Fic: Last Resorts 1/5
Title: Last Resorts 1/5 (WIP)
Fandoms: Sleepy Hollow/ Pirates of the Caribbean post-AWE era
Pairings: Jack/Will, Ichabod/Hessian (mention of W/E and Ichabod/Katrina)
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 8,307
Summary: Jack’s got ghosts he needs dealt with.
Disclaimer: The characters aren’t mine. The wacky crossover is entirely my fault.
Notes: Edited German translations by an aweome, anonymous poster. This was supposed to be for meletor_et_al on a request for some thing or another. I can’t find the original request, but here it is, nevertheless. Christiaan is one of the Sleepy Hollow fandom names for the Hessian.
x-posted to sleepy_hollow pirategasm jackwill
*~*~*~*
If there was one thing Jack Sparrow disliked more than not being on the Pearl, it was not being on the Pearl and being, instead, far inland, in a miserable little mudhole of a town in the middle of winter. Near the woods of all things. He hated the woods, almost as much as he hated the cold, and the mud, and the grim, grey little town. He vehemently disagreed with having to wear so many layers under such a heavy coat. He disagreed with the snow in his boots, and the snow beading on his eyelashes, and simply the snow in general.
Next to him, Will Turner stamped his feet against the frozen mud of the path and blew on his rag-wrapped hands before stuffing them under his armpits. “It’s a bit brisk, isn’t it?” Will said, grinning. The very tip of his nose and his cheeks were stung pink, his lips were chapped, and he was a picture, right there, curls down for added warmth and a rather poorly knit hat cocked over one eye. He was almost intolerably beautiful in such a miserable village. Bastard probably didn’t feel the cold, not like Jack, anyway.
Jack wanted very much to be back on the Pearl with a bottle of warmed wine in one hand and Will in his bed - having Will in hand, so to speak, wouldn’t go amiss either (not that he could feel his fingers, Jack thought crossly) - making good time at full sail away from the northerly end of the Americas.
Jack turned his attentions to the deer head carvings that marked the path down to the village. “And here I was under the misapprehension that you enjoyed overstating the obvious,” he replied, doing a little dance, much like Will’s stomping, in an attempt to warm himself. The carvings were of good quality and the horns twisted up over the heads, framing an equally twisted looking town; apparently construction had changed somewhat since Jack had last visited the mainlands. He hefted his satchel higher and jerked his head at Will. “Let’s not wait for our boots to freeze to the ground, eh lad?”
Will trailed after Jack as they made their way down to the village. “It’s not that cold,” he said, and then slipped on a patch of ice, careening into Jack who tripped and landed in a snow bank.
There was a moment of silence and then Jack started cursing as he completely failed to extricate himself from the snow, managing only to get it further into his boots, down the back of his collar and finally into a workable snowball, which he hurled at Will. “Don’t just dither, help me up,” he said and when Will held out a hand, Jack pulled him down into the snow as well before struggling to his feet. Will tackled him, knocking him back down and earning Jack a mouthful of snow.
The wrestled for a while, Will winning simply on the strength that he, unlike Jack, was not encumbered by six or seven layers of clothing - only three or four - and was therefore a damn sight more agile. Jack lay for a moment, a little warmer for the exertion and the weight of a rather sturdy young man atop him, and a little too winded to get up right away. Will’s fingers, having come bare in the tussle, were wrapped around Jack’s wrists and were furiously cold. He leaned down and put his chapped lips to Jack’s own, blinking snow onto Jack’s cheek.
“Come on,” Will said brightly, standing and brushing himself off. “We’ve only got a little ways to go.”
Jack lay in the snow for a moment longer, contemplating feigning some malady so Will would lie back down and keep him warm but it struck him as an exercise, not only in futility, but one that would end with a chill and possibly frostbite. Jack wasn’t sure. He’d seen men who’d lost fingers and toes from it, but he’d never imagined being so cold that his blood would freeze up and poison him. It sounded revolting. “This venture,” Jack said, struggling to his feet. “Is something that I could never have thought of; it’s harebrained, an’ foolish, so I’m blaming it on you.” He balanced awkwardly on one foot, wobbling as he pried a boot off and tipped out the snow. Both layers of his socks were soaked through. “There’re witch doctors aplenty in the Caribee.”
“Of course,” Will agreed, lending his shoulder so Jack had something to lean against while he wrestled his boot back on, and then the other off so he could likewise empty it of snow. “But none that have alchemists and scientists, and murthering ghosts at their command. So I think it was rather intelligent of you…or rather, I, to have come up with such a scheme.”
“It isn’t going to make us any money,” Jack said querulously, even though it had, in fact, been entirely his idea, and a necessary one at that. Actually, it was an idea that he had thought most ingenious at the time and (secretly) still considered it so. He just wished that he’d factored the miserable state of the atmosphere into his calculations. “That,” he added, “and I’m cold.” The last was said in a slightly more plaintive voice than he had intended.
Will clapped him on the shoulder and then started off down towards the little village of Sleepy Hollow. “Well, once we get back to the ship, I’ll see if I can’t thaw you out.” Jack’s insides warmed significantly at the amorous look that Will sent his way. It was so nicely in concert with what Jack had been thinking and Will’s expression was so very nearly a leer; Jack was proud of the boy, he’d come such a long way.
The house was, of course, as far away from the gates as one could possibly get and still consider it within the boundaries of the village. Only a few windows were lit and the house loomed up, dark and cold in the miserable, damp fog that shrouded the buildings. Jack rapped smartly on the door, hefted his satchel again and blew on his fingers, for all the good it did him; he was soaked through and through, his teeth starting to chatter. The door made no sign of opening so Jack, irritable and short-tempered from the cold, kicked it. Will put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing slightly and Jack subsided, muttering under his breath.
“There doesn’t seem to be anyone home,” Will said, after ringing the bell twice. “And we have little enough time as it is. I need to get back to the river before-”
They had only just turned away when someone said, “Yes?”
Jack spun, a trifle awkwardly, on one toe and turned to face the young boy holding the door open and looking as though Jack and Will were both unwelcome and something to be gotten rid of as soon as possible. It might have been the smell. Jack stank of wet fur, wetter wool and sweat from moving about and sleeping in so many layers. Will hadn’t complained, but he was a steady sort of lad and Jack had known him to put up with worse.
The boy stared at him, wide-eyed. “What is it that brings you to Sleepy Hollow?”
“Not the weather,” Jack muttered, “eh Will? We’re looking for a Constable Crane. Apparently this is the place we can find him.”
“You had better come in,” the boy said, but he didn’t sound pleased about it.
“Ta.” Jack put his hands together in a little bow, nudged Will happily and followed him inside.
It was almost as cold inside as it was outside. There was no fire in the brazier and with so few candles lit the interior was dismal and unfriendly. “Wait here.” The boy abandoned them in a spacious front room where they stood, dripping snow onto the carpeting.
Will pulled his cap off and scratched his head. “This isn’t quite what I was expecting,” he admitted. “Not a moment of it.” He gave Jack a nervous grin. “When you said ‘Sleepy Hollow, a quiet little inland town’ I was envisioning something more…”
“Rustic? Warm? Hospitable?” Jack asked dryly. The interior was none of those things. The carpeting was frayed and worn from too many boots tramping over it and the decorations were sparse and strange. “Aye. Well, we’ll talk to the man then be quit of here as-”
“You may be quit of here sooner than you think.” A woman stood on the staircase, her cherubic face set in hard lines. Her gown, unlike the house, was the very height of New York fashion and seemed wholly out of place. “Ichabod Crane has not been here for quite some time.” She descended and Jack imagined her as a stone angel, beautiful, but as cold and hard as the stuff the rest of the town was made of. Despite her worldly garments, she was obviously from Sleepy Hollow and was as much a part of the village as the deer-head carvings; it was clear in every line of her face, and her face had lined prematurely. “I am Katrina Van Tassel, mistress of this house. Who are you?”
“Well then.” Jack said, as Will bowed slightly. “Have you any inkling as to when said constable might be returning?” She looked supremely unimpressed so Jack added, “Captains Jack Sparrow and William Turner the younger.”
Katrina frowned. The expression did not suit her. “Constable Crane will not be returning. As for yourselves, I suggest you leave this place. Sleepy Hollow is not kind to strangers.”
“We were hoping,” Jack started, but Katrina cut him off with a bitter laugh.
“Don’t,” she said shortly. “Have you any notion as to what you are getting yourselves into?”
Will gave Jack a decidedly unimpressed glare. “No,” he said, which was fair enough. “I’m afraid the lady who pointed us in your direction was a little less than forthcoming on anything about this town beyond its name and the name of this house.”
“Well then your lady is nothing of the sort.” Katrina turned up her nose in Jack’s direction. “This is a cursed town.”
“Oh good.” Jack gave Katrina a broad and guileless grin. “Then we’re in the right place.”
She actually stamped her foot at him as she snapped, “Do not jest. Many good men have died over this, women, and children, and unborn babes too, so do not think to jest with me. There is a murdering spirit in these parts; a Hessian slain during the revolution come back at the bidding of a witch to murder for money. This spirit has slain ten persons from this village and been the cause of four murders and one suicide. It dragged the soul of the witch who enslaved it to Hell and we thought that was the end of it, but now evil has returned to Sleepy Hollow to claim Ichabod Crane also.” Her angel’s face dared Jack or Will to contradict her or call her mad.
Jack simply did his eastern bow in her direction. Her loss of temper had done nothing more than confirm everything he had heard through rumour and the mutterings of those plied with plenty of drink and coin to keep them talking. “It’s always the money that starts these things off,” he said instead, “ain’t it?” Will nodded his agreement, doing his part as the more respectable of the two both in appearance and manner. Katrina didn’t seem impressed.
“The last I saw of Ichabod Crane,” Katrina said and her voice was colder than ever, “was in the Western Woods.” She started back up the stairs. “There is nothing for you here. Masbath will see you out.”
Either the temperature outside was lower than Jack remembered or he’d actually warmed up a little in the chilly interior of the Van Tassel household. Even such a short moment out of the wind had caused the snow in his beard and hair to melt and the moisture immediately started to freeze again. “Bollocks,” Jack said in Will’s general direction. “To the lot of it. Downright fucking fishy, if you ask me.” He glanced balefully at Masbath. “Excusing my French, lad.”
