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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: NC-17. BDSM. Some main characters dead previous to beginning of story.
Pairing: Mainly, 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 (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. Special guest from Shrek II.
Summary: On the eve of the last fight, it's a good idea to sort through your life and decide what, exactly, you're putting at risk.
***
"Even in hell, it is good to have friends."-Czech proverb
***
José studied the symbol circles he'd chalked on the floor, checking that the alignments with the compass points and the sunrise was right. Then he rummaged in the box of colored chalk nubs and picked out a deep reddish tint for the sunset glyph. After that was done, he tossed the scrap back into the box and rubbed the scarlet residue off his fingers on Jacques' arm.
"Hey!" The other man finally looked up from his staring contest with Puss, who after an encounter with Anamaria had garnered a flea bath, a thorough vetting, and a cute black collar. Funny…José had never seen the woman as a pet person, but she was surprisingly competent in that area. "What?"
"Stop eying the cat. He's not going to vanish, no matter how long you do that. And pass me that chicken blood before it clots." Very carefully, so as not to jar his leg too much, José turned back to his work. A bit cramped, since the only space they could spare for protection spells was a large closet off the kitchen, but it would do.
A bowl was pressed into his hand, and Jacques crawled up to help retrace the chalk lines with rapidly cooling blood. "I wasn't eying him. I was drawing comparisons."
Some of the stuff dribbled onto José's hand, and he took a moment to search out some rags and wipe it off. "Between what?"
Jacques glanced over, slantwise, as if he was debating with himself on whether to reveal a state secret. "Norrington and Puss."
Luckily, José had put down the bowl of blood by then, or else it would've been quite a mess. As it was, his coughing fit nearly toppled him into the tequila bottles at the side. "What?"
"Think about it. They both simply wander into Will's life, and he decides to keep them around, despite the obvious trouble they're going to cause. There has to be a connection." If Jacques had been deadpanning, it would've been a marvelous joke. Unfortunately, the other man seemed perfectly serious.
It was general knowledge that Jacques had a soft spot for Will, but this was moving into the realm of the bizarre and worrying. José regretfully abandoned the spell-casting and leaned behind the other man to grab Puss. //Do me a favor, furry. Go get Jack.//
Slit-eyed look of contempt.
He muttered a prayer for patience and poked at the cat. //I'll feed you fish afterwards. Deal?//
"Mraw." Puss slithered out of José's grip and trotted off, while Jacques' face turned suspicious.
"You like that thing," the other man accused.
José nodded and started to sort out the bundles of dried herbs, occasionally crumbling a few leaves over certain points of the floor design. "So?"
"Mon Dieu," Jacques sighed, lifting his hands to the ceiling in a dramatic gesture. The pose was very like that of a blue velvet-covered Jesus figurine José had seen once, in a New Orléans store that specialized in offending people of all races and religions. "Doesn't anyone see what's going on?"
"And what'd that be? Are you having another fanatic spell? Should I get out the chains and the honey?" Jack's head poked into the tiny room, quizzically peering over a half-empty rum bottle. Puss squeezed past him and marched inside to imperiously butt his head against José's leg.
Well, José needed to stretch out his cramps anyway, and Jack and Jacques were definitely going to need more room. He put down the herbs and gingerly levered himself up, with a little help from Jacques. "No. But he thinks Norrington and Puss bear a striking resemblance to each other."
"I said no such thing!" Jacques protested, but it was already too late. Jack's sharp eyes flicked from José to the other man, and then the blond was getting dragged up the stairs, amid much noisy struggling.
José watched for a bit, attempting to hold in his laughter, but stopped when Puss none-too-gently pawed his ankle. //All right, all right. Just let me get to the fridge.//
By the time he'd gotten out the pickled herring someone apparently liked, the humor had died away to leave nagging concern. As calm as things seemed, relatively speaking, all he had to do to know it for a brief interlude was to lean out the window and sniff. Acrid ozone and cloying rot, storm-wind and grave-earth. They weren't going to have long to put themselves in order.
Oddly enough, he and Jack appeared to have the steadiest stances of the whole group. José figured Jack's composure was due to the man having the most eerily adaptable sense of balance he'd ever seen. It didn't matter that most of the time, Sparrow looked as if he were walking on rolling logs, because when the earth shook or the ocean rose up in fury, he managed to stay upright when all others were tumbling like bowling pins. As for José himself, he knew his detachment was to due his two main worries being Jack and the fight. The first watched itself much better than he could ever do, and the second he was already working on, so he was being useful and reassuring himself.
It wasn't that he didn't care about Jacques or Will, but that one, he hadn't been around long enough to feel that vulnerable when it came to them. He knew they were grown men, and he'd seen them handle themselves in tight spots before. Two, he was older than both of them, and as much as it annoyed him to admit it, those years had earned him a measure of patience.
"Mew?"
//Patience and the knowledge that most of the time, messing around in other people's live just fucks up things. Not gray hairs, you little furry cretin. I'm not even thirty yet.// He shook a scolding finger at the unimpressed cat, then perched on the kitchen counter and began flicking pieces of herring at Puss. //The point is, I'm still worried, even with all that. Not a good sign.//
The downside of being able to step back and take the broad view was that he had a great view of the coming three-way collision. Although Jacques could take almost everything the world threw at him with a cool smile and a fast pair of fists, the one place he slipped up was Will. Even his issues with Barbossa ultimately led back to the effects of what that bastard had done to Will, and then to Jack and to himself.
//Makes me wonder, you know.// José teased Puss with a bit of dangling herring, acting as if he was about to drop it and then faking out at the last second. The cat sulked, and he grinned. //So what do you think? Mothering instincts in the wrong body, or did he have a crush?//
"Rar." Puss glared up at him and hissed, tail irritably sweeping the floor.
