"Contradictions 8 - Claimed" Part 1
CONTRADICTIONS 8: CLAIMED (POTC)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: J/W slash
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Jack and Will, nor the details associated with “Pirates of the Caribbean.” I am simply borrowing them for a while for creative expression and writing practice (and because the boys are in my head and won’t leave me alone).
Special Thanks: To N. Ranken and Yakkorat for beta-reading, and to Ranken for helping me write a bit of the dialogue in the smithy from Will’s POV.
Summary: This is continuation of an AU fic, breaking off from the movie’s events immediately after Barbossa’s defeat and death in the caves of Isla de Muerta. The previous parts consist of, in order, FLIGHT, FIGHT, LOSE, WIN, ADMIT, DENY, and FREED.
CLINK!
BANG!
WHUMP!
THWANG!
Will Turner worked out every bit of frustration in a suitable pastiche of the jilted lover, whanging away at the dully-glowing metal saber diagonally thrown across the top of his scarred anvil. He ignored sweat rolling from his hairline, the dull, burning ache that had settled into his shoulders and especially his right tricep, the intense heat that would’ve made any other man faint of dehydration long before now.
Then again, Will was a blacksmith in the sultry Caribbean, a vocation that held a certain amount of danger even on the coolest days, and he’d been one enough years that the swelter barely registered for him anymore.
The past two weeks had been extremely good for any crew member with damaged or bent weaponry. Will had silently made it known, by almost-constant work, that he was willing to take on any repair the ship or her men - and woman - required. It gave him a good excuse to avoid his captain, who, so far, hadn’t pressed the issue of Will falling behind on his fair share of actual topside ship chores.
Will really craved more difficult repairs than this - a sword broken in pieces would’ve made him absolutely giddy. Problems gave him something to puzzle over, to solve, whereas mindless straightening and strengthening like this merely gave him a physical outlet for the thoughts swirling through his thoroughly mixed-up, irredeemably lost mind.
He wanted Jack Sparrow.
He licked his lips up beneath his moustache to rid it of the sweat beading there, imagining once again the taste of Jack’s mouth, and immediately pulled the tip of his tongue back inside behind his teeth. Dark and cinnamon, and sugared rum, and faint fresh tobacco lingered in the pirate’s kiss, and Will wanted to drown in it, to taste it into his sleep and awaken to it on his own lips the very next morning.
“Goddammit!” The blade was far too long and malleable, and he’d been beating it into oblivion until it was damn near ready to separate from the hilt.
Will leaned back as he paused and frowned over his shoddy work. He reached up and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, turning the heel of his palm into it, breathing hard. He closed his eyes, lightheaded; he couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d eaten, at least several hours - probably not since breakfast early today. Still, his body thrummed with nervous passion, unspent energy, and he was chagrined anew to realize he was half-hard beneath his thick leather apron.
Without ceremony, he shoved the blade back into the coals and dropped the mallet to his anvil before crossing to his door to bolt it. He yanked the apron off over his head and consigned it to the hook on the back of the door, and was about to take himself off for a bit of a wash when he heard running feet and a couple of thumps in the corridor beyond the thick door. Curiosity got the best of Will; after settling for wiping his face and neck only, he was out the door following the noises.
Halfway up to deck, he paused, frowning - it was perhaps too quiet for the time of day, not to mention for a pirate ship. Instead of loping on deck as normal, he sidled to the top step and kept out of sight, peeking around to assess the situation. The commodore, he reflected, would be proud of his control and forethought.
“Now,” he heard Captain Sparrow - not Jack, but the Captain in full barking form - “which of you fine gen’lemen thought it would be a high idea t’ not do this?”
Silence. Whatever it was, he was fairly sure he wasn’t the one at fault, so Will stepped out of hiding and took a few quick steps as though he were entering a normal situation. He came up short when everyone glanced his way; it was no great feat to appear confused and behind the action. “Is something wrong?” he aimed at everyone.
“One of our rank decided ‘pon the questionable venture of usin’ down to th’ last bit of rum and not-“
“Hardtack, too, Cap’n,” Gibbs interjected.
Jack rolled his eyes; Will knew well enough what was important to the pirate. “And flour, and meal, and such, and not informin’ either me fine self or th’ First Mate or even our Quartermaster, ‘ere, of that fact.” Jack’s expression was sort of a neutral thunder, which Will knew from experience was just short of his most dangerous expression - complete and total apparent disinterest in the proceedings around him. “So I’m tryin’ to figure out who needs keelhaulin’.”
He seemed completely serious, enough to worry Will. “A keelhaul? Isn’t that - harsh?”
When Jack turned a dirty look on him and Will didn’t feel threatened by it, he resigned himself to the fact he was never going to be the subservient crew member that Jim, Jonathan, Shorty, Stumpy, Mart, and so many others who were not Anamaria or Gibbs were, that Jack wanted working for him.
“Mr. Turner,” the captain explained slowly and loudly, as if addressing the very elderly, “we are on a ship. At sea. This is no ferry ride.” Will held his gaze, resisting the highly inappropriate laugh that wanted to clear his throat, and either Jack could read his mind or his expression was so transparent that the pirate furrowed his brows darkly. “What do you suppose happens, Mr. Turner, when we find ourselves a week or two from th’ nearest friendly port” - friendly, in his parlance, meant “unable to catch or hang us” - “and completely and utterly lacking in th’ necessities of liquid or solid nourishment?”
He was no fool, and he already knew there was no higher importance at sea than keeping track of foodstuffs, but he supposed he’d let Jack’s overpowering worry about the rum - something he considered wholly unnecessary - trigger his humor reflex instead of actually hearing the larger problem. He glanced past Pearl’s rail. “Water everywhere, but not a cup for drinking,” he admitted, a little abashed.
He’d obviously surprised Jack by backing off of his acerbic tone. “That’s right,” he nodded, turning back to the crew, raising his voice again. “We starve. We die. All because one or more of ye couldn’t be bothered t’ do somethin’ so simple as lettin’ one of us know when we were down on supplies.”
All were quiet for an uncomfortable moment, until Mart piped up. “Isn’t that the quartermaster’s job?” Because of his size, the midget could occasionally get away with more than others in the crew. Will wasn’t at all sure this was one of those times, especially when Jack paced over to him and bent down, staring eye-to-eye at the man.
“Armaments and plunder,” he answered evenly. “Not perishables.”
“What about Maxi?” Will didn’t know who called it out.
“He’s got his own duties besides the galley,” Anamaria countered. “Probably spends more time cooking, anyway, than counting.”
“Cap’n, they make a good point,” Gibbs said. “We could use an inventory officer.”
“Well, obviously not one o’ these blokes!” Jack straightened and swept his arm across the assemblage of pirates. “Hell, they can’t even be bothered t’ point out when there’s no more rum, and I know there’s people ‘board this ship who give their rum more love than ever I ‘ave.”
“He’s got t’ be able to count, whoever he is-“
“Needs to be honest, too-“
“Well, that counts out the best part of us, I’d say-“
“Oh, hell, I’ll do it!” Annoyed by the sudden uptick in grumbling and blaming, Will blurted out, not very loudly.
But Anamaria heard him. “You’ll do it?” Before he could answer, she was repeating it to everyone gathered. Gibbs grinned, and a few crew members talked among themselves - good or ill, Will couldn’t tell. He felt like he was up for a seat on Parliament, and put up his hands, ready to recant. He never wanted politics.
Then Jack turned to him. “You?”
He wasn’t sure it was a good idea, but the inquisitive glint in Jack’s expression was hopeful - something Will hadn’t seen on him in a long time. He sighed. “Yeah.”
“Yes?” Jack actually smiled at that, and Will felt inexplicably, stupidly satisfied with it. And happy. What the hell?
“We’ll have t’ come up with a title for ye,” he explained, turning back to the crew with a booming voice. “Mr. Turner will be handling perishables from now on. But that does not relieve any of you of th’ responsibility of reportin’ if ye think we’re down to our last little bit o’ bread or chicken … or for God’s teeth, men, RUM!” He waved his hands dismissively. “Begone, th’ lot of ye - and be sure t’ thank Mr. Turner for th’ upturn in your fortunes. Else, one of ye’d certainly be kissin’ Pearl’s prow right about now.”
*****
On to Part 2
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: J/W slash
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Jack and Will, nor the details associated with “Pirates of the Caribbean.” I am simply borrowing them for a while for creative expression and writing practice (and because the boys are in my head and won’t leave me alone).
Special Thanks: To N. Ranken and Yakkorat for beta-reading, and to Ranken for helping me write a bit of the dialogue in the smithy from Will’s POV.
Summary: This is continuation of an AU fic, breaking off from the movie’s events immediately after Barbossa’s defeat and death in the caves of Isla de Muerta. The previous parts consist of, in order, FLIGHT, FIGHT, LOSE, WIN, ADMIT, DENY, and FREED.
CLINK!
BANG!
WHUMP!
THWANG!
Will Turner worked out every bit of frustration in a suitable pastiche of the jilted lover, whanging away at the dully-glowing metal saber diagonally thrown across the top of his scarred anvil. He ignored sweat rolling from his hairline, the dull, burning ache that had settled into his shoulders and especially his right tricep, the intense heat that would’ve made any other man faint of dehydration long before now.
Then again, Will was a blacksmith in the sultry Caribbean, a vocation that held a certain amount of danger even on the coolest days, and he’d been one enough years that the swelter barely registered for him anymore.
The past two weeks had been extremely good for any crew member with damaged or bent weaponry. Will had silently made it known, by almost-constant work, that he was willing to take on any repair the ship or her men - and woman - required. It gave him a good excuse to avoid his captain, who, so far, hadn’t pressed the issue of Will falling behind on his fair share of actual topside ship chores.
Will really craved more difficult repairs than this - a sword broken in pieces would’ve made him absolutely giddy. Problems gave him something to puzzle over, to solve, whereas mindless straightening and strengthening like this merely gave him a physical outlet for the thoughts swirling through his thoroughly mixed-up, irredeemably lost mind.
He wanted Jack Sparrow.
He licked his lips up beneath his moustache to rid it of the sweat beading there, imagining once again the taste of Jack’s mouth, and immediately pulled the tip of his tongue back inside behind his teeth. Dark and cinnamon, and sugared rum, and faint fresh tobacco lingered in the pirate’s kiss, and Will wanted to drown in it, to taste it into his sleep and awaken to it on his own lips the very next morning.
“Goddammit!” The blade was far too long and malleable, and he’d been beating it into oblivion until it was damn near ready to separate from the hilt.
Will leaned back as he paused and frowned over his shoddy work. He reached up and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, turning the heel of his palm into it, breathing hard. He closed his eyes, lightheaded; he couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d eaten, at least several hours - probably not since breakfast early today. Still, his body thrummed with nervous passion, unspent energy, and he was chagrined anew to realize he was half-hard beneath his thick leather apron.
Without ceremony, he shoved the blade back into the coals and dropped the mallet to his anvil before crossing to his door to bolt it. He yanked the apron off over his head and consigned it to the hook on the back of the door, and was about to take himself off for a bit of a wash when he heard running feet and a couple of thumps in the corridor beyond the thick door. Curiosity got the best of Will; after settling for wiping his face and neck only, he was out the door following the noises.
Halfway up to deck, he paused, frowning - it was perhaps too quiet for the time of day, not to mention for a pirate ship. Instead of loping on deck as normal, he sidled to the top step and kept out of sight, peeking around to assess the situation. The commodore, he reflected, would be proud of his control and forethought.
“Now,” he heard Captain Sparrow - not Jack, but the Captain in full barking form - “which of you fine gen’lemen thought it would be a high idea t’ not do this?”
Silence. Whatever it was, he was fairly sure he wasn’t the one at fault, so Will stepped out of hiding and took a few quick steps as though he were entering a normal situation. He came up short when everyone glanced his way; it was no great feat to appear confused and behind the action. “Is something wrong?” he aimed at everyone.
“One of our rank decided ‘pon the questionable venture of usin’ down to th’ last bit of rum and not-“
“Hardtack, too, Cap’n,” Gibbs interjected.
Jack rolled his eyes; Will knew well enough what was important to the pirate. “And flour, and meal, and such, and not informin’ either me fine self or th’ First Mate or even our Quartermaster, ‘ere, of that fact.” Jack’s expression was sort of a neutral thunder, which Will knew from experience was just short of his most dangerous expression - complete and total apparent disinterest in the proceedings around him. “So I’m tryin’ to figure out who needs keelhaulin’.”
He seemed completely serious, enough to worry Will. “A keelhaul? Isn’t that - harsh?”
When Jack turned a dirty look on him and Will didn’t feel threatened by it, he resigned himself to the fact he was never going to be the subservient crew member that Jim, Jonathan, Shorty, Stumpy, Mart, and so many others who were not Anamaria or Gibbs were, that Jack wanted working for him.
“Mr. Turner,” the captain explained slowly and loudly, as if addressing the very elderly, “we are on a ship. At sea. This is no ferry ride.” Will held his gaze, resisting the highly inappropriate laugh that wanted to clear his throat, and either Jack could read his mind or his expression was so transparent that the pirate furrowed his brows darkly. “What do you suppose happens, Mr. Turner, when we find ourselves a week or two from th’ nearest friendly port” - friendly, in his parlance, meant “unable to catch or hang us” - “and completely and utterly lacking in th’ necessities of liquid or solid nourishment?”
He was no fool, and he already knew there was no higher importance at sea than keeping track of foodstuffs, but he supposed he’d let Jack’s overpowering worry about the rum - something he considered wholly unnecessary - trigger his humor reflex instead of actually hearing the larger problem. He glanced past Pearl’s rail. “Water everywhere, but not a cup for drinking,” he admitted, a little abashed.
He’d obviously surprised Jack by backing off of his acerbic tone. “That’s right,” he nodded, turning back to the crew, raising his voice again. “We starve. We die. All because one or more of ye couldn’t be bothered t’ do somethin’ so simple as lettin’ one of us know when we were down on supplies.”
All were quiet for an uncomfortable moment, until Mart piped up. “Isn’t that the quartermaster’s job?” Because of his size, the midget could occasionally get away with more than others in the crew. Will wasn’t at all sure this was one of those times, especially when Jack paced over to him and bent down, staring eye-to-eye at the man.
“Armaments and plunder,” he answered evenly. “Not perishables.”
“What about Maxi?” Will didn’t know who called it out.
“He’s got his own duties besides the galley,” Anamaria countered. “Probably spends more time cooking, anyway, than counting.”
“Cap’n, they make a good point,” Gibbs said. “We could use an inventory officer.”
“Well, obviously not one o’ these blokes!” Jack straightened and swept his arm across the assemblage of pirates. “Hell, they can’t even be bothered t’ point out when there’s no more rum, and I know there’s people ‘board this ship who give their rum more love than ever I ‘ave.”
“He’s got t’ be able to count, whoever he is-“
“Needs to be honest, too-“
“Well, that counts out the best part of us, I’d say-“
“Oh, hell, I’ll do it!” Annoyed by the sudden uptick in grumbling and blaming, Will blurted out, not very loudly.
But Anamaria heard him. “You’ll do it?” Before he could answer, she was repeating it to everyone gathered. Gibbs grinned, and a few crew members talked among themselves - good or ill, Will couldn’t tell. He felt like he was up for a seat on Parliament, and put up his hands, ready to recant. He never wanted politics.
Then Jack turned to him. “You?”
He wasn’t sure it was a good idea, but the inquisitive glint in Jack’s expression was hopeful - something Will hadn’t seen on him in a long time. He sighed. “Yeah.”
“Yes?” Jack actually smiled at that, and Will felt inexplicably, stupidly satisfied with it. And happy. What the hell?
“We’ll have t’ come up with a title for ye,” he explained, turning back to the crew with a booming voice. “Mr. Turner will be handling perishables from now on. But that does not relieve any of you of th’ responsibility of reportin’ if ye think we’re down to our last little bit o’ bread or chicken … or for God’s teeth, men, RUM!” He waved his hands dismissively. “Begone, th’ lot of ye - and be sure t’ thank Mr. Turner for th’ upturn in your fortunes. Else, one of ye’d certainly be kissin’ Pearl’s prow right about now.”
*****
On to Part 2