Will shrugged. “We rather needed the constable’s help but I suppose-”
Masbath grabbed hold of Will’s sleeve. “You can find Constable Crane in the Western Woods, in the caves. For he surely needs your help as much as you need his.”
Jack gave Will a significant look, accompanied by some rather unsubtle head-nodding. “And why, exactly would he need our help?” Jack asked. Masbath shook his head in a sort of vague neither yes nor no manner and scurried back inside, the door slamming behind him. Jack sighed, breath steaming in the air and started trudging back down the path that they had arrived by. “Not quite what I had in mind,” he said. “But then, what I had in mind involved a lot more drink, a lot less snow and possibly a great deal to do without any of these filthy rags and thus ending in us, drunk, warm and engaged in acts that I imagine would make the toes of these miserable, puritanical peasants curl with horror.”
“Well,” Will said, “perhaps the constable in the cave will be able to provide us with more than an excuse to, pardoning my terrible punning, wave our swords about.”
Jack slipped on another patch of ice and toppled ungracefully over. “Ow,” he said mournfully, as the snow got into his collar again.
*~*~*~*
Three wretched hours later and Jack was perfectly prepared to give up and return back to the town, hire a coach and put as many leagues behind himself and Sleepy Hollow as he could. Sadly, he had reached that decision half an hour ago but had been unable to ascertain which direction was out of the woods, and which was simply taking them in circles, or, in fact, deeper.
“We’ve been here before,” Will said. “Christ, I don’t have the time for this.”
“How can you possibly tell?” Jack asked, huddling into himself. He couldn’t feel either of his feet or either of his hands. His thighs chafed against the fabric of his under, under trews, both his skin and the cloth were cold and stiff.
Will paused to point out a small, gnarled shrub. “I recognize this tree,” he said, being a little generous, in Jack’s opinion. “Also, those are our footprints next to it.” Jack’s face felt numb. He stopped walking, or rather, trudging and Will abruptly grabbed on to his arm. “Do you hear that?” Will asked.
“No,” Jack said, at about the same time he heard a horse snort and stamp. “Yes.” They turned to see an enormous black charger standing not fifty paces from them, breath steaming in the cold. The rider atop the horse was clearly the Hessian from Katrina’s story and Jack’s transactions with unsavoury characters. “Oh bugger,” Jack said uselessly, because as much as he thought he might need the murdering ghost for his own little problem, he wasn’t sure, and he’d rather that both Will and himself keep all their extremities - their heads most definitely included - attached. Things as they were, he hadn’t yet figured what being beheaded would do to either of them, and he really didn’t want to find out.
The Hessian, all dark armour and snow white skin, unsheathed a bloody great sword. Will took a step backwards. “Jack?” he said, glancing at his captain.
Jack pulled his pistol from his belt. “You remember that little talk we had about the proper usage of weaponry?” he asked.
Will looked a little confused. “Don’t go flinging it about, was what you said.”
“Yes. Well.” Jack cocked his pistol and waved it encouragingly as the Hessian. “Occasionally I’ve been known to be wrong. Throw your dammed sword.”
Will’s eyes widened in understanding. Unfortunately, when he unsheathed his sword, the Hessian charged at them. Will yelped and did as he was told, hurling his sword at the Hessian. His aim was well enough and the blade caught the Hessian right in the chest, knocking him off his horse. The horse screamed and stampeded towards them, and Jack had to throw himself out of the way, into a snowbank, to avoid being trampled. Once Jack had cleared the snow from his eyes he could see that Will had done the sensible thing and had also leapt out of the way.
Against all odds, but not entirely to Jack’s surprise, the Hessian got up again, looking incredibly put out and yanked the sword from his chest. There wasn’t even any blood. Jack unloaded his pistol in the Hessian’s general direction which made the horseman drop Will’s sword rather than fling it back in their direction, which is what he looked about to do. Jack stuffed his pistol back into his belt and ran for it. “Not again,” he muttered, grabbing Will’s hand and hauling him to his feet. “They were right,” Jack announced, as they ran. “Undead.”
“Why,” Will gasped, “is it that when you’re around I frequently find myself running for my life from undead creatures?”
Jack glanced back over his shoulder (and, were it not for Will’s guiding yank in the right direction, might have run straight into a tree) to see the Hessian back atop his horse and riding hard towards them. “Less talking,” Jack said, “more running.”
The whole thing felt a little futile. The Hessian was immortal and couldn’t be killed. Will was immortal and, as death, was equally impossible to kill. Jack was immortal but hadn’t got about to testing his invincibility and didn’t want a sword sticking out of him for fear it might take, but they couldn’t all just run around in circles for the rest of eternity.
The Hessian came around them, cutting them off, and the horse stamped and reared close enough that one flailing hoof knocked Will back onto the ground. Jack drew his sword grimly but the Hessian pulled his horse back, circling warily.
“I suggest you disarm,” said a calm, if not slightly tired, voice. Jack cast about for the speaker and saw a man not quite as pale as the Hessian, but white as death still, with hair black and curling, dressed plainly but well.
Jack kept his sword where it was and carefully prodded Will with his toe. Will scowled up at him. “I’m fine,” he said, getting to his feet.
“Ichabod Crane,” Jack said, keeping one eye on the Hessian.
“I know who I am,” Ichabod said blandly. “Who are you?” The Hessian barked out a laugh, revealing very pointed white teeth, and dismounted. He leaned in close to Ichabod and said something quietly in his ear. Ichabod frowned in their direction and put a hand on the Hessian’s gauntlet in a gesture that Jack was hard pressed to interpret. Partially, it looked as though Ichabod was steadying himself, it looked as though he was holding the Hessian where he was, and it looked like a simple, familiar gesture. Very familiar if Jack was any judge of how the two dark heads bent together in muttered conversation.
Jack, warmer for having run for his life, now shifted uncomfortably as the sweat dried and cooled in his furs. “Captains Jack Sparrow and William Turner, the younger.” He preempted the obvious next question with, “and we’ve come to talk to you about ghosts.”
Ichabod’s eyebrows shot up. “You have both come quite some distance. And over quite some time.”
Over seventy years, by Jack’s estimation, but he hadn’t really bothered keeping exact track of dates anymore. It seemed like a good way to drive yourself a little mad. “An’ I said we’ve come to talk of ghosts,” Jack said. He decided not to ask stupid questions like “how did you know,” since he’d spent three months talking to every houdon and witch in the Caribbean and he was used to non-sequiters about his own doings. “But if those ghosts would rather set their horses and swords on my friends then I’d rather turn about and leave you and your ghost be.”
“You drew first,” Ichabod said, which wasn’t true and made Jack feel a little less like his skin was going to creep off with the feeling of someone watching him in ways he wasn’t sure about. Will scowled and rubbed at his chest but thankfully kept his peace. “You’re a very long way from home,” Ichabod said and then waved them towards the caves he stood in front of. They were harder to see than Jack had been anticipating, as they were almost completely snowed in. “You had better come in.”
“I should think there’s an obvious drawback to living in a cave in the middle of winter,” Will whispered, close to Jack’s ear. When Jack raised an eyebrow Will said, “That is, it’s a cave in the middle of winter.” Jack turned a laugh into a cough when Ichabod turned around to give them a sharp look. The Hessian, attending to his horse, seemed to be wholly disinterested in them now.
Will, as it turned out, was wrong in his estimations of cave life. Then again, the boy had lived in a hovel in London (most places in London, in Jack’s mind, were hovels, even if they were relatively sound in structure), over a smithy in Port Royal and then finally on the Dutchman (and occasionally the Pearl) and was not one to make comments on anyone else’s choice of habitation seeing as the Dutchman (and the Pearl) was the only one of those places that Jack could deem livable. The cave was spacious and incredibly warm. Someone had fitted a door into the mouth of the cave and it was reinforced with hanging furs to keep the heat in and the chill out.
The space was lit with a multitude of candles and a roaring fire and while it was still shadowed and dark, there was light enough for Jack to have a good look around. There were furs on the ground over, if Jack was any judge, a layer of tall grasses. There was a bed of sorts set into a ledge of the cave, meticulously made. Over the fire in the hearth something that smelt delicious was bubbling away and a wooden table, sat close to the fire. There was another small table in the dark recesses of the cave covered in all sorts of bottles and devices that Jack decided would be best not to investigate too closely.
“Take your boots off,” Ichabod said, eyeing Jack crossly, “before you get snow everywhere.” Ichabod pulled his own boots off, then his stockings and padded barefoot across the furs to put both boots and socks by the fire. This seemed like sound enough advice to Jack so he nodded at Will, though Will was already halfway through taking his own sodden footwear off, and they set their boots by the fire. Ichabod gave them an exasperated look. “And the rest.”
Jack wondered if he ought to warn Ichabod about the decidedly wet dog smell of the two of them, but judging from the way Ichabod’s nose wrinkled, he had already noticed. Jack set into his clothing anyway, dropping layers of wool and cotton and fur, all soaked with sweat and snow onto the hearth. He really did smell dreadful so he did everyone, himself included, the favour of keeping his arms by his sides. Will wasn’t quite so thoughtful, so Jack elbowed him until Will flushed scarlet and stammered out an apology.
“Ghosts,” Ichabod said, without preamble, as the Hessian came into the cave and started taking off layers of armour.
Jack waved a descriptive hand. “We’ve had a touch of bother with ‘em. To make a very long, seventy or so year story much shorter when we were both...mortal…there was an Aztec curse, living men turned to bone in the moonlight an’ whatnot-”
“We got rid of the curse,” Will cut in. He had stripped down to his breeches and shirt and both of those were sweat soaked and clinging in the most distracting sort of way. “That’s not the problem.”
“See, the ship, my ship,” Jack continued, swallowing a mouthful of saliva and dragging his eyes away from Will’s torso, “she’s special anyway, not quite haunted, but close. And with this ten year curse, and then breaking it-”
“And the Kraken.”
“And the Kraken,” Jack agreed. “Maybe something to do with the World’s End business, too and whatever nonsense Barbossa put her through afterwards-”
“And the repairs.”
