Fic: "Two Yards of Leather"
Title: “Two Yards of Leather”
Rating: PG
Characters: Will, OFC
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I profit from their depiction
Summary: Written for the turningpirate prompt of how Will came by his pirate boots in DMC. There’s a special fannish homage in here to the real creator of Will’s boots, as well. *G*
A/N: Thanks to metalkatt for the read-through.
When the pouch showed up one morning on his anvil - the leather pouch pretty as you please, just sitting there, the neck slumped over drunkenly, with no note or anything - Will spent the better part of fifteen minutes scouring Brown’s smithy and quarters for the intruder.
Only after he satisfied himself that nobody was about and started essential chores, did he pick it up, weigh it in his palm, then carefully loosen the rawhide thong and shake the contents out on a nearby table. Shillings, crowns, doubloons, guineas rolled out into a small but respectable pile, reflecting a smudged version of the flames Will had bellowed up in the coals to burn down to the day’s smolder.
He sat heavily, wondering whose ill gotten gains he was sorting into denominations with blunt fingertips, when a small bead rolled out from beneath a tilted coin. He picked it up to feel, then aimed it at the fire to verify a hole had been bored through the bead - well, more of a cube, really. Will squinted, finally making it out to be dice … well, rather, a single die, bereft of its mate.
A red die.
A quite familiar red die. “Oh brother,” Will muttered over the suddenly obvious thank-you gift.
He hoped Jack had had the good sense to clear out of Fort Charles before Gillette or Norrington caught his scent on the wind, and wasn’t hanging around in the hopes of getting to kiss (or be slapped by) the bride-to-be or some nonsense. Will wisely ignored the part that hoped the pirate was still landside and scooped the coins back into the small pouch, after a perfunctory double-check that none were convex medallions bearing grinning golden skulls; he anticipated Jack wasn’t that opportunistic, but one never knew.
He pocketed the die and hid the pouch and its coins in a corner of the coalbox, vowing to leave it. He didn’t know where the gold came from, precisely, but it wasn’t by honest means, he wagered. Will had worked too hard in the two months since his cape-and-hat incident to convince the townspeople - and the Governor - that he was benign, to invite aspersions on his character by spending suspicious loot at the tailor’s or dry goods store.
A few weeks later, Jane Downing sat on the lid of the very same coalbox in men’s breeches and rough workshirt, a too-large drab coat pulled around her slender shoulders and her hair stuffed under a cap. It wasn’t a bad disguise except for the tears that persisted despite the tea and honeyed bread Will offered, only to have them pushed away. “You can’t starve yourself,” he reasoned with her. “Or the baby.”
“What if I want to?” she challenged, hissing to keep her voice down in the smithy.
“Do you?” He arched one eyebrow; she swiped a piece of bread off the plate and chomped a bite out of it. “Now, listen. Pull yourself together a bit, and talk to-”
“Don’t tell me to talk to Da!” she cut him off. “You know it won’t work.” She wiped her face with her free hand. “I have to leave before he finds out.”
Will was at a loss. He’d known Jane since he’d landed at the port - the cobbler’s was just a couple of storefronts down from Brown’s, and he’d frequently run errands with the girl. With their three-year age difference, they might have become sweethearts, had Will not fancied Elizabeth so much … and had Jane not been entranced by men in Royal Navy uniforms. A little too entranced, it now seemed.
“You know, you could marry him.”
She shook her head. “I don’t even love him.” She was the only girl Will had ever known who didn’t want to settle down with any husband; she had always put more effort into learning her father’s craft instead of becoming the homemaker her mother attempted to cut a more traditional cloth around. She was their only child, and had once told Will none of the boys she knew could stretch leather or shape a sole quite as well as she herself - so why bless one of those louts with control of the family business?
Will had known her “problem” since a few days ago, when she’d sworn him to secrecy and begged for any sort of advice she’d actually take. He hadn’t liked his conclusion, but it was the only way he could see to make sure she wouldn’t do anything more foolish in the commission of ridding herself of the child. “Then leave,” he told her.
