On the Bright Side
Last of three linked Jack/Will stories.
Follows from Somewhat Familiar (PG-13), and Better Acquainted (NC-17), but you can jump straight in here if you still remember what happened in Curse of the Black Pearl.
Summary: Tortuga to Isla da Muerta
Pairing: Jack/Will.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: pilfered
Beta:
viva_gloria
Feedback: would be nice
On the Bright Side
Jack, for once in his life, woke first. A little reflection suggested it would be politic to allow Will space and privacy to compose himself. Not without regret, Jack eased ever so gently out of the boy’s embrace. Taking a slug or two of brandy to fortify himself, he set out an apple, some hardtack and a piece of cheese for the boy to find when he woke. (For the first time, he genuinely regretted the absence of fresh water.) Then he slung the rest of the provisions into the cabin and the debris into the ocean, leaving the boy in peace.
He returned from a highly enjoyable tour of inspection (the Interceptor really was a very fine ship-Jack’s very fine ship, to be precise) to find Will sitting up and rubbing his eyes.
“Hello, Will,” he said carefully. “Lovely morning, innit?” Since the boy didn’t seem ready to respond to that, Jack sauntered to the helm and made himself busy with the horizon.
“Thank you, Jack.”
Another surprise! Young Will was taking this better than Jack’d hoped. He really should have more faith in his own powers of seduction. Before he could frame a suitably modest response, the boy’d started talking again.
“For teaching me that I was right about alcohol. I’m never going to touch it again.”
Oh. And bugger. (Although that was probably another thing young Will was planning on never touching again.) Jack realised he was waving his hands around, hopefully in disaster-averting rather than apologetic ways, because he’d got nothing to apologise for, had he?
“Your choice, son.” (Hmmm, maybe not the best term of endearment under the circumstances.) “But we’re still a way from Tortuga and you’ll have a powerful thirst if you hold out on naught but apples all the way. Look, if it sets your mind at rest, I promise you it’s perfectly possible to have a few pints of ale without…”
“Without mistaking you for a governor’s daughter?”
Jack was about to say that it was an easy mistake and the lad hadn’t been the first to make it, but there was such a look of misery and hatred-mostly self-hatred-on that all-too familiar face.
“An honest misunderstanding, mate. Worse things happen at sea.”
“What?”
“Sea and land, mate. What happens on one’s got nothing to do with what happens on the other. Totally different places. Never the twain shall meet. Well, ’xcept on the beach, obviously, and in port, but you take my point nonetheless. And lagoons, of course, estuaries, mangroves, salt marsh…”
“Jack!”
The puzzled face had given way to irritated amusement of the pull-yourself-together-and-talk-sense-Jack variety. What with all the sea-ain’t-land nonsense, history was repeating more than Jack had bargained for.
“Is that what sailors tell themselves? That who you are at sea doesn’t count on dry land? And you believe that?”
“Well, me, personally, I’ve always been more of a swampy, beachy sort of person,” said Jack, succumbing to honesty. “But it seems to work for some.” Mendacity and tact reasserted themselves before he could add, “Like your da.”
“It’s not important anyway,” declared young Will. “We’re going to rescue Elizabeth: nothing else matters.”
Jack reflected that, as morning-after declarations went, he’d had more passionate. He’d also had more belligerent, however, so he smiled and nodded.
“That’s the spirit, lad! Eyes on the prize!”
It was going to go hard on the boy when he had to face that his beloved was flotsam (or possibly jetsam: Jack could never remember which was stuff you chucked overboard and which was fragments of ship). It was lucky that ol’ Jack was here to set him up with a nice strumpet in Tortuga and teach him that life was worth living. (Or, failing that, at least ensure he had a bit more fun before the possibly fairly imminent end.)
