Fountain of Youth.
Casiopaya ;D
Title: Noli me Tangere
Pairing: Um. meckett? It just kind of happened. I had no control over it.
Rating: R-ish
Characters: Everyone and their grandmother. Plus new people from Pirates 4. :D
Summary: Somehow, through the magic of plot holes, Mercer and Beckett survive 3 and are chillin' in London when Sparrow shows up. Let the quest (race) for the fountain of youth begin!
Part I Part VI
Part II Part VII
Part III Part VIII
Part IV
Part V
'I need a map that doesn't have magical properties. That isn't the Lost Map of some great explorer. That doesn't explode when I utter the word 'it' near it. Do you know how hard - agh - I can't speak without using the word 'it'. I need a map that doesn't melt into suspicious black liquid when rum is dropped on it. I need a map that is accurate and doesn't look like a child drew it while drunk. I need a map that isn't three hundred years old and shows La Florida being as fat as my dear dead mother. I need a map that is useful.'
The crew stares at Barbossa for a full minute before the pirate growls in frustration, whacks Sparrow who whines 'what did I do?'
'Nothing yet. But you probably will do something that deserves it in the future.'
'Where are we trying to go?' Beckett asks Gibbs that night. They both have first shift and are sitting by the wheel decidedly not drinking brandy from a hidden flask that Beckett stole from Mercer since it fits in boots so well.
'A cove of some sort. Cove de la-' he coughs.
'If it's Cove de la Muerta or La mort or Cove of Death I might kill someone.'
'Do the cove's work for it. No, no, I think it's Cova de Sa Campana. Or something like that. Spanish are creative with names - the cove looks like a bell so it's 'Cove of the bell'.
'Cova means cave,' Mercer is above them, in the rigging. Gibbs curses, grabs his heart and says - for the love of the holy mother don't scare a man like that. Beckett only laughs and offers the older man a drink. 'I was wondering where that had gotten to, sir.'
'Cova is a cave? So - cave of the bell?'
'A sea cave,' Mercer says as he drops down, landing behind Gibbs and making him jump again. 'Rumoured to be full of the foulest of creatures. Mermaids.'
'Aren't they supposed to be lovely little things? You know, guide sailors and that sort of rot.'
'Some do, I suppose.' The clerk is grinning a wicked grin. Beckett smirks back, he knows something bloody is about to be mentioned. 'They sing to distract you. Like a siren. Some kill you whilst rescuing you. Some kill you out of hatred for men walk on land whilst mermaids are condemned to live in the cold black of the ocean. Others say that they have forgotten we cannot breath under water and so try and take us back to their land and we die.'
'I think,' Beckett starts, leans forward and brushes dirt off Mercer's coat. 'What Mr. Mercer is trying to say is that -'
'They'll kill us,' Gibbs finishes.
'Something like that...shame that, really. I was quite enjoying my life. And sir, I think my coat is clean enough.'
'No it's not.'
'You're drunk, sir.'
'No I'm not.'
'Yes he is. Third filling of this,' the pirate waves the flask. 'And he drank the first one by his lonesome. Tried to get him to tell me who the woman was. He said that there weren't no woman so sod off. Naturally I stayed.'
'Best of friends I see.'
---
At night is when they can see a ship in the distance. Lights flickering like a willow-o'-wisp. When some of the men sing, old songs, haunting songs that remind Beckett of the Devon moors, it seems that it's a ghost ship. Fog hiding it when there had been no fog before. And sometimes, at night, they dream of the dead taking their souls to replace their lost ones. They men dream of a web weaving about them, capturing them in an inescapable grasp. They dream of the dead rising again to redig their graves for the living know not what the dead like.
'Who is it?' Gibbs asks, softly. They can hear a bell in the distance. Tolling for someone. They pray it's not them.
'Blackbeard,' Sparrow answers. Softly, for once.
'My father,' Angelica replies.
'Someone's child,' a sailor mutters. 'A son.'
'The devil,' Philip says. 'An evil spirit.'
Gibbs reasons that all four answers are correct.