//Most of the first, and a little of the second. Yeah, I thought so too.// He finally let the fish fragment drop, and the cat snapped it from mid-air, quick as Jack claiming a won wager.
Then again, Jack wasn't blind, and neither was Will. Maybe matters would work themselves out.
//They'd better//, José muttered as he returned the rest of the herring to the fridge. //I'm in no mood or shape to referee a family fight.//
***
"…and that's how I ended up…er…stripping…for Elizabeth's friends from…" The waitress arrived with the coffee and donuts, and James eagerly broke off his story to make a grab for his mug. "Thank you."
"Oh, no problem, honey." Her grubby nameplate read 'Scarlet,' which was a more than fair description of the wide smile she bestowed upon the pink-cheeked, adorably embarrassed James. Will wasn't sure whether to join in on the smirking, or to growl at the flirtatious woman. She'd been around three times in the last five minutes, and the café in which they were was so full that people were sitting in each other's laps.
Come to think of it, why hadn't Will tried that? Oh, right-because James looked like shit. Red-rimmed eyes, stubble, bleach-pale undertone to his skin. Every time there was a particularly loud noise, he winced. Which meant that he appeared to have nervous spasms every ten seconds. And yet…he still managed to be insanely attractive.
"We're good, thank you." Will smiled saccharinely at the lingering waitress, and she got the message. Instead of getting huffily disappointed, however, she actually extended the range of her lewd grin to encompass the both of them. Well…it was Tortuga, after all. Will shrugged and turned back to the other man. "How's the hang-over?"
"A little better." James drained his first cup, and then picked up the next one from the tattered cardboard holder. Good thing they'd ordered five at once. "I still can't believe Tortuga has a Starbucks."
Will flinched, and buried his head in his hands. "It doesn't, really. The sign just happened to be the only thing that they saved, and-yeah. Don't ever cut in front of José when the line's for coffee."
A very soft chuckle persuaded him to look up again. James nudged Will's cup over and proffered some cream and sugar, the first of which Will refused and the second he dumped all in one cup. While determinedly ignoring the strange look he got from the other man. "Hey. You married a woman that liked pistachio ice cream and peanut butter for breakfast."
"So I did." The disgusted face James came up with was beyond cute. In fact, it was more like a booty call made flesh than an expression. "Elizabeth had…very interesting tastes. I always wondered why she chose me, actually. I didn't fit her style at all."
Okay, get the fuck down, Will silently told his stirring cock. Jumping James in the middle of a coffeeshop was inappropriate behavior. Somewhere. Maybe not in this particular town, but hell, the man was woozy and-goddamn it, licking java off his lip. "You really should've talked about her more. I had this mental image of her as some prim and spoiled little rich girl, whose biggest dress-up day was the Ascot races. No offense, but…"
"None taken." And James really didn't seem to be. His eyes were warm and laughing, even with the pain of a killer headache shining through that, and for once, his mouth had relaxed from its usual straight-pinched line. "She did love those hats, but I remember once we were there, and a duchess tried to tell her that her skirt was too short. That…was one of the most creative slaps I've ever seen. Never been able to look at ostrich feathers quite the same way."
Their shared laugh loitered about the table, not in much of a hurry to dissipate in the racket all around them. Will sipped at his coffee and watched James finish off yet another cup. Nice hands, he noted, but not in their best shape. The sword calluses Will had felt the day they'd met-only a week ago?-had been softened and blurred about their edges, but now James' fingers were puffy red, skin split in several places by burst blisters. A lot of hard practice to polish rusty skills, somehow squeezed in between the packing and the traveling and the fighting.
Will set his cup to the side and pulled one of James' hands across the tiny table, turning it over to display the sore-crossed palm. "You really, really want Barbossa dead."
Sudden tightening in the air, and then a bit of slack as the other man sighed. "I wasn't lying in the car, last night. Or telling a half-truth."
"Fine, you really did want Barbossa's head. You still do, but you're just a little less choosy about how that happens." With his index finger, Will traced the lifeline and then the heart-line, detouring around the raw spots. "What did he do to you?"
"Not much, as you can see. I'm still standing." James gave a strained laugh and moved closer to Will. However, he stopped just short of actually shifting around the round table and sitting next to Will, as if still uncertain of his welcome. Or…as if he didn't want to be welcomed for what he was about to tell. Biggest fucking guilt complex Will had ever seen, and he had come across a lot of weird ones during his life. "His men systematically slaughtered everyone, starting on the outskirts of Port Royal and working in to center, where he and I were supposed to sign the treaty. I saw everyone else die, and then I fought him, and he beat me."
Hopefully, the number of people around would keep James from flipping out too much. Because Will had to ask, after finally having a personality to put to the ragged scars her death had left on James. "What happened to Elizabeth?"
"He killed her." James' voice was casually emotionless, which was why Will was paying more attention to the other man's face than to the tone, or the content, even. He knew how Barbossa worked, after all, and no atrocity would be too surprising. It wasn't the deed itself that was important here, but the after-effects of it. "I'd told her to swim out and tread water till they left-she was a very strong swimmer-but she came back. And he simply cut off her head."
There was fire and smoke and charred flesh in those eyes, and bone-crushing pain so vivid it was a scream. And then there was white Styrofoam blocking it out, shocking Will's mind with its normalcy as James took a quick drink. "Then he told me that one person always had to live, so the stories would go on. And after that, he left. With my sword. Elizabeth's gift. She…it was a kind of wedding ring, you see. She said she knew it'd mean more to me than a little band of gold."
"Oh." It wasn't even a meaningful sound, full of wordless sympathy and comfort and all the other supports that Will should have been offering James. It was just a noise, made because the situation seemed to demand one. Because Will had no idea what he was supposed to be saying, or doing, but he felt like he needed to give something in return.