*
Unfortunately for Jack, Tortuga’s strumpet population turned out to be more resistant to his charms than he’d remembered. Young Will, for his part, seemed quite irrationally determined to resist all advances and inclinations. (Jack couldn’t help contrasting this with their first night on the Interceptor: either the Jack Sparrow magic had been confirmed once again, or the lad’s choice of the least attainable girl in Jamaica hadn’t been as randomly ill-judged as all that.)
Still, they located Gibbs in one of the usual places. (Dear old Gibbs, the magic mirror, could always be relied upon to reflect Jack’s utter irresistibility, which was a comfort, to be sure, but Jack’s heart wasn’t really in it just now. Perhaps it was his own unusually hygienic condition, or perhaps he’d allowed the lad’s views to colour his outlook; either way, the Gibbs fragrance was looming uncommonly large today.)
Things generally proceeded quite pleasantly (aside from the lack of amenable strumpets): plans were laid; crewpersons signed; and all without any slip on Jack’s part that might have alerted Gibbs to any regrettable tendencies to turn soft about young Will, or alerted William to the fact that Jack was carrying around a great weight of History-and hence a large, and dangerously pointy Agenda. Yes! Captain Jack Sparrow could still play the game better than any: better, specifically-devoutly hopefully-than Hector Barbossa.
It didn’t begin to unravel until they were well inside the cave. How in the name of rum had the damn girl survived until now? (And why in the name of everything mind-altering had Hector given her that dress?) She was alive-for the next few seconds, at least-because she’d somehow convinced Hector that her veins ran with the blood of one Bill Turner. How she’d contrived such an improbable deceit was a mystery, but the point was that she lived, and that changed everything.
Bollocks it does! clamoured Jack’s worse selves. Keep nice an’ quiet til ol’ Hector slits her throat, then we’re back to plan, eh?
But Jack’s better selves had made a deal with Will to save the girl, even if it cost the lad’s life (which turned out handy since that did seem to be the obvious way to go about things). And, of course, even the mass of morally indeterminate selves (which, after all, was most of ’em) remembered the first William Turner: fights were already breaking out over whether William would want them to preserve his offspring, avenge his death, or do the honourable thing and aid the lad on his (probably terminal) quest. The resulting turmoil was such that it was several days before Jack realised that he’d also been struck on the head with a large and powerfully wielded oar.
The next thing he really knew, he’d fallen not only behind but also into the clutches of Hector Bloody Barbossa.
On the bright side, Hector was looking even more pissed off about it all than Jack felt. Come to think of it, there were numerous bright sides. Firstly, he was back aboard the Pearl. Secondly, Hector and the rest never questioned his knowledge of how they might get their decomposing hands on Bill Turner’s offspring. Thirdly, their departure had been slow enough to give said (still unidentified by Hector et al) offspring a good head start. In fact (and Jack reckoned this could be counted as a fourthly), Jack’s mission of rescue had succeeded beyond even his own wildest imaginings: both the boy and his lass were improbably free of Hector’s clutches and clear of the island. Yes, Jack had discharged his obligations (not that he acknowledged any) to both generations of Turner! Whatever befell the young lovers next was no concern of his-a fifth bright side there, or possibly sixth.
Eighthly, he’d never seen Hector so on edge. It was a joy to watch the old zombie flinch and quiver every time Jack so much as looked sidelong at him. Clearly, that curse was a real bugger (making nine bright sides). Then he spotted the bowl of apples, which made ten and eleven. Finally, achieving a round dozen reasons to be cheerful, all he had to do now was take control of the ship. (And escape from the increasingly moist brig, but that was so trivial as to be scarcely worth the counting.)
It was all going swimmingly (he was prepared to overlook the disappointment of the empty rum flask), with Jack on the point of retrieving the medallion from Elizabeth, when it hit him between the eyes like an unpleasantly squishy variety of shot: she loved young Will. (She’d lost the bloody medallion too, but that was a lesser problem.)
“Where is dear William?” he asked, sounding altogether too much like his own memories of Hector for comfort. But it wasn’t jealousy that twisted Jack’s lip into a sneer (indeed, the very thought was too far beneath him to be dignified with a rebuttal): it was the awful realisation that he was going to have to help.