---
Beckett tries to be more discreet when he slips out at night. To the darkened hold where he can be alone, hand between legs. He's quick, manages an average of about seven minutes and doesn't think too much about why he times himself. It's quiet as he slides back into the room, dark, just barely visible outline of the bed, a form asleep in it. Beckett tells himself he's been good. That Mercer doesn't know so he won't be teased in the morning (good night, sir? Feeling refreshed? Sore at all? You seem to be working harder than usual. Smug grins through it all. Oh Beckett wanted to strangle the man sometimes). But of course, the lord knows in the back of his mind, that whatever he does Mercer knows.
The clerk is just sometimes kind and leaves him be.
'Next shore leave I could find someone for you, sir,' murmured one night. A bell rings. Shift is changing.
'I can manage myself.'
'Evidently. I'm simply saying you don't have to, sir.'
'Oh bugger off Mercer.'
'Would if I could.'
Beckett doesn't reply. Huffs instead and steals the blankets.
It's been two days and Sparrow has them heading towards Louisiana. There's an island along the way, he says, that's the place we need. The one with the Cova de Sa Compana. The problem is - getting there. Who wants the fountain bad enough to want the mermaids? Who needs the fountain? Who craves the fountain?
'I think the word he wants is cupio.' Beckett says. Mercer just nods - if ever a man knew the meaning of cupio it would be Sparrow.
Angelica tries. She holds the compass close, squeezes her eyes shuts and prays. It spins. Circles and she's whispering in Spanish, in English, in French, in a language none of them understand. Then. still. It hovers between two points - one on the ship before her, one on the ship behind them. She curses. Slams the compass into Sparrow's hands and says 'fuck you and fuck this ship and fuck this compass. It's wrong.'
There is silence.
There can only be silence.
They find out that the clergy-lad wants to see mermaids. Wants to see them something bad. He says - it would be a first, wouldn't it? To bring our Savour to them. The pirates laugh and say - ye can try, if ye survive me boy. If ye survive. Philip asks what they mean by that and they just laugh more and tell him to move on. Yer arse isn't needed up here on deck. Move on or make yerself useful.
'They're a rough lot,' Philip tells Beckett who gives him a look that clearly says 'I know'. 'I mean, I thought I knew rough. I was born in Suffolk, it's not the highest of places.'
'Country rough,' Mercer says as he joins them. 'Different than city rough which is different from sailor rough and so on.'
'Where in Suffolk?' Beckett is feigning interest and the boy seems oblivious.
'Aldeburgh, by the river Alde. Father was an honest fisherman.'
'Charming, I'm sure.'
'This is my first time abroad.'
'From England?'
'From Aldeburgh.'
'Jesus Christ,' Beckett muttered. 'He's a child.'
Mercer smirks and shoves a compass into the boy's hand. Beckett doesn't want to know how the clerk got his hands on it. 'A child, perhaps, sir. But one who wants to see mermaids. Open it up and tell me which direction it's pointing.'
'It'll point north, wont it?'
'Perhaps. If that's where the mermaids are.'
Mercer asks his master that night, 'Sir, what are we to do when we find the fountain? What are your orders?' Beckett doesn't answer for a spell. He's lying on his side watching the shadows of clouds drift across the older man's face. He's thinking of England, of his warm bed, of the warm bodies occasionally in it. Whenever he had an itch. Which isn't as often as some men, but more often than others.
'To destroy it, I think.' He frowns. He's unsure. 'Or find the nearest port and send the location back to England. See all Pelham said to me was 'we wouldn't want the Spanish or the French getting it, now would we?' I take it to mean we will be destroying it.'
'Fair enough, sir.'
There is silence. Beckett continues to think about home. About the moors. About the dales in the north. When he had been a boy his father had taken him up to a place called Ingleton. It was a small village of no consequence somewhere in Yorkshire. During the days they went riding, and on one day they hiked up a hill called Ingleborough (a hill Beckett called it. The locals said it was a mountain. But the locals hadn't seen the Alps so didn't know what real mountains were). At the top it was barren, flat, rocky, with a thick fog around them. It had seemed unreal. Looking up the sun had been a small barely-yellow disk in the sky. Slowly lowering itself on the world. That night he had dreamed of the world ending. Of fire and ice and the frigid emptiness of death. When he woke he couldn't remember the dream, just the feeling of desolation and dread.