“Whatever the bloody reason,” Jack said, exasperated, “she’s gone and I want her back.”
Ichabod looked utterly baffled. “Your ship is gone?”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Course not. Ships don’t just disappear, ‘less you’re around the Bermudas and then that’s a whole-” Jack stopped at the utter disinterest on Ichabod’s face and got to the point. “She doesn’t have a name that I know of, but she’s part of the Pearl, makes her special. And she was there for a few weeks, but then…I need her back. Without her, well, there’s things I can’t do these days.”
“Your ship had a spirit and that spirit is now gone?” Ichabod said cautiously. It struck Jack as odd that the constable was out in the woods living in a cave when those who cared for him thought he was lost to them, or near enough, and when he was clearly so unsuited to the lifestyle.
Will tossed his hair out of his eyes and nodded. His neck looked like a fantastic place to lick. Jack decided that it wasn’t really fair of Will to be sweaty and fire-lit and so utterly unavailable for the foreseeable future. “And everyone we spoke to sent us in your direction,” Will said, not mentioning the fact that Jack was running low on favours he was owed or deals he could make in the Caribbean and would have to start afresh once the stir had died down.
“You’re a hard man to find,” Jack said, watching the Hessian out of the corner of his eye. “And a hard man to get a bead on.”
“Ah, my apologies.” Ichabod nodded in the Hessian’s direction. “This is Christiaan.” The Hessian nodded in their direction and continued about his business, which seemed to involve clearing the table of the holey socks and darning thread that were sitting on it.
“Of course.” Jack gave the horseman a curt little bow and was surprised and a little tickled to find it returned. “We spoke to the lady of the Van Tassel house,” he said, because no one else seemed inclined to say anything else.
Ichabod frowned. “You’ve met my wife?”
Jack and Will exchanged another series of significant glances. Sweet Jesu, Jack thought, this man was married to that woman? What a match made in hell. “Lovely woman,” Jack said before Will could voice their mutual opinion. “Absolute peach. Worried about you, I’d lay, but that’s neither here nor there.” He’d overplayed his hand, he could see it the minute he finished talking and Ichabod looked away. Jack wished he knew a little more about the Crane family relations since he was bound to put his foot in it about the wife now and again if he didn’t know anything other than things had clearly progressed past separate bedrooms.
“And your son?” Will asked, before Jack could stop him.
Ichabod shook his head, shoulders hunched unhappily. “My ward,” he said.
“You should go back,” Christiaan said to Ichabod and sniffed at the cooking before putting the lid back on the cauldron.
Ichabod’s lips thinned out. “Mm,” he said, in lieu of an answer, but Christiaan laughed, as though he was used to not getting those. Ichabod looked dubiously at Will and Jack and sighed. “There would be more room, since I don’t anticipate that I will be able to get rid of both of you…”
Jack tried out his most brilliant smile on Ichabod and got absolutely no response. “Ta,” he said anyway and wondered what exactly the hell was going on. “Only, we can’t linger.”
Ichabod looked suspiciously at Jack and then at Will. “I…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “I can’t…” He reached out one pale hand and put his fingers on the side of Will’s face. “I had wondered,” Ichabod said quietly, “how you could have come so far.” He pushed at Will, guiding him to the table, urging him up onto it, plucking at Will’s layers until he could see the scarring on his chest.
Will made a face, looking at Jack as though he expected him to do something about it. “What are you doing?” he asked, finally, as Ichabod pressed his ear against Will’s chest.
Ichabod straightened abruptly and strode over to a black bag in the corner of the room. He snapped it open, pulling out little jars of powders and liquids. Jack’s fingers itched to steal one, but he had almost learned his lesson about taking things like that, and, on top of everything, the Hessian was watching him like a hawk.
Ichabod tipped a startlingly blue powder over Will and stared at it intently. Will sneezed, but other than that it didn’t do anything. “Ah-ha!” Ichabod exclaimed. “Just as I suspected.”
Jack and Will exchanged perplexed glances as Ichabod rummaged around for another bottle of powder which he tipped into a mug of ale and handed it to Will. “Drink up,” Ichabod said.
Will did as he was told, mostly, Jack suspected, because the bugger knew he couldn’t die. “What was that?” Will asked.
“Temporary,” Ichabod said as Will climbed down off the table. “It won’t last long and will probably only work this once but you ought to be able to remain ashore until…” he sprung over to another part of the room and jotted out some calculations in a notebook, spattering himself with ink. “You have about a fortnight, give or take.”
“Wonderful,” Jack said. “Now-”
“If you go to the house you will have the space and resources,” Christiaan said.
Ichabod snapped the notebook closed with obvious irritation. “I have no desire to do anything of the kind. We can address the problem here.” He waved a hand at Christiaan. “After dinner.”
“Another five minutes,” Christiaan said, and went back to stirring the stew.
There was a pause that Jack considered filling but the Hessian broke the silence first, speaking to Ichabod in a low voice. “The powder does nothing,” he said. Ichabod said something in German but the Hessian grabbed his arm, a little hard, if Jack was any judge. “You know it. Why do you rely on it?”
Ichabod jerked his arm but Christiaan didn’t let go. “Powder or not, he will remain ashore, what does it matter to you?”
“Um?” Will said and Ichabod managed to get his arm free on the second yank.
“It is no matter,” Ichabod said stiffly. “How I go about my business is my business.”
Jack thought it was a fair enough thing to say but Christiaan coughed as though he was covering a laugh. Domestics were not Jack’s territory and he wondered if whatever was going on between the Hessian, the white witch and Ichabod was worth getting embroiled in, even if it meant he would get his ship back the way she was supposed to be.
Five unenlightening minutes later they had dinner in the cave, which was a culinary delight, if not at all informative as to what Jack was to do about the Pearl or about what Ichabod was doing in the woods.
On some levels the dinner was wholly successful while, on others, it was wholly disastrous: Will managed to avoid saying anything stupid or too revealing, which was almost unprecedented. Jack managed not to do anything unseemly to Will or say something that would irritate their hosts, which was also almost unprecedented. However, in an unexpected show of information the Hessian related Ichabod’s personal history despite Ichabod’s expressed disapproval.
“Ichabod and I last met three years ago,” Christiaan said and was interrupted by a terse looking constable.
“I’m sure they’ve heard,” Ichabod snapped, and Christiaan only smiled with all his sharp teeth and continued: “Ichabod and I met three years ago, then he and the white witch-”
Ichabod’s knuckles turned even paler, red around the bloodless edges, as he gripped his spoon. “Katrina. She has a name.”
“When he and the white witch went to New York and got married. I remained here, between Hell and Earth.” Christiaan stopped to eat for a moment, chewing carefully. “Ichabod’s mother was a witch-”
“For God’s sake,” Ichabod said.
The Hessian put down his fork with a thump. “Ich werde diese Geschichte erzählen und dann werden sie uns die ihre erzählen. Iss und höre auf, mich zu unterbrechen. Du nützt hier niemandem, während du dich im Wald versteckst. In Ordnung?”
Jack, of all the many languages he had picked up over the years couldn’t understand a word of it. He didn’t like being left in the dark. Will stepped on his foot under the table and Jack made a small “What?” frown at him. Will serenely chewed his food.
Ichabod got angrily to his feet. “Kommandiere mich nicht herum wie ein Kind. Ich schicke dich in die Hölle zurück."
“Lass dich einpökeln,” Christiaan said.
Jack poked at his carrots. “’Zat important?”
“No,” Ichabod said tersely and left the cave.
“Apologies,” Christiaan said. “He is temperamental and we argue frequently. As I was saying, his mother was a witch, not very strong, but a witch nevertheless. Ichabod inherited her gifts but actually has some talent for it. He thought his powders and potions were science, but there was no one there to tell him that his methods were clearly not science. After events here triggered his latent talents, he became dangerously powerful he and his wife returned to Sleepy Hollow where magic and folklore is strong and the citizens knew about horsemen from the grave and spirits and witches. Here we met again.”
Will looked like a child having a ghost story told to him. Jack nudged his knee under the table. There was no reason for the captain of the Flying Dutchman a bloody ghost ship, to be gape-mouthed and smiling over stories about witches. Witches, in Jack’s opinion, were nothing to smile at and were to be avoided at most costs. Except when you needed them for something. Then you approached them with gifts and ready to run like billy-o.
Will glared at Jack and nudged him back. “If you do not get on,” he said, “why do you live together? And why in this cave?”
The Hessian shrugged. “Good powerful center here. The cave is…like a focus. When we met again Ichabod’s powers were growing beyond the control of his white witch and she could no longer help him. I am no practitioner myself, but half in, half out. It gives me an advantage and he cannot kill me if he loses control. I was under the control of one before; it gives you insight, certainly. Together we work to determine my state and to teach him control.”
“And his missus doesn’t care much for you,” Jack said.
“She does not,” Christiaan agreed with a slight smile. “Especially now that they have fought and he will not go to her. She remains here, in the hopes he will return, but I think he will not. She is spoiled and he is difficult. They are not a good match.” He half-turned towards the door. “Stop eavesdropping and sit down.”
Ichabod returned, dusted with snow and looking cold and cross. His nose and ears were pink from cold but his cheeks were red with embarrassment. “I am not difficult,” he said. “You are dead and you are frustrating.”
Will politely covered his smile and kicked Jack under the table before he could laugh. Jack picked a bit of meat out of his teeth with his knife and settled back in his chair. “But can you help us? Can you find my ghost?”
Ichabod’s frown thinned out into a thoughtful line as he resettled himself at the table. Christiaan reached over and dusted the snow off his shoulders and no one mentioned it, though Jack filed it away for later consideration. “I cannot say for sure. It sounds, well, distant, for one and obscure for another. You cannot have come all this way without seeking help from others?”
“We’ve been up and down the Caribbean, mate,” Jack said. “The one woman I knew who might have helped us turned out to be a nymph and turned into a bloody great pile of crabs. Tricky creatures those. Now she’s not exactly available for consulting these days. Not that we ain’t tried, eh lad?”
Will sighed. “Frankly, we’ve exhausted our resources. It’s possible that the spirit is gone.”