If James had been raving, or going crazy, or even just sobbing, then Will would've known exactly how to handle matters. But the other man wasn't. Instead, he was being extremely controlled and concise, and looking at him was exactly like looking at the blade edge of a very skilled opponent.
Then everything suddenly snapped back into real-time: dishes clattering, obnoxiously loud conversations, constant jostling of human flesh. James had bowed his head, and closed his hand around Will's, fierce and vulnerable and desperate. "Tell me I won't have to see that again."
Oh, Christ. Will's gut knotted and twisted, then unraveled to backlash his mind soundly into the past. "You want to hear a story?" he grated, swallowing against the rising memories. "Let's go find somewhere quiet."
***
It was not only impossible, but also unfair. Jacques had several inches and quite a few pounds on Jack-all muscle, thank you-but the other man still managed to drag him along the hallway. And while he was clawing at walls and digging his heels into the floor.
"That works better if you've got decent carpeting," Jack snorted. "Here's pretty threadbare."
"Listen, José was making a bad joke. I do not think Norrington and Puss have anything in common." Jacques yanked at his wrists, but Jack's grip on them didn't give a single bit. Instead, the other man took advantage of Jacques' focus there to slide a foot behind Jacques' ankle and trip him into the bedroom. Then Jack furthered that along with an actual kick to the ass. "Salaud!" Jacques yelled. "Morue de ta mere, je-"
At least, that was what he'd meant to say. Unfortunately, the sheets puffed up when he hit them, and the cloth completely mangled his creative swearing. He tried to untangle himself, but then a heavy weight clamped down on his waist, and before he knew it, he'd been trussed like a lamb for slaughter. Wrists lashed behind his back with a familiar-feeling sash, and Jack stretching out on top, ostensibly to hold him down with body weight. More like smirk and loll, the motherfucking son of a bitch.
"Now, I'd like to have a few words with you on the subject of a man and a cat-no, that's not right. Give me a moment." Jack was probably tapping his fingers on his chin, pretending to be thoughtful.
"I'll give you much more than that for kicking me. Fuck Norrington. That damned furball's more like you and José, with your stupid shit-eating grins and your 'oh, no, don't worry. The microwave won't explode.'" Jacques tested his bonds, but they were as expertly knotted as usual. Only fabric, so he might be able to tear it. Except then Jack would probably get upset, and if that happened, he definitely wouldn't listen to Jacques. "Can't believe you let Will keep that cat. You remember what happened to the parrot?"
Beard scratching the nape of Jacques' neck as Jack nodded, then nuzzled. The other man didn't seem very discouraged by Jacques' refusal to respond to the overture, and went on to play with Jacques' hair. "I would. So? Puss doesn't have wings. He can't fly into a Cessna."
Ah, yes. Reason didn't really operate around Jack Sparrow, and Jacques was an idiot for forgetting. His back was starting to hurt from keeping so stiff, and so he reluctantly gave into the urge to slump. Which had nothing to do with the way Jack's fingers trailed along his neck and shoulders. "Why are you letting him keep it? We don't really have the kind of life that's good for pets."
"Well, why haven't you turned Puss into socks yet?" Jack countered.
Jacques was perfectly aware that their conversation was happening at multiple layers of meaning. More importantly, he knew damn well what those other layers were, and he wasn't very happy about it. Life had been quite good the way it'd been before all the upheavals had begun with Norrington's appearance, and while Jacques wasn't denying the necessity of facing Barbossa a final time, he didn't really like the idea that he had to walk away from that with an entirely new lifestyle.
On the other hand, the answer to Jack's question was unequivocal, and they both knew it. "Because that thing makes Will happy, for whatever strange reason. Sometimes I don't understand him at all."
"So why am I on top of you again? And not doing anything? This just doesn't feel right, you know. Makes me worry." Jack poked a finger at the bumps of Jacques' spine, and in return, Jacques jabbed his hands into Jack's stomach. "Hey!"
One quick shove, and Jacques was teetering on the edge of the bed. He cursed and scrabbled, but was slowly losing to gravity when a hand finally snatched him from the brink. "You bas-"
It didn't happen often, but Jack could be more frightening than hell when he wanted to be. And this was one of the very, very rare times that Jacques was on the receiving end of that terrible gaze. He shut his mouth while his marrow froze and his skin burned, and dropped his eyes to the mattress.
"What do you have against James?" Jack asked. An even worse sign: he wasn't dressing up his words the slightest bit.
Jacques stalled for a few minutes by busily curling up in the corner of the bed, and then trying to rearrange himself into a position that wouldn't strain his arms too badly. But eventually, even he had to admit that the length of the pause was getting ridiculous. "I don't trust him. He hasn't proved himself."
"Well, I'm open to suggestions for testing him out. His saving Will from Barbossa used up my last idea," Jack dryly replied. Then he flopped onto his belly and propped up his chin on his hands, thus leveling an uncomfortably keen gaze at Jacques. "Second time. What do you have against James?"
"James." Jacques contemptuously snorted. "Aren't you friendly now. I seem to remember you ordering us to watch the man for trouble…oh, a week ago."
That won Jacques a thoughtful nod, but Jack recouped lost ground by tugging at his shirt until it fell off his shoulders. "Hot, isn't it?" He smirked, rolling his bare shoulders so they caught the light. "And last night it was almost cool. Funny how the weather changes so fast around here."
"Go fuck a dog," Jacques muttered into the sheets. "I don't find that very funny."
"All right, we'll try another, then." A few blessed moments of quiet while Jack considered the challenge, and then the bed creaked as he scooted close enough to dust whispers all over Jacques' face. "How about this: I knew a man once, who was very fond of a girl. He respected her, and cared for her, and she did the same for him. And there was enough between them to light up the world, if either had ever thrown a match down."