He had cream tea and a crumpet for breakfast and asked his father if he believed what was said on Sunday's. His father had replied that he believed in England and the Crown and the Company. God save them all.
---
'My father was a capable man. An intelligent man, well educated, well read and bred. But I can't say I'm proud to be his son. There is more to life than having a country home and fox hunting. He could have been powerful, he could have gotten a title, he could have been wealthier. But he didn't. He lacked ambition. He lacked motivation. He was weak. I don't understand why you respect him, Mr. Mercer.'
'Well, sir, many men don't need power and glory to be happy. And many men who have power and glory and riches aren't.'
---
Beckett pushes Mercer up against the wall that night. After he is relieved of duty. One hand is in the clerk's hair, pulling his head back, the other has pinned one hand against the wall.
'We will come to an agreement,' he hisses. Presses his mouth against the older man's, bites on his lower lip. As he pulls away he can taste blood. 'For the remainder of this -' he pauses for the word. Mercer's breaths are catching, he looks like a cornered animal. 'Of this journey you will be my,' again a pause. He wants delicacy. The years at Oxford forcing him to put things tactfully. What he truly wants to say - you will be my personal whore. You will be my toy. You will be mine to fuck till we get back to England and I find someone prettier. Younger. Wealthier. Better educated. Less...prone to murder.
'Servant.' Mercer supplies, softly. Becket's stomach twists. He ignores it and nods. Yes. Servant will do.
'Understood?'
Mercer smiles, it's a cold one. His free hand slips around the back of Beckett's neck and pulls the younger man close so their bodies are flush. 'No sir, not understood. This isn't England, sir. You're not a lord here.' A kiss, soft. It startles the lord. Another one, hard, biting. Mercer's fingers are pulling his hair and he can hear himself moan, push forward. 'It'd do for you to remember that, sir.'
Beckett is pushed back, gasping, and watches as the older man undresses, slips into bed, and falls asleep.
A hurricane hits them. The second one since they've been on this voyage. Beckett finds himself sicking up on Mercer who is doing his damnedest to hold them both down on the deck. A sail has been lost. Rigging it wipping around, strong enough to take a man's head off. At one point there is a still calm. Around them there are clouds, but over there, the starboard side, there is a bit of light. The heavens smiling down on them for a brief while before the wind slams into them again.
They bury the three dead sailors at sea. As is right and proper, Barbossa explains. When the sea takes your life you give it all. Bones, flesh, cloth, and soul. What's left of their possessions are sold at the next port they limp into. A small island of no consequence where an incomprehensible form of French is spoken. Some of the men come back from taverns with stories of sacrifice and the ripping out of hearts to give to demonic gods. Beckett writes it off as peasant superstition.
'Sir. You wrote Davy Jones off as peasant superstition originally, as well.'
'Difference is, Mr. Mercer. These stories are told by the Spanish who know that the French have seen what wealth they have taken from this world. And what better way to scare off potential rivals than to say that there are people in your land who will eat your heart raw, freshly ripped from a still breathing chest? What general would be able to persuade his soldiers to go into such a place?'
'The same general who persuades his men to stand firm when there is column after column of enemy soldier approaching.'
'It's still just a tale.'
'If you say so, sir.'
Beckett doesn't go to the docks at night. Instead he stays on the ship, wrapped in the old blanket and stares out at the empty room. Mercer comes in, roughly three in the morning judging by tolling bells, the sound of the guard changing. He smells of alcohol and smoke. Beckett watches him undress, his back to the bed. There are scars the younger man hadn't noticed. But then, he reasons, I've never had cause to notice.
The men are telling stories, Mercer explains as he slips under the blanket. Beckett grudgingly moves over. They're whispering about Aztec gold, Aztec greed, Aztec sacrifices. Aztec lust.
The younger man can feel Mercer's hands sliding down his thighs as he whispers the words into still air. Both know they will never speak at night, during - or if they do speak it is of things unreal.