“What?”
“Tortuga.” He hesitated as her eyes widened. “There are women there … who know how to do certain things … and undo others… you know?” He’d heard it from Gibbs as part of the man’s endless bawdy stories. “If you pay them.”
“I can’t take my family’s money.” She shook her head. “I will not steal from them.”
“You don’t have to.” He bid her rise, then rooted around in the coalbox for the bag of booty. “There’s a ship docked that makes regular runs - the Edinburgh. Pass yourself as a cabin boy, or barter payment for passage - I am certain Captain Bellamy will get you within range of another boat or ship to get there, if he doesn’t make port himself. It’s a short voyage, trust me.” He put the bag in her hand. “I don’t want any of that back. It’s not mine,” he hastily added, as she opened it and dug through the currency.
“Then whose?” She looked up. “Surely not Miss Swann’s?”
“Let’s say if I don’t tell you, you don’t have to know.”
She furrowed her brow, sniffling to clear her nose, and looked up. “That pirate!”
“Shhh!” Will shook his head.
Jane chuckled. “Will, it’s not like everybody doesn’t know you’re practically one-”
“I certainly hope they don’t think that,” he interrupted, serious. “That’s the last thing I need. You know how difficult it’s been regaining the town’s trust.”
“And yet, you’re sending me off to a pirate port?” He felt a twinge of worry that he’d miscalculated, but she shook her head. “I can’t take your money, Will.”
“It’s not mine, and you can. You need it - for protection,” he explained. “I’m not going to use it. And I think its-” He hesitated to say “owner” for Jack had certainly liberated it from that very person. Or persons. “It’s the way its messenger would want it spent, securing one’s own freedom.”
When she finally took her leave from the smithy by the back barn door half an hour later, she sighed, but this time it didn’t seem quite so resigned. “You are a pirate,” she informed him, dropping a kiss on his cheek and squeezing his hand before she pulled her hat lower to leave and held up the pouch to rattle it before tucking it into her shirt. “But a bad one, if it’s any consolation.”
*****
Will thought briefly of Jane all those months ago, as he hurriedly gathered knives and coins he’d hidden away from his own commissions, in preparation for travel to find Jack and return for Elizabeth. He’d had to borrow one of Weatherby’s old greatcoats, having none of his own suitable for such travel, but he hated facing life-and-death once again in buckled shoes.
He knelt and reached beneath his cot for the crate, which hadn’t budged since he’d shoved it under there two months ago, opened only once. Unrolling the burlap inside, he reached in and lifted out the pair of new, perfectly fitted and softened black leather knee-boots. The cuffs were heavy and brushed, the soles substantial and thick - work far above a typical cobbler’s apprentice. Will ignored the small piece of parchment rolled into the package as he sat on his cot and pulled up his stockings, shoving his first foot down inside one boot; he already knew what it said.
Turner:
I wanted to inform you that I am doing well and have found a lively trade - in the middle of misery, I do believe I may have happened upon my real life, after all. Do not worry, nobody knows who helped me, and I have informed my family I am alive and well, and that they will see me once again after the little one has arrived and passed to a proper family who will care for her. Or him.
I used the money to invest in the local tannery and offered my services as cobbler. Outlaws and seamen aren’t too particular about who makes their footwear, so long as it is durable and stands up to the brine.
I hope this finds you well and not too settled into old married life just yet. I will thank you more properly someday, I hope, for being a kind enough friend to give aid without judgment of my actions. Miss Swann is indeed fortunate.
Best,
Downing
Postscript: Every pirate worth his salt needs good boots. Please do not give these away to your next charitable cause - much like a sword, the fit is exact.
Will stood, stomped each foot once to get a feel and fit for the boots. He hated to admit how comfortable they were; they beat his work shoes and those shiny, pinching wedding clodhoppers by a country mile.