“Forgive my intruding,” Ichabod said, “but why do you need this ghost? In full. Because hunting it does not seem as though it will be a simple task and if I’m not mistaken about the both of you, it would seem that you have other things you could spend your eternities on.”
Jack shrugged uncomfortably. He didn’t much care for the way Ichabod looked at him, like he was trying to get inside Jack’s head and wasn’t finding it too difficult. “I don’t like to leave so much up to others,” Jack said. “Eternal Youth seems a hard thing to test.”
“It’s been seventy years since you found the damned fountain, Jack,” Will said, exasperated, “and you haven’t aged a day.” He muttered something that sounded an awful lot like, “and the syphilis hasn’t killed you, driven you mad, and may even have gone away, thank Christ.” Jack chose to ignore that. Though he had been hopeful that the lack of sores for so long was a good sign.
Ichabod put his cold hands on Jack’s face, fingertips soft and gentle. He had surgeon’s hands, when they weren’t shaking. “Immortal,” he said thoughtfully, “does not mean you cannot be killed. But I imagine it would be rather difficult.” He didn’t let go of Jack’s face for a moment, eyebrows drawn together in concentration but when he finally released Jack he didn’t say anything more but Will was grinning at them.
“He’ll be all right at sea,” Will said. He turned that brilliant smile on Ichabod who appeared to be immune to it, just as he was to Jack’s, though Jack couldn’t fathom how that was possible. “He’s just afraid he’ll end up a deckhand on my ship.”
“Where is your ship?” Ichabod asked. “Both of your ships?”
“His is out doing what needs doing, even on her captain’s day off. Mine’s in port, looking dreadfully old-fashioned,” Jack said, polishing off the last of the rabbit in front of him and licking the grease off his fingers. “Fucking ironsides,” Jack added mournfully. “The end of my bloody era, I’ll tell you that much.”
“It’s hard being the last,” Will said softly. “We’ve both had to watch a lot change in the past years. Things…Nothing stays as we remembered it.”
The Hessian nodded, much to Jack’s surprise. “It is not an easy thing to watch the world change,” he said. “Purpose would make it easier to bear, I suppose.”
Ichabod, Jack realized abruptly, was the only one sitting at the table who was mortal. Ichabod caught him looking and shook his head. “No, Captain,” he said. “I have never been tempted. I do not wish to live forever. I wish to do my duty on this earth and then that will be all.”
“You’re an atheist,” Will said, startled.
“I live with a man brought back from death and I dine with the man who delivers the souls of the dead to the next world. I am not an atheist. I simply want to have nothing more to do with life when I die.” Ichabod drummed his fingertips on the table thoughtfully. “As for your ghost problem, it is not something I can solve here and it is too late, and too cold to be in the Woods, so we will have to bed here tonight then go to my wife’s at sunrise tomorrow so we waste as little of Captain Turner’s time as possible. Does that suit everyone?”
There was a murmur of dissent from the Hessian but since that was none of Jack’s business, he and Will busied themselves bunking down on the floor next to the fire. It was a little early to be sleeping, but Jack was used to catching his shut-eye where and when he could. He wasn’t sure if Will actually needed to sleep, or if he just liked to, or if he did it out of habit. Will had said he needed to, but he was insufferably chipper first thing, so Jack still had his doubts.
On the other side of the cave the argument, which was still annoyingly un-understandable in German, escalated to shouting. Jack sidled over to Will, who was studiously examining Christiaan’s sword. “Understand any of that?” Jack asked.
Will shrugged a shoulder. “Most of it,” he said. “But they’re going awfully fast and Ichabod’s German is…interesting.”
Jack didn’t bother to ask how Will could understand German. There were a lot questions that Jack could ask - how do you walk through wood? Why do you speak German? How do you breathe underwater? Why doesn’t your hair ever get salt-crusted? - that could all be answered the same way: Captain of the Flying Dutchman.
He waited expectantly but Will seemed disinclined to elaborate. Jack prodded Will helpfully. “It’s none of your business,” Will said. “Or mine.”
The fire flared, roaring up the chimney and the candles scattered about the cave sparked and hissed like firecrackers. Jack looked over at Ichabod and the man was crackling with energy. In his travels he had sought out many types of witches and he liked two sorts the least: The kind that liked to get into your head and tell you about it, and the kind who were unable to control their magic. It looked as though Ichabod was both of those types.
Will put a calming hand on his shoulder. “It’s fine,” he said. “They’re just fighting about Ichabod’s wife, who, from what I can understand, hates Christiaan more than words can tell. Ichabod wants Christiaan at the house, Christiaan doesn’t want to come.”
The fire flared up again, spitting glowing embers onto the rushes. Jack tipped the remnants of the stew onto the smoldering floor and Christiaan grabbed Ichabod by the arm, dragged him out of the door and tossed him into the snow. Jack could smell burned flesh, the thick stink of human skin and fat sizzling. He tried very hard not to think about what it tasted like. Bile rose up in his throat and he was busy not thinking about the names of his crew that the Pelacostos had killed so he wasn’t ready for Will to grab him and push him against the wall of the cave. It was cold and a little damp through the worn fabric of his shirt. Will took his face in his hands and kissed him.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Will said. He smelt like the stew and the cold outside and he always tasted of salt no matter how long he was ashore for. Jack tangled his fingers in the thick waves of Will’s hair and let himself forget again, in the hard press of Will’s body against his own.
There was a thumping sound as Christiaan came back inside and they guiltily sprang apart as a wet, shivering Ichabod came trailing in unhappily behind the Hessian. Neither of Christiaan’s hands looked burned.
“Apologies,” Ichabod said. “There is a reason I am living in a cave with a man who cannot be harmed.”
Christiaan began pulling his armour on and neither he nor Ichabod would look at each other. Jack decided that if they weren’t going to mention his and Will’s indiscretion, then he would hold his tongue on their quarrel.
The Hessian left, and Jack could hear the sound of hoofs in the snow as he rode away. Ichabod seemed unconcerned though, more embarrassed about his outburst than anything else, changing swiftly into dry clothing before bidding them a good night. They lay down a couple of animal skins and blankets on the floor in front of the fire for Jack and Will to sleep on and settled in for the evening. It was surprisingly comfortable and, if anything, Jack felt a little warm.
Despite the knowledge that he would have to be awake and alert before dawn, Jack was having trouble sleeping. Quite apart from the unpleasant reminder of his days on a cannibal island, or the knowledge that he was lying on a flammable floor with an unstable witch half a cave away, Jack couldn’t quite let go of the notion that Ichabod Crane was his last resort. If they failed, he was stuck and he didn’t relish facing the new century without his ship; the one thing he had left from his early life. Cutler Beckett had told him the world was changing, and Jack only wished he had lived long enough to see how right he would be. It might have scared him a little.
Jack was contemplating pushing the heavy wool blanket he was sharing with Will off of himself when something that felt an awful lot like Will’s hand, crept across his thigh and began unbuttoning his breeches.
“Um,” Jack said and Will propped himself up on his elbow and pressed his other hand, warm and callused, over Jack’s mouth.
The light from the fire was dim, but they were lying directly in it and Ichabod was sleeping not five paces from where they were. His breathing was deep and even, so Jack was fairly certain he was asleep, but he really didn’t want to wake a witch up, thereby putting him in an even worse mood, because William Turner the second had decided (about seventy years ago, give or take, and Jack grudgingly accepted that Mrs. Turner may have had a thing or two to do with it) that just because he was a good, upright man, didn’t mean he couldn’t be as adventurous in bed as he was out of it.
Jack widened his eyes and looked firmly at Ichabod. Will’s slow smile was just visible in the dim light of the fire and Jack did not feel reassured. Especially since Will had finished unbuttoning his breeches and had unceremoniously stuck his hand into them.
“You’ll just have to be quiet,” Will said in barely a whisper, his lips pressed against Jack’s ear. He slid closer, so his chest was pressed against Jack’s arm and bit at Jack’s ear, breathing carefully even, though Jack could feel the heat of Will’s erection against his thigh.
Jack dug his fingers into the fur underneath him and bit down on his lip. He was not naturally quiet while fucking, something Will knew perfectly well. They had been seeing each other, on and off, for some time. When you are the only two immortals that you know of, it makes sense to keep touch. Will had his duty and Jack had his freedom and every so often they would stumble across one another, by chance or by choice and, more often than not, a few drinks and some catching up turned into fucking. Every once in a while, for almost seventy years, was more than ample experience for Will to know that what he was doing was not one of his better ideas.
Jack bit down on the inside of his bottom lip and breathed out heavily through his nose. “Shh,” Will said, a soft susurration of air. Jack grabbed onto Will’s wrist, tugging his hand away from his mouth and rolled onto his side so they were facing each other.
“Don’t you shush me,” Jack muttered into Will’s mouth before he kissed him, pushing one of his legs in between Will’s, pulling at the laces of Will’s breeches.
They hadn’t done this on land before, breathing loud and desperate into each others’ mouths, Jack’s soft groans and whimpers muffled by his teeth set into Will’s shoulder, hands working a little too dry and a little too rough over each other, knuckles bumping and crashing together. Jack doesn’t know what Will does on his days off, where he goes, who he sees. His son must be an old man now; maybe he has children of his own. Jack hadn’t seen Will on land for so long and when he had come to beg help, he hadn’t expected Will to give up his one day ashore to do so. He had thought he had grown out of underestimating William and how generous he could be.
“Stop thinking,” Will whispered, half a groan as Jack rubbed his callused thumb against the sensitive underside of the head of Will’s cock.
Jack liked his life, liked it enough to want it to go on forever, but the same nameless fear that made him so afraid to die ate at him when he thought about facing the years to come. He thought he might be less adaptable than he had predicted. And Will, William Turner, blacksmith, pirate, death, was the one telling him that it wouldn’t be so bad. It was enough to make Jack’s head spin.
He came, almost incidentally, and he felt no more restful when he had, than he had before.
TBC.
What the Hessian says:
I am going to tell this story and then they will tell us theirs. Eat your food and stop interrupting me. You are of no use to anyone here, hiding in the woods. Better to get out of your head for five minutes. All right?
What Ichabod says:
Do not order me about like a child. I will return you to Hell.