'Story goes - a ship full of gold and slaves from the New World wrecked off the coast of Spain.' His fingers are unlacing his master's breeches and Beckett feels the too familiar uncertainty of what to do with his own hands. He clerk is taking care of everything. He doesn't want him to stop so lies still, listens, a part of him terrified that if he moves he'll die. 'And these slaves were godless and practised the Old faith of their world.'
Mercer rolls him over, onto his back and straddles him. Leaning in his kisses the lord's neck, under his ear, down to his shoulder. Fingers move from stomach to the opened breeches and dip in. Beckett's breath hitches.
'They believed that their mad gods required sacrifices as a sign of faith and loyalty. So they killed the Spanish sailors. Cut them open and ate their hearts.'
Breeches are around knees now and Beckett briefly wonders why Mercer is on top. He can feel a gloved hand pulled at his prick, warm body leaning over him and hot breath ghosting over his neck. When he pushes his hips up he can feel Mercer hard against him. Shifting he manages to slip his hand between them, wrapping fingers around him he pulls.
A hiss, sharp, and a bite to the younger man's neck to hide a stifled moan of something that might have been 'master'. Beckett's thumb rubs over the top, feeling a bit of moisture. There is a hand in his hair pulling him up so he's sitting and Mercer's straddling his lap. The clerk kisses him, presses tongue into his mouth. All Beckett can think is - I didn't want it this way, but I did want it this way, but I don't, but I do, but I don't. But - Christ I haven't been this terrified since I was fifteen.
Beckett's back is against the wall, they're sitting across the bunk so his feet are just hanging off. Mercer's handling his cock and the lord is doing everything he can to maintain control. He's only just moving his hips, only just rubbing himself into the warm hand, only just not gasping, only just, barely, hanging on - not coming but coming so he's wet on his stomach and Mercer's fingers are covered. He closes his eyes, doesn't want to see the older man's expression. There is movement, weight off his lap and the sound of clothes being pulled on.
A bell on deck tolls.
Beckett falls asleep as the door shuts and he realizes he's alone.
Title: Noli me Tangere
Pairing: Um. meckett? It just kind of happened. I had no control over it.
Rating: R-ish
Characters: Everyone and their grandmother. Plus new people from Pirates 4. :D
Summary: Somehow, through the magic of plot holes, Mercer and Beckett survive 3 and are chillin' in London when Sparrow shows up. Let the quest (race) for the fountain of youth begin!
Part I Part VI
Part II Part VII
Part III Part VIII
Part IV
Part V
'I need a map that doesn't have magical properties. That isn't the Lost Map of some great explorer. That doesn't explode when I utter the word 'it' near it. Do you know how hard - agh - I can't speak without using the word 'it'. I need a map that doesn't melt into suspicious black liquid when rum is dropped on it. I need a map that is accurate and doesn't look like a child drew it while drunk. I need a map that isn't three hundred years old and shows La Florida being as fat as my dear dead mother. I need a map that is useful.'
The crew stares at Barbossa for a full minute before the pirate growls in frustration, whacks Sparrow who whines 'what did I do?'
'Nothing yet. But you probably will do something that deserves it in the future.'
'Where are we trying to go?' Beckett asks Gibbs that night. They both have first shift and are sitting by the wheel decidedly not drinking brandy from a hidden flask that Beckett stole from Mercer since it fits in boots so well.
'A cove of some sort. Cove de la-' he coughs.
'If it's Cove de la Muerta or La mort or Cove of Death I might kill someone.'
'Do the cove's work for it. No, no, I think it's Cova de Sa Campana. Or something like that. Spanish are creative with names - the cove looks like a bell so it's 'Cove of the bell'.
'Cova means cave,' Mercer is above them, in the rigging. Gibbs curses, grabs his heart and says - for the love of the holy mother don't scare a man like that. Beckett only laughs and offers the older man a drink. 'I was wondering where that had gotten to, sir.'
'Cova is a cave? So - cave of the bell?'
'A sea cave,' Mercer says as he drops down, landing behind Gibbs and making him jump again. 'Rumoured to be full of the foulest of creatures. Mermaids.'