First, though, he needed to chase Hector’s monkey.
*
Later, he reflected that it was probably William’s fault-yes, that would make a kind of sense-or possibly, it was just Jack’s own confounded good nature that had demanded the complication of his own admirably feasible schemes by this pressing and unyielding need to give the young pair at least a single shot at… something: happiness, consummation, wedded bliss, or just a long, embarrassing conversation about how they’d always remain friends-Jack honestly didn’t know (or care) which. But he knew he’d give them their one shot, or die trying.
What with Dear Sweet William (the second) being such a perfect pillock-not to mention Elizabeth proving surprisingly, piratically resourceful-it had to be admitted that the latter option was looking increasingly likely.
Never would it be said, however, that Captain Jack Sparrow lost hope before the end. Snuggled up to the commodore in his little row boat, Jack could see all kinds of advantages just waiting to be seized. (The possibility of seizing said commodore was certainly one of them, but best postponed for the present if he wanted to retain the ability to seize anything else.)
With any luck-and when had luck ever failed Jack Sparrow?-he’d soon have possession of the Pearl, and his revenge on Hector, perhaps receiving another royal pardon into the bargain. There was even a chance of a kind of immortality (possibly not as good as it sounded, but he could always give it back if he didn’t take to it).
Of course, he’d provide the young lovers with their opportune moment-how difficult could it be, for a man who’d reclaimed his ship from a horde of cursed immortals? But after that-after that they were square. If the lovebirds chose to sail away and live happily ever after, then good luck to ’em! (From what Jack had seen of colonial society, they’d need it.)
If, as seemed infinitely more likely, they parted with thanks and regrets, well, Jack had taken quite a shine to them both. He was sure either Will or Elizabeth would make a splendid cabin boy. Hell, if they’d had enough of dry land for a while, he was feeling so generous, he might just be persuaded to sign the pair of ’em!
The End.
Follows from Somewhat Familiar (PG-13), and Better Acquainted (NC-17), but you can jump straight in here if you still remember what happened in Curse of the Black Pearl.
Summary: Tortuga to Isla da Muerta
Pairing: Jack/Will.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: pilfered
Beta:
viva_gloria
Feedback: would be nice
On the Bright Side
Jack, for once in his life, woke first. A little reflection suggested it would be politic to allow Will space and privacy to compose himself. Not without regret, Jack eased ever so gently out of the boy’s embrace. Taking a slug or two of brandy to fortify himself, he set out an apple, some hardtack and a piece of cheese for the boy to find when he woke. (For the first time, he genuinely regretted the absence of fresh water.) Then he slung the rest of the provisions into the cabin and the debris into the ocean, leaving the boy in peace.
He returned from a highly enjoyable tour of inspection (the Interceptor really was a very fine ship-Jack’s very fine ship, to be precise) to find Will sitting up and rubbing his eyes.
“Hello, Will,” he said carefully. “Lovely morning, innit?” Since the boy didn’t seem ready to respond to that, Jack sauntered to the helm and made himself busy with the horizon.
“Thank you, Jack.”
Another surprise! Young Will was taking this better than Jack’d hoped. He really should have more faith in his own powers of seduction. Before he could frame a suitably modest response, the boy’d started talking again.
“For teaching me that I was right about alcohol. I’m never going to touch it again.”
Oh. And bugger. (Although that was probably another thing young Will was planning on never touching again.) Jack realised he was waving his hands around, hopefully in disaster-averting rather than apologetic ways, because he’d got nothing to apologise for, had he?
“Your choice, son.” (Hmmm, maybe not the best term of endearment under the circumstances.) “But we’re still a way from Tortuga and you’ll have a powerful thirst if you hold out on naught but apples all the way. Look, if it sets your mind at rest, I promise you it’s perfectly possible to have a few pints of ale without…”
“Without mistaking you for a governor’s daughter?”
