb back on board, and I certainly couldn't swim around and tread water until someone was available to help me out of the water. I could hide here until everything's over � but that is cowardly, and anyway there's no knowing I'd be safe for very long, even with Gibbs defending me.
The only other choice I've got, as far as I can tell, is to try to get to a rope and swing across to the Pearl. That I could just possibly do � I'd have to get across the deck, but though I'm not in fighting condition I could maybe make it just by dodging between people. If I get lucky I might not have to engage with anyone at all.
When I catch sight of a rope hanging by the hole in the Argo's railing, I'm decided. It's almost too perfect to be true � the heaviest fighting is off to the right of the path I'd have to take, and because of where the rope is I won't need to waste my time clambering up on the railing � I can just run, grab the rope on my way by, and step right off the deck.
Even though I'm not sure I'll be able to use it enough to do any good, I hold on to my sword. And I'm in at least a little luck; the man who stabbed me was left-handed, so the grip on his sword is shaped accordingly. I was planning on using it anyway, but this way it isn't at all awkward as I pick it up with my left hand. The balance isn't bad; the weight is a little too far forward, but it could be worse. It handles like a fire poker rather than a quality weapon, but I've fought with blades that felt like tree branches in my hand; I can manage this.
I nudge Gibbs. "I'm going for the rope by the gap in the railing."
He nods. "I'll go with you." I'm not about to argue with that, especially after I stagger and nearly fall again after I drag myself to my feet. My vision goes black and I nearly pass out from the dizziness; but it passes after a few moments, and as the ringing in my ears fades I set off as fast as I can go without stumbling on my strangely shaky legs, Gibbs at my side.
Suddenly the other side of the deck seems a league away. I run, but carefully, slipping between clumps of people and keeping a weather eye out for anybody who looks to be from the Argo and to not be otherwise occupied. I see the first of these (well, the first two) at about the same time as they see me. I steel myself to meet them as they run at me, hoping that I'll be able to handle whichever one Gibbs doesn't take. I'm not especially sure that I will; my head is spinning terribly, and with every heartbeat a sharp, distracting pain tears through my shoulder.
Gibbs spares me from finding out whether I can still defend myself; with a roar, he charges past me and kills the first man with a parry eight-thrust to the gut. The second man hesitates, turning his attention away from me; he and Gibbs engage in a flurry of attacks and parries.
I don't wait around. Gibbs can take care of himself, and every moment I stay on this ship is another moment I'm all but asking to get a sword through the chest. I turn and run on, ducking a punch that wasn't actually aimed at me and, as soon as I've stopped reeling from that movement, half jump-skipping sideways to avoid running into Anamaria and the man she's fighting. Then I look up and realize that I'm not ten feet from the rope I've been aiming for. The deck between me and it is almost totally clear; I break into the closest thing to a real run that I can manage, using the last of my energy, getting ready to drop my left-hand sword and catch the rope-
-and catch sight of Will on the deck of the Pearl. His eyes are fixed on me, the fear in them enough to make my own heart pound faster. He's shouting something. I can't hear the words above all the noise of battle, but his expression and his finger, pointing to a spot just behind me, are enough. I spin � remembering at the last moment to turn left instead of right so I can parry the first attack, at any rate, with my good arm � and only just in time. As I come around I see the flash of light off of a blade aimed for my throat; I take it in six with my left hand blade so that it passes just above and to the left of my left shoulder. If I'd taken the parry right, I could've riposted through his chest and gotten this over with, but I moved hastily, and I'm only in a good enough position to step back and to the right, readying myself for the next attack.
Now I get a look at my opponent: a huge man, mostly muscle, covered in a greasy, stale sweat that makes me wrinkle my nose from three feet away. It's a wonder I didn't smell the bastard coming up behind me. I'd guess that he's the Argo's cook; in his left hand he holds a frying pan. It's a strange weapon, certainly, but it looks like it's been effective. There's hair stuck to its bottom with something darkish and gummy-looking. I try not to think on what or whose it might be.