At first, Jacques figured it for another one of Jack's bizarre attempts at parable-teaching, but as the other man went on with his story, something in his voice commanded a closer inspection. Maybe it was the uncharacteristic and distant softness in Jack's eyes, a sheen like clear oil floating on water. Or perhaps it was the thread of earnestness in his voice, or the slight stagger before each word-not the usual drunken slur, but an exposed vein of uncertainty that shone like gold. Whatever it was, it struck a similar weakness in Jacques. Made him glance up and really, truly listen.
"But they didn't. Because they knew it wouldn't work between them. Not like that, not if they wanted to live and be happy." A short break in the spellbinding flow of words as Jack took a breath. When he started again, his grin was lopsided, mostly nostalgic with a touch of sadness. "It's not common knowledge, but you can have what you want and be completely miserable. So anyway, they didn't. They stayed friends, and found their own, separate loves. But they never did stop thinking 'what-if,' and in the end, that wrecked things. People can tell when someone's not moved on, and it hurts. Makes them do things they usually wouldn't. Trust is a funny thing…and mistrust is nothing but nastiness."
"So it is," Jacques slowly said. He was looking directly into Jack's eyes, but it felt as if it were really Jack peering into him, carefully picking out the varied threads of his colorful life and sorting them into dross and treasure.
His cheeks suddenly heated up, and he wished he could attribute that to the intenseness of the other man's scrutiny. He couldn't, though, and that embarrassed him even more. So Jack had known.
Youthful hormones, and the free-and-easy living of the slums combined with a sudden, confusing introduction to pity-free compassion and generosity. And, well, Will had been damned pretty back then. He still was.
Of course, Jack had always been walking sex, and that had only gotten more pronounced as the years had passed, but at the same time, he glinted and flickered like a well-honed blade. Which had intimidated the hell out of a younger Jacques, who'd learned the hard way which street characters were just fluffing, and which had real credibility. In the beginning, it had been much easier to deal with Will, and Jacques supposed he'd simply gotten accustomed to that. Grown to rely on it.
"I'm not jealous. I never was," Jack abruptly said, reaching out a hand and stroking Jacques' cheek. "But even without that, it still changes things."
"I know, I know. But I…how am I supposed to be sure he won't fuck Will over? Again." There. All of Jacques' cards on the table, all set for Jack to read them. "And why are you so certain of Norrington now?"
Jack shrugged. "Same reason I wasn't, before. The man keeps his promises, once he's made them. But he has a heart, somewhere under that stupid armor-amazing he doesn't bake all crispy and brown, really-and that'll intercede, from time to time. If the cause is great enough. Barbossa got him to change himself. So did Will."
The words settled into Jacques' bones, and no matter how reluctant he was to believe in it, he could feel their truth. Goddamn it. "This is like that stupid Hallmark special movie you made us watch. 'Let the kid grow up.' God, this is disgusting."
"That's the truth for you." Fingers curved under Jacques' chin, and held it up so he couldn't look away from Jack. "Anyway, he fucks up again and Will might let you help pour on the lighter fluid." Annoyed pursing of lips. "Thousands and thousands of bottles of rum I've wasted on that boy, and he still has that temper. Needs to learn how to relax, else he'll get heart cramps or attacks or arrests-whatever the hell they're calling it these days."
Which made Jacques grin in amused disbelief. He licked along the webbing between Jack's index and thumb, sensuous and slow, then briefly sucked in the thumbpad. Let his teeth rasp over it as it slid out. "Stop that. You aren't Methuselah."
"Not in the slightest. Care to see some proof?" Jack asked cheerfully as he dragged Jacques beneath him.
Damn, life was good. Even with Norrington around, apparently permanently-and admitting that was actually a lot less painful than Jacques had figured. Feared. Whichever didn't really matter, as he was past that fact and on to next one. He could live with the idea of that, he supposed. Because Jack and José were really the ones he wanted to wake up with, and Will deserved whatever he could take from the world.
And Jacques did have the reassurance of being the designated shotgun-wielder, if Norrington had another idiotic spell. He returned Jack's insinuating smile with one of his own, and let his easy, inviting stretch speak for him.
***
She was mocking him again, singing cracked paeans to his enemies in her shattered voice. Her self-declared love had broken her himself, and yet she remained loyal to him. The irrationality of that choice shredded Hector's patience, and yes, his self-esteem-he was lowered to revenging himself in petty ways, like leaving her wallowing in filthy crusts of blood and brain until he absolutely had to clean her.
"Jack tried to destroy you when he saw he couldn't take you back from me," he muttered to the mocking shine of the blade halves. "And that makes you happy."
It honored her that her love thought so highly of her.
"Fool. The both of you. Better to live on." Hector laughed, and rudely shoved the two pieces of the Pearl back into her new sheath, which was insultingly plain. "Time's the real enemy. You survive, you beat that-and then you're invincible."
He watched the coal-colored blood slowly drip from his slivered palms, mercilessly sliced to ribbons by her touch, and as the patterns formed on the sand, he traced them over in his mind, committing them to memory.
"Quiet, darling. He'll be coming along shortly, and then we'll see where the true advantage lies." Hector had come running to Jack too many times, in too many ways. This last meeting, Sparrow would come to him, on the ground he'd made his own.
Isle de Muerte.
***
The sky was blue-green glass arcing over the earth, so clear and translucent it seemed that a stray bird's wing would break it and send the whole thing tumbling to the ground. Old fear, trivialized in children's stories, now made real but distant. A vague terror literally overshadowing all the world.
