Remembrance
Jack, Elizabeth, William Turners, and the subtle art of memory management.
This one came out of nowhere after I'd finished moving the Truths and Lies stories to this account. If you haven't read those, it works as a standalone.
Pairings: all of the above
Author:
p0wdermonkey
Rating: PG-13 (angst and implied slash)
Disclaimer: plundered without permission
Thanks:
geekmama ,
bimo ,
teenybuffalo , and
the_stowaway on
rough_magic .
All kinds of feedback welcome.
Remembrance
Jack never knows when he’s going to see William Turner-the William Turner who matters most, that is, although the other one’s hard to predict also since he changed from lovestruck lad into… into whoever and whatever it is that ferries the souls of whomever it might be to wherever it is that he ferries them to.
Sometimes, months can go by without sight nor sound, then he’ll show up out of nowhere in broad daylight, or visit Jack’s cabin five nights in a row. There’s no rhyme nor reason to it, no sense in guessing or hoping, nor indeed, in fearing or hiding.
The nightmares are worst, when Bill’s face is ugly with anger and he spits hate and fury. Jack wakes from those with a chill that not even rum can altogether drive out. Only an hour spent with his lovely Black Pearl, walking the rounds of her decks to stroke her dark timbers and check her rigging, can settle him for sleep again.
Luckily, he knows her well enough to perform this tour of inspection in his head even on those occasions-more numerous than he cares to, er, number-when his actual ship is temporarily unavailable.
At his best, Jack’s William comes with gentle words that wipe away all the wrongs; he holds Jack close, presses their matelot marks together, kisses the tangles out of Jack’s hair and calls him by his secret name. After he’s gone, Jack keeps his eyes shut and holds his breath steady, willing himself back into William’s arms.
Between these extremes are countless visitations and variations. William has been wan or rosy, rotting, vigorous, or gracefully aged. At times, he keeps silent, or mouths words Jack cannot hear; when he does speak, it can be blame or praise, forgiveness or complaint. Sometimes he’s insubstantial as mist; other times his touch is filled with anger, sorrow, lust, or love…
Jack, not to be outdone, is by turns vengeful, tearful, silent, forgiving, affectionate, berating, or flirtatious.
One visit in particular stands out. (Jack suspects it may, in fact, be the only one of these meetings of which William is aware. Unless, of course, they have other meetings, perhaps on the Dutchman-ones that William knows about, but Jack does not.) In any case, this vision of chill, drowned William lingers longer than the Black Spot he brought: lungs full of water and haggard face full of things Jack would rather not think about (but repeatedly does).
Afterwards, though he still sees young, perfect William on occasion, the image turns cadaverous as soon as his concentration falters.
On the plus side, there are times when he can press warmth back into drowned William’s body, kiss colour into his cheeks, and watch the… accretions shrivel and fall away.
What’s more, wrathful Bill seems to recede somewhat, his visits becoming muted and more widely spaced once Jack has spoken with apologetic Drowned William.
He knows he should have waited, let William visit in his own time, for hasn’t he seen before the damage it does to go running after the man? But he had little choice, in the end, about going to the Dutchman; and though knowledge of William’s presence had him thrumming like an over-tight stay, he was careful not to go looking.
His care cuts no ice with William, however. After Jack’s visit, and the ensuing predictable (although not exactly premeditated) destruction of Davy Jones, he keeps his distance again. Bill, barnacled and vacant, comes in his stead.
This Bill doesn’t so much visit Jack, as trip over him. He’ll stare for a moment, puzzled and irritated. “I saw you with my son!” he’ll say, jabbing at Jack with an almost entirely unwarranted accusing finger. “I hope you took good care of him. Tell me where he is! What have you done with him?”
Or he’ll look right through Jack without so much as a flicker of recognition, even when Jack takes him by the shoulders and pleads with him to remember. This is worse than the anger.
This is why, after the business with the heart, if Jack catches sight of that familiar figure-or one that might be familiar-shouldering its way through a heaving Tortuga courtyard or strolling on the quarterdeck under the stars, he doesn’t call out or stand close the way he once did. Instead, he turns away quickly and pretends he hasn’t seen. Best to leave him alone. Perhaps he’ll come around.
Of course he sails Elizabeth out to the Dutchman whenever she asks-assuming he’s available when these sporadic opportune moments present-but he always sends someone else to row the longboat. Once the baby’s old enough to be left, he lets her row it herself. The lass is Pirate King, after all, not some frilly doxy with feather pillows for muscles.