'Aren't they supposed to be lovely little things? You know, guide sailors and that sort of rot.'
'Some do, I suppose.' The clerk is grinning a wicked grin. Beckett smirks back, he knows something bloody is about to be mentioned. 'They sing to distract you. Like a siren. Some kill you whilst rescuing you. Some kill you out of hatred for men walk on land whilst mermaids are condemned to live in the cold black of the ocean. Others say that they have forgotten we cannot breath under water and so try and take us back to their land and we die.'
'I think,' Beckett starts, leans forward and brushes dirt off Mercer's coat. 'What Mr. Mercer is trying to say is that -'
'They'll kill us,' Gibbs finishes.
'Something like that...shame that, really. I was quite enjoying my life. And sir, I think my coat is clean enough.'
'No it's not.'
'You're drunk, sir.'
'No I'm not.'
'Yes he is. Third filling of this,' the pirate waves the flask. 'And he drank the first one by his lonesome. Tried to get him to tell me who the woman was. He said that there weren't no woman so sod off. Naturally I stayed.'
'Best of friends I see.'
---
At night is when they can see a ship in the distance. Lights flickering like a willow-o'-wisp. When some of the men sing, old songs, haunting songs that remind Beckett of the Devon moors, it seems that it's a ghost ship. Fog hiding it when there had been no fog before. And sometimes, at night, they dream of the dead taking their souls to replace their lost ones. They men dream of a web weaving about them, capturing them in an inescapable grasp. They dream of the dead rising again to redig their graves for the living know not what the dead like.
'Who is it?' Gibbs asks, softly. They can hear a bell in the distance. Tolling for someone. They pray it's not them.
'Blackbeard,' Sparrow answers. Softly, for once.
'My father,' Angelica replies.
'Someone's child,' a sailor mutters. 'A son.'
'The devil,' Philip says. 'An evil spirit.'
Gibbs reasons that all four answers are correct.
---
Beckett tries to be more discreet when he slips out at night. To the darkened hold where he can be alone, hand between legs. He's quick, manages an average of about seven minutes and doesn't think too much about why he times himself. It's quiet as he slides back into the room, dark, just barely visible outline of the bed, a form asleep in it. Beckett tells himself he's been good. That Mercer doesn't know so he won't be teased in the morning (good night, sir? Feeling refreshed? Sore at all? You seem to be working harder than usual. Smug grins through it all. Oh Beckett wanted to strangle the man sometimes). But of course, the lord knows in the back of his mind, that whatever he does Mercer knows.
The clerk is just sometimes kind and leaves him be.
'Next shore leave I could find someone for you, sir,' murmured one night. A bell rings. Shift is changing.
'I can manage myself.'
'Evidently. I'm simply saying you don't have to, sir.'
'Oh bugger off Mercer.'
'Would if I could.'
Beckett doesn't reply. Huffs instead and steals the blankets.
It's been two days and Sparrow has them heading towards Louisiana. There's an island along the way, he says, that's the place we need. The one with the Cova de Sa Compana. The problem is - getting there. Who wants the fountain bad enough to want the mermaids? Who needs the fountain? Who craves the fountain?
'I think the word he wants is cupio.' Beckett says. Mercer just nods - if ever a man knew the meaning of cupio it would be Sparrow.
Angelica tries. She holds the compass close, squeezes her eyes shuts and prays. It spins. Circles and she's whispering in Spanish, in English, in French, in a language none of them understand. Then. still. It hovers between two points - one on the ship before her, one on the ship behind them. She curses. Slams the compass into Sparrow's hands and says 'fuck you and fuck this ship and fuck this compass. It's wrong.'
There is silence.
There can only be silence.
They find out that the clergy-lad wants to see mermaids. Wants to see them something bad. He says - it would be a first, wouldn't it? To bring our Savour to them. The pirates laugh and say - ye can try, if ye survive me boy. If ye survive. Philip asks what they mean by that and they just laugh more and tell him to move on. Yer arse isn't needed up here on deck. Move on or make yerself useful.
