Fic: Last Resorts 2/5
Author: xzombiexkittenx
Title: Last Resorts 2/5
Fandoms: Sleepy Hollow/ Pirates of the Caribbean post-AWE era
Pairings: Jack/Will, (more mentions of W/E, Ichabod/Hessian and Ichabod/Katrina)
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 7,366
Summary: Will’s used to dealing with difficult people, but this is getting ridiculous.
Disclaimer: The characters aren’t mine. The wacky crossover is entirely my fault.
Notes: Christiaan is one of the Sleepy Hollow fandom names for the Hessian. You may notice I have an opinion on the curse of the captain of the Dutchman. Hey there Ted and Terry, if it ain’t ever written (or in the outtakes or deleted scenes), I don’t have to listen to it…
Thanks to ainsoph15 for the speedy beta and the encouragement.
x-posted to sleepy_hollow pirategasm jackwill
Part one
*~*~*~*
It was the first time in over seventy years that Will had spent two days ashore and the first time in months that he had slept. He usually took the opportunity to sleep when Jack was around, partly because he thought the idea that he didn’t have to sleep disturbed Jack, and partly because he missed waking up next to someone. Waking up in the Western Woods though, Will felt a little groggy and a little landsick. Actually, he felt a lot landsick and when Ichabod shook him and Jack awake, Will could only lie unhappily on the ground and wish it would stop pitching and rolling quite so much. Will groaned and pushed his face into the blanket underneath his head. He heard Ichabod’s quick, measured footsteps scuff away over the furs a moment before Jack’s strong fingers dug in to pressure points somewhere between Will’s jaw and ear. The spinning sensation eased and Will opened one eye cautiously.
Jack’s moustache was curling up on one side and down on the other and there were lines on his cheek from the pillow. “Rise and shine,” Jack said, sounding half asleep himself, as Will reached up and thumbed Jack’s moustache so both sides curled the same. Unless there was an immediate crisis to warrant his being awake, Jack was a useless lump in the mornings until he’d had a cup of tea, or a cup of rum, or whatever his poison of choice that year was. Will hoped Jack hadn’t started drinking coffee again. They had had a bad patch of three or so years where Jack had been an insufferable nightmare. Jack’s fingers withdrew and Will pushed himself up into a sitting position.
By the time Will was upright and had wiped the sleep from his eyes, Jack was sitting at the table, bare feet up near the fire, drinking strong (and if Will knew Jack, with more sugar than was good for him) tea. “I put a cup of ginger on for you,” Jack said, already sounding more alert. “Ought to help.”
“Ta,” Will said and walked in a surprisingly straight line to the other chair. Jack obligingly lifted his feet so Will could sit, and then promptly put them in Will’s lap. His feet were dirty, smelled approximately as sweet as the rest of his corpus, and there were black threads between his toes from his woolen socks, but Will was used to that sort of treatment. He plucked Jack’s mug out of his hands and helped himself to some of Jack’s tea. He was right. It was thick with sugar.
Someone coughed softly from the other corner of the room, and, for a moment, Will was surprised to remember that Ichabod might care. He nudged Jack’s feet off his lap and gave him his cup back, certain that his face was a bright red. Will supposed, when he bothered to think about it at all, that his and Jack’s relationship was not traditional, or, perhaps, even moral, but considering he was a Death and Jack was Jack, Will rarely concerned himself with what others thought. The only others who saw them were his own crew, who knew better than to backtalk their captain, and Jack’s crew, whoever they were, who would backtalk Jack (hopefully good naturedly) no matter what he did and so it was ignorable.
Ichabod was already dressed, monochrome and stiff in a suit that looked as though he didn’t often wear it. Will would have gambled his finest sword on Katrina having given it to Ichabod, had he still been making swords and were he in the habit of gambling. Ichabod looked like a man going to his own funeral.
As though having his feet moved had been a prompt, Jack got up and fetched Will a mug of ginger tea to settle his landsickness. “Ta,” Will muttered again, ducking his head down to drink it. It sat poorly with him, being ashamed of what he was doing. Jack, as per usual, seemed utterly oblivious, but Will had learned that what Jack seemed and what Jack actually was, were often two different things.
“We should leave within the hour,” Ichabod said, startling Will. He scalded his tongue on the tea, and then it burned all the way down when he swallowed it. Jack hid a laugh, badly, behind his mug. “It will not be a long walk, but the wind is up this morning.”
“Will Christiaan be joining us?” Jack asked, delicate as always.
Ichabod shrugged. “He will do as he pleases.”
Will thought for a moment, that he might understand what Ichabod really meant. He tried hard not to look at Jack who was pulling on his layers of shirts and socks, readying himself to go back out into the cold. It was strange, sometimes, how Jack would sail in and out of his life, sometimes passing in the night, sometimes staying long enough that Will had to put him ashore, just so he could do his job properly. Jack was the only thing in his life that did not run on a schedule, other than the wrecks and wracks and deaths at sea that came so frequently that it didn’t matter if they were planned, because they were constant. And maybe Jack was a bit like that too, sometimes, though Will wasn’t sure he would be flattered being compared to a shipwreck.
With that in mind, Will wasn’t too surprised to see Christiaan, sitting on his horse, waiting for them outside the cave. He looked irritated, but Will wasn’t sure if that was just the way he always looked, or if he and Ichabod were constantly exasperated with each other. Jack sidled up next to Will as Ichabod and the Hessian exchanged a low conversation.