He may, on a few occasions, have turned his spyglass towards William’s ship-for entirely disinterested, captainly purposes of nautical observation-but he’s never caught more than a glimpse of William’s back by the far rail, or his hat disappearing down a hatch. All of which rather reinforces the supposition that William isn’t quite ready for a visit from Jack.
So when the lookout calls that Bootstrap Bill is rowing Elizabeth Turner back from the Dutchman-after an especially long-awaited and unusually brief visit to her husband-Jack gives the helm to Gibbs and shuts himself in his cabin.
Once safely locked in, of course, he begins to feel somewhat disproportionate. (If it were anyone else, he’d be tempted to call it cowardly.) For isn’t William coming to him, this time?
Which being the case, there’s no harm in letting himself be seen, is there? And a notorious-nay, legendary-pirate should always look his best.
He adjusts his sash, polishes his hat, and touches up his eye-black in the mirror. Then he unties his bandana and considers his hair. William used to run his fingers through it, teasing out the knots, and rearranging the ornaments, but there’s no untangling it now.
“Just as well!” mutters Jack, making sure the more obvious love-tokens are clearly in evidence.
He reties the faded red cloth and sets his hat at a confident, devil-may-care angle, checks his reflection one last time, adds a little more swagger, and turns up one corner of his mouth. Once he has it just right, he goes to open the door.
As his fingers grasp the latch, he hears shouting and the bump of the longboat against the hull, and finds he is holding the latch down instead of lifting it.
“Thank you, Bootstrap,” Elizabeth’s voice rings clearly through the wooden door, conjuring a long-gone Governor’s daughter dismissing Papa’s coachman.
Jack winces. “William!” he corrects under his breath. “Mr. Turner to you, Bess.”
“’Tis good to meet ye at last, Mr. Turner.”
Good old Gibbs, bless him!
“Will ye not stay to wet your whistle an’ maybe share a tale or two concernin’ yer old shipmates?”
No, no, and nonono! Curse you, Joshamee Gibbs! Mr. Turner will not be staying any longer than strictly necessary.
Although if he did decide to linger, this would be most encouraging.
Which he won’t, of course.
“Um…” says William, and Jack knows exactly how he’ll be shifting from foot to foot and looking over his shoulder as if for inspiration or an excuse to be on his way.
But what he can’t see clear is William’s face: is it still bloodless and ghastly, or will it be quick and hale now, yet changed in ways Jack can’t anticipate?
Not knowing is unbearable. Jack eases the latch up and cracks open the door just enough for a glimpse. They have moved along the rail so he has to open the door wider than planned-and there he is. William.
He looks weary, stooped, and wet, but free of crustaceans and only ever so slightly ashen and eldritch. Practically his old self really. And he’s looking straight at Jack.
Who throws the cabin door wide as if he’d always meant for William to see him, waves his hat. (Casually? Jauntily? Insanely? He’s buggered if he knows, but he waves it, which is an achievement of sorts, and the last more or less coherent thing of which he’s capable.) Then he just stands.
William smiles (that is a smile, isn’t it?) and takes a step towards him.
Jack surreptitiously clutches the doorframe for support. Shakes his head.
William stops, nods, raises a hand in salute, and smiles again. (Yes, it is. Unmistakeably.) He turns back to the rail.
“I’d best be on me way,” he mumbles to Gibbs. Then louder, looking at Jack, “P’raps another time. Aye. I’d like that.”
Jack attempts to pick one of “Just drop by any time you’re passing,” “Say hello to young William for me,” and “Take me with you!”
Just as he manages to get his mouth open, William vanishes, so he shuts it again.
Actually, the vanishing thing makes this William more like the familiar, Jack-visiting Williams and less like long-ago William, who didn’t need to visit because he was there. Oddly, this makes things easier.
Across the water, the Flying Dutchman plunges beneath the waves leaving only a foamy wake arrowing unfeasibly fast towards the horizon.
Jack studies his boots. Notices after a while that another pair of boots have joined them.
Above the new boots is the rest of Elizabeth Swann-latterly, but not invariably, and probably not at this particular moment, Turner. She looks almost as gaunt and bloodless as his dreams of drowned William.
She flings her arms round Jack and buries her face in his hair. She’s not sobbing-would likely be lethally offended (offensive certainly) if anyone suggested as much-but her breathing is ragged and she’s dripping salt water down his neck.