What the Hessian says:
Go boil your head.
Fandoms: Sleepy Hollow/ Pirates of the Caribbean post-AWE era
Pairings: Jack/Will, Ichabod/Hessian (mention of W/E and Ichabod/Katrina)
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 8,307
Summary: Jack’s got ghosts he needs dealt with.
Disclaimer: The characters aren’t mine. The wacky crossover is entirely my fault.
Notes: Edited German translations by an aweome, anonymous poster. This was supposed to be for meletor_et_al on a request for some thing or another. I can’t find the original request, but here it is, nevertheless. Christiaan is one of the Sleepy Hollow fandom names for the Hessian.
x-posted to sleepy_hollow pirategasm jackwill
*~*~*~*
If there was one thing Jack Sparrow disliked more than not being on the Pearl, it was not being on the Pearl and being, instead, far inland, in a miserable little mudhole of a town in the middle of winter. Near the woods of all things. He hated the woods, almost as much as he hated the cold, and the mud, and the grim, grey little town. He vehemently disagreed with having to wear so many layers under such a heavy coat. He disagreed with the snow in his boots, and the snow beading on his eyelashes, and simply the snow in general.
Next to him, Will Turner stamped his feet against the frozen mud of the path and blew on his rag-wrapped hands before stuffing them under his armpits. “It’s a bit brisk, isn’t it?” Will said, grinning. The very tip of his nose and his cheeks were stung pink, his lips were chapped, and he was a picture, right there, curls down for added warmth and a rather poorly knit hat cocked over one eye. He was almost intolerably beautiful in such a miserable village. Bastard probably didn’t feel the cold, not like Jack, anyway.
Jack wanted very much to be back on the Pearl with a bottle of warmed wine in one hand and Will in his bed - having Will in hand, so to speak, wouldn’t go amiss either (not that he could feel his fingers, Jack thought crossly) - making good time at full sail away from the northerly end of the Americas.
Jack turned his attentions to the deer head carvings that marked the path down to the village. “And here I was under the misapprehension that you enjoyed overstating the obvious,” he replied, doing a little dance, much like Will’s stomping, in an attempt to warm himself. The carvings were of good quality and the horns twisted up over the heads, framing an equally twisted looking town; apparently construction had changed somewhat since Jack had last visited the mainlands. He hefted his satchel higher and jerked his head at Will. “Let’s not wait for our boots to freeze to the ground, eh lad?”
Will trailed after Jack as they made their way down to the village. “It’s not that cold,” he said, and then slipped on a patch of ice, careening into Jack who tripped and landed in a snow bank.
There was a moment of silence and then Jack started cursing as he completely failed to extricate himself from the snow, managing only to get it further into his boots, down the back of his collar and finally into a workable snowball, which he hurled at Will. “Don’t just dither, help me up,” he said and when Will held out a hand, Jack pulled him down into the snow as well before struggling to his feet. Will tackled him, knocking him back down and earning Jack a mouthful of snow.
The wrestled for a while, Will winning simply on the strength that he, unlike Jack, was not encumbered by six or seven layers of clothing - only three or four - and was therefore a damn sight more agile. Jack lay for a moment, a little warmer for the exertion and the weight of a rather sturdy young man atop him, and a little too winded to get up right away. Will’s fingers, having come bare in the tussle, were wrapped around Jack’s wrists and were furiously cold. He leaned down and put his chapped lips to Jack’s own, blinking snow onto Jack’s cheek.
“Come on,” Will said brightly, standing and brushing himself off. “We’ve only got a little ways to go.”
Jack lay in the snow for a moment longer, contemplating feigning some malady so Will would lie back down and keep him warm but it struck him as an exercise, not only in futility, but one that would end with a chill and possibly frostbite. Jack wasn’t sure. He’d seen men who’d lost fingers and toes from it, but he’d never imagined being so cold that his blood would freeze up and poison him. It sounded revolting. “This venture,” Jack said, struggling to his feet. “Is something that I could never have thought of; it’s harebrained, an’ foolish, so I’m blaming it on you.” He balanced awkwardly on one foot, wobbling as he pried a boot off and tipped out the snow. Both layers of his socks were soaked through. “There’re witch doctors aplenty in the Caribee.”
“Of course,” Will agreed, lending his shoulder so Jack had something to lean against while he wrestled his boot back on, and then the other off so he could likewise empty it of snow. “But none that have alchemists and scientists, and murthering ghosts at their command. So I think it was rather intelligent of you…or rather, I, to have come up with such a scheme.”
“It isn’t going to make us any money,” Jack said querulously, even though it had, in fact, been entirely his idea, and a necessary one at that. Actually, it was an idea that he had thought most ingenious at the time and (secretly) still considered it so. He just wished that he’d factored the miserable state of the atmosphere into his calculations. “That,” he added, “and I’m cold.” The last was said in a slightly more plaintive voice than he had intended.
Will clapped him on the shoulder and then started off down towards the little village of Sleepy Hollow. “Well, once we get back to the ship, I’ll see if I can’t thaw you out.” Jack’s insides warmed significantly at the amorous look that Will sent his way. It was so nicely in concert with what Jack had been thinking and Will’s expression was so very nearly a leer; Jack was proud of the boy, he’d come such a long way.
The house was, of course, as far away from the gates as one could possibly get and still consider it within the boundaries of the village. Only a few windows were lit and the house loomed up, dark and cold in the miserable, damp fog that shrouded the buildings. Jack rapped smartly on the door, hefted his satchel again and blew on his fingers, for all the good it did him; he was soaked through and through, his teeth starting to chatter. The door made no sign of opening so Jack, irritable and short-tempered from the cold, kicked it. Will put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing slightly and Jack subsided, muttering under his breath.
“There doesn’t seem to be anyone home,” Will said, after ringing the bell twice. “And we have little enough time as it is. I need to get back to the river before-”
They had only just turned away when someone said, “Yes?”
Jack spun, a trifle awkwardly, on one toe and turned to face the young boy holding the door open and looking as though Jack and Will were both unwelcome and something to be gotten rid of as soon as possible. It might have been the smell. Jack stank of wet fur, wetter wool and sweat from moving about and sleeping in so many layers. Will hadn’t complained, but he was a steady sort of lad and Jack had known him to put up with worse.
The boy stared at him, wide-eyed. “What is it that brings you to Sleepy Hollow?”
“Not the weather,” Jack muttered, “eh Will? We’re looking for a Constable Crane. Apparently this is the place we can find him.”
“You had better come in,” the boy said, but he didn’t sound pleased about it.
“Ta.” Jack put his hands together in a little bow, nudged Will happily and followed him inside.
It was almost as cold inside as it was outside. There was no fire in the brazier and with so few candles lit the interior was dismal and unfriendly. “Wait here.” The boy abandoned them in a spacious front room where they stood, dripping snow onto the carpeting.
Will pulled his cap off and scratched his head. “This isn’t quite what I was expecting,” he admitted. “Not a moment of it.” He gave Jack a nervous grin. “When you said ‘Sleepy Hollow, a quiet little inland town’ I was envisioning something more…”
“Rustic? Warm? Hospitable?” Jack asked dryly. The interior was none of those things. The carpeting was frayed and worn from too many boots tramping over it and the decorations were sparse and strange. “Aye. Well, we’ll talk to the man then be quit of here as-”
“You may be quit of here sooner than you think.” A woman stood on the staircase, her cherubic face set in hard lines. Her gown, unlike the house, was the very height of New York fashion and seemed wholly out of place. “Ichabod Crane has not been here for quite some time.” She descended and Jack imagined her as a stone angel, beautiful, but as cold and hard as the stuff the rest of the town was made of. Despite her worldly garments, she was obviously from Sleepy Hollow and was as much a part of the village as the deer-head carvings; it was clear in every line of her face, and her face had lined prematurely. “I am Katrina Van Tassel, mistress of this house. Who are you?”
“Well then.” Jack said, as Will bowed slightly. “Have you any inkling as to when said constable might be returning?” She looked supremely unimpressed so Jack added, “Captains Jack Sparrow and William Turner the younger.”
Katrina frowned. The expression did not suit her. “Constable Crane will not be returning. As for yourselves, I suggest you leave this place. Sleepy Hollow is not kind to strangers.”
“We were hoping,” Jack started, but Katrina cut him off with a bitter laugh.
“Don’t,” she said shortly. “Have you any notion as to what you are getting yourselves into?”
Will gave Jack a decidedly unimpressed glare. “No,” he said, which was fair enough. “I’m afraid the lady who pointed us in your direction was a little less than forthcoming on anything about this town beyond its name and the name of this house.”
“Well then your lady is nothing of the sort.” Katrina turned up her nose in Jack’s direction. “This is a cursed town.”
“Oh good.” Jack gave Katrina a broad and guileless grin. “Then we’re in the right place.”
She actually stamped her foot at him as she snapped, “Do not jest. Many good men have died over this, women, and children, and unborn babes too, so do not think to jest with me. There is a murdering spirit in these parts; a Hessian slain during the revolution come back at the bidding of a witch to murder for money. This spirit has slain ten persons from this village and been the cause of four murders and one suicide. It dragged the soul of the witch who enslaved it to Hell and we thought that was the end of it, but now evil has returned to Sleepy Hollow to claim Ichabod Crane also.” Her angel’s face dared Jack or Will to contradict her or call her mad.
Jack simply did his eastern bow in her direction. Her loss of temper had done nothing more than confirm everything he had heard through rumour and the mutterings of those plied with plenty of drink and coin to keep them talking. “It’s always the money that starts these things off,” he said instead, “ain’t it?” Will nodded his agreement, doing his part as the more respectable of the two both in appearance and manner. Katrina didn’t seem impressed.
“The last I saw of Ichabod Crane,” Katrina said and her voice was colder than ever, “was in the Western Woods.” She started back up the stairs. “There is nothing for you here. Masbath will see you out.”
Either the temperature outside was lower than Jack remembered or he’d actually warmed up a little in the chilly interior of the Van Tassel household. Even such a short moment out of the wind had caused the snow in his beard and hair to melt and the moisture immediately started to freeze again. “Bollocks,” Jack said in Will’s general direction. “To the lot of it. Downright fucking fishy, if you ask me.” He glanced balefully at Masbath. “Excusing my French, lad.”