'They're a rough lot,' Philip tells Beckett who gives him a look that clearly says 'I know'. 'I mean, I thought I knew rough. I was born in Suffolk, it's not the highest of places.'
'Country rough,' Mercer says as he joins them. 'Different than city rough which is different from sailor rough and so on.'
'Where in Suffolk?' Beckett is feigning interest and the boy seems oblivious.
'Aldeburgh, by the river Alde. Father was an honest fisherman.'
'Charming, I'm sure.'
'This is my first time abroad.'
'From England?'
'From Aldeburgh.'
'Jesus Christ,' Beckett muttered. 'He's a child.'
Mercer smirks and shoves a compass into the boy's hand. Beckett doesn't want to know how the clerk got his hands on it. 'A child, perhaps, sir. But one who wants to see mermaids. Open it up and tell me which direction it's pointing.'
'It'll point north, wont it?'
'Perhaps. If that's where the mermaids are.'
Mercer asks his master that night, 'Sir, what are we to do when we find the fountain? What are your orders?' Beckett doesn't answer for a spell. He's lying on his side watching the shadows of clouds drift across the older man's face. He's thinking of England, of his warm bed, of the warm bodies occasionally in it. Whenever he had an itch. Which isn't as often as some men, but more often than others.
'To destroy it, I think.' He frowns. He's unsure. 'Or find the nearest port and send the location back to England. See all Pelham said to me was 'we wouldn't want the Spanish or the French getting it, now would we?' I take it to mean we will be destroying it.'
'Fair enough, sir.'
There is silence. Beckett continues to think about home. About the moors. About the dales in the north. When he had been a boy his father had taken him up to a place called Ingleton. It was a small village of no consequence somewhere in Yorkshire. During the days they went riding, and on one day they hiked up a hill called Ingleborough (a hill Beckett called it. The locals said it was a mountain. But the locals hadn't seen the Alps so didn't know what real mountains were). At the top it was barren, flat, rocky, with a thick fog around them. It had seemed unreal. Looking up the sun had been a small barely-yellow disk in the sky. Slowly lowering itself on the world. That night he had dreamed of the world ending. Of fire and ice and the frigid emptiness of death. When he woke he couldn't remember the dream, just the feeling of desolation and dread.
He had cream tea and a crumpet for breakfast and asked his father if he believed what was said on Sunday's. His father had replied that he believed in England and the Crown and the Company. God save them all.
---
'My father was a capable man. An intelligent man, well educated, well read and bred. But I can't say I'm proud to be his son. There is more to life than having a country home and fox hunting. He could have been powerful, he could have gotten a title, he could have been wealthier. But he didn't. He lacked ambition. He lacked motivation. He was weak. I don't understand why you respect him, Mr. Mercer.'
'Well, sir, many men don't need power and glory to be happy. And many men who have power and glory and riches aren't.'
---
Beckett pushes Mercer up against the wall that night. After he is relieved of duty. One hand is in the clerk's hair, pulling his head back, the other has pinned one hand against the wall.
'We will come to an agreement,' he hisses. Presses his mouth against the older man's, bites on his lower lip. As he pulls away he can taste blood. 'For the remainder of this -' he pauses for the word. Mercer's breaths are catching, he looks like a cornered animal. 'Of this journey you will be my,' again a pause. He wants delicacy. The years at Oxford forcing him to put things tactfully. What he truly wants to say - you will be my personal whore. You will be my toy. You will be mine to fuck till we get back to England and I find someone prettier. Younger. Wealthier. Better educated. Less...prone to murder.
'Servant.' Mercer supplies, softly. Becket's stomach twists. He ignores it and nods. Yes. Servant will do.
'Understood?'
Mercer smiles, it's a cold one. His free hand slips around the back of Beckett's neck and pulls the younger man close so their bodies are flush. 'No sir, not understood. This isn't England, sir. You're not a lord here.' A kiss, soft. It startles the lord. Another one, hard, biting. Mercer's fingers are pulling his hair and he can hear himself moan, push forward. 'It'd do for you to remember that, sir.'
Beckett is pushed back, gasping, and watches as the older man undresses, slips into bed, and falls asleep.
