Swagfic for haldir_fancier
Title: Cat-o-nine
Author: sequence_fairy
For: haldir_fancier
Rating: Mild R for implied bad things
Pairing: W/J (ish)
Summary: The image of a blacksmith’s hammer, crossed with a sword, nestled in the curve of an old, white, whip-scar.
Mod notes: Prompts: Jack/Will, and gave whip-scar, new tattoo and cat's eyes to work with.
Cat-o-nine
The night is black as pitch, humid air pressing down on every occupant of the gaol. Will’s hair is lank, and hangs, filthy, across his face. His eyes are closed, dark circles beneath them stark against his fever-gray skin. His cheeks are flushed, even as he shivers, huddled up against the wall of the cell.
On the other side of the cell, another figure, this one not fever-touched, but still gray beneath his bronzed skin as a wave of nausea catches hold and he retches, turning his head to the side. The screams from earlier still echo through the night, and the stench of burning flesh hangs in the thick darkness. Jack can still feel the hot press of the iron against his right arm, a new brand his reward for silence and defiance at the hands of their captors.
This is the fifth night, and Jack knows that he can’t hold out much longer, he can feel the madness creeping in, the voices pushing in at the oily edges of his mind, festering in the pain. He shakes his head, spitting to clear the taste of bile from his throat and, moving gingerly, he makes his way across the cell. It is immediately clear that Will isn’t going to make it much longer, perhaps not even through the night and Jack shakes his head to clear the thought, sending shooting lights across his eyes as he does so and the spin of vertigo nearly has him retching again.
A deep breath, with eyes closed and hands clenched into fists. Jack masters the dizziness and the pain again, knowing for sure now that he is concussed and that once again, he’ll get no sleep for fear of never waking and for fear of losing Will through the night. Jack moves gingerly towards Will, trying to keep his head steady as he crawls along the packed dirt floor. Jack takes Will’s wrist, feeling the fluttering pulse.
Will’s eyes open, blinking lazily and then fluttering closed again when he realizes who has taken his wrist, his breathing shallow and his pulse liquid beneath Jack’s fingers on his wrist. Jack begins his daily ministrations of Will after he returns from wherever their jailers take him. Jack’s stomach drops when his gently probing hands find sticky wetness on Will’s back, and he turns Will, gently. Fresh, and done by a cat-o-nine if Jack knows anything, but they are not the clean lacerations of a well-practiced hand. Will’s back is a mess of gouged flesh, and Jack knows that even if they had anything with which to disinfect the wounds, the infection from the last go-round has already claimed more of Will’s slim reserves of strength and he will have nothing left with which to fight this one.
Will gasps and his eyes open wide as Jack gently explores his back, and murmuring his apologies, Jack lightens his touch still more. The night closes in on them, blocking out all senses but touch and sound. Jack brings his hand up to cup Will’s cheek, murmuring nonsense words of comfort as he fights back the fear that he has managed to stave off with an obsessive kind of hope. Jack gathers Will to him, determined to be the strength that Will needs now, and pushing down his own fear and exhaustion to carry the burden of Will’s.
---
It’s late when Jack wakes in his berth on the Pearl, soaked in sweat, with the memories of the dream still echoing in his head. A deep breath and quick look around assures him that he’s not in that stinking gaol, and neither is Will, who, unless Jack is very much mistaken, is sleeping soundly in Port Royal, safe in his rooms above the forge, or perhaps sneaking out with his bonny lass for a midnight tryst. Jack chuckles softly at the thought, knowing that Will would never conjure such a plan without the help of said bonny lass.
The ship’s cat twines through the empty bottles on the table, her eyes shining in the moonlight. Her tail twitches and catches the neck of a bottle and sends it tumbling down to the floor of his cabin, where it lands with a thump that sends her skittering back into the darkness on the other side of the cabin. Jack closes his eyes, trying in vain to send himself back into the oblivion of sleep. He rolls over, peering up through the window at the sky.
The water laps the side of the ship, and Jack abandons sleep for the moment to reach for the bottle of rum he keeps under his pillow. Popping the cork and taking a long swallow, Jack takes comfort in the cleansing burn, chasing the images of the dream out of his head. Absently, he rubs his hand across his hip, his newest tattoo itching as it heals. The image of a blacksmith’s hammer, crossed with a sword, nestled in the curve of an old, white, whip-scar.