As warm as it was on the roof, James still shivered. Then he determinedly shook off his morbid thoughts and concentrated on the man lying beside him. "The stained glass is very beautiful. I'm surprised it's so well-kept."
"Yeah, well, Tortuga has its quirks. And this church has some real freaky stories going around about it." Will was patting himself down, turning out pockets and feeling about his clothes in a way that made James slightly uncomfortable. Fortunately, the other man soon ceased his searching and produced a small vial. "Knew I had some somewhere. This should help with the headache, at least. Swallow it really fast, so you don't taste it."
James gingerly took the vial and glanced inside, whereupon the thick liquid burped at him. He flinched, then told himself to think of it as a tequila shot-which probably wasn't the best of ideas, given what had happened to him after that. But it got the stuff down with little more than an awful sourness, which a chaser of his remaining coffee quickly dissipated.
And suddenly, his head didn't hurt. His dizziness briefly increased due to the unexpected loss of pain, but that also cleared up in a few moments. "That…helped. Thank you."
"No problem. So…Jack tried to get at Barbossa when I was sixteen, a year after we met. Eight years after my parents died." When he spoke, Will did so in a very straightforward voice, as if he'd related the story so many times he could lose himself in the flow of the words.
"Eight years? I assumed you'd met sooner, because of how you two act as if you're…" As James wasn't quite certain how to classify Will and Jack's relationship, he left his sentence unfinished.
The corner of Will's mouth quirked. "It took him a while, because my mother left me alone and went to go kill my bastard of a stepfather, who ended up killing her, even though she died after he did. And after that…well, there are thousands of boys wandering around Mexico. I was pretty hard to find. But you don't want to hear about that."
"I do, actually." James rolled onto his side, facing Will, and pulled the other man's hands up to his chest. He outlined each of Will's knuckles with his thumbs, lightly brushing over the bony bumps. Will's shiver vibrated through his calluses and into his veins. "But you can tell me that later."
"Okay. Um, where was I?" When Will was thinking, his eyelids dropped halfway over his eyes in a very tempting manner. "Right. It wasn't pleasant. Last fight happened in Haiti, of all places, and…well, fuck. Put it this way-I was the only one that could walk, and that was only after the shock had kicked in enough so that I couldn't feel my leg."
Deep, shuddering breath, and Will looked about to crack. He completely closed his eyes and leaned in until his forehead was resting on James' nose. "Jacques was in the hospital for nearly a month. Jack wasn't much better; he got out in six days, but he wasn't himself. Pretty fucking close to catatonic for…Christ, five weeks, at least. Last night, I found out from Barbossa that Jack had deliberately broken the Pearl during that whole cock-up-which should tell you a lot."
It did. Will's abrupt shift from competent, breezy young man to old-eyed survivor told James a good deal more.
"I could give you all the nasty details, but that would just be masochistic, and I don't swing that way." An ironic but sincere smile somehow emerged, and Will nuzzled into James' chest. "Anyway, that's why we're all so damn twitchy. But it's not really answering your question, is it?"
And James had to say, "No."
"Well, I can't really tell you yes, I won't die on you. Because life's shitty that way, and I can be an idiot. As Jack's fond of reminding me. But…I won't take you down with me." Will fiddled with James' shirt-buttons. "In fact, I'll promise to come back and kick your ass if you get all broody and suicide-by-fighting and whatever because of me."
And James had to laugh, and at the same time, hold the other man even more tightly to him. "You and Elizabeth would've been best friends, if you'd ever met."
"I'd hope so. She sounded like she knew how to live." Will smiled into James' chest, and there was really only one logical thing to do after that.
James nudged up Will's head with one hand, buried his other in Will's hair, and sealed their mouths together. Caught the outgoing breath and swallowed that, scent of coffee and slightly-burnt sausage and very faint lime coating his throat. It underlaid the sweetened fire that washed over his tongue, curled into his blood, and then he was breathing back into Will, their lips almost fumbling over each other.
Palms swept parallel lines down his back, rumpling up his shirt when they returned to grip at his shoulders. Will's knee swept heat up his side as it bent, letting his own leg to slip in between and rub against an already sizable erection. "Didn't think sucking you off in the coffeeshop would've been very polite of me," the other man gasped when James cast an inquiring look.
And damn. James was suddenly in no position to criticize. He dove back down, using both hands to hold Will's face still as he nipped lips, tongue, nose and eyebrows. "And you think on top of a church is better?"
"Well, if you want to move…" Will tried to sit up and consequently ground himself against James' thigh at an obviously favorable angle. He fell back with a deep groan that expanded his rib cage, made the muscles of his body strain his clothing. "Oh, fuck. Never mind. Shit. Uh…"
"What?" James asked. He hoped Will could understand him, because the bit of neck he had in his mouth tasted far too good to leave. Even if sucking at it did mangle his words beyond recognition.
"Trying to remember if I have…shit, I don't." In sharp contrast to his disappointed face, Will's hands were busily tearing open James' shirt. Then fingers were inside and expertly gliding around, arrowing in on sensitive spots as if they'd known James for years. "Okay, don't have anything. Goddamn it. Uh…oh, yeah. Can try that."
And before James knew what was happening, he was being tumbled by a man at least three inches shorter. It would have been humiliating if he hadn't been preoccupied with trying not to scream.
Will grinned down at him, looking as pleased as someone with their hands down a waistband and teasing a painfully hard cock could. Thankfully, the other man didn't spend more than a few seconds gloating, and the problem of clothing was quickly solved. And then-
--lips encircling his nipple, laving it until James saw black spots eating the clouds, and palms clasped around his cock, rough one way, soft the other. Like sandpaper silk. He found himself biting down on his fist, deep enough so that he could taste blood. A bare second later, he thought he'd been blinded because the world abruptly replaced itself with bright red. But then he realized that that were the back of his eyelids, which had clamped down when nails had begun to softly run over his balls.