A hurricane hits them. The second one since they've been on this voyage. Beckett finds himself sicking up on Mercer who is doing his damnedest to hold them both down on the deck. A sail has been lost. Rigging it wipping around, strong enough to take a man's head off. At one point there is a still calm. Around them there are clouds, but over there, the starboard side, there is a bit of light. The heavens smiling down on them for a brief while before the wind slams into them again.
They bury the three dead sailors at sea. As is right and proper, Barbossa explains. When the sea takes your life you give it all. Bones, flesh, cloth, and soul. What's left of their possessions are sold at the next port they limp into. A small island of no consequence where an incomprehensible form of French is spoken. Some of the men come back from taverns with stories of sacrifice and the ripping out of hearts to give to demonic gods. Beckett writes it off as peasant superstition.
'Sir. You wrote Davy Jones off as peasant superstition originally, as well.'
'Difference is, Mr. Mercer. These stories are told by the Spanish who know that the French have seen what wealth they have taken from this world. And what better way to scare off potential rivals than to say that there are people in your land who will eat your heart raw, freshly ripped from a still breathing chest? What general would be able to persuade his soldiers to go into such a place?'
'The same general who persuades his men to stand firm when there is column after column of enemy soldier approaching.'
'It's still just a tale.'
'If you say so, sir.'
Beckett doesn't go to the docks at night. Instead he stays on the ship, wrapped in the old blanket and stares out at the empty room. Mercer comes in, roughly three in the morning judging by tolling bells, the sound of the guard changing. He smells of alcohol and smoke. Beckett watches him undress, his back to the bed. There are scars the younger man hadn't noticed. But then, he reasons, I've never had cause to notice.
The men are telling stories, Mercer explains as he slips under the blanket. Beckett grudgingly moves over. They're whispering about Aztec gold, Aztec greed, Aztec sacrifices. Aztec lust.
The younger man can feel Mercer's hands sliding down his thighs as he whispers the words into still air. Both know they will never speak at night, during - or if they do speak it is of things unreal.
'Story goes - a ship full of gold and slaves from the New World wrecked off the coast of Spain.' His fingers are unlacing his master's breeches and Beckett feels the too familiar uncertainty of what to do with his own hands. He clerk is taking care of everything. He doesn't want him to stop so lies still, listens, a part of him terrified that if he moves he'll die. 'And these slaves were godless and practised the Old faith of their world.'
Mercer rolls him over, onto his back and straddles him. Leaning in his kisses the lord's neck, under his ear, down to his shoulder. Fingers move from stomach to the opened breeches and dip in. Beckett's breath hitches.
'They believed that their mad gods required sacrifices as a sign of faith and loyalty. So they killed the Spanish sailors. Cut them open and ate their hearts.'
Breeches are around knees now and Beckett briefly wonders why Mercer is on top. He can feel a gloved hand pulled at his prick, warm body leaning over him and hot breath ghosting over his neck. When he pushes his hips up he can feel Mercer hard against him. Shifting he manages to slip his hand between them, wrapping fingers around him he pulls.
A hiss, sharp, and a bite to the younger man's neck to hide a stifled moan of something that might have been 'master'. Beckett's thumb rubs over the top, feeling a bit of moisture. There is a hand in his hair pulling him up so he's sitting and Mercer's straddling his lap. The clerk kisses him, presses tongue into his mouth. All Beckett can think is - I didn't want it this way, but I did want it this way, but I don't, but I do, but I don't. But - Christ I haven't been this terrified since I was fifteen.
Beckett's back is against the wall, they're sitting across the bunk so his feet are just hanging off. Mercer's handling his cock and the lord is doing everything he can to maintain control. He's only just moving his hips, only just rubbing himself into the warm hand, only just not gasping, only just, barely, hanging on - not coming but coming so he's wet on his stomach and Mercer's fingers are covered. He closes his eyes, doesn't want to see the older man's expression. There is movement, weight off his lap and the sound of clothes being pulled on.
A bell on deck tolls.
Beckett falls asleep as the door shuts and he realizes he's alone.