With a shout he comes at me again in a low attack; when I move to parry he disengages and finishes his thrust in a high line. My right arm isn't good for more than a few parries, if that, and my left-hand blade is now too far from the other man's sword to parry before he hits me. So instead of trying to parry I step backward, trusting to my sense of fighting distance to keep me just far enough away from his point. But my foot hits something � a body from the feel of it, but no time to think about that. I try to keep my balance, but I'm too dizzy. I manage to keep hold of both swords, at least; I thrust with my left hand to keep the other man back, but this means that my right hand is what hits the deck first. The shock goes straight to my shoulder; it buckles as I bite back a scream. But maybe this is a good thing, I realize as I fall another few inches backward, because not half a second later my opponent parries and thrusts to what would have been my right eye a moment ago. Before he can do anything else I kick him hard in the balls. It doesn't keep him back for long, but it gives me enough time to scramble back out of the reach of his blade and climb shakily to my feet.
Of course, it's worth wondering how long I'll be able to stay on my feet. I've pushed myself too much for the blood I've lost. My legs shake under me and will barely hold my weight. My right arm is alternately numb and in searing pain; I'm shocked to see that I'm still holding a sword in that hand. I sway with dizziness and my sight is almost gone. I hear more than see the other man coming toward me; I can see just enough so that I know where to parry, but everything is still too dim and too hard to make out. I can't attack, and I can't really defend myself much either; I have to go backward. I give ground with resistance, but I really haven't got a choice. Step by step I retreat and still he comes on, attacking without rest, his point sometimes an inch or less from my body.
I have no idea how long we've been fighting now. It feels like forever, but every moment is an age in a fight to the death that you're probably going to lose. Eternities pass between heartbeats, but at the same time it's all happening too fast. Parry in four, then six, retreat as he forces the distance, a slight thrust to try to keep him back � pointless because it isn't really threatening; he knows I can't or won't really attack him by now � parry in eight, another reluctant retreat. I don't think I've ever sweated this much in my life. It soaks through the part of the scarf on my shoulder that isn't already soaked with blood and stings in my wound. I've already had to parry with my right-hand blade once; now my shoulder throbs even worse than before. As each gasped breath scrapes painfully down my throat, I have to fight against the dizziness, the pain, the plain exhaustion. I know I'm going to just drop any minute now. I don't have anything left to put into this. Soon I simply won't be able to hold the blades up, let alone stay upright, and I'll collapse and he'll put his sword through my heart. The petty end of the great Captain Jack Sparrow. I really would have preferred to go out with a little more flair.
He attacks again, advances again. This time my feet aren't quite fast enough. He doesn't get so close that he can seriously hurt me, but he does get far enough inside my guard to take my blade in six and lay a three-inch cut up the inside of my left wrist and forearm. The shock of pain makes my grip relax � just for an instant, but it's the fatal mistake; he disarms me with a flip of his wrist. The words "bloody deep shit" don't even begin to describe this situation. Desperately, I risk impaling myself on his blade and dash at him, grabbing his wrist. Now I've both closed this distance so that his point is behind me � and therefore relatively harmless � and restrained him from doing much of anything with his sword.
And now, finally, I see an opening. All I have to do is pull my right arm back slightly, and I'll have my sword at his belly. There's not much strength left in that arm, but there should be enough to run the bastard through. But as I move my right arm, he raises his left. Suddenly I remember that I'm not the only one with two weapons. I have maybe a few seconds before his backup comes down on my head.
If I duck I'll pass out for sure. If I step away I'll be open to his sword again. I've only got one choice. Gritting my teeth, I raise my arm (a movement which in itself hurts like hell), brace it, and meet the frying pan with my sword.