A stray finger trailed further back to spark more moans from James, and he threw back his head, banging it on the roof. Damned good thing it was made of heat-softened adobe, or else he'd be dealing with yet another headache. "Christ…"
The tormenting mouth briefly left his skin to snicker, and he was ice-cold without it. "You can still talk?" Will grinned. "Damn. I must be losing my touch."
Then James was burning up again as lips danced over his stomach, as hands cradled and stroked and melted his skin right off. Teeth a sharp circle around his navel, and a tongue probing in as that one curious fingertip did the same. "Now…I can't talk," he gasped. "Happy?"
"Yup." As further evidence of that, Will swallowed James down to the root, and smiled like a cat in cream. And that was it. James whiplashed, dug his nails into Will's shoulders, and came until stars scorched against his eyes.
His muscles gave way after that, one by one in a chain-reaction collapse, and he went limp as the sky whirled in a thousand different colors. "I…just had sex on a roof. I don't think I've ever done that before."
"And you didn't take off your boots," Will noted. Then he slyly smiled. "So…I kinda took your virginity?" Ridiculously innocent face.
James' body was going to whine later, but his pride absolutely refused to let Will sit there like that. Smug-and unsatisfied, to judge by the state of the other man's pants. It was the work of a moment to hook his fingers through Will's belt-loops and drag that smirk down. And it was the work of several more, highly pleasurable moments, to very slowly undo Will's fly. With much casual touching and some nibbling on a racing throat-pulse. "Has anyone ever mentioned that you can be a brat?"
"Actually, that's usually how José says good morning. He's kind of bitchy before coffee." Will's voice dropped to a low, aching throb as James' mouth leisurely made its way down his front. He produced the loveliest little whimpers when James undid the front of his shirt with teeth alone. "Oh, fuck. Do I want to know where you learned to do that?"
"It's a rather funny story, actually. Theodore lost a bet to Elizabeth." No, James wasn't nearly as conventional as he most likely appeared. But up until a few days ago, all of that had seemed nothing more than a beautiful dream, instead of much-cherished, vivid sense-memories.
And, he suddenly realized, he'd just said Elizabeth's name with remembered contentment. Not with screaming grief, or blinding guilt, or anything of that sort. He'd said her name as he had when she had been alive. With deep, abiding love.
"Now I really…wish I'd met her." Hips bucked up as Will's voice frayed into a keen, and he writhed gloriously under James' caresses.
Will had promised James everything that he could give, even as the other man had said he couldn't swear to anything. James could offer little in return, but what he could, he would without hesitation. Just the ability to talk about Elizabeth without feeling himself splinter apart would have been worth it, and as for what Will had given on top of that? It was a debt that James would happily spend centuries repaying.
For the moment, that consisted of something that he'd not done very often, and not in quite a while. He hesitated, unsure of himself, but then a quiet, pleading mewing leaked from Will and James couldn't help but answer it.
The first try, he took the cock too far in, and nearly choked. Will didn't seem to mind how quickly he drew back, which was encouraging enough to persuade him to try again. And this time, he managed to relax enough to actually tighten his lips around the straining flesh. A tentative swirl of his tongue resulted in a body-length shudder, and some weak sucking, a long moan.
"Fuck, please. Get on with it-oh, goddamn." Then Will garbled random sounds, and alternated between English and Spanish swears. James thought he heard the occasional French word sneak in, but he wasn't really listening very closely. He had better things to concentrate on, like what made Will shiver the hardest, and how the taste of Will's skin changed even as he tasted it.
Knees whacked into his sides, and James slammed them down before he noticed what he was doing. That had to hurt-even if Will wasn't exactly complaining-so he tried to rub the spots that'd probably gotten bruised. Which had some fascinating results, so he kept that up. Gradually rediscovered the rhythm of it, the slip-slide and give-take-give of flesh and spit and heat.
"Shit, going to-James, God-you should-" Will's hands pushed weakly at James' shoulders, giving him ample warning. He couldn't remember what he'd done in the past at this point, but it didn't ring true to back off. So he didn't.
It wasn't the most pleasant-tasting substance in the world, but a few minutes before he'd drunk far worse and come out fine. James simply continued to swallow, and Will cried out, like a swooning bird.
"Oh, my God." The other man quaked and twitched, even after James had finished and hauled himself up next to Will. "Oh, my God. I don't think I can walk."
"Perfect. Neither can I." James essayed a smile, and received a brilliant one in return. He was coated in sweat, and the day promised to be blistering hot, but nevertheless he draped a hand over Will's waist, pulling the other man in until they were pressed together from neck to ankle.
A thoroughly satiated silence followed, broken only by the little sighs Will made every few seconds. Then something occurred to James. "Will?"
"Hmm?"
"Why do you have a missile launcher in the trunk?"
"Oh, that." The other man rolled his eyes. "Jack hooked up with this drunken mariachi in Mazatlan, and the guy swore up and down that those things were indispensable parts of Mexican life. And of course, Jack decided to buy one from the guy."
"It probably will be useful later," James muttered, hunching his shoulders against the unavoidable future.
"Don't wanna talk about that now," Will mumbled, and James heartily agreed. They curled around each other, and simply laid together while the sun slowly lost its morning scarlet, scorching itself white.
***
Someone opened the bedroom door without knocking, and Jack irritably raised his head from Jacques' shoulderblade, slipping his fingers out with one last whimper-inducing hook. On his other side, José didn't even bother to look, but instead kept on licking the sweat from Jacques' nape. Jack slid his hand up José's back, teasing out a contented rumble, and pushed the other man farther down. Considering everything that had been going on, José really deserved a reward for keeping the most level head, after Jack himself.