Halfway out the door to the gaol, he paused, wondering if he ought to pocket Jane’s message. “I’ll get it when I come back,” he said aloud, shaking his head. “Once Elizabeth’s safe, and I can put them away …”
Rating: PG
Characters: Will, OFC
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I profit from their depiction
Summary: Written for the turningpirate prompt of how Will came by his pirate boots in DMC. There’s a special fannish homage in here to the real creator of Will’s boots, as well. *G*
A/N: Thanks to metalkatt for the read-through.
When the pouch showed up one morning on his anvil - the leather pouch pretty as you please, just sitting there, the neck slumped over drunkenly, with no note or anything - Will spent the better part of fifteen minutes scouring Brown’s smithy and quarters for the intruder.
Only after he satisfied himself that nobody was about and started essential chores, did he pick it up, weigh it in his palm, then carefully loosen the rawhide thong and shake the contents out on a nearby table. Shillings, crowns, doubloons, guineas rolled out into a small but respectable pile, reflecting a smudged version of the flames Will had bellowed up in the coals to burn down to the day’s smolder.
He sat heavily, wondering whose ill gotten gains he was sorting into denominations with blunt fingertips, when a small bead rolled out from beneath a tilted coin. He picked it up to feel, then aimed it at the fire to verify a hole had been bored through the bead - well, more of a cube, really. Will squinted, finally making it out to be dice … well, rather, a single die, bereft of its mate.
A red die.
A quite familiar red die. “Oh brother,” Will muttered over the suddenly obvious thank-you gift.
He hoped Jack had had the good sense to clear out of Fort Charles before Gillette or Norrington caught his scent on the wind, and wasn’t hanging around in the hopes of getting to kiss (or be slapped by) the bride-to-be or some nonsense. Will wisely ignored the part that hoped the pirate was still landside and scooped the coins back into the small pouch, after a perfunctory double-check that none were convex medallions bearing grinning golden skulls; he anticipated Jack wasn’t that opportunistic, but one never knew.
He pocketed the die and hid the pouch and its coins in a corner of the coalbox, vowing to leave it. He didn’t know where the gold came from, precisely, but it wasn’t by honest means, he wagered. Will had worked too hard in the two months since his cape-and-hat incident to convince the townspeople - and the Governor - that he was benign, to invite aspersions on his character by spending suspicious loot at the tailor’s or dry goods store.
A few weeks later, Jane Downing sat on the lid of the very same coalbox in men’s breeches and rough workshirt, a too-large drab coat pulled around her slender shoulders and her hair stuffed under a cap. It wasn’t a bad disguise except for the tears that persisted despite the tea and honeyed bread Will offered, only to have them pushed away. “You can’t starve yourself,” he reasoned with her. “Or the baby.”
“What if I want to?” she challenged, hissing to keep her voice down in the smithy.
“Do you?” He arched one eyebrow; she swiped a piece of bread off the plate and chomped a bite out of it. “Now, listen. Pull yourself together a bit, and talk to-”
“Don’t tell me to talk to Da!” she cut him off. “You know it won’t work.” She wiped her face with her free hand. “I have to leave before he finds out.”
Will was at a loss. He’d known Jane since he’d landed at the port - the cobbler’s was just a couple of storefronts down from Brown’s, and he’d frequently run errands with the girl. With their three-year age difference, they might have become sweethearts, had Will not fancied Elizabeth so much … and had Jane not been entranced by men in Royal Navy uniforms. A little too entranced, it now seemed.
“You know, you could marry him.”
She shook her head. “I don’t even love him.” She was the only girl Will had ever known who didn’t want to settle down with any husband; she had always put more effort into learning her father’s craft instead of becoming the homemaker her mother attempted to cut a more traditional cloth around. She was their only child, and had once told Will none of the boys she knew could stretch leather or shape a sole quite as well as she herself - so why bless one of those louts with control of the family business?
Will had known her “problem” since a few days ago, when she’d sworn him to secrecy and begged for any sort of advice she’d actually take. He hadn’t liked his conclusion, but it was the only way he could see to make sure she wouldn’t do anything more foolish in the commission of ridding herself of the child. “Then leave,” he told her.
“What?”