Pan screams down my arm to my shoulder. I think I shout, but I can't hear it above the ringing in my ears. I nearly drop my sword; it doesn't really matter that I hold on to it, though, because the arm is definitely now useless. I suppose I should be glad that my arm takes most of the impact; the glancing blow to my head that I can't avoid is more than enough to make me stagger and see stars. I stumble backward. And he comes at me again. Slowly, now � and with a shock I see the gleam in his eye, realize he's enjoying himself. Sadistic bastard. I'm furious, suddenly, furious with this whole situation � with the pain, my mistakes, the stinking greasy smiling ass in front of me, the fact that I'm going to die and Will is going to have to watch and damn it all to hell, I never so much as kissed him. But I'm helpless. I can only keep backing up, hoping that something will happen though it's impossibly unlikely that I'll take more than a dozen breaths between now and the end of my life. I'm nearly at the edge of the ship, and in a moment I'm going to run into the railing � it can't be more than a few paces-
One step, two, three-
-and suddenly there's nothing behind or below my foot-
-I have just enough time to think, The hole in the- before I hit the water.
It's cold. And it stings like hell. I thrash and shiver, and then open my mouth to scream but that's a mistake because suddenly I'm trying to breathe water. I choke. There's no air, and I try to get to the surface but every motion makes the screaming pain of salt on open wounds intensify, and it feels like my blood has turned to ice. The cold and exhaustion make my body too heavy to move, too heavy to float. I'm sinking and gagging on brine and trying to move, to get my confused thoughts in some sort of order, to do anything.
Suddenly everything retreats from me. The pain, the struggling are still there, but I'm not really paying much attention to them anymore. Everything seems peaceful and completely clear. I'm not getting out of this one, am I? Looks like Luck has finally decided to find a new bedfellow. I'm going to die. And, I suppose, this isn't the worst way to go.
I feel like I'm hovering on the edge of sleep, nothing more. At least that bastard smelly cook didn't run me through, I think, smiling faintly. God, I'm tired. And if this is going to happen, might as well cooperate with it, mightn't I? I close my eyes. Almost take a deep breath, but remember that that won't do much good.
On the edge of dreaming, I imagine Will. I never told him, and I'm glad. It'll be easier on him now, less complicated. I try to picture him in perfect detail, his face, his scent, his smile, his beautiful hands. As I fall into blackness, I can almost feel his arms wrap around me and pull me upward.
*****
Will
I have never, never in my life been so terrified. Not even watching Elizabeth walk the plank � not even seeing her in the cavern, Barbossa's knife at her throat � not even seeing Jack on the gallows platform or my mother dying. Certainly I've never been so scared for my own life. But having Jack limp (and nearly too heavy to swim with) in my arms, the water around us pink with his blood � a color that contrasts frighteningly with the blue tinge of his face � there's a high quiver in my voice as I call his name, and I'm shaking so badly that when the rope is thrown down to us it takes me three tries to get it tied securely around him � damn my clumsiness; those seconds could make the difference between life or death � and it's hard for me to hold on as we're jerked up into the air and lowered as slowly and gently as I suppose is possible to the deck.
For an instant everyone falls silent, staring wide-eyed at the bloody, blue-skinned body on the planks. I know what they're thinking. I can't stand it. No, we aren't witnessing the death of a legend. It can't be. For God's sake, this is Captain Jack Sparrow! Then Anamaria starts and shouts, "Deal wi' the pris'ners!" Her words seem to release everyone from their shock; the deck bursts into cacophony and chaos as most of the crew goes about their duties (although not without worried glances in our direction) and several other people rush toward me and Jack. By now I've got him untied and laid out on the deck. He's limp and frighteningly still for a man who usually can't stop moving, his face is a disturbing bluish-purple shade, and his clothing is soaked through with blood and seawater.
Someone in the oncoming group pushes me gently but quickly aside, away from his head. I don't resist; I know nothing that could save him. There's a free space by his hip, so I move there and sink to my knees. One of his hands lies flung out on the deck beside me; unthinking, I take it and squeeze, trying to will warmth and movement back into his clammy fingers. Everything is too loud. The noise of the pirates and prisoners, the half-panicked commands and chatter of the people clustering around Jack � it feels as if the noise is pinning me to this spot, pressing in on me unbearably. I'd reach to cover my ears if I could let go of Jack's hand.
Some words distinguish themselves from the general din enough for me, distracted as I am, to take note. "He's still not breathing!" Gibbs shouts unnecessarily; Anamaria adds, "He's bleeding � Jones, give me that scarf!" Just to add another layer to the noise, it seems, Cotton's parrot screeches, "Yo ho! Yo ho!" I want to kill that bird for the first time in my life.