Will's head popped around the door, as did Puss' ginger-fuzz face. Two eyebrows rose. "Uh…are you sure that won't kill him?"
It took a moment to figure out to whom Will was referring, as everyone on the bed seemed to be mightily enjoying themselves. Well…maybe Jacques was beginning to sound a little desperate. When he was capable of making sounds at all, and wasn't feebly tugging at his bound wrists. "Fairly. But the uncertainty's why you experiment," Jack replied, giving his most winsome smile. "And how's your boyfriend?"
From the hallway came the most bizarre noise, an ugly cross between a strangulated porpoise and a stepped-on monkey. Will winced, and Puss smirked. "I'm interrupting," the other man said, not so much embarrassed as irked. "Right. Am going to stop, now. By the way, Anamaria wants to know when we're going over the final plan. So would I, come to think of it."
"Well…" Jack sat back on his haunches and thought a bit. Or he tried to, but Jacques' frantic wriggling, which ground lovely plump buttocks against Jack's very interested cock, made for quite the distraction. "After lunch, I think. Not good to do anything serious on an empty stomach, or an empty wallet."
"Doesn't look like we have either of those problems," José commented as he sucked around the tatters of Jacques' shirt, which somewhere along the line had been half-ripped off his body.
Muffled scream. Jack cocked his head. "What'd he say?"
"Something like, 'fuck me, for the love of God.' I think." As he worked over Jacques' shoulder, José shrugged. "Will's Marseilles slang is better than mine."
"Will is leaving," the aforementioned man dryly informed them. The door shut, and Jacques came within two inches of bucking Jack completely off the bed.
"All right, all right. Honestly, no one knows how to savor the moment anymore," Jack sniffed. Nevertheless, he scooted down and levered up the other man's legs, which were trembling too much to support themselves. As soon as he let go, the knees went sliding apart, and another violent shiver coursed through Jacques' body. Which was both appealing and fairly frustrating. Luckily, José also noticed and was kind enough to wriggle half-beneath Jacques to prop up the other man.
Finally. Days and days of leaping from high wire to wire, watching them snap under his feet, and Jack was more than ready for a bit of plain, undiluted romping. He molded his hands to lovely soft buttocks, played with those a bit, and then eased himself in, going as slowly as his strained patience would allow. "Oh, God…that's good. That's very good. Why weren't we doing this earlier-oh, right. Will. Annoying how he can be an interruption when he's not even around-"
"Jack." Soaked tangles of hair, their gold tarnished by the sweat, abruptly flung away to reveal a face that was all flared nostrils and bared teeth and sparking blue eyes. Like some feral thing from the woods, cornered and ferociously desperate. Then a collapse, Jacques' face falling back into the crook of José's neck, long silken back rising to Jack's touch. "Je regrette-I'm sorry. Sorry that I…oh, God, please…"
"No talking," Jack whispered along the sweeping in-curve of a beautiful spine. All elegance, even when bent to the extreme. "S'not a punishment. Just…breathe in…"
And he lifted up on his knees, scraped nails through the slick layer of sweat on the other man's skin. Pushed. Relaxed. Rolled until he suddenly, effortlessly, sank into the reflux of the tide. Coming and going, coming and going, and then catching that first crest. It tore out the bottom from under him, left his feet afloat on nothing, and he swayed into the second, higher one. Let himself be dragged back and forth, vision shrinking to rasps and mewls.
Matter of faith, going in on that undertow and just feeling the coming that would follow. He could trace its crescendo, taste its froth in his mouth. Lick at its edges as it glided just beneath Jacques' skin. It knotted around his bones, clenched him tight as a noose and caressed him much more pleasantly than the best whore in New Orléans. Because fucking her had been like playing with a living Kama Sutra, but lying down with his two was like being spread-eagled on the border of sand and water, knowing that sensation as if he'd been born to it.
A damned long time it had taken, but he'd figured out that part of life at last. And being the generous man that he was, Jack was more than happy to encourage the proliferation of that knowledge, by whatever means necessary. Even to a man like Norrington, because it was nice to think that honor-the real, gritty stained stuff-still counted. So Will could have his James, and Jack could have this:
Crashing into the cliffs, and having them break into a thousand rainbow-filled droplets. His own sea, unbounded by anything except where he decided to go.
***
It'd always puzzled Will how Jacques managed to saunter even when his limp tilted him sideways, and how the other man could turn a grimace into a look of utter satisfaction. Just one of the man's many talents, apparently.
"Right, we all here?" Anamaria asked as she and her crew got settled around the living room. In order to squeeze everyone in, they'd long since given up on furniture, and except for the map-table in the center, people were either on cushions or some reasonably willing human pillow.
Of course, it went without saying that Anamaria still had her pick. What didn't make intuitive sense, however, was why she'd choose to plop down beside Will while James was off getting some more coffee. But before Will could even react, she was muttering out of the side of her mouth. "Listen, Turner. I shouldn't have. Truce?"
"Grraw mrraow," responded Puss in a spiteful little voice. Will clamped his hand over the cat's head and did his best to pretend it hadn't happened.
"What the fuck?" he countered, covertly searching for a new seat.
She grumble-sighed and glared at Puss, then at Will. And then she revealed that yes, she was capable of embarrassment. Will almost forgot to breath in his shock. "Close your mouth, Will. And look-it's going to be messy, but I don't want it to be worse than it has to be. So accept my…my apology and we'll have an accord. You get it?"
He did, but he also remembered the feeling of helpless rage ripping out his throat, a protest painfully dying before the undeniable, awful truth. "Maybe…
They must have been sitting in one of those odd, inexplicable lulls that always appeared when many people and little space came together. That kind of momentary bend in the air that deflected words sideways and zigzag, equally capable of starting or ending wars. Later, that was the only explanation that Will could think of for why they could hear James' and Jacques' conversation, even though the two men were standing across the crowded room.