Will shrugged. “We rather needed the constable’s help but I suppose-”
Masbath grabbed hold of Will’s sleeve. “You can find Constable Crane in the Western Woods, in the caves. For he surely needs your help as much as you need his.”
Jack gave Will a significant look, accompanied by some rather unsubtle head-nodding. “And why, exactly would he need our help?” Jack asked. Masbath shook his head in a sort of vague neither yes nor no manner and scurried back inside, the door slamming behind him. Jack sighed, breath steaming in the air and started trudging back down the path that they had arrived by. “Not quite what I had in mind,” he said. “But then, what I had in mind involved a lot more drink, a lot less snow and possibly a great deal to do without any of these filthy rags and thus ending in us, drunk, warm and engaged in acts that I imagine would make the toes of these miserable, puritanical peasants curl with horror.”
“Well,” Will said, “perhaps the constable in the cave will be able to provide us with more than an excuse to, pardoning my terrible punning, wave our swords about.”
Jack slipped on another patch of ice and toppled ungracefully over. “Ow,” he said mournfully, as the snow got into his collar again.
*~*~*~*
Three wretched hours later and Jack was perfectly prepared to give up and return back to the town, hire a coach and put as many leagues behind himself and Sleepy Hollow as he could. Sadly, he had reached that decision half an hour ago but had been unable to ascertain which direction was out of the woods, and which was simply taking them in circles, or, in fact, deeper.
“We’ve been here before,” Will said. “Christ, I don’t have the time for this.”
“How can you possibly tell?” Jack asked, huddling into himself. He couldn’t feel either of his feet or either of his hands. His thighs chafed against the fabric of his under, under trews, both his skin and the cloth were cold and stiff.
Will paused to point out a small, gnarled shrub. “I recognize this tree,” he said, being a little generous, in Jack’s opinion. “Also, those are our footprints next to it.” Jack’s face felt numb. He stopped walking, or rather, trudging and Will abruptly grabbed on to his arm. “Do you hear that?” Will asked.
“No,” Jack said, at about the same time he heard a horse snort and stamp. “Yes.” They turned to see an enormous black charger standing not fifty paces from them, breath steaming in the cold. The rider atop the horse was clearly the Hessian from Katrina’s story and Jack’s transactions with unsavoury characters. “Oh bugger,” Jack said uselessly, because as much as he thought he might need the murdering ghost for his own little problem, he wasn’t sure, and he’d rather that both Will and himself keep all their extremities - their heads most definitely included - attached. Things as they were, he hadn’t yet figured what being beheaded would do to either of them, and he really didn’t want to find out.
The Hessian, all dark armour and snow white skin, unsheathed a bloody great sword. Will took a step backwards. “Jack?” he said, glancing at his captain.
Jack pulled his pistol from his belt. “You remember that little talk we had about the proper usage of weaponry?” he asked.
Will looked a little confused. “Don’t go flinging it about, was what you said.”
“Yes. Well.” Jack cocked his pistol and waved it encouragingly as the Hessian. “Occasionally I’ve been known to be wrong. Throw your dammed sword.”
Will’s eyes widened in understanding. Unfortunately, when he unsheathed his sword, the Hessian charged at them. Will yelped and did as he was told, hurling his sword at the Hessian. His aim was well enough and the blade caught the Hessian right in the chest, knocking him off his horse. The horse screamed and stampeded towards them, and Jack had to throw himself out of the way, into a snowbank, to avoid being trampled. Once Jack had cleared the snow from his eyes he could see that Will had done the sensible thing and had also leapt out of the way.
Against all odds, but not entirely to Jack’s surprise, the Hessian got up again, looking incredibly put out and yanked the sword from his chest. There wasn’t even any blood. Jack unloaded his pistol in the Hessian’s general direction which made the horseman drop Will’s sword rather than fling it back in their direction, which is what he looked about to do. Jack stuffed his pistol back into his belt and ran for it. “Not again,” he muttered, grabbing Will’s hand and hauling him to his feet. “They were right,” Jack announced, as they ran. “Undead.”
“Why,” Will gasped, “is it that when you’re around I frequently find myself running for my life from undead creatures?”
Jack glanced back over his shoulder (and, were it not for Will’s guiding yank in the right direction, might have run straight into a tree) to see the Hessian back atop his horse and riding hard towards them. “Less talking,” Jack said, “more running.”
The whole thing felt a little futile. The Hessian was immortal and couldn’t be killed. Will was immortal and, as death, was equally impossible to kill. Jack was immortal but hadn’t got about to testing his invincibility and didn’t want a sword sticking out of him for fear it might take, but they couldn’t all just run around in circles for the rest of eternity.
The Hessian came around them, cutting them off, and the horse stamped and reared close enough that one flailing hoof knocked Will back onto the ground. Jack drew his sword grimly but the Hessian pulled his horse back, circling warily.
“I suggest you disarm,” said a calm, if not slightly tired, voice. Jack cast about for the speaker and saw a man not quite as pale as the Hessian, but white as death still, with hair black and curling, dressed plainly but well.
Jack kept his sword where it was and carefully prodded Will with his toe. Will scowled up at him. “I’m fine,” he said, getting to his feet.
“Ichabod Crane,” Jack said, keeping one eye on the Hessian.
“I know who I am,” Ichabod said blandly. “Who are you?” The Hessian barked out a laugh, revealing very pointed white teeth, and dismounted. He leaned in close to Ichabod and said something quietly in his ear. Ichabod frowned in their direction and put a hand on the Hessian’s gauntlet in a gesture that Jack was hard pressed to interpret. Partially, it looked as though Ichabod was steadying himself, it looked as though he was holding the Hessian where he was, and it looked like a simple, familiar gesture. Very familiar if Jack was any judge of how the two dark heads bent together in muttered conversation.
Jack, warmer for having run for his life, now shifted uncomfortably as the sweat dried and cooled in his furs. “Captains Jack Sparrow and William Turner, the younger.” He preempted the obvious next question with, “and we’ve come to talk to you about ghosts.”
Ichabod’s eyebrows shot up. “You have both come quite some distance. And over quite some time.”
Over seventy years, by Jack’s estimation, but he hadn’t really bothered keeping exact track of dates anymore. It seemed like a good way to drive yourself a little mad. “An’ I said we’ve come to talk of ghosts,” Jack said. He decided not to ask stupid questions like “how did you know,” since he’d spent three months talking to every houdon and witch in the Caribbean and he was used to non-sequiters about his own doings. “But if those ghosts would rather set their horses and swords on my friends then I’d rather turn about and leave you and your ghost be.”
“You drew first,” Ichabod said, which wasn’t true and made Jack feel a little less like his skin was going to creep off with the feeling of someone watching him in ways he wasn’t sure about. Will scowled and rubbed at his chest but thankfully kept his peace. “You’re a very long way from home,” Ichabod said and then waved them towards the caves he stood in front of. They were harder to see than Jack had been anticipating, as they were almost completely snowed in. “You had better come in.”
“I should think there’s an obvious drawback to living in a cave in the middle of winter,” Will whispered, close to Jack’s ear. When Jack raised an eyebrow Will said, “That is, it’s a cave in the middle of winter.” Jack turned a laugh into a cough when Ichabod turned around to give them a sharp look. The Hessian, attending to his horse, seemed to be wholly disinterested in them now.
Will, as it turned out, was wrong in his estimations of cave life. Then again, the boy had lived in a hovel in London (most places in London, in Jack’s mind, were hovels, even if they were relatively sound in structure), over a smithy in Port Royal and then finally on the Dutchman (and occasionally the Pearl) and was not one to make comments on anyone else’s choice of habitation seeing as the Dutchman (and the Pearl) was the only one of those places that Jack could deem livable. The cave was spacious and incredibly warm. Someone had fitted a door into the mouth of the cave and it was reinforced with hanging furs to keep the heat in and the chill out.
The space was lit with a multitude of candles and a roaring fire and while it was still shadowed and dark, there was light enough for Jack to have a good look around. There were furs on the ground over, if Jack was any judge, a layer of tall grasses. There was a bed of sorts set into a ledge of the cave, meticulously made. Over the fire in the hearth something that smelt delicious was bubbling away and a wooden table, sat close to the fire. There was another small table in the dark recesses of the cave covered in all sorts of bottles and devices that Jack decided would be best not to investigate too closely.
“Take your boots off,” Ichabod said, eyeing Jack crossly, “before you get snow everywhere.” Ichabod pulled his own boots off, then his stockings and padded barefoot across the furs to put both boots and socks by the fire. This seemed like sound enough advice to Jack so he nodded at Will, though Will was already halfway through taking his own sodden footwear off, and they set their boots by the fire. Ichabod gave them an exasperated look. “And the rest.”
Jack wondered if he ought to warn Ichabod about the decidedly wet dog smell of the two of them, but judging from the way Ichabod’s nose wrinkled, he had already noticed. Jack set into his clothing anyway, dropping layers of wool and cotton and fur, all soaked with sweat and snow onto the hearth. He really did smell dreadful so he did everyone, himself included, the favour of keeping his arms by his sides. Will wasn’t quite so thoughtful, so Jack elbowed him until Will flushed scarlet and stammered out an apology.
“Ghosts,” Ichabod said, without preamble, as the Hessian came into the cave and started taking off layers of armour.
Jack waved a descriptive hand. “We’ve had a touch of bother with ‘em. To make a very long, seventy or so year story much shorter when we were both...mortal…there was an Aztec curse, living men turned to bone in the moonlight an’ whatnot-”
“We got rid of the curse,” Will cut in. He had stripped down to his breeches and shirt and both of those were sweat soaked and clinging in the most distracting sort of way. “That’s not the problem.”
“See, the ship, my ship,” Jack continued, swallowing a mouthful of saliva and dragging his eyes away from Will’s torso, “she’s special anyway, not quite haunted, but close. And with this ten year curse, and then breaking it-”
“And the Kraken.”
“And the Kraken,” Jack agreed. “Maybe something to do with the World’s End business, too and whatever nonsense Barbossa put her through afterwards-”
“And the repairs.”