He pulls her tight and closes the cabin door behind them. “Bloody Turners,” he growls as they cling to one another.
“Bloody, bloody Turners!” she agrees as his hands fall to work on her laces. Then her lips are against his, hungry and fierce.
They fall on the bunk together, but do no more than kiss and hold each other close. (Jack can wait: he knows about invisible lines. When she sets foot on dry land she’ll be his again-until the next time.)
Later that night, curled into her back, stroking his fingers up and down the scoop of her waist, he knows just what to say.
“You’ll soon see him again, love. He’ll be back.”
She doesn’t turn around, but she nods, and her fingers grip tight to his.
“Could be days; could be months. No sense guessing or hoping. But he’ll not forget.”
“But what about me, Jack?”
He’s not sure what she means, so he strokes her hair and waits.
“Jack?”
“Bess.”
“Do you ever think you might want to forget?”
He tries to remember how it felt, twelve years ago and new parted. He’d like to frame a lie that will ease the pain, but he can’t remember which of the lies were true.
“’Tain’t the same thing, Bess,” he tries.
“Close enough though.”
“P’raps some things’re too good to forget.”
Which is probably true, or ought to be, but hardly opportune at this particular juncture.
He runs his fingers through her hair, teasing out the tangles, rather pleased with what he’s about to say: “But in my experience-which is considerable-there’s a lot to be said for intermittent lapses of memory.”
“But how do you live with that? With forgetting for the sake of a little happiness when he can’t forget or be happy?”
“Well, Bess,” he says, fingertips searching for the words in the shiny depths of her locks (and contriving to mislay her “little” somewhere in that warm, tawny ocean). “It’s like this: the trick is not to remember forgetting.”
She pauses to work that one out. A few months ago she’d most likely have laughed-or cried, possibly. Called him an unhinged, unprincipled scoundrel, for sure. But she’s a fast learner.
After a while she rolls over and puts her arms around him. “This amnesia of yours, Jack, do you think it might be contagious?”
He gives her a rakish grin. It takes an effort to start it off, but he can feel it getting bigger and more wicked all by itself. Not just the smile either.
“Oh I should think so, love, if you get close enough.”
The End
This one came out of nowhere after I'd finished moving the Truths and Lies stories to this account. If you haven't read those, it works as a standalone.
Pairings: all of the above
Author:
p0wdermonkey
Rating: PG-13 (angst and implied slash)
Disclaimer: plundered without permission
Thanks:
geekmama ,
bimo ,
teenybuffalo , and
the_stowaway on
rough_magic .
All kinds of feedback welcome.
Remembrance
Jack never knows when he’s going to see William Turner-the William Turner who matters most, that is, although the other one’s hard to predict also since he changed from lovestruck lad into… into whoever and whatever it is that ferries the souls of whomever it might be to wherever it is that he ferries them to.
Sometimes, months can go by without sight nor sound, then he’ll show up out of nowhere in broad daylight, or visit Jack’s cabin five nights in a row. There’s no rhyme nor reason to it, no sense in guessing or hoping, nor indeed, in fearing or hiding.
The nightmares are worst, when Bill’s face is ugly with anger and he spits hate and fury. Jack wakes from those with a chill that not even rum can altogether drive out. Only an hour spent with his lovely Black Pearl, walking the rounds of her decks to stroke her dark timbers and check her rigging, can settle him for sleep again.
Luckily, he knows her well enough to perform this tour of inspection in his head even on those occasions-more numerous than he cares to, er, number-when his actual ship is temporarily unavailable.
At his best, Jack’s William comes with gentle words that wipe away all the wrongs; he holds Jack close, presses their matelot marks together, kisses the tangles out of Jack’s hair and calls him by his secret name. After he’s gone, Jack keeps his eyes shut and holds his breath steady, willing himself back into William’s arms.
Between these extremes are countless visitations and variations. William has been wan or rosy, rotting, vigorous, or gracefully aged. At times, he keeps silent, or mouths words Jack cannot hear; when he does speak, it can be blame or praise, forgiveness or complaint. Sometimes he’s insubstantial as mist; other times his touch is filled with anger, sorrow, lust, or love…
Jack, not to be outdone, is by turns vengeful, tearful, silent, forgiving, affectionate, berating, or flirtatious.