Author: sequence_fairy
For: haldir_fancier
Rating: Mild R for implied bad things
Pairing: W/J (ish)
Summary: The image of a blacksmith’s hammer, crossed with a sword, nestled in the curve of an old, white, whip-scar.
Mod notes: Prompts: Jack/Will, and gave whip-scar, new tattoo and cat's eyes to work with.
Cat-o-nine
The night is black as pitch, humid air pressing down on every occupant of the gaol. Will’s hair is lank, and hangs, filthy, across his face. His eyes are closed, dark circles beneath them stark against his fever-gray skin. His cheeks are flushed, even as he shivers, huddled up against the wall of the cell.
On the other side of the cell, another figure, this one not fever-touched, but still gray beneath his bronzed skin as a wave of nausea catches hold and he retches, turning his head to the side. The screams from earlier still echo through the night, and the stench of burning flesh hangs in the thick darkness. Jack can still feel the hot press of the iron against his right arm, a new brand his reward for silence and defiance at the hands of their captors.
This is the fifth night, and Jack knows that he can’t hold out much longer, he can feel the madness creeping in, the voices pushing in at the oily edges of his mind, festering in the pain. He shakes his head, spitting to clear the taste of bile from his throat and, moving gingerly, he makes his way across the cell. It is immediately clear that Will isn’t going to make it much longer, perhaps not even through the night and Jack shakes his head to clear the thought, sending shooting lights across his eyes as he does so and the spin of vertigo nearly has him retching again.
A deep breath, with eyes closed and hands clenched into fists. Jack masters the dizziness and the pain again, knowing for sure now that he is concussed and that once again, he’ll get no sleep for fear of never waking and for fear of losing Will through the night. Jack moves gingerly towards Will, trying to keep his head steady as he crawls along the packed dirt floor. Jack takes Will’s wrist, feeling the fluttering pulse.
Will’s eyes open, blinking lazily and then fluttering closed again when he realizes who has taken his wrist, his breathing shallow and his pulse liquid beneath Jack’s fingers on his wrist. Jack begins his daily ministrations of Will after he returns from wherever their jailers take him. Jack’s stomach drops when his gently probing hands find sticky wetness on Will’s back, and he turns Will, gently. Fresh, and done by a cat-o-nine if Jack knows anything, but they are not the clean lacerations of a well-practiced hand. Will’s back is a mess of gouged flesh, and Jack knows that even if they had anything with which to disinfect the wounds, the infection from the last go-round has already claimed more of Will’s slim reserves of strength and he will have nothing left with which to fight this one.
Will gasps and his eyes open wide as Jack gently explores his back, and murmuring his apologies, Jack lightens his touch still more. The night closes in on them, blocking out all senses but touch and sound. Jack brings his hand up to cup Will’s cheek, murmuring nonsense words of comfort as he fights back the fear that he has managed to stave off with an obsessive kind of hope. Jack gathers Will to him, determined to be the strength that Will needs now, and pushing down his own fear and exhaustion to carry the burden of Will’s.
---
It’s late when Jack wakes in his berth on the Pearl, soaked in sweat, with the memories of the dream still echoing in his head. A deep breath and quick look around assures him that he’s not in that stinking gaol, and neither is Will, who, unless Jack is very much mistaken, is sleeping soundly in Port Royal, safe in his rooms above the forge, or perhaps sneaking out with his bonny lass for a midnight tryst. Jack chuckles softly at the thought, knowing that Will would never conjure such a plan without the help of said bonny lass.
The ship’s cat twines through the empty bottles on the table, her eyes shining in the moonlight. Her tail twitches and catches the neck of a bottle and sends it tumbling down to the floor of his cabin, where it lands with a thump that sends her skittering back into the darkness on the other side of the cabin. Jack closes his eyes, trying in vain to send himself back into the oblivion of sleep. He rolls over, peering up through the window at the sky.
The water laps the side of the ship, and Jack abandons sleep for the moment to reach for the bottle of rum he keeps under his pillow. Popping the cork and taking a long swallow, Jack takes comfort in the cleansing burn, chasing the images of the dream out of his head. Absently, he rubs his hand across his hip, his newest tattoo itching as it heals. The image of a blacksmith’s hammer, crossed with a sword, nestled in the curve of an old, white, whip-scar.