“Whatever the bloody reason,” Jack said, exasperated, “she’s gone and I want her back.”
Ichabod looked utterly baffled. “Your ship is gone?”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Course not. Ships don’t just disappear, ‘less you’re around the Bermudas and then that’s a whole-” Jack stopped at the utter disinterest on Ichabod’s face and got to the point. “She doesn’t have a name that I know of, but she’s part of the Pearl, makes her special. And she was there for a few weeks, but then…I need her back. Without her, well, there’s things I can’t do these days.”
“Your ship had a spirit and that spirit is now gone?” Ichabod said cautiously. It struck Jack as odd that the constable was out in the woods living in a cave when those who cared for him thought he was lost to them, or near enough, and when he was clearly so unsuited to the lifestyle.
Will tossed his hair out of his eyes and nodded. His neck looked like a fantastic place to lick. Jack decided that it wasn’t really fair of Will to be sweaty and fire-lit and so utterly unavailable for the foreseeable future. “And everyone we spoke to sent us in your direction,” Will said, not mentioning the fact that Jack was running low on favours he was owed or deals he could make in the Caribbean and would have to start afresh once the stir had died down.
“You’re a hard man to find,” Jack said, watching the Hessian out of the corner of his eye. “And a hard man to get a bead on.”
“Ah, my apologies.” Ichabod nodded in the Hessian’s direction. “This is Christiaan.” The Hessian nodded in their direction and continued about his business, which seemed to involve clearing the table of the holey socks and darning thread that were sitting on it.
“Of course.” Jack gave the horseman a curt little bow and was surprised and a little tickled to find it returned. “We spoke to the lady of the Van Tassel house,” he said, because no one else seemed inclined to say anything else.
Ichabod frowned. “You’ve met my wife?”
Jack and Will exchanged another series of significant glances. Sweet Jesu, Jack thought, this man was married to that woman? What a match made in hell. “Lovely woman,” Jack said before Will could voice their mutual opinion. “Absolute peach. Worried about you, I’d lay, but that’s neither here nor there.” He’d overplayed his hand, he could see it the minute he finished talking and Ichabod looked away. Jack wished he knew a little more about the Crane family relations since he was bound to put his foot in it about the wife now and again if he didn’t know anything other than things had clearly progressed past separate bedrooms.
“And your son?” Will asked, before Jack could stop him.
Ichabod shook his head, shoulders hunched unhappily. “My ward,” he said.
“You should go back,” Christiaan said to Ichabod and sniffed at the cooking before putting the lid back on the cauldron.
Ichabod’s lips thinned out. “Mm,” he said, in lieu of an answer, but Christiaan laughed, as though he was used to not getting those. Ichabod looked dubiously at Will and Jack and sighed. “There would be more room, since I don’t anticipate that I will be able to get rid of both of you…”
Jack tried out his most brilliant smile on Ichabod and got absolutely no response. “Ta,” he said anyway and wondered what exactly the hell was going on. “Only, we can’t linger.”
Ichabod looked suspiciously at Jack and then at Will. “I…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “I can’t…” He reached out one pale hand and put his fingers on the side of Will’s face. “I had wondered,” Ichabod said quietly, “how you could have come so far.” He pushed at Will, guiding him to the table, urging him up onto it, plucking at Will’s layers until he could see the scarring on his chest.
Will made a face, looking at Jack as though he expected him to do something about it. “What are you doing?” he asked, finally, as Ichabod pressed his ear against Will’s chest.
Ichabod straightened abruptly and strode over to a black bag in the corner of the room. He snapped it open, pulling out little jars of powders and liquids. Jack’s fingers itched to steal one, but he had almost learned his lesson about taking things like that, and, on top of everything, the Hessian was watching him like a hawk.
Ichabod tipped a startlingly blue powder over Will and stared at it intently. Will sneezed, but other than that it didn’t do anything. “Ah-ha!” Ichabod exclaimed. “Just as I suspected.”
Jack and Will exchanged perplexed glances as Ichabod rummaged around for another bottle of powder which he tipped into a mug of ale and handed it to Will. “Drink up,” Ichabod said.
Will did as he was told, mostly, Jack suspected, because the bugger knew he couldn’t die. “What was that?” Will asked.
“Temporary,” Ichabod said as Will climbed down off the table. “It won’t last long and will probably only work this once but you ought to be able to remain ashore until…” he sprung over to another part of the room and jotted out some calculations in a notebook, spattering himself with ink. “You have about a fortnight, give or take.”
“Wonderful,” Jack said. “Now-”
“If you go to the house you will have the space and resources,” Christiaan said.
Ichabod snapped the notebook closed with obvious irritation. “I have no desire to do anything of the kind. We can address the problem here.” He waved a hand at Christiaan. “After dinner.”
“Another five minutes,” Christiaan said, and went back to stirring the stew.
There was a pause that Jack considered filling but the Hessian broke the silence first, speaking to Ichabod in a low voice. “The powder does nothing,” he said. Ichabod said something in German but the Hessian grabbed his arm, a little hard, if Jack was any judge. “You know it. Why do you rely on it?”
Ichabod jerked his arm but Christiaan didn’t let go. “Powder or not, he will remain ashore, what does it matter to you?”
“Um?” Will said and Ichabod managed to get his arm free on the second yank.
“It is no matter,” Ichabod said stiffly. “How I go about my business is my business.”
Jack thought it was a fair enough thing to say but Christiaan coughed as though he was covering a laugh. Domestics were not Jack’s territory and he wondered if whatever was going on between the Hessian, the white witch and Ichabod was worth getting embroiled in, even if it meant he would get his ship back the way she was supposed to be.
Five unenlightening minutes later they had dinner in the cave, which was a culinary delight, if not at all informative as to what Jack was to do about the Pearl or about what Ichabod was doing in the woods.
On some levels the dinner was wholly successful while, on others, it was wholly disastrous: Will managed to avoid saying anything stupid or too revealing, which was almost unprecedented. Jack managed not to do anything unseemly to Will or say something that would irritate their hosts, which was also almost unprecedented. However, in an unexpected show of information the Hessian related Ichabod’s personal history despite Ichabod’s expressed disapproval.
“Ichabod and I last met three years ago,” Christiaan said and was interrupted by a terse looking constable.
“I’m sure they’ve heard,” Ichabod snapped, and Christiaan only smiled with all his sharp teeth and continued: “Ichabod and I met three years ago, then he and the white witch-”
Ichabod’s knuckles turned even paler, red around the bloodless edges, as he gripped his spoon. “Katrina. She has a name.”
“When he and the white witch went to New York and got married. I remained here, between Hell and Earth.” Christiaan stopped to eat for a moment, chewing carefully. “Ichabod’s mother was a witch-”
“For God’s sake,” Ichabod said.
The Hessian put down his fork with a thump. “Ich werde diese Geschichte erzählen und dann werden sie uns die ihre erzählen. Iss und höre auf, mich zu unterbrechen. Du nützt hier niemandem, während du dich im Wald versteckst. In Ordnung?”
Jack, of all the many languages he had picked up over the years couldn’t understand a word of it. He didn’t like being left in the dark. Will stepped on his foot under the table and Jack made a small “What?” frown at him. Will serenely chewed his food.
Ichabod got angrily to his feet. “Kommandiere mich nicht herum wie ein Kind. Ich schicke dich in die Hölle zurück."
“Lass dich einpökeln,” Christiaan said.
Jack poked at his carrots. “’Zat important?”
“No,” Ichabod said tersely and left the cave.
“Apologies,” Christiaan said. “He is temperamental and we argue frequently. As I was saying, his mother was a witch, not very strong, but a witch nevertheless. Ichabod inherited her gifts but actually has some talent for it. He thought his powders and potions were science, but there was no one there to tell him that his methods were clearly not science. After events here triggered his latent talents, he became dangerously powerful he and his wife returned to Sleepy Hollow where magic and folklore is strong and the citizens knew about horsemen from the grave and spirits and witches. Here we met again.”
Will looked like a child having a ghost story told to him. Jack nudged his knee under the table. There was no reason for the captain of the Flying Dutchman a bloody ghost ship, to be gape-mouthed and smiling over stories about witches. Witches, in Jack’s opinion, were nothing to smile at and were to be avoided at most costs. Except when you needed them for something. Then you approached them with gifts and ready to run like billy-o.
Will glared at Jack and nudged him back. “If you do not get on,” he said, “why do you live together? And why in this cave?”
The Hessian shrugged. “Good powerful center here. The cave is…like a focus. When we met again Ichabod’s powers were growing beyond the control of his white witch and she could no longer help him. I am no practitioner myself, but half in, half out. It gives me an advantage and he cannot kill me if he loses control. I was under the control of one before; it gives you insight, certainly. Together we work to determine my state and to teach him control.”
“And his missus doesn’t care much for you,” Jack said.
“She does not,” Christiaan agreed with a slight smile. “Especially now that they have fought and he will not go to her. She remains here, in the hopes he will return, but I think he will not. She is spoiled and he is difficult. They are not a good match.” He half-turned towards the door. “Stop eavesdropping and sit down.”
Ichabod returned, dusted with snow and looking cold and cross. His nose and ears were pink from cold but his cheeks were red with embarrassment. “I am not difficult,” he said. “You are dead and you are frustrating.”
Will politely covered his smile and kicked Jack under the table before he could laugh. Jack picked a bit of meat out of his teeth with his knife and settled back in his chair. “But can you help us? Can you find my ghost?”
Ichabod’s frown thinned out into a thoughtful line as he resettled himself at the table. Christiaan reached over and dusted the snow off his shoulders and no one mentioned it, though Jack filed it away for later consideration. “I cannot say for sure. It sounds, well, distant, for one and obscure for another. You cannot have come all this way without seeking help from others?”
“We’ve been up and down the Caribbean, mate,” Jack said. “The one woman I knew who might have helped us turned out to be a nymph and turned into a bloody great pile of crabs. Tricky creatures those. Now she’s not exactly available for consulting these days. Not that we ain’t tried, eh lad?”
Will sighed. “Frankly, we’ve exhausted our resources. It’s possible that the spirit is gone.”