Jack was about to say that it was an easy mistake and the lad hadn’t been the first to make it, but there was such a look of misery and hatred-mostly self-hatred-on that all-too familiar face.
“An honest misunderstanding, mate. Worse things happen at sea.”
“What?”
“Sea and land, mate. What happens on one’s got nothing to do with what happens on the other. Totally different places. Never the twain shall meet. Well, ’xcept on the beach, obviously, and in port, but you take my point nonetheless. And lagoons, of course, estuaries, mangroves, salt marsh…”
“Jack!”
The puzzled face had given way to irritated amusement of the pull-yourself-together-and-talk-sense-Jack variety. What with all the sea-ain’t-land nonsense, history was repeating more than Jack had bargained for.
“Is that what sailors tell themselves? That who you are at sea doesn’t count on dry land? And you believe that?”
“Well, me, personally, I’ve always been more of a swampy, beachy sort of person,” said Jack, succumbing to honesty. “But it seems to work for some.” Mendacity and tact reasserted themselves before he could add, “Like your da.”
“It’s not important anyway,” declared young Will. “We’re going to rescue Elizabeth: nothing else matters.”
Jack reflected that, as morning-after declarations went, he’d had more passionate. He’d also had more belligerent, however, so he smiled and nodded.
“That’s the spirit, lad! Eyes on the prize!”
It was going to go hard on the boy when he had to face that his beloved was flotsam (or possibly jetsam: Jack could never remember which was stuff you chucked overboard and which was fragments of ship). It was lucky that ol’ Jack was here to set him up with a nice strumpet in Tortuga and teach him that life was worth living. (Or, failing that, at least ensure he had a bit more fun before the possibly fairly imminent end.)
*
Unfortunately for Jack, Tortuga’s strumpet population turned out to be more resistant to his charms than he’d remembered. Young Will, for his part, seemed quite irrationally determined to resist all advances and inclinations. (Jack couldn’t help contrasting this with their first night on the Interceptor: either the Jack Sparrow magic had been confirmed once again, or the lad’s choice of the least attainable girl in Jamaica hadn’t been as randomly ill-judged as all that.)
Still, they located Gibbs in one of the usual places. (Dear old Gibbs, the magic mirror, could always be relied upon to reflect Jack’s utter irresistibility, which was a comfort, to be sure, but Jack’s heart wasn’t really in it just now. Perhaps it was his own unusually hygienic condition, or perhaps he’d allowed the lad’s views to colour his outlook; either way, the Gibbs fragrance was looming uncommonly large today.)
Things generally proceeded quite pleasantly (aside from the lack of amenable strumpets): plans were laid; crewpersons signed; and all without any slip on Jack’s part that might have alerted Gibbs to any regrettable tendencies to turn soft about young Will, or alerted William to the fact that Jack was carrying around a great weight of History-and hence a large, and dangerously pointy Agenda. Yes! Captain Jack Sparrow could still play the game better than any: better, specifically-devoutly hopefully-than Hector Barbossa.
It didn’t begin to unravel until they were well inside the cave. How in the name of rum had the damn girl survived until now? (And why in the name of everything mind-altering had Hector given her that dress?) She was alive-for the next few seconds, at least-because she’d somehow convinced Hector that her veins ran with the blood of one Bill Turner. How she’d contrived such an improbable deceit was a mystery, but the point was that she lived, and that changed everything.
Bollocks it does! clamoured Jack’s worse selves. Keep nice an’ quiet til ol’ Hector slits her throat, then we’re back to plan, eh?
But Jack’s better selves had made a deal with Will to save the girl, even if it cost the lad’s life (which turned out handy since that did seem to be the obvious way to go about things). And, of course, even the mass of morally indeterminate selves (which, after all, was most of ’em) remembered the first William Turner: fights were already breaking out over whether William would want them to preserve his offspring, avenge his death, or do the honourable thing and aid the lad on his (probably terminal) quest. The resulting turmoil was such that it was several days before Jack realised that he’d also been struck on the head with a large and powerfully wielded oar.