"I won't hurt him," James was saying, and Anamaria dropped a cynical snort.
"Oh, you will. Unless you're a saint, and I think that would be even worse for Will." His graceful slouch in sharp contrast to James' stiff stance, Jacques clearly had the upper hand.
Will started to get up, but Anamaria caught him by the arm and yanked him back down. Then she jabbed a finger at Puss, who was bristling into a fearsome hiss. "Shut it, or I'll neuter you. Turner, hang on a moment."
James suddenly smiled, ruefully knowing without a hint of give. He held his ground awkwardly, but he did keep it. "I can see where his upbringing came from. You did a fine job."
That visibly took Jacques aback, and for a few moments, he simply stared at the other man. Then he looked away, and Will had to quickly duck his head so he wouldn't be caught spying. "Remember that you can hurt him. That's all I ask."
"I will. I promise you that." They silently watched each other a bit longer, hackles half-up like wary dogs, and then, by some unspoken agreement, they turned in opposite directions and walked off.
"Men for you, right there," Anamaria said, laughingly sarcastic. When she smiled like that, not so bright as to cut into the eyes, she looked almost friendly.
"Yeah." Will got out his own chuckles before James finished wending his way toward them, and fiddled with Puss' ears. "Okay, we've an accord. Truce. But you touch my cat, and I'll gut you."
She nodded as she got up. "Fair enough. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go drag out that damned drunk friend of yours. Someone needs to introduce that man to the idea of punctuality."
James blinked, curiously watching the curvy storm-cloud purposefully stalk through the crowd. "Is something wrong?"
"Nah. Just ignore the screaming that's going to start; Jack's such a girl sometimes." A quick pause to settle Puss on his shoulder, and then Will tugged James down to the floor. He crawled into the other man's lap before all the appreciative stares could turn into advances, and happily snuggled down. Take what you can, and give nothing back, Jack had told him once. Well, that was a flexible guideline if Will had ever seen one.
Take what you could, when you could, and share it for as long as possible. Because there was always thunder somewhere beyond the horizon.
***
Gold was different from everything else in the world. It had its own color, shine, and feel. Some said it even had its own smell, but Hector hadn't ever noticed that, back when he was capable of noticing it. But he did know that it had its own voice: a dying scream, hungry and raw, that was just alive enough to fool one into thinking that it could be quieted with enough…blood.
Modern age or ancient, gold paid no attention. And as Hector was similarly outside of time, he also didn't.
The treasure spilled about him, luster so brilliant it almost made his eyes feel pain again. Precious gemstones, fine woods, rare ivory, but above all, gold without a trace of lousy green-that damned color of growth and rot, which mocked everything about him. He'd grown sick of the rustle three months into the curse, and from then on, they only kept enough cash on hand to make business possible. The rest was either in banks, or converted to precious yellow.
"It's here that it'll end," he said, starting off with voice at normal volume. Behind him, the men shuffled and muttered, and he heard nothing but ravening anticipation. They were tired, too. Strung out to the end of their ropes by the endless harassment of…nothing. No hurt, and no true healing. Only the sham of dead flesh recloaking their aching bones.
There was a reason the insane were said to 'lose their senses,' and they were living it.
"Here!" Hector bellowed, flinging his hands apart. "Know that, men. Sparrow may be older, and he may have a new set of fools dogging his heels, but he's still the same flighty captain under which we served. He's got the hand of Fortune, and you all know how she likes to be paid…"
Bawdy assents, and a multitude of clinking. Knives, chains, guns swinging from loose grips, and underlying all of that, the little howls of gold.
"In the purest, finest evil of them all. This, upon which your filthy feet are grinding." He dropped his arms, and pulled out the broken Pearl so she could better hear him. "They'll come however they please, but-"
***
"First of all, anyone who wants to back out, do it now. Because it'll be hell, and don't mistake me when I say that. I'm not using a fancy expression of exaggeration. I'm telling you the reality." And Jack looked it, giving his hardest stare a chance to bore into every single face in the room. He waited, but no voice broke the tense silence.
Well, then. On to the battle plan. He tapped his finger on the sketch of Isle de Muerte's layout. "You've all gotten a chance to memorize this, and you're all old enough to know what to do when you get there. So I'll not be bothering with that. Anamaria, Gibbs, you two have charge after me."
They both nodded, solemn and obedient. That wasn't going to last long, but Jack wasn't going to hurry up the end. "José's going to mostly stay with you, and see that the island stays out of it where you are. He'll be going in to join me as soon as that's seen to, so don't stop him. Jacques is with me, and so are Will and Norrington. Savvy?"
Anamaria raised a hand and an eyebrow. "You're trying for Barbossa by yourself? Again?"
"You've an objection?" Jacques asked, pleasantly enough. From his position leaning against Jack, purring whenever Jack's fingers rippled over his stomach, he couldn't appear very frightening.
Then again, Anamaria didn't scare easy, and she was actually leaning back a little. "Not really. Just wondering whether I should hijack a doctor beforehand."
"We agreed to run this by the Code," Jack reminded her. "Anyone that falls behind-"
"Oh, fuck that. I didn't come here to go to a damn funeral. So hurry up and tell us the rest of it," she snapped, arms akimbo and chin firmly up.
Jack grinned at her, and picked up his compass. "There's just the one last thing. I know Hector, and he knows me. So-"
***
"-it'll end here." Hector flipped up a massive coin with his boot-toe and polished it with his sleeve. "Right here. You hear me?"
They did. Dead men, living gold, and weeping sword.
The board was set. Now for the final move.
***