“Forgive my intruding,” Ichabod said, “but why do you need this ghost? In full. Because hunting it does not seem as though it will be a simple task and if I’m not mistaken about the both of you, it would seem that you have other things you could spend your eternities on.”
Jack shrugged uncomfortably. He didn’t much care for the way Ichabod looked at him, like he was trying to get inside Jack’s head and wasn’t finding it too difficult. “I don’t like to leave so much up to others,” Jack said. “Eternal Youth seems a hard thing to test.”
“It’s been seventy years since you found the damned fountain, Jack,” Will said, exasperated, “and you haven’t aged a day.” He muttered something that sounded an awful lot like, “and the syphilis hasn’t killed you, driven you mad, and may even have gone away, thank Christ.” Jack chose to ignore that. Though he had been hopeful that the lack of sores for so long was a good sign.
Ichabod put his cold hands on Jack’s face, fingertips soft and gentle. He had surgeon’s hands, when they weren’t shaking. “Immortal,” he said thoughtfully, “does not mean you cannot be killed. But I imagine it would be rather difficult.” He didn’t let go of Jack’s face for a moment, eyebrows drawn together in concentration but when he finally released Jack he didn’t say anything more but Will was grinning at them.
“He’ll be all right at sea,” Will said. He turned that brilliant smile on Ichabod who appeared to be immune to it, just as he was to Jack’s, though Jack couldn’t fathom how that was possible. “He’s just afraid he’ll end up a deckhand on my ship.”
“Where is your ship?” Ichabod asked. “Both of your ships?”
“His is out doing what needs doing, even on her captain’s day off. Mine’s in port, looking dreadfully old-fashioned,” Jack said, polishing off the last of the rabbit in front of him and licking the grease off his fingers. “Fucking ironsides,” Jack added mournfully. “The end of my bloody era, I’ll tell you that much.”
“It’s hard being the last,” Will said softly. “We’ve both had to watch a lot change in the past years. Things…Nothing stays as we remembered it.”
The Hessian nodded, much to Jack’s surprise. “It is not an easy thing to watch the world change,” he said. “Purpose would make it easier to bear, I suppose.”
Ichabod, Jack realized abruptly, was the only one sitting at the table who was mortal. Ichabod caught him looking and shook his head. “No, Captain,” he said. “I have never been tempted. I do not wish to live forever. I wish to do my duty on this earth and then that will be all.”
“You’re an atheist,” Will said, startled.
“I live with a man brought back from death and I dine with the man who delivers the souls of the dead to the next world. I am not an atheist. I simply want to have nothing more to do with life when I die.” Ichabod drummed his fingertips on the table thoughtfully. “As for your ghost problem, it is not something I can solve here and it is too late, and too cold to be in the Woods, so we will have to bed here tonight then go to my wife’s at sunrise tomorrow so we waste as little of Captain Turner’s time as possible. Does that suit everyone?”
There was a murmur of dissent from the Hessian but since that was none of Jack’s business, he and Will busied themselves bunking down on the floor next to the fire. It was a little early to be sleeping, but Jack was used to catching his shut-eye where and when he could. He wasn’t sure if Will actually needed to sleep, or if he just liked to, or if he did it out of habit. Will had said he needed to, but he was insufferably chipper first thing, so Jack still had his doubts.
On the other side of the cave the argument, which was still annoyingly un-understandable in German, escalated to shouting. Jack sidled over to Will, who was studiously examining Christiaan’s sword. “Understand any of that?” Jack asked.
Will shrugged a shoulder. “Most of it,” he said. “But they’re going awfully fast and Ichabod’s German is…interesting.”
Jack didn’t bother to ask how Will could understand German. There were a lot questions that Jack could ask - how do you walk through wood? Why do you speak German? How do you breathe underwater? Why doesn’t your hair ever get salt-crusted? - that could all be answered the same way: Captain of the Flying Dutchman.
He waited expectantly but Will seemed disinclined to elaborate. Jack prodded Will helpfully. “It’s none of your business,” Will said. “Or mine.”
The fire flared, roaring up the chimney and the candles scattered about the cave sparked and hissed like firecrackers. Jack looked over at Ichabod and the man was crackling with energy. In his travels he had sought out many types of witches and he liked two sorts the least: The kind that liked to get into your head and tell you about it, and the kind who were unable to control their magic. It looked as though Ichabod was both of those types.
Will put a calming hand on his shoulder. “It’s fine,” he said. “They’re just fighting about Ichabod’s wife, who, from what I can understand, hates Christiaan more than words can tell. Ichabod wants Christiaan at the house, Christiaan doesn’t want to come.”
The fire flared up again, spitting glowing embers onto the rushes. Jack tipped the remnants of the stew onto the smoldering floor and Christiaan grabbed Ichabod by the arm, dragged him out of the door and tossed him into the snow. Jack could smell burned flesh, the thick stink of human skin and fat sizzling. He tried very hard not to think about what it tasted like. Bile rose up in his throat and he was busy not thinking about the names of his crew that the Pelacostos had killed so he wasn’t ready for Will to grab him and push him against the wall of the cave. It was cold and a little damp through the worn fabric of his shirt. Will took his face in his hands and kissed him.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Will said. He smelt like the stew and the cold outside and he always tasted of salt no matter how long he was ashore for. Jack tangled his fingers in the thick waves of Will’s hair and let himself forget again, in the hard press of Will’s body against his own.
There was a thumping sound as Christiaan came back inside and they guiltily sprang apart as a wet, shivering Ichabod came trailing in unhappily behind the Hessian. Neither of Christiaan’s hands looked burned.
“Apologies,” Ichabod said. “There is a reason I am living in a cave with a man who cannot be harmed.”
Christiaan began pulling his armour on and neither he nor Ichabod would look at each other. Jack decided that if they weren’t going to mention his and Will’s indiscretion, then he would hold his tongue on their quarrel.
The Hessian left, and Jack could hear the sound of hoofs in the snow as he rode away. Ichabod seemed unconcerned though, more embarrassed about his outburst than anything else, changing swiftly into dry clothing before bidding them a good night. They lay down a couple of animal skins and blankets on the floor in front of the fire for Jack and Will to sleep on and settled in for the evening. It was surprisingly comfortable and, if anything, Jack felt a little warm.
Despite the knowledge that he would have to be awake and alert before dawn, Jack was having trouble sleeping. Quite apart from the unpleasant reminder of his days on a cannibal island, or the knowledge that he was lying on a flammable floor with an unstable witch half a cave away, Jack couldn’t quite let go of the notion that Ichabod Crane was his last resort. If they failed, he was stuck and he didn’t relish facing the new century without his ship; the one thing he had left from his early life. Cutler Beckett had told him the world was changing, and Jack only wished he had lived long enough to see how right he would be. It might have scared him a little.
Jack was contemplating pushing the heavy wool blanket he was sharing with Will off of himself when something that felt an awful lot like Will’s hand, crept across his thigh and began unbuttoning his breeches.
“Um,” Jack said and Will propped himself up on his elbow and pressed his other hand, warm and callused, over Jack’s mouth.
The light from the fire was dim, but they were lying directly in it and Ichabod was sleeping not five paces from where they were. His breathing was deep and even, so Jack was fairly certain he was asleep, but he really didn’t want to wake a witch up, thereby putting him in an even worse mood, because William Turner the second had decided (about seventy years ago, give or take, and Jack grudgingly accepted that Mrs. Turner may have had a thing or two to do with it) that just because he was a good, upright man, didn’t mean he couldn’t be as adventurous in bed as he was out of it.
Jack widened his eyes and looked firmly at Ichabod. Will’s slow smile was just visible in the dim light of the fire and Jack did not feel reassured. Especially since Will had finished unbuttoning his breeches and had unceremoniously stuck his hand into them.
“You’ll just have to be quiet,” Will said in barely a whisper, his lips pressed against Jack’s ear. He slid closer, so his chest was pressed against Jack’s arm and bit at Jack’s ear, breathing carefully even, though Jack could feel the heat of Will’s erection against his thigh.
Jack dug his fingers into the fur underneath him and bit down on his lip. He was not naturally quiet while fucking, something Will knew perfectly well. They had been seeing each other, on and off, for some time. When you are the only two immortals that you know of, it makes sense to keep touch. Will had his duty and Jack had his freedom and every so often they would stumble across one another, by chance or by choice and, more often than not, a few drinks and some catching up turned into fucking. Every once in a while, for almost seventy years, was more than ample experience for Will to know that what he was doing was not one of his better ideas.
Jack bit down on the inside of his bottom lip and breathed out heavily through his nose. “Shh,” Will said, a soft susurration of air. Jack grabbed onto Will’s wrist, tugging his hand away from his mouth and rolled onto his side so they were facing each other.
“Don’t you shush me,” Jack muttered into Will’s mouth before he kissed him, pushing one of his legs in between Will’s, pulling at the laces of Will’s breeches.
They hadn’t done this on land before, breathing loud and desperate into each others’ mouths, Jack’s soft groans and whimpers muffled by his teeth set into Will’s shoulder, hands working a little too dry and a little too rough over each other, knuckles bumping and crashing together. Jack doesn’t know what Will does on his days off, where he goes, who he sees. His son must be an old man now; maybe he has children of his own. Jack hadn’t seen Will on land for so long and when he had come to beg help, he hadn’t expected Will to give up his one day ashore to do so. He had thought he had grown out of underestimating William and how generous he could be.
“Stop thinking,” Will whispered, half a groan as Jack rubbed his callused thumb against the sensitive underside of the head of Will’s cock.
Jack liked his life, liked it enough to want it to go on forever, but the same nameless fear that made him so afraid to die ate at him when he thought about facing the years to come. He thought he might be less adaptable than he had predicted. And Will, William Turner, blacksmith, pirate, death, was the one telling him that it wouldn’t be so bad. It was enough to make Jack’s head spin.
He came, almost incidentally, and he felt no more restful when he had, than he had before.
TBC.
What the Hessian says:
I am going to tell this story and then they will tell us theirs. Eat your food and stop interrupting me. You are of no use to anyone here, hiding in the woods. Better to get out of your head for five minutes. All right?
What Ichabod says:
Do not order me about like a child. I will return you to Hell.
What the Hessian says:
Go boil your head.