“Tortuga.” He hesitated as her eyes widened. “There are women there … who know how to do certain things … and undo others… you know?” He’d heard it from Gibbs as part of the man’s endless bawdy stories. “If you pay them.”
“I can’t take my family’s money.” She shook her head. “I will not steal from them.”
“You don’t have to.” He bid her rise, then rooted around in the coalbox for the bag of booty. “There’s a ship docked that makes regular runs - the Edinburgh. Pass yourself as a cabin boy, or barter payment for passage - I am certain Captain Bellamy will get you within range of another boat or ship to get there, if he doesn’t make port himself. It’s a short voyage, trust me.” He put the bag in her hand. “I don’t want any of that back. It’s not mine,” he hastily added, as she opened it and dug through the currency.
“Then whose?” She looked up. “Surely not Miss Swann’s?”
“Let’s say if I don’t tell you, you don’t have to know.”
She furrowed her brow, sniffling to clear her nose, and looked up. “That pirate!”
“Shhh!” Will shook his head.
Jane chuckled. “Will, it’s not like everybody doesn’t know you’re practically one-”
“I certainly hope they don’t think that,” he interrupted, serious. “That’s the last thing I need. You know how difficult it’s been regaining the town’s trust.”
“And yet, you’re sending me off to a pirate port?” He felt a twinge of worry that he’d miscalculated, but she shook her head. “I can’t take your money, Will.”
“It’s not mine, and you can. You need it - for protection,” he explained. “I’m not going to use it. And I think its-” He hesitated to say “owner” for Jack had certainly liberated it from that very person. Or persons. “It’s the way its messenger would want it spent, securing one’s own freedom.”
When she finally took her leave from the smithy by the back barn door half an hour later, she sighed, but this time it didn’t seem quite so resigned. “You are a pirate,” she informed him, dropping a kiss on his cheek and squeezing his hand before she pulled her hat lower to leave and held up the pouch to rattle it before tucking it into her shirt. “But a bad one, if it’s any consolation.”
*****
Will thought briefly of Jane all those months ago, as he hurriedly gathered knives and coins he’d hidden away from his own commissions, in preparation for travel to find Jack and return for Elizabeth. He’d had to borrow one of Weatherby’s old greatcoats, having none of his own suitable for such travel, but he hated facing life-and-death once again in buckled shoes.
He knelt and reached beneath his cot for the crate, which hadn’t budged since he’d shoved it under there two months ago, opened only once. Unrolling the burlap inside, he reached in and lifted out the pair of new, perfectly fitted and softened black leather knee-boots. The cuffs were heavy and brushed, the soles substantial and thick - work far above a typical cobbler’s apprentice. Will ignored the small piece of parchment rolled into the package as he sat on his cot and pulled up his stockings, shoving his first foot down inside one boot; he already knew what it said.
Turner:
I wanted to inform you that I am doing well and have found a lively trade - in the middle of misery, I do believe I may have happened upon my real life, after all. Do not worry, nobody knows who helped me, and I have informed my family I am alive and well, and that they will see me once again after the little one has arrived and passed to a proper family who will care for her. Or him.
I used the money to invest in the local tannery and offered my services as cobbler. Outlaws and seamen aren’t too particular about who makes their footwear, so long as it is durable and stands up to the brine.
I hope this finds you well and not too settled into old married life just yet. I will thank you more properly someday, I hope, for being a kind enough friend to give aid without judgment of my actions. Miss Swann is indeed fortunate.
Best,
Downing
Postscript: Every pirate worth his salt needs good boots. Please do not give these away to your next charitable cause - much like a sword, the fit is exact.
Will stood, stomped each foot once to get a feel and fit for the boots. He hated to admit how comfortable they were; they beat his work shoes and those shiny, pinching wedding clodhoppers by a country mile.
Halfway out the door to the gaol, he paused, wondering if he ought to pocket Jane’s message. “I’ll get it when I come back,” he said aloud, shaking his head. “Once Elizabeth’s safe, and I can put them away …”