One visit in particular stands out. (Jack suspects it may, in fact, be the only one of these meetings of which William is aware. Unless, of course, they have other meetings, perhaps on the Dutchman-ones that William knows about, but Jack does not.) In any case, this vision of chill, drowned William lingers longer than the Black Spot he brought: lungs full of water and haggard face full of things Jack would rather not think about (but repeatedly does).
Afterwards, though he still sees young, perfect William on occasion, the image turns cadaverous as soon as his concentration falters.
On the plus side, there are times when he can press warmth back into drowned William’s body, kiss colour into his cheeks, and watch the… accretions shrivel and fall away.
What’s more, wrathful Bill seems to recede somewhat, his visits becoming muted and more widely spaced once Jack has spoken with apologetic Drowned William.
He knows he should have waited, let William visit in his own time, for hasn’t he seen before the damage it does to go running after the man? But he had little choice, in the end, about going to the Dutchman; and though knowledge of William’s presence had him thrumming like an over-tight stay, he was careful not to go looking.
His care cuts no ice with William, however. After Jack’s visit, and the ensuing predictable (although not exactly premeditated) destruction of Davy Jones, he keeps his distance again. Bill, barnacled and vacant, comes in his stead.
This Bill doesn’t so much visit Jack, as trip over him. He’ll stare for a moment, puzzled and irritated. “I saw you with my son!” he’ll say, jabbing at Jack with an almost entirely unwarranted accusing finger. “I hope you took good care of him. Tell me where he is! What have you done with him?”
Or he’ll look right through Jack without so much as a flicker of recognition, even when Jack takes him by the shoulders and pleads with him to remember. This is worse than the anger.
This is why, after the business with the heart, if Jack catches sight of that familiar figure-or one that might be familiar-shouldering its way through a heaving Tortuga courtyard or strolling on the quarterdeck under the stars, he doesn’t call out or stand close the way he once did. Instead, he turns away quickly and pretends he hasn’t seen. Best to leave him alone. Perhaps he’ll come around.
Of course he sails Elizabeth out to the Dutchman whenever she asks-assuming he’s available when these sporadic opportune moments present-but he always sends someone else to row the longboat. Once the baby’s old enough to be left, he lets her row it herself. The lass is Pirate King, after all, not some frilly doxy with feather pillows for muscles.
He may, on a few occasions, have turned his spyglass towards William’s ship-for entirely disinterested, captainly purposes of nautical observation-but he’s never caught more than a glimpse of William’s back by the far rail, or his hat disappearing down a hatch. All of which rather reinforces the supposition that William isn’t quite ready for a visit from Jack.
So when the lookout calls that Bootstrap Bill is rowing Elizabeth Turner back from the Dutchman-after an especially long-awaited and unusually brief visit to her husband-Jack gives the helm to Gibbs and shuts himself in his cabin.
Once safely locked in, of course, he begins to feel somewhat disproportionate. (If it were anyone else, he’d be tempted to call it cowardly.) For isn’t William coming to him, this time?
Which being the case, there’s no harm in letting himself be seen, is there? And a notorious-nay, legendary-pirate should always look his best.
He adjusts his sash, polishes his hat, and touches up his eye-black in the mirror. Then he unties his bandana and considers his hair. William used to run his fingers through it, teasing out the knots, and rearranging the ornaments, but there’s no untangling it now.
“Just as well!” mutters Jack, making sure the more obvious love-tokens are clearly in evidence.
He reties the faded red cloth and sets his hat at a confident, devil-may-care angle, checks his reflection one last time, adds a little more swagger, and turns up one corner of his mouth. Once he has it just right, he goes to open the door.
As his fingers grasp the latch, he hears shouting and the bump of the longboat against the hull, and finds he is holding the latch down instead of lifting it.
“Thank you, Bootstrap,” Elizabeth’s voice rings clearly through the wooden door, conjuring a long-gone Governor’s daughter dismissing Papa’s coachman.
Jack winces. “William!” he corrects under his breath. “Mr. Turner to you, Bess.”
“’Tis good to meet ye at last, Mr. Turner.”
Good old Gibbs, bless him!
“Will ye not stay to wet your whistle an’ maybe share a tale or two concernin’ yer old shipmates?”
No, no, and nonono! Curse you, Joshamee Gibbs! Mr. Turner will not be staying any longer than strictly necessary.
Although if he did decide to linger, this would be most encouraging.
Which he won’t, of course.