The next thing he really knew, he’d fallen not only behind but also into the clutches of Hector Bloody Barbossa.
On the bright side, Hector was looking even more pissed off about it all than Jack felt. Come to think of it, there were numerous bright sides. Firstly, he was back aboard the Pearl. Secondly, Hector and the rest never questioned his knowledge of how they might get their decomposing hands on Bill Turner’s offspring. Thirdly, their departure had been slow enough to give said (still unidentified by Hector et al) offspring a good head start. In fact (and Jack reckoned this could be counted as a fourthly), Jack’s mission of rescue had succeeded beyond even his own wildest imaginings: both the boy and his lass were improbably free of Hector’s clutches and clear of the island. Yes, Jack had discharged his obligations (not that he acknowledged any) to both generations of Turner! Whatever befell the young lovers next was no concern of his-a fifth bright side there, or possibly sixth.
Eighthly, he’d never seen Hector so on edge. It was a joy to watch the old zombie flinch and quiver every time Jack so much as looked sidelong at him. Clearly, that curse was a real bugger (making nine bright sides). Then he spotted the bowl of apples, which made ten and eleven. Finally, achieving a round dozen reasons to be cheerful, all he had to do now was take control of the ship. (And escape from the increasingly moist brig, but that was so trivial as to be scarcely worth the counting.)
It was all going swimmingly (he was prepared to overlook the disappointment of the empty rum flask), with Jack on the point of retrieving the medallion from Elizabeth, when it hit him between the eyes like an unpleasantly squishy variety of shot: she loved young Will. (She’d lost the bloody medallion too, but that was a lesser problem.)
“Where is dear William?” he asked, sounding altogether too much like his own memories of Hector for comfort. But it wasn’t jealousy that twisted Jack’s lip into a sneer (indeed, the very thought was too far beneath him to be dignified with a rebuttal): it was the awful realisation that he was going to have to help.
First, though, he needed to chase Hector’s monkey.
*
Later, he reflected that it was probably William’s fault-yes, that would make a kind of sense-or possibly, it was just Jack’s own confounded good nature that had demanded the complication of his own admirably feasible schemes by this pressing and unyielding need to give the young pair at least a single shot at… something: happiness, consummation, wedded bliss, or just a long, embarrassing conversation about how they’d always remain friends-Jack honestly didn’t know (or care) which. But he knew he’d give them their one shot, or die trying.
What with Dear Sweet William (the second) being such a perfect pillock-not to mention Elizabeth proving surprisingly, piratically resourceful-it had to be admitted that the latter option was looking increasingly likely.
Never would it be said, however, that Captain Jack Sparrow lost hope before the end. Snuggled up to the commodore in his little row boat, Jack could see all kinds of advantages just waiting to be seized. (The possibility of seizing said commodore was certainly one of them, but best postponed for the present if he wanted to retain the ability to seize anything else.)
With any luck-and when had luck ever failed Jack Sparrow?-he’d soon have possession of the Pearl, and his revenge on Hector, perhaps receiving another royal pardon into the bargain. There was even a chance of a kind of immortality (possibly not as good as it sounded, but he could always give it back if he didn’t take to it).
Of course, he’d provide the young lovers with their opportune moment-how difficult could it be, for a man who’d reclaimed his ship from a horde of cursed immortals? But after that-after that they were square. If the lovebirds chose to sail away and live happily ever after, then good luck to ’em! (From what Jack had seen of colonial society, they’d need it.)
If, as seemed infinitely more likely, they parted with thanks and regrets, well, Jack had taken quite a shine to them both. He was sure either Will or Elizabeth would make a splendid cabin boy. Hell, if they’d had enough of dry land for a while, he was feeling so generous, he might just be persuaded to sign the pair of ’em!
The End.