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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG.
Pairing: Will/Elizabeth, Will/Jack, hints of Will/Jack/Elizabeth and Will/Jack/James
Fandom: PotC
Feedback: Lines you liked, mistakes you saw, constructive crit., whatever you like.
Disclaimer: Belongs not to me.
Summary: Will isn't a patient man, and the events in his life aren't helping. For the contrelamontre 'grocery list' challenge, in which a fic must have the following: 4 men/women, 3 red objects, 2 instances of striking fashion taste and 1 violin. Done in exactly 45 minutes.
***
"Get out, William." Standing in the ornately carved doorway, wig off, elegant clothing now reduced to rumpled ruins, the Governor seemed more grim guardian than benevolent foster-father.
But then, Will wasn't acting as much of a son. "Sir, please."
"Get 'im out," called a cracked, thready voice. Next to the Governor's considerable bulk, the midwife appeared no more than a wisp of rough homespun dress, cuffed with wide splotched bands of crimson and white. "'e's less use'n nothin' right now. We'll turn it, but no' wi' him hangin' about."
Swishing skirts dappled in red and dark dry brown, she whisked back into the room, leaving only the men. Will tried to follow, but found no passage past his father-in-law's blocking arms. "I need to-"
"You've done quite enough."
"This isn't my fault!" Will bellowed, throwing himself forward. It jolted the Governor back a step, but then he braced himself and pushed, forcing Will into the hallway. "This isn't…this is…"
"William-Will. This is…I don't blame you for this. I was unkind to say so; it's the first reaction of any father, and I hope that you would understand. But you cannot stay." Setting his jaw, Swan suddenly was every inch of the British Empire that stood behind his back. "Your presence is not helping. We shall call for you when it is time."
The Governor stepped back, and through salt-blurred eyes, Will saw the door close. Click shut as final as a coffin lid. "Wait," he gasped, slumping onto the steps. "I can't…oh, God, Elizabeth."
Soft jingling pattered near, halted at his feet. "Take it rum's not t'be toasted yet?" Jack began hesitantly. At his words, Will raised a slow head to stare, haggard and wrung, at the flittering man swaying before him, garbed in flapping scarlet and stringy exotic ornaments. Unexpected, impossible that he should be here.
"Will?" Jack asked, even more quietly. And then even the Captain's remarkable balance nearly capsized as Will flung himself forward to wrap tight arms around Jack's legs.
"God, God," the younger man gasped. "Jack, she's bleeding. They can't-there were mountains of it, mountains of bandages and they were all red and red and oh, Christ, what have I done? What-"
Swiftly twisting himself free, Jack crouched down and embraced Will, muffling the stricken babbling mouth in one shoulder. "Ssssh," he murmured. "Never assume th'worst till you've seen an' past it, Turner. Th'tide's not yet decided how it'll turn."
Sobs gradually subsiding, Will nevertheless clutched his hands in Jack's back, digging nails into the fine rag of an overcoat. "You came. My God, you came."
"'course," Jack sniffed indignantly, settling the other man more deeply into his lap. He brushed lips over a temple damp with sweat and anxiety. "Think I'd miss this? Miss you?"
"No," Will replied shakily, managing a smile in spite of himself. Burying his face in the crook of Jack's neck, he sighed in relief. "Can always count on you for a miracle."
A faint expression of comprehension, dismay and concern flashed across Jack's eyes, but then the sound of another pair of footsteps wiped them clean. Cradling Will so they both tucked into the shadows of the mansion's overhanging entranceway, Jack did his level best to be a tree.
Trust the Commodore to have sharp eyes, even in the midst of a tearing hurry. Almost skidding to a stop, Norrington straightened up, somehow giving his grimy shirtsleeves and ripped breeches more stiff and starched airs than the finest uniform of the Navy. "Captain Jack Sparrow," he started to say, full of warning menace.
But then Will uncurled, blinking owlishly up at the newcomer. "What…why are you here?"
"I heard that the garrison surgeon had been sent for," Norrington commented, then fell silent. On the ground before him, Will had abruptly crumpled back into Jack's arms, unashamedly crying as the pirate tried desperately to soothe him, all the while shooting a baleful glare at Norrington. Flinching from the heat in Jack's eyes, the commodore took a half-breath, then dropped to his knees to place an awkward hand on Will's shoulder. "It can't be that…"
"It is," Will told him, darting a brief red-rimmed glance at Norrington. "We were listening to a private violin concert, and Elizabeth-Eliza-she fainted, and I carried her into the kitchen, and oh, Christ. She was bleeding-it stained through onto my hands, and look!-" throwing up raw-scrubbed palms "-I can't get it off."
"Turner!" Norrington snapped, tone cutting through the rising hysteria. "Don't. You-pull yourself together. You can't help her if you're in pieces."
"You…" Sucking in air, Will nodded. "You're right. I'm sorry, Commodore."
"James," the other man muttered, sitting down on the steps and draping an arm over Will's neck. At first, he held himself rigidly apart from Jack, whose silent dark eyes watched every word and gesture, but eventually all three men ended up slumping together under the strain of the unspeaking night.
"You remember," Will finally whispered, "I said my place was-between you and Jack. Never thought it'd be so literal."
A slight smile passing over his face, James parted his lips to reply.
But behind them, the doors swung open. Gore-fingered and disheveled, the midwife strode out like a veteran of battle, cynical and tired. "William Turner?" she called, tone exhausted and unreadable. "Y'can come in now."
***