“I’d wager they argue while they fuck,” Jack said, casually, and Will would have been more startled but Jack said strange and inappropriate things all the time.
“They aren’t arguing right now,” Will said. “And they aren’t fucking either,” he added firmly, adjusting his hat more securely on his head. It stank like wet wool; he thought he might burn it when the adventure was over. “You think everyone is having relations with everyone else, and they’re not.”
Jack laughed. “If you say so, William,” he said and started trudging through the snow. “I’m from the Caribbean,” he called out to Ichabod and Christiaan, “I’m not ‘zactly inclined to stand about here, savvy? Let’s discuss the ins an’ outs of whose head came off whose shoulders when we’re inside.”
And so they were on their way, swept along in the ineffable wake of Jack Sparrow.
Katrina Crane was waiting for them when they arrived at the house. She was standing in the doorway, hair whipping in the lash of the wind and Will thought she was beautiful, curved and soft like Elizabeth hadn’t been, but cold too. He didn’t wonder that Ichabod lived in a cave. There were some days Will missed his wife fiercely, missed her sharp tongue and her courage and he knew she wouldn’t have hesitated to come to Sleepy Hollow. He wondered if Ichabod ever missed Katrina at all.
“Ichabod,” she said.
“My dear wife,” Ichabod replied, bowing stiffly.
She gave Will and Jack scathing looks and did not glance once at Christiaan. “You, of course, are welcome home but I will not have these two under my roof. Nor will I countenance-” She hesitated, as if unsure how to address the issue of Christiaan’s presence, without admitting he was sitting right there, atop his horse.
“They are all to be guests,” Ichabod said. He sounded weary and apologetic instead of cross, which was what Will had been expecting. “The captains require hot water for washing and I believe we could all do with something warm to drink.”
Katrina’s frown tightened. “I will not have them in my home.”
“You must.” Ichabod’s breath hung heavy in the air. “I am sorry.”
Katrina stormed back into the house, but she left the door open behind her, banging against the wall in the wind. Will guessed that was as much of an invitation from her as they were going to get. He hoped she was far less powerful than Ichabod; he didn’t fancy being hexed or cursed any more than he already was and he didn’t trust Jack not to do something unpleasant in retaliation if he was likewise the subject of witchcraft.
“I’ll behave,” Jack said, although Will was certain he hadn’t voiced any of his concerns out loud. “No stealing, no trouble-making. Cross my heart.” Will didn’t trust Jack as far as he could throw him, but it was nice of Jack to lie.
The house was no less chilly this time around and the boy, Mas-something-or-other, Will couldn’t remember, was nowhere to be seen. Somewhere a door slammed and Ichabod flinched. “I had better go see about that,” he said. The cold had failed to bring color to his cheeks but embarrassment did the job instead. “There should be- ah.” He looked past Jack and Will to where a girl, a servant judging by her plain clothing and her curtsey, waited. “Rachel, show these two gentlemen their rooms, please. And if you could see about getting us something warm to drink…” he trailed off, hopefully.
Will, who could still remember, even so many years later, what it sounded like to be spoken to as a servant, wanted to shake his head in sympathy. Ichabod, clearly, was not used to having one. Elizabeth had never been proper and Will thanked God for that. What he would have done with a wife who actually behaved like a lady, Will wasn’t sure. She probably would have found him to be lacking, in the end, and he would have resented her. Add witchcraft to that…
Will patted Ichabod on the back. “Never mind the tea, Crane,” he said, not feeling old, precisely, but certainly older than this young couple and older than Christiaan, who lingered outside. “We’ll manage to keep ourselves amused until you’re ready for us.”
“I must ask you to stay put for the time being, while…” Ichabod looked away. “She can be…She can be vindictive sometimes…and…”
“’S all right,” Jack said, finally. “Like William said, we’ll be all right on our own for the time being.”
The servant, Rachel, who was trying her hardest not to openly stare at Jack, not that Will blamed her, he still found himself marveling from time to time, showed them to separate rooms. The room Will was left in was an attic room, the bare beams perfect for smacking one’s head on - even if one was used to the low quarters of a ship - and the angles caught him off-guard every time. There was little in the room other than a washstand, and Will could well imagine Jack’s disappointment at there being nothing to steal, assuming Jack’s room was as bare bones as his was. Will sighed and prodded the mattress with one finger. A narrow bed, narrower even than his own bunk. At least the mattress was soft and the straw in it fresh.
Will stripped down to his breeches and shirt and flopped onto his back, on top of the quilt, staring up at the ceiling. He wanted a bath. He wanted to be back at sea. Funny how when he had first been cursed, when the excitement of the adventure had died down, he had paced his ship at all hours, feeling trapped by the Dutchman, hating Jack for binding him to the duty and to the ship. Now the room felt too still, the hush of winter too silent, no waves, no rush of water around him. He missed the salt-smell and the noise of his crew.
It had taken him a long time to forgive Jack Sparrow for what had become of his life. He hadn’t seen Jack for nearly twenty years. Elizabeth was not yet forty, a mother of three, a boy who was nearly twenty and twin girls who were not yet ten, and she was dying. Neighbours carried Elizabeth to the beach, lashed by the sand and sea on a night so miserable that Will sent his ship on without him, certain there would be deaths that would need attending to. The last he saw of his wife and daughter was as they washed away from him, sitting in a small rowboat, lit by lanthorn, