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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: NC-17. Bondage. Some main characters dead previous to beginning of story.
Pairing: Will Turner/James Norrington, Jacques/Jack/José Gaspar.
Feedback: Favorite lines, constructive suggestions, etc. are all welcome.
Disclaimer: None of this is mine except these versions of Jacques and José. And that's only sort of.
Notes: Jacques uses the occasional French phrase (still shouldn't interfere with reading); translations upon request. //words// in Spanish. Modern-day parallel universe. Jacques looks like Brad Pitt, and José like Antonio Banderas. Some supernatural stuff. Dedicated to inkbug, for her birthday.
Summary: A former commodore walks into a bar, and he runs into this blade-swinging swordsmith…
***
"Hell is paved with good intentions, roofed with lost opportunities."-Portuguese proverb
***
The bar was picturesque, in that it'd probably been imported direct from the film exposés of poverty's harshness. Well, everyone currently occupying a stool knew they were poor, and knew they were shit, and were ready to royally fuck up whoever was ass-stupid enough to call them on it. Even the dead bodies piled just inside the door had a mean squint, as if they were daring Death to sneer at their ragged boots.
James stopped on the threshold and assessed the situation while he covertly eased off his sore heels. One thing people never mentioned about motorcycles was how much they hurt if the rider was wearing the wrong size of boots. He preferred more practical kinds of shoes, anyway, but that had been what the last man he'd killed had been wearing, and that was what he had to make do with.
"Whaddaya want?" Bartender slouched on cracked and stained wood counter, his far arm out of sight. Most likely fingering his shotgun.
Before James could answer, a door on the far side of the room exploded open, and the entire roomful of people sprang to their feet. Knives and guns and even a chipped sword made their appearance as the dust settled, revealing two prone figures. As James backed up and carefully slipped out his own gun, the taller of the two on the floor leaped up and down into a defensive crouch. He was lean to the point of scarecrow, and had filthy blond hair.
The other man, with a loosely-tied brown ponytail and a somewhat stockier build, staggered to his feet. Drunk as a lord, he actually turned his back on his opponent and collapsed over a stray pint.
"Fucking British limpdicks." The blond grinned at the supportive jeers of the crowd and picked up a piece of lumber, then swaggered up to the bar and-
--swung down on nothing. Brunette had suddenly swayed out of the way, still slurping at his beer. He tilted left when the other man tried to bash right, then slumped to his knees as a frustrated Blond wildly attempted to knock off his head.
Then Brunette came up in a rush and overbalanced himself, falling forward under the stick of wood's swing. He avoided falling only by virtue of…
…of holding onto his sword, which extended through Blond's body and whose tip was buried in the floor behind the other man. Brunette jerked out his blade sideways and dropped the beer mug, stumbling over its glass shards as he headed for the door. He slowly raised bleary eyes that met James' just as another man stepped behind him, leveling a shotgun.
"You son of a bitch-"
Gunshot.
Brown eyes stared dazedly at James, then turned to watch the body fall. "You shot him."
"Black Pearl." Careful to keep his gun where he could quickly turn it on the other man, James leaned back to see the effect of his whisper.
"Name's a bit girly. Your mother must've really hated you." The brunette pivoted himself sideways to slide past, but James caught his arm and twisted it up to expose the tattooed sparrow and gold coin just above the wrist.
And then he had a sword tip nudging the side of his neck before he'd even blinked. "William Turner, Jr., I presume. My name is James Norrington."
"Are you suicidal, or mad?" Turner demanded, yanking his arm free and stomping off. Which showed that he was very good at faking drunkenness.
James made a mental note of that, then hurried after the other man. "I'm looking for-"
"The goddamn gold. Yes, I know. Well, you can take your fucking plans and-" Halfway to the parking lot, Turner whipped around and slashed just in front of James' chest. A single button plinked to the ground. "-do I really need to finish my sentence?"
"I'm looking for Barbossa. I-" James put away the gun and angrily jerked his head aside. He tried to ignore the rawness scabbing his insides, and restarted when he knew his voice would be a little more steady. "I don't care about any gold. I just want that man's head."
Turner laughed, shook his head as if talking to a teenager about Santa Claus' existence. He flicked out a rag and wiped his sword clean, then sheathed it in the battered wooden casing strapped to his back. "Join the queue."
"I'd rather not, because then I'll be able to make good on my word." The sun was blistering today, and James almost thought he could see it peeling the paint from the cars. "Take me to Sparrow…please."
"Norrington…I've heard of you…" Still warily eying him, the other man extended a hand. "Yes, William Turner. Call me Will."
James reached out and accepted the gesture, breathing a silent sigh of relief. Then he wasn't breathing at all, because teeth were clicking on his and a tongue was warring with his lips. He tried to protest, but only sucked in stale alcohol and sharp lime. And chili-pepper, exploding on the roof of his mouth.
A moment later, he was pressed against the nearest car, two feet from Will, hand to mouth and lungs dragging in air to clear his mind. In contrast, the other man was pure amusement. "Sword calluses, but carrying a gun," Will noted. "You kiss like a straight man, though."
For several minutes, James wasn't quite certain how to respond. He lowered his hand and straightened up, ignoring the sweat running down his face. "Barbossa has it. My sword, I mean," he finally said, answering the half of Will's implied inquiry that made sense.
"Does he." The other man's gaze narrowed and intensified, hot as the day and cool as the pit within James' stomach. Then Will sighed and rubbed at his temple, apparently settling some internal debate. "Damn. Damn, damn, damn."
Turner started to walk off, then turned back and snapped, "Well, come on. Can't get you a new sword here."
"Right. Let me just get my things," James muttered, dry as bone and bland as the oatmeal he'd choked down earlier. He glanced back at the bar, but as no retribution seemed to be forthcoming, he had no excuse not to follow the other man.
It was about time to get rid of the motorcycle, seeing as it wasn't terribly wise to keep around a stolen vehicle.
Not stolen, James reminded himself. Scavenged. And that man had tried to slice him in half, so it was a justified kill. Detached from the government or not, that still didn't mean the laws no longer existed for him. Even if his current life would admittedly be easier if that were true.
***
It was a long drive, made even longer by the extra luggage in the boot, and the radio'd broken yesterday so Will didn't even have that to distract him. All he had, in fact, was his sword in the back, his gun under one arm, and a handsomely-sullen fellow Brit in the front seat. Wondering how James managed to sit so straight without cramping up gave Will a little less distraction than he'd figured on, as it also reminded him of what he'd heard. "Navy. That's where. You ranked, on Port Royal."
"Yes." Green eyes flicked over and the other man shifted a little farther away. He didn't look like he was consciously doing it. Will knew damn well that he was attractive even with half the land caked on his face, and anyway, that had definitely been a tongue sneaking into his mouth back at the parking lot. "I was presiding when they tried to sign the treaty with Barbossa."
"Everyone that was there is supposed to be dead. Except his men, of course." Will elbowed the gearshift till it moved and wheeled up a steep hill. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offered and was refused, and lit one up for himself.
Leather creaked as James shifted uncomfortably in the smushed-old cushions. He finally started to unbend, knees edging apart and back slowly melting into the seat. "Everyone is dead, except for myself. And I'm only illegally alive."
"Fuck. You've got federal people after your head?" Will wondered how fast he could boot the other man out of the car.
Apparently, James caught the suspicion and fear, because he whipped across and yanked the wheel so they were off the road. Slammed his gun under Will's chin at the same time Will's ended up under his. "Look. I'm only going to say this once. I mean no harm to anyone except Barbossa. All I need to know is where to find him."
Green glitter in those eyes, clear and deep like the ocean. Or how Will remembered the ocean, anyway. Breath hot on his face, soaking into his sweat, and palms burning through his clothes. Well, well. Norrington was genuine. "Understood. Now get off, captain. You already got your free go at me."
"I wasn't a-then again, it doesn't really matter what my rank was, does it?" James got off and went back to his corner, this time in an actual slump. He stared out at the scrubland as Will wrenched the car back onto the road. "The government offered me two choices: I could remain and explain the massacre and have everything down on my head, or I could disappear. In honor of my great services to the country and my reputation for integrity, they said the second decision wouldn't involve being quietly assassinated."
"Nice of them." And Will meant that to be sympathetic. Didn't get half an acknowledgment for it, so he shrugged and flipped James a hip flask. "Tequila. Won't eat your gut out."
"No, thank you. I don't normally drink." Taking up the flask by the top, James looked like a prissy old rich-man's servant taking care of the dog piddle. His flash of surprise when Will ripped the flask out of his hand was more than a little satisfying. "They also refuse to go after Barbossa themselves-something about incriminating connections to the intelligence branches-but they see 'absolutely nothing wrong with encouraging freelance operations.'"
It was such rich sarcasm that Will had to grin. He started feeling a little more relaxed; any man with a sense of humor, however black, was comprehensible. "I knew I tasted something familiar. Revenge. Who died?"
And then the temperature inside dropped twenty degrees. Heat-laden breezes continued to blow in the rolled-down back windows, and Will could almost see it clashing with the half-frozen air. "My wife. Elizabeth."
James didn't say another word until they'd arrived, and then it was only to ask what he should not do to avoid any false steps. Will stalled while he finished his last cigarette, considering how truthful he should be.
He was beginning to think he liked the man. Which was stupid and insane, and possibly he was a little drunk. Then again, it was rather nice to be around quiet-and moreover, the respectful kind of quiet that didn't mean imminent bloodshed. "Just be truthful. And reasonable. None of that posh nonsense, all right? We're down here, in the dirt, and maybe you don't have to act like it, but you do need to remember about that."
"Thank you." James smoothed back his ponytail and fussed with his shirt cuffs, then stood back and waited.
"This way. And watch carefully, if you don't want your head blown off." Will walked up to the door of the weatherbeaten house, wood so old it blended in with the sandstone surrounding it, and paused for five seconds. Then he put in the key and opened up while standing to the side, just in case. Nothing flew out, so it must have been a relatively good morning.
Or an extremely bad one, in which Jack had gotten fed up early. When he saw the living room, Will leaned against the wall and flicked out the hip flask. Unscrewed the top and began waving it around so the fumes would spread faster.
The rumpled designer suit on the couch slowly stirred and uncurled into Jacques, who had deep red bite marks on his skin from chin as far down as Will could see. And that was rather far, considering that the other man's shirt wasn't buttoned. Jacques stumbled to his feet, leaning heavily to one side, and limped over to Will, sniffing. "Merde. We send you out for supplies and that's what you bring back?"
"No, this is José's leftover Mexican shit. That's what I brought back." Will jerked a thumb at James, whose eye were averted and whose cheeks were pink, even in the dim light. Then he flipped on the light, ignoring Jacques' cursing, and peered about the room. "Where is he, anyway?"
"You called?" José shuffled down the staircase, rubbing at bruised wrists. He wore the satisfied air of someone who'd been fucked so thoroughly he wasn't going to be able to take anything but cuddling for the next two days. His hair was wet, so Will supposed he'd just showered.
"New stuff's in the trunk. Is Jack in-actually, I suppose the question should be, is he awake?" Will snickered, looking over the pair's swollen lips and collection of hickeys. "Christ, what did you do?"
José's eyebrows went up as he sauntered past James, giving the other man a thorough once-over. "Nothing. I might've lost the last bottle of rum."
"He licked it off my stomach, when we were waiting last night." Jacques threw a friendly arm around Will and snagged the flask, draining the few remaining mouthfuls from it. His grin was pressing into Will's cheek, and his back was rippling, begging for some petting. "Jack's upstairs, on the roof."
"Merci. Going now." Will attempted to pull away, but that only made Jacques cling even more tightly. The other man nuzzled into Will's neck until Will finally rubbed a hand up and down Jacques' spine, automatically detouring whenever he felt Jacques begin to wince. He dragged the six-foot feline along as he led James up the stairs and onto the flattened top of the house.
Jack was squatting in one corner, studying the lay of several polished bone fragments that were scattered over a piece of cowhide. He occasionally took swigs from a bottle of whiskey, which corroborated José's little comment. Will gave a silent thanks that he'd stocked up on the rum as well, since he didn't feel like dealing with another session of withdrawal insanity. Jacques and José could enjoy those all they wanted, because they didn't have to deal with sober Jack outside of the bedroom. Or couch, or wall, or-whatever.
"Back early." Although Jack still hadn't turned around, his voice made James instantly stop. So Norrington had sense, thank God. "And you've brought a friend."
"James Norrington. I've an offer for you, regarding-"
A hand raised, its silver ring flashing a pause. "Barbossa. I know. My condolences on Port Royal, by the way. I did like that place. When I wasn't being shot at, that is."
Which literally rocked James back on his heels; Will made a note to pester José about Jack's Port Royal doings, as Gaspar exaggerated the least of the three.
"I…I'm willing to put the past aside for this," James finally said. He dug in his pockets and produced some small bundle.
Jacques suddenly tensed against Will, fingers clamping down on Will's arm. But when Will glanced at the other man and started easing his sheath off his back, Jacques quickly shook his head. Then he twisted back and watched Jack, gaze so intense he probably could see the movements of individual hairs.
"It'd be more a matter of me putting it aside, wouldn't it? Considering that you were merely executing the law, and therefore didn't have nearly as much personal interest invested as I did." Jack abruptly swept up all the bones into a bag and whirled into a standing position, favoring James with one of his more dangerous smiles.
In reply, the other man unwrapped his tiny package and held whatever it was out to Jack, whose eyes actually widened in shock. "Your compass, I believe," James said, tone that of someone who knew exactly how much he was tempting the devil.
Jack squinted and reached for the object, but James pulled it away before it could be taken. They matched stares for a few minutes, and then Jack turned to Will and Jacques. "Mind leaving us for a bit? I'll be down directly after."
"Fifteen?" Will suggested. He got a nod, but stayed till Jack made the annoyed pursing-of-lips gesture and the flip-hand before he actually started to move. James twitched, eyes flicking over to Will, but snapped his attention back to Jack before the other man could make a snatch for the compass.
Will and Jacques got about halfway down the stairs before the other man's amusement became too great for him to contain. Jacques elbowed Will, then laughed when he was shoved off. "Where in God's name did you find that one? So…nice."
"At a bar. Like you, come to think of it." The flask was still dangling from Jacques' hand, so Will snatched it and carried it into the kitchen so he could wash out the dregs. "Though I'm fairly sure he isn't going to end up chained across the table and begging for it."
Mock-offended expression, which Jacques spoiled by gracefully fumbling his way down the rest of the stairs. He slouched against the kitchen counter and plucked a knife from the holder, flipping the blade between his two hands. "We've had fun, too."
Kiss to the side of Will's neck, lingering just long enough to insinuate. "Did I ever thank you for making me Jack's birthday present?"
"Many, many times. Unfortunately, I'm not in the mood," Will replied, rolling the sarcasm around his mouth. He dried off the outside of the flask and refilled it with some stuff from the other locked cabinet in the house, where they kept the potions. "Incidentally, James and I both killed a man from the cartels. We'll probably have to move in a week anyway, if we don't have to because of whatever agreement he and Jack might make."
"James? You're already on such friendly terms?" José's smirk appeared first, then the rest of him, lugging a case of rum. He dropped that off on the table and began transferring the bottles to the shelves.
"Death tends to have that effect." Actually, the reason was that Will didn't feel like wrapping his mouth around Norrington, which was too long and sounded like some starched-up puppet. Whereas the actual man was dressed too damn nicely for the area, but there were decent-looking boots on his feet, a leather jacket bundled about his one bag, and at least a day's worth of stubble on his face. "Don't you two have something better to do? Like pop painkillers for your less-than-pert arses?"
Metal and wood scraped past each other as Jacques replaced the knife in its slot. Then he lazily swung around to bend into José's hands and mouth. Will rolled his eyes and shoved them out of the way so he could grab a towel. "If you can't walk tomorrow, I'm not helping," he muttered.
***
Jack tapped his fingers against his lips, then swung to the left of Mr. James Norrington and gazed out at the dizzying gnarls of sandstone that rose in the distance. "You say you'll trade me my compass in return for being able to follow me to Barbossa."
"That's all. You only have to show me where. I don't expect anything more, and I don't ask for anything more." The other man pivoted to keep Jack in view, but didn't make any attempt to come closer. Good. Business was best done at a reasonable distance, after all.
"Wise of you. Seeing as I've got prior claim to that man's head." So…Bootstrap's boy and two shamans in his pocket, and now the last piece of the puzzle to finding Jack's former mate. Against fifty-some slightly undead pirates and a real old bastard of the kind they didn't toss out of hell anymore. Also undead.
However, it was probably the best odds Jack was ever going to have, barring a flat-out miracle. And he figured he'd upset his guardian angel and all applicable patron saints too much to count on that.
Tiny little skritch of bootheel on cement. James was going to have to lose the stiffness if he planned on getting anywhere near Barbossa. "Fair enough. We'll have a race. First one there gets to kill him," the other man replied.
A…joke? "Mate, did you just kid me?"
"No. I'm serious. Within reason, I'll abide by whatever rules you have, and help you. Until we find him. Then…"
Well, Jack hadn't thought so, really. He spun about to really study the other man: set jaw, hard and honest eyes. And no matter how aristocratic James' accent was, he held himself like someone who not only knew how to fight, but had put his knowledge through the storm and come out intact.
Physically, anyway. The way Will had hung about suggested that something was off, and Jack thought he could see flecks of it in James' eyes, every once in a while when the light was right. Same look he saw in the mirror, when thinking on how many pounds of flesh Barbossa owed him.
Then again, Turner had been convinced to bring James here, and it took a lot to turn that boy's head. He walked over to the other man and held out a hand. "That's an accord, then. Shake?"
They shook. James silently passed over the compass, which tingled the skin as Jack stuffed it into a pocket.
"All right, then." Jack picked up his bones and cowskin, then headed for the stairs. "Don't suppose you can cook?"
***
"He can cook," José noted, approving and a little envious, as he sniffed the delicious aromas floating from the kitchen.
"Yes, I can. And it's your house, so I don't understand why you're lurking."
As he eeled off the couch and headed for the other room, Jacques raised an eyebrow at José. The other man shrugged and spread his palms, but didn't bother to get up from his armchair. Not that Jacques could really hold that against Gaspar.
It'd been a very good morning. Pity Will had taken off before breakfast, though.
Jacques ambled into the kitchen just in time to be handed a…colander. He hadn't realized they had a colander. "Ah…"
"Just hold it for a moment. I ran out of room." James turned back to the stove and expertly did something with a metal spatula, meat and a skillet.
Well, Jacques supposed that could be done. "You didn't touch any of the unlabeled bottles, did you? Or the ones with Latin and Greek labels?"
"No. Will already told me not to." Sizzle. Flip. Apparently satisfied with that, the other man came back and grabbed the colander, then headed for a pile of lettuce on the cutting board. He paused for a moment, forehead wrinkling. "Incidentally, does it usually take him this long to get a sword?"
"Pardon me?" And this was why Jacques stayed out of the kitchen in the first place. Magic he played with. Business and crime, he understood. But cooking had its own reality-warping powers, and he knew when something was beyond his capabilities. Moreover, he knew the wisdom in disengaging himself from such areas.
James waved vaguely at the screen door at the far end of the room. "He left about ten minutes ago to get me a sword, and he still hasn't returned. Does he keep them somewhere else?"
Mary, Mother of God. It was all Jacques could do not to choke. "He said…he's giving you a sword."
"Yes." Sharp, skilled man, James was. He chopped vegetables while somehow managing to convey an air of close scrutiny with a few glances. "Is something wrong?"
Wrong? Oh, Lord. Jacques propped himself on the doorframe and grinned to himself, stocking up on teases for Will whenever the other man returned. "No. Of course not. You're a very lucky man, to be getting a Turner blade. He must have taken a liking to you."
Very quiet, but clearly incredulous snort. Rhythmic thud of knife on wood, but James did speed up a little. "I don't care for obviously groundless suggestions. Whatever it is you're trying to start, I want no part of it."
"Start something. I should be the one accusing you of that, turning up with that compass. Doing whatever you did to make Will bring you here." The humor in Jacques' mouth abruptly soured, rancid butter slicking his tongue. "Listen, Norrington, and I'll tell you a bit about William Turner the Second. I met him when he was fifteen, and I nineteen, and he already was a better fuck than I was. But he's out of practice now. And I will gladly cut throats and raise the dead to keep him that way."
That got to the other man; James swung around and revealed quite the glare. "You mean Jack Sparrow-"
"No, you idiot." Jacques curled his fingers into the wood frame and very determinedly restrained himself. "Jack dragged Will out of that, and he's never, ever…if you thought he could be like that, then what are you still doing here?"
"Good point," James muttered, returning to the food. "I apologize. And I assure you, I mean no harm to any of you."
"Hell, don't care about us," José broke in, coming up to press against Jacques' back. "We can look after ourselves. Just try not to mess with the sword-maker, yes?"
Just then, the screen door opened and Will walked in, carrying a long thin bundle wrapped in silk and his own sword. He looked from man to man, suspicion shading over his face.
"Getting to know the new man." Jacques gave his sweetest smile and drifted back into the other room. Where José promptly tripped them and sent them crashing to the floor. "Ow! Salaud!"
//Shut up. That hurt me more than it hurt you.// Wearing a pained expression, José tried to wriggle out from underneath Jacques. After a few minutes of fruitless effort, he winced and settled into a sprawl. "Fuck. My ass isn't going to be the same for weeks."
"Are you complaining?" Jack waltzed in and knelt by them, running a curled knuckle over the back of Jacques' neck. When Jacques shivered, fingers fisted in his hair and tugged him up into a hard kiss, sparking pain and pleasure in still-bruised lips. "How is he?"
José shrugged, hauling himself up and nuzzling Jack's other hand. "Don't think he's any trouble where our specialties are concerned. But we haven't seen his swordplay."
Nodding thoughtfully, Jack let Jacques drop back and gazed at the kitchen doorway. He absently stroked José's cheek as he did, fingers rippling as the other man licked at them. "That's what Will said, a moment ago. So we'll watch."
"You don't trust him?" Jacques asked, catching his breath.
"Oh, I trust him. I trust him to stay true to every letter of our agreement, and completely miss the spirit of it." When Jack smiled, sunbeams skated over his teeth and plated them in menacing gold. Then he looked at them, and the curve of his mouth softened as affection seeped into his eyes. "Now…stop drinking my rum, all right?"
"We'll work on it," José teasingly answered, producing a richly lewd grin.
***
The land was all flatness and steep outcroppings of rock, framed with harsh silver. Stripes of sandstone leaped out at James, while other layers retreated into shadow so that some of the buttes almost appeared to be floating.
He dug a toe into the dirt, testing its looseness, texture. Then he rocked back, feeling his muscles gradually go liquid, and began to move. Rolling joints, stretching muscles. Only after he knew every tendon had unraveled its stress did he unsheathe the sword.
Beautiful piece of solidified hell. It sang on the first pass, cold and perfect, and then it spoke fire on the second.
James stared at the blade crossing his own, then followed its edge down to moonshot eyes, mercury irises. "It's late."
"And you're out." Will lowered his sword and stepped back, pacing a slow circle around James. "I'm used to getting my sleep by catnap. Don't really know how to just…lie down and rest for eight straight hours."
The other man's feet crossed and wove about each other, tracing out a pattern. One that was familiar, but the pieces were taking their time coming back together. James glanced at the spiky plants, kicked at one. "I haven't been able to do this for-"
Clang. Thrust, but James was already spinning back, and throwing a counterblow at Will's back. Faster than sight, the other man whirled and parried.
Will tilted his head, almost rakish grin gracing his face. "Best way to get back in the swing of it."
"That," James said, fighting back his own smile, "Is a terrible pun."
"Well, they don't keep me around to crack jokes. That's generally José's and Jacques' job." Light as snow falling, Will leaped away and back into pattern, drifting into the next form.
"You're the sword-maker." James improvised a feint and had his blade turned, so he backed off to study the other man's movements. "Don't you think this is a little dangerous, though? I think I saw some broomsticks."
Turner snorted and broke stance. He raised a contemptuous chin at James, flicking hair out of his face. "If you want to play, then go teach kindergarten. If you want to fight-"
Sword slashed forward and up, far quicker than James had expected, and he nearly lost his balance scrambling away. Did come damned close to wrenching his ankle, but then fresh blood rushed through his veins, shocking old tangles of nerves to life. He surged back, and his blade struck metal. Clash above, right, below, right.
"Fuck me. You're good." Will swiped sweat from his brow and smiled again, strange light coloring his eyes. "You know how long it's been since I had a decent sparring partner?"
As he moved about, reflexively searching for weaknesses, James raised his eyebrows.
"Jack cheats. Which is good experience for reflexes, you know, but bad for working out moves. José's mostly guns, though he likes knives. So does Jacques, but he's mainly bare-knuckle asskicking." Gliding like a butterfly, smooth and seemingly random. Turner knew what he was doing, all right. "Of course, that's when him and Gaspar aren't just fucking things up with spells." Wink. "They get bored easily."
"It's not really wise to give away information on fighting preferences." James danced back, then lunged past as if he were delivering a straightforward power-blow. At the last minute, however, he shifted weight and threw it into a vicious backhand.
Which met nothing. The flicker at his vision's edge came a second too late, and pain slicked across his jawline.
Will drew back and waited while he felt the shallow cut. "I'm not telling you anything you can't find out from the street," the other man said, serious and cautioning. "Watch your feet, James. Even the desert's got quicksand."
"So I've noticed. Isn't Jacques going to get bored, watching us from the roof? Since we're only sparring." When Will twitched, James sprang forward and-
--mind-snap--
--was like rising through the water, and taking that first breath. Scarlet shimmered past his eyes, and clouds of dust rose to meet his feet as he landed and pivoted.
One hand to his cheek, Will had sword down and eyes up, watching the stars. "Right. We're even, then."
Their eyes met, and time split in two.
James swung his sword back and crouched, then came forward when the energy in his muscles made their recoil. Before him, Will was doing the same thing, body shocking through space to thrust itself at him. The blades seemed almost secondary, when faced with such complete concentration.
When reality resumed, James was staggering, bent-kneed and panting, with empty hands. And Will had another scratch on his cheek, just below the other one. "Very good," Turner muttered.
"Not good enough, yet." James tried to pick up his sword, but his gut decided to scream like a girl and he went back to his half-crumpled position. "So…no rifle shots yet."
"If you were really trying to kill me, Jacques would know. Trust me. The roof-watching's just some weird mother-hen thing." Crunching pebbles as Will came over to James and helped him straighten up. The other man took a moment to resheath his sword before retrieving James' and giving it to him, for the second time that day.
Before Will could take his hand back, James seized the wrist with his free hand. "Why did you give me this?"
He wasn't answered for several minutes, as Will simply gazed at him, darkly opaque. Something like a judge of the dead, James' fanciful side suggested.
"Because…you look like the kind of person who would use it right. I don't meet that kind very often." Will slowly pulled his arm away and made some gesture toward the house. Tiny movement on the roof in response.
Then he looked back at James. "Drink?"
"Nothing alcoholic." Tomorrow morning was going to bad enough, what with the ache that was already leaking in James' muscles. He was sadly out of practice. And aging, but there wasn't any point in fighting that. Better to focus on that which he could change.
"I think we have some fruit juice. That's not fermented, I mean." Will offered a hand, and after a second of reflection, James took it.
***
José was in hell. A highly pleasant one, but hell nonetheless. //Jack, for the love of God…//
The other man propped his head up and took another lick at José's cock. He was lying between José's legs, happily tormenting away, while Jacques sang in the shower and José had his hands bound behind him to the headboard. "You know, James has been around less than twenty-four hours, yet he's more well-behaved than you are."
False comparison, considering that James wasn't currently in the same position, but José wasn't going to bring that up. Not when his vision was wavering, world rippling before him, and sweat was so thick on him it felt like a second skin.
Nail scratching lightly up the length, circling the head. Then tipping it into hot, wet sucking. José felt his soul begin to loosen and slip away, then rattle his teeth when it snapped back into place, when Jack backed off. "I'm sorry?"
"Stop stealing my rum." Jack blew air over the slicked erection, adding another level of sensation-overload.
Head feeling like it'd been filled with lead, José groaned a vaguely affirmative sound. Nothing. He licked his lips, stared at heaven, and tried again.
"Parley closed," Jack replied, sounding pleased. And then-mouth finally on José, around José, and muscles working, squeezing velvet around him. Tongue swirling over veins, stroking the pulse to fever-pitch. He clenched, twisted, and came, feeling like he'd just been flung from a tornado.
As if from a very great distance, fingers pushed through the haze enveloping him and tugged at his bindings, undoing them. José flopped to the bed and lazily licked at his very, very sore wrists, sucking on the bone bumps. Jack nuzzled into a kiss, then petted José's hip and hopped off the bed.
"So?" Jacques wandered in, one towel dangerously low around his waist and another busily scrunching his hair dry. He glanced at José. "Besides dragging you into the shower and making you functional."
"I am very functional, thank you." José rolled over and flicked several rude gestures at the other man.
"So I believe we're going to locate my old partner, meet with him, and settle things. Whether it's me or Norrington." Jack paused by the door, watching his hands shape things in the air. "Though it'd best be me doing that. Considering I've the perfect bullet and all."
He flickered out of the room, ghost-like, and Jacques and José exchanged concerned glances.
"Well, we never doubted this would happen, once he had a way to track the man down." Jacques slumped onto the bed, covering his face. "But…"
"It's all the blood you put in to help hide him from Barbossa, until then. You're starting to get fond of it." José shook his head, eyes fixed on a fly that was looping nearer and nearer a spiderweb. It buzzed in confused circles, sometimes banging into walls and bouncing off into another lopsided meander, but eventually it hit the sticky threads. Struggled like hell, tore half the web away, but the spider waited and the fly quieted. "You cannot stop revenge. You can only delay it."
Law of the land-the real one, and not the idealistic nonsense carved all over the courthouses. Newton knew what he'd been describing, when he formulated his Third Law. And José had it carved into his bones, marked across his back in scar tissue. It began to throb, calling up the old memories.
"You're not there." Blue eyes were pinning him to the bed, nailing José to the present. "Come out of that."
"You know how to say farewell," José answered. "So tell it to that blood, because you're not getting it back. The only thing to do is to spill fresh blood."
"I know that." Jacques was suddenly bitter, his face hidden in long damp strings of gold. He ripped himself off the mattress and began yanking on clothes, unusually rough with the fine fabrics.
Sighing, José eased himself off the bed and headed for the shower. "It's time."
"What?" The other man's hands slowed, stopped on his belt buckle.
"Time. The difference between a successful hit and a victory. You have to be still standing afterwards in order to wear the laurel." Hot water would feel quite nice against José's bruises; hopefully, Jacques had left enough for a decently long shower. "If Jack and Will die, we're useless."
"Oh." But it was a contemplative, planning sound, and not melancholy or defeated. "I understand, I think."
"Good." And now for that shower, José thought. God knew when they'd get water as clean as they had here again.
***
Travel brochures and quest-legends never mentioned what a pain packing up was. The former because of the process' unattractiveness, and the latter because of its lack of heroic qualities, James supposed.
He had indeed woken up in agony as his body whined at the aftermath of the previous night's swordplay, and he'd barely had time to stretch out the worst kinks and dig up some breakfast when Jack, cheerily chirpy as his last name, had bounded up to the table. The man's…companions had followed, rather less bouncy, and Will had sauntered in from outdoors. They'd all eaten and chatted, and the upshot of the conversation had been assignments of chores. In preparation for leaving as soon as possible. With which James had no problem.
And the fact that he knew little-to-nothing about spellwork and the care need to handle the substances required for such matters. With which James had no problem.
What did strike him as unfair, however, was being handed most of the bulk packing, as that was apparently the only job for which he was fit. "I do know how to handle guns," he muttered, taping down the last box in the garage.
Simply looking at the huge stack he'd made brought new aches into existence. He gingerly stretched, then reached behind him and massaged his back. His skin was disgustedly sticky and foul, and God, he needed a bath. Except he wasn't sure his calves could make it up a flight of stairs.
Come to think of it, James was certain he'd spotted a garden hose. He set down the roll of tape and walked outside, slowly circling the house until he found it. "Thank God."
A moment to strip off his sodden shirt and step out of his boots, another to wrestle with the rusty handle of the spigot, and James was very nearly blissful. The water was cold. Cold. And unlike most places in the area, it was clear and didn't smell metallic.
He held the hose above his head and riffled his hair until his scalp stopped feeling like it was about to creep off his skull, then sloshed water over his back and scraped at the dried sweat coating his chest. Then he bent down to pick at his soaked pants, pulling the clinging fabric away from his legs.
When he finally straightened, Will was in front of him. James jerked and nearly flung the hose at the other man. "Christ! How-how long have you been there?"
"Just a minute." Casual as he acted, Turner's expression was oddly bland; the skin around the edges of his face was strained, as if he were in fact wearing a mask that was too tight. He was stripped to the waist, and whitish trails of dried sweat swirled over deeply tanned skin.
It was another day of extreme heat, parching and brutal. James' bones threatened to melt if he stayed outside any longer, and he thought he could feel the very beginnings of sunburn on his shoulders and nose. "Can I help you?" he ventured.
"I was just curious…how did you get Jack's compass?" Will tilted his head so the light caught on the parallel scabs on his cheek. They looked as if they were in the last stages of healing.
"It was confiscated as part of standard procedure, the last time he was captured by Port Royal authorities." James stepped forward and raised a hand to Will's face, nearly touching the cuts. "These look…far too old."
At the same time, Will shuffled back, ducking his head. His eyes were suspicious again, and his voice was sharp as his sword had been. "One of the benefits of having shamans around the house. And I didn't ask how Jack lost it. I asked how you got it."
"I could better answer your question if I knew what you were implying," James snapped, obscurely irritated. He glanced down at the hose in his hand, and momentarily slipped beneath a sudden upwelling of childishness. The water flashed up, and then a soaked Will was sputtering against the wall. "Perhaps you'd like to have some time by yourself to cool down and recover your reason? I need to finish that laundry list of duties Jack gave me."
James started to walk off, but was brought to a halt by Will's acidic retort: "Motherfucking-whatever you're planning for him-"
The next thing James knew, he'd pinned Will up against the house, arm across the other man's throat. "I told you, who I want is Barbossa. Barbossa! I'll do whatever is necessary to reach him, but otherwise, you don't have a single reason to fear me."
"I don't fear you," Will spat. He got up a knee between them and shoved James off, the sun's blaze reflected full-strength from his eyes. "Don't. Touch. Jack."
"I wasn't planning…" An insane thought occurred to James, and while he almost dismissed it, something made him give it voice instead. "What? Do you think I'm after his…his company in bed?"
"So proper, aren't you? Coming with a gift and an offer." The other man sneered and rubbed at his throat.
Anger boiled up James' veins, shoving and jabbing at the tight lids he kept jammed over them. This time, however-all those days hauling himself from small dingy town to small dingy town, questioning and biting down on his tongue at the insults and setbacks. Killing and stealing like the criminals against which he used to guard, and telling himself the blood washed off with soap because otherwise he wouldn't be able to get up and go on. This time, it was too much.
"That's what you think?" He took one step up and yanked Will's wrists to him. The hose was spilling water over their feet, icing them down, but that only forced all the hot rage upwards into James' head.
Will's chin lifted. "Exactly what I think."
"Well, you're terribly, terribly mistaken. Jacques and José are welcome to have the man, because I don't want him." Emotions had tastes, James discovered. Seething was like day-old coffee that'd been bad to begin with.
"Prove it," Will challenged.
So James kissed him.
***
Frankly, Will wasn't sure what had happened. One moment, he'd been inches away from cracking open Norrington's brain and figuring out the man's angle. Why he'd felt so strongly that he should give up one of his swords to Norrington. Why he had, in fact, done so, and then why he'd sparred with the other man. Then drank silently together, like some old married, comfortable couple.
The next, he was clawing at James' shoulders and trying to help a tongue shove itself down his throat. The ground was slippery, so it wasn't long before they ended up falling onto it. Mud and water splashed all over Will. "Shit!"
"Is that enough for you? Do you want the damned sword back?" James growled. And damn, but anger looked good on the man.
