Scar [Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest/At World's End]
I dug this out of my hard drive, where it's been sitting a while. I think it's finished, but maybe not.
Title: Scar
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean (Somewhere between Dead Man's Chest and At World's End
Word Count: 1,079
Character/Pairing: Davy Jones/Cutler Beckett
Rating: R for sexual situations and nudity
Warning: AU
Disclaimer: Not mine, and I make no money. Pity, that.
Summary: "And it was like this, when it came down to it: one couldn't handle another's heart every day without being affected by it."
And it was like this, when it came down to it: one couldn't handle another's heart every day without being affected by it.
At first, the thing was grotesque in every aspect, from the shape and texture of it to the box that echoed its beats. Beckett kept it locked in his office at night and in his cabin during the day, because he couldn't bear to be in the same room with it. But familiarity breeds contempt, as they say, and he was gradually able to spend longer with it. He kept it close out of fear; fear that someone else would take it, that the man and his crew would recover it, that something would happen to it and render him helpless before the power of the Dutchman and her captain.
Ironic, that.
There came the night when he couldn't sleep at all, and so he was trying to work, when the thumps became louder and quicker, then quicker still, and Beckett rushed across the cabin, pulling the key out of his inner coat pocket. He thrust it in and turned, and there lay the thing in its box, pulsing so hard Beckett was afraid it might burst. He reached out to it gingerly, as if it were an animal that might bite, and touched it with the tips of two fingers. It was soft, softer than he expected, and quite dry. It frantically fluttered under his touch, and he reflexively stroked to calm it. It leapt against his fingers, as if startled, then slowed a little. It responds to touch, he thought, completely surprised. He hadn't given it much thought; it was a bit too magical for his practical soul, but he supposed that the heart's alarm meant that, somewhere, Captain Jones was equally upset.
Beckett glanced at the little clock on the sideboard, ticking away the third hour past midnight, and it occurred to him that the Captain might be - might be having a bad dream. Perhaps he could - calm him. No one, even a creature like the Dutchman's captain, should be terrorized by the phantoms of the mind. Beckett had the sympathy that only came out of a lifetime of horrifying dreams of the sort that kept one up during the darkest hours of the night, long after the rest of the civilized world was asleep.
He ended up with it on his lap, petting it like a cat, while it gradually slowed back to a more normal rhythm. Comforted by the steady beat, he was able to doze, and then sleep with a depth that startled him when he awoke.
That was the beginning, the first step on the path that led him here, with the Dutchman's captain giving him the gentlest look he'd ever seen, and the color burning in his own face like he'd spent too much time in the sun.
The kiss, when it came, was soft. The right hand, looking almost human, touched lightly under Beckett's chin, and then the taller man bent to him and his skin was silkier than a normal man's, without the slightest hint of scratchy whiskers on his cheek; akin to yet utterly unlike kissing a woman.
A tentacle touched him, gently, and he managed not to flinch. This was the hardest part. Beckett didn't want to offend him; he found the captain a handsome man, despite his - unusual configuration - but he knew that the slightest hint of anything that could be construed as revulsion would send the other man away. He didn't want that, not at all. But all the preparation in the world didn't make it any less startling in the middle of it.
"A'right?" he was asked.
"Yes," he replied, and he managed to convey his certainty in his husky voice and the look in his dark eyes.
"Good." And he was in the captain's embrace, which didn't seem nearly as peculiar as he thought it would. The man used his tentacles as extra hands, which made a certain amount of sense when one considered that he only had the one. Indeed, his - nature - made him more capable than most men with two good arms and legs, much less the one of each that he seemed to have remaining to him in a traditional sense.
But with such help, Beckett found his coat and waistcoat removed at an amazing speed, and he found himself standing before the captain in nothing but his trousers and half-buttoned shirt, with the man looking him over in something that seemed to approach awe. "Beckett," he said.
"Cutler," Beckett corrected.
"Hm?"
"My Christian name. Is Cutler." He hardly needed a second hand to count the number of people who called him that, but this was one of the situations that called for it.
"Cutler," and the name in the captain's mouth gave its owner a thrill that made him ache.
"Captain," he said, and the man smiled.
"Davy," he corrected, smirking a little. Davy seemed suddenly dignified and respectable. Magnificent, like the captain himself.
"Ah. Yes." Beckett had scarcely dared to think of the man by anything but his title, and here he was with his Christian name on his tongue, and armed with that, Beckett dared to push the barnacled coat off his left shoulder.
The shirt underneath was snowy white, not dissimilar to Beckett's, and seemed the only thing on the ship unaffected by the elements. He bit at his lower lip, glanced up at the - at Davy, and began to carefully unbutton it.
Underneath it, he was completely and gloriously human. Smooth, fair skin, with a handful of scattered hairs that gleamed copper in the lamplight, the left side marred from collarbone to nipple with a ragged scar two fingers wide. Beckett lay his palm flat on the scar and felt nothing. The reality of the thing struck him, and he looked up at Davy, eyes widening. No heartbeat, because the heart lay in a chest on the Endeavor, a chest tightly locked and closely guarded, the key to his power over the man.
He'd fallen asleep to the sound of that heartbeat every night for months, and now, suddenly, he had a deep understanding of what it all meant.
Davy said nothing, just looked back at him.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Fer what?"