“Um…” says William, and Jack knows exactly how he’ll be shifting from foot to foot and looking over his shoulder as if for inspiration or an excuse to be on his way.
But what he can’t see clear is William’s face: is it still bloodless and ghastly, or will it be quick and hale now, yet changed in ways Jack can’t anticipate?
Not knowing is unbearable. Jack eases the latch up and cracks open the door just enough for a glimpse. They have moved along the rail so he has to open the door wider than planned-and there he is. William.
He looks weary, stooped, and wet, but free of crustaceans and only ever so slightly ashen and eldritch. Practically his old self really. And he’s looking straight at Jack.
Who throws the cabin door wide as if he’d always meant for William to see him, waves his hat. (Casually? Jauntily? Insanely? He’s buggered if he knows, but he waves it, which is an achievement of sorts, and the last more or less coherent thing of which he’s capable.) Then he just stands.
William smiles (that is a smile, isn’t it?) and takes a step towards him.
Jack surreptitiously clutches the doorframe for support. Shakes his head.
William stops, nods, raises a hand in salute, and smiles again. (Yes, it is. Unmistakeably.) He turns back to the rail.
“I’d best be on me way,” he mumbles to Gibbs. Then louder, looking at Jack, “P’raps another time. Aye. I’d like that.”
Jack attempts to pick one of “Just drop by any time you’re passing,” “Say hello to young William for me,” and “Take me with you!”
Just as he manages to get his mouth open, William vanishes, so he shuts it again.
Actually, the vanishing thing makes this William more like the familiar, Jack-visiting Williams and less like long-ago William, who didn’t need to visit because he was there. Oddly, this makes things easier.
Across the water, the Flying Dutchman plunges beneath the waves leaving only a foamy wake arrowing unfeasibly fast towards the horizon.
Jack studies his boots. Notices after a while that another pair of boots have joined them.
Above the new boots is the rest of Elizabeth Swann-latterly, but not invariably, and probably not at this particular moment, Turner. She looks almost as gaunt and bloodless as his dreams of drowned William.
She flings her arms round Jack and buries her face in his hair. She’s not sobbing-would likely be lethally offended (offensive certainly) if anyone suggested as much-but her breathing is ragged and she’s dripping salt water down his neck.
He pulls her tight and closes the cabin door behind them. “Bloody Turners,” he growls as they cling to one another.
“Bloody, bloody Turners!” she agrees as his hands fall to work on her laces. Then her lips are against his, hungry and fierce.
They fall on the bunk together, but do no more than kiss and hold each other close. (Jack can wait: he knows about invisible lines. When she sets foot on dry land she’ll be his again-until the next time.)
Later that night, curled into her back, stroking his fingers up and down the scoop of her waist, he knows just what to say.
“You’ll soon see him again, love. He’ll be back.”
She doesn’t turn around, but she nods, and her fingers grip tight to his.
“Could be days; could be months. No sense guessing or hoping. But he’ll not forget.”
“But what about me, Jack?”
He’s not sure what she means, so he strokes her hair and waits.
“Jack?”
“Bess.”
“Do you ever think you might want to forget?”
He tries to remember how it felt, twelve years ago and new parted. He’d like to frame a lie that will ease the pain, but he can’t remember which of the lies were true.
“’Tain’t the same thing, Bess,” he tries.
“Close enough though.”
“P’raps some things’re too good to forget.”
Which is probably true, or ought to be, but hardly opportune at this particular juncture.
He runs his fingers through her hair, teasing out the tangles, rather pleased with what he’s about to say: “But in my experience-which is considerable-there’s a lot to be said for intermittent lapses of memory.”
“But how do you live with that? With forgetting for the sake of a little happiness when he can’t forget or be happy?”
“Well, Bess,” he says, fingertips searching for the words in the shiny depths of her locks (and contriving to mislay her “little” somewhere in that warm, tawny ocean). “It’s like this: the trick is not to remember forgetting.”
She pauses to work that one out. A few months ago she’d most likely have laughed-or cried, possibly. Called him an unhinged, unprincipled scoundrel, for sure. But she’s a fast learner.
After a while she rolls over and puts her arms around him. “This amnesia of yours, Jack, do you think it might be contagious?”
He gives her a rakish grin. It takes an effort to start it off, but he can feel it getting bigger and more wicked all by itself. Not just the smile either.
“Oh I should think so, love, if you get close enough.”
The End