But loudest in my ears is my own voice, broken and so frightened that I can barely recognize it. "Jack! Breathe, damn it! For God's sake, breathe! Please, Jack!" I didn't rescue you for this. I wanted you to live, to go on; the world shouldn't lose one of its best men... Don't do this, Jack. I need you. What am I supposed to do without you? I'll have lost the only two people I've ever-
Wait.
The only two people...
Well. It makes sense, in a way.
But I haven't got any more time to think about it now. Jack's whole body heaves, freezes, shudders, and suddenly he's coughing up what seems to be the whole of the Atlantic onto the deck. And breathing again. Breathing! Relieved and surprised exclamations echo in my ears. I say nothing, the shock and the joy combined too overwhelming for me to do anything at all.
Slowly, he opens his eyes, wincing a little. His gaze is vague at first, but slowly it focuses; as soon as something resembling alertness comes into his eyes he scans the crowd that's gathered around him, seemingly looking for something. And then he looks at me. His eyes light with something more than relief. He tries to speak, fails, tries again, and finally manages, "Did... sum'n st'pid... dinye?"
I don't know whether to laugh or cry. But I feel myself smiling as I answer softly, "Not at all."
He exhales in what might be a chuckle. Then his face grows suddenly sober. "Will, I-" Before he finishes, his eyes roll back and his body goes limp once more. Perhaps it's just as well. I can't hold in the tears, and I'm not sure I want him to see me cry.
They're lifting him now, carrying him toward his cabin. I start to follow, but am stopped by a hand on my shoulder.
"Ye're soakin' wet." Gibbs.
"I'm staying with him."
"Will-"
"I am staying with him." Nothing is going to convince me otherwise.
"An' what good'll ye be to him if ye catch cold an' die yerself?!" The vehemence of his tone makes me turn, slightly stunned. "Fer the love of Mary, lad-" but he stops, his expression softening. "Jest c'mon," he says more quietly, putting an arm around my shoulders even though I'm dripping. "Jest change into somethin' dry, is all."
I shiver, feeling a sudden chill. Maybe he's got a point. "You're right." I run a hand through my hair, which has long since come loose from its tie. "I'm � sorry. It's just-" I trail off. I can't say it yet.
"I know, lad." When I look at him, the understanding on his face shocks me into thinking that he just might. "So le's get ye changed, an' then ye can stay with 'im ferever, as far as I care."
I let him steer me to my cabin.
*****
Not ten minutes later I'm back at Jack's side, drier if not completely dry, and only now starting to feel the exhaustion that I knew had to be coming after everything that just happened. Jack's been bandaged, undressed, and settled into bed with a speed that only those who have tended to many other wounded could have managed. Now the others file slowly out, more than one turning worried eyes back over a slumped shoulder. He's alive, but from their faces I would know that Jack isn't in the clear yet even if Gibbs hadn't warned me as I changed.
Then I'm alone with him.
His breathing is slow and steady now, and shows no signs of stopping. But the rest of him forestalls any real feelings of relief. His skin is too pale, almost gray; there are hollows beneath his eyes, and his cheeks look slightly sunken. The bandages hide the worst of his cuts, but smaller scratches and emerging bruises stand out bright red and deep blue-purple against his pallor. But the stillness of his hands is the most disturbing. His hands are always moving; even when he can't make his usual flowery gestures, they're always trembling, seemingly thrumming with suppressed motion. Now they're utterly limp and still, all life gone.
...God, don't think that! I'm panicking suddenly; it seems impossible that he's still here, still alive. I reach out and test his pulse, just for reassurance, and almost cry with stupid, exhausted relief as I feel it throb under my fingers. You had one hell of a close call, Jack. And I don't know what I would have done if you'd-
It's just all too much. Elizabeth's gone, Jack was nearly gone and isn't out of danger yet, I'm on my way to a life that I will never be comfortable in and don't even want, strange feelings are running in my blood � feelings I shouldn't be having � he's a man, for God's sake � I fling myself up out of my chair without thinking, hands to my head, half pace and half dash to the other side of the room, spin around.