He stroked the scar. It was answer enough.
Title: Scar
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean (Somewhere between Dead Man's Chest and At World's End
Word Count: 1,079
Character/Pairing: Davy Jones/Cutler Beckett
Rating: R for sexual situations and nudity
Warning: AU
Disclaimer: Not mine, and I make no money. Pity, that.
Summary: "And it was like this, when it came down to it: one couldn't handle another's heart every day without being affected by it."
And it was like this, when it came down to it: one couldn't handle another's heart every day without being affected by it.
At first, the thing was grotesque in every aspect, from the shape and texture of it to the box that echoed its beats. Beckett kept it locked in his office at night and in his cabin during the day, because he couldn't bear to be in the same room with it. But familiarity breeds contempt, as they say, and he was gradually able to spend longer with it. He kept it close out of fear; fear that someone else would take it, that the man and his crew would recover it, that something would happen to it and render him helpless before the power of the Dutchman and her captain.
Ironic, that.
There came the night when he couldn't sleep at all, and so he was trying to work, when the thumps became louder and quicker, then quicker still, and Beckett rushed across the cabin, pulling the key out of his inner coat pocket. He thrust it in and turned, and there lay the thing in its box, pulsing so hard Beckett was afraid it might burst. He reached out to it gingerly, as if it were an animal that might bite, and touched it with the tips of two fingers. It was soft, softer than he expected, and quite dry. It frantically fluttered under his touch, and he reflexively stroked to calm it. It leapt against his fingers, as if startled, then slowed a little. It responds to touch, he thought, completely surprised. He hadn't given it much thought; it was a bit too magical for his practical soul, but he supposed that the heart's alarm meant that, somewhere, Captain Jones was equally upset.
Beckett glanced at the little clock on the sideboard, ticking away the third hour past midnight, and it occurred to him that the Captain might be - might be having a bad dream. Perhaps he could - calm him. No one, even a creature like the Dutchman's captain, should be terrorized by the phantoms of the mind. Beckett had the sympathy that only came out of a lifetime of horrifying dreams of the sort that kept one up during the darkest hours of the night, long after the rest of the civilized world was asleep.
He ended up with it on his lap, petting it like a cat, while it gradually slowed back to a more normal rhythm. Comforted by the steady beat, he was able to doze, and then sleep with a depth that startled him when he awoke.
That was the beginning, the first step on the path that led him here, with the Dutchman's captain giving him the gentlest look he'd ever seen, and the color burning in his own face like he'd spent too much time in the sun.
The kiss, when it came, was soft. The right hand, looking almost human, touched lightly under Beckett's chin, and then the taller man bent to him and his skin was silkier than a normal man's, without the slightest hint of scratchy whiskers on his cheek; akin to yet utterly unlike kissing a woman.
A tentacle touched him, gently, and he managed not to flinch. This was the hardest part. Beckett didn't want to offend him; he found the captain a handsome man, despite his - unusual configuration - but he knew that the slightest hint of anything that could be construed as revulsion would send the other man away. He didn't want that, not at all. But all the preparation in the world didn't make it any less startling in the middle of it.
"A'right?" he was asked.
"Yes," he replied, and he managed to convey his certainty in his husky voice and the look in his dark eyes.
"Good." And he was in the captain's embrace, which didn't seem nearly as peculiar as he thought it would. The man used his tentacles as extra hands, which made a certain amount of sense when one considered that he only had the one. Indeed, his - nature - made him more capable than most men with two good arms and legs, much less the one of each that he seemed to have remaining to him in a traditional sense.
But with such help, Beckett found his coat and waistcoat removed at an amazing speed, and he found himself standing before the captain in nothing but his trousers and half-buttoned shirt, with the man looking him over in something that seemed to approach awe. "Beckett," he said.
"Cutler," Beckett corrected.
"Hm?"
"My Christian name. Is Cutler." He hardly needed a second hand to count the number of people who called him that, but this was one of the situations that called for it.
"Cutler," and the name in the captain's mouth gave its owner a thrill that made him ache.
"Captain," he said, and the man smiled.
"Davy," he corrected, smirking a little. Davy seemed suddenly dignified and respectable. Magnificent, like the captain himself.
"Ah. Yes." Beckett had scarcely dared to think of the man by anything but his title, and here he was with his Christian name on his tongue, and armed with that, Beckett dared to push the barnacled coat off his left shoulder.
The shirt underneath was snowy white, not dissimilar to Beckett's, and seemed the only thing on the ship unaffected by the elements. He bit at his lower lip, glanced up at the - at Davy, and began to carefully unbutton it.
Underneath it, he was completely and gloriously human. Smooth, fair skin, with a handful of scattered hairs that gleamed copper in the lamplight, the left side marred from collarbone to nipple with a ragged scar two fingers wide. Beckett lay his palm flat on the scar and felt nothing. The reality of the thing struck him, and he looked up at Davy, eyes widening. No heartbeat, because the heart lay in a chest on the Endeavor, a chest tightly locked and closely guarded, the key to his power over the man.
He'd fallen asleep to the sound of that heartbeat every night for months, and now, suddenly, he had a deep understanding of what it all meant.
Davy said nothing, just looked back at him.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Fer what?"
He stroked the scar. It was answer enough.