"No." All right, now Will knew what was going on, because he was the one pulling James back into a clinch. He just didn't know why it was going on.
He did know that his erection and James' fit damn well together. Grinding was supposed to break things down, but not here, not now. Harder, hotter, fuck-he swung up his legs and locked them around the other man, jerking up his hips so the friction got that much better. Locked his mouth on James' shoulder, tasted plenty of salt and a little dirt, which Will spit out. Afterwards, his lips were promptly engulfed and wonderfully brutalized, while hands clamped onto his hips. James shoved him down, made the mud squelch and squirm beneath Will's shoulders.
Lightning up Will's legs, down from his head, swirling low in his belly. Pushpull struggle like last night's round with the swords, only better because he could feel everything, and not just the wind of its passing. He groaned and scrabbled for a better hold. Cut loose a mewl when that got him a hard bite on the lip. His hands raced down James' back, came up a little more slowly because James' mouth had moved to the join of jaw and throat. "Bullet scars."
"Sword scar's on my leg." Rasp, rattle and roll. The other man sent them into the spray of the hose, Will starting underneath and ending underneath. James pressed down once, twice, and Will splayed out, all the fire clawing away from him as warm stickiness joined the cool soaked fabric of his jeans. "Oh-my God-"
That was almost heavenly, watching James come. Will's mouth parted, and he almost said something stupid.
Reality was, however, always his saving grace.
"Elizabeth…" James' eyes squeezed shut, then popped open and stared down. "Elizabeth," he said again, softly mourning. "Oh, my God. What did I just do?"
"Who the fuck cares? It's not happening again. In fact, this never happened. Now get off." Will shoved and wriggled his way free, then stomped inside to change his clothes.
He met José in the hallway, where the other man was adjusting some of the protection charms. Spanish took one look, then asked, "Should I get the shotgun?"
"No. My fault. And warn off Jack and Jacques, all right? If I wanted that done, I'd do it myself." Will flung himself into his room and kicked the door closed. Then he sat on the floor and ignored the irritating heaviness of wet denim.
Fucker.
This was going to be a long, messy trip.
He indulged in a bout of cursing, then sighed and boxed everything up. Stood and began working on finding a clean pair of pants. There wasn't any point in dwelling on the fucked state of things, and moreover, none in resenting it, unless he wanted to screw up in the middle of a fight. Which Will wasn't going to do.
***
James banged his head against the wall, and then did it twice more so as to drive the lesson home. Do. Not. Make. Matters. Personal.
The problem was, he'd gotten into that habit with Barbossa, and now it was leaking over into the rest of his life. Goddamn it-things were going to be difficult enough without him offending-no, insulting Will so unforgivably. And after he'd been doubly warned of the possible consequences of doing so. Was he insane?
Most likely. "He's just like her," James told the spigot as he shut off the water. "That's why I said her name. Yes. He'll certainly believe that."
Beautiful. Self-assured. Strong and capable and smart. And having a damnably compelling mixture of daring and loyalty, witness the way Will had tried to probe James about Jack.
Even a blind man would be attracted to Sparrow, and right here, shaken as he was, James had no trouble admitting that he'd felt that strange magnetism. But he wasn't a man to base anything solely on lust of the body, and the call of wild winds. Not when he'd already had three years of perfect bliss, spiced with ample excitement and smoothed with faithful tenderness.
And Will had been the one to follow him into the night, and the one that had danced with him as if they'd been on the same chord. James had a feeling that any kind of relationship with Jack would first require a good deal of tuning before it rang true.
But what was he doing? Not only thinking about possible relationships, but actually comparing them? When he'd already committed himself to a…to a…
To revenge, if he wanted to stay honest with himself. He'd made the mistake of having loved ones around when he took a risk, and they'd suffered horribly for his misjudgment. Now James was living a chance, and he had no intention of making the same error.
this never happened
He…could do that. And he desperately hoped that Will could do the same.
***
Jack lifted his face from Jacques' throat, eyes narrowed. "Something's wrong with Will."
"Don't," José said as he came in. "He'll be angry if you interfere with his life."
"Oh, it's that? Damn it." Jack let go of the Frenchman and smacked a nearby windowsill, glaring at the distant cliffs. He'd known Norrington was going to tangle things, but the opportunity to be able to finally find Barbossa and the Black Pearl and Isle de Muerte had temporarily won over his unease.
"Jack, Will's…well, a man. He can handle himself," Jacques softly added.
True enough, but that didn't-damn. That did mean Jack needed to keep his head out of it while it wasn't affecting anything else. It was cold comfort that he knew it wouldn't be very long before the whole mess did spill over. He might not care to show it, but the remembrance of all his failures bit, deep as a bullwhip. One of the most being his failing to keep his promise to Mrs. Turner until Will was an ancient-eyed fifteen-year-old. And she'd been one of the very, very few ladies he'd never seduced and always liked, right up until she'd coughed her last.
Patience, Jack reminded himself. A hard lesson, but he'd gotten the hang of it, and he never let go of something once he'd gotten any kind of grip on it. Sooner or later, Norrington would trip up, and Jack could show him, gentleman to gentleman, why it wasn't wise to hurt a man's friends. "Watch him."
"We are." The hard glitter passed from Jacques to José, then faded into the background until they looked as harmlessly pretty as usual.
***