And find Gibbs standing in the doorway. He doesn't say anything, doesn't even look at me strangely; he just holds out a mug. When I accept it and sag back down into the chair, he walks to Jack's bedside and pauses there. I have the strange feeling that this gruff, often tactless old sailor is giving me space to compose myself. The thought nearly makes me laugh. Compose myself. As if I ever could now. The world seems determined to keep me off balance, throwing love or death or pirates � or all three � at me whenever I start to feel steady again.
"Drink up."
I start. For a moment I'd forgotten that I'm not alone. The liquid in the mug is dark in color and steaming; inhaling, I smell cinnamon and something else that I can't name. A cautious sip reveals it to be warm spiced rum � strong rum, from the way it burns down my throat. The heat fills me immediately.
"That's what Jack always asks fer when he's been in the water without intendin' t' be. I figgered ye might be wantin' some yerself 'bout now." Gibbs has turned to face me, but he's still leaning on the edge of Jack's bunk in a strange, protective way. I smile gratefully.
"It's really what I needed. Thank you."
He grins and makes a little modest movement, I suppose by way of a "You're welcome." Then his face sobers a little. "Blackjack didn't make it back lookin' very well either."
"Will he be all right?"
"Probably. 'E's got a better chance'n-" He stops short, turns away to look at Jack again, and pats Jack's shoulder with remarkable tenderness. Then, turning back to me, "'E's got a good chance. But Marty's goin' half-mad with worry anyway."
I blink, confused. "What about everyone else?"
"We're all worried, fer sure." Suddenly Gibbs' gaze turns penetrating. "But ye know Marty and Blackjack are... ah. Ye don't."
"Are what?"
He gestures vaguely � and suddenly I understand. I feel my eyes go wide; he chuckles. "Ye didn't notice?"
"No!" Why is he telling me this? Now of all times!
"Ye should know it's more'n bunkin' together. They'd a' married by now, if they could."
"They're both men."
"Aye, and that's why they 'aven't married." For an instant, I see a glint of humor in his eyes.
I slump back in the chair, but I've never been more alert. "And no one has a problem with that?"
"Nobody does. Landlubbers'd frown and preach more often than not, but out here � we all understand how a man feels when he hasn't seen a woman fer months. An' if a man starts to feel somethin' more than that, well, we aren't goin' t'start botherin' ourselves about somethin' that be nothin' of our business anyway." Suddenly he's moving, standing by my chair and looking down at me. "Jack cares fer ye, Will. He'd do anythin' t'see ye happy."
"He's already done so much," I murmur, mostly to myself but he hears it.
"Aye." Gibbs crouches, bringing himself to my eye level. "He's done more'n even a friend would do fer ye."
I realize, suddenly, that he knows. The fear and shame aren't unexpected, but I didn't think they'd hit this quickly or with this much force. I'm tired, I guess, and I can't hold on to the numbness any longer; suddenly I'm shaking, terrified of Gibbs, terrified of Jack, terrified of myself, and feeling utterly uncertain and lost. But his voice is gentle and holds no scorn when he says, "Will." I look up at him, not sure that I want to see even acceptance on his face, and he continues, "Yer eyes look different than yesterday. Take care of 'im." He gruffly clasps my shoulder, and then he leaves.
I feel like I've been run over by a wagon. That was all so... sudden. Startling. For a long, still space of time my mind is empty. I sit and stare at Jack, feel my breathing slow and my heart stop pounding. Then, with a little intake of breath, I make myself start to think again. I'm exhausted, but as much as I'd like to sleep this is too important to wait. I have to get myself sorted out, and now. I have to figure out what new world I'm living in, where these new thoughts are not only possible but acceptable.
I have to figure out how on earth I'm going to deal with Jack when he wakes up.
Elbows propped on knees and chin on hands, I sit until the sun rises, shining in through the windows to touch Jack's face with gold.
- 3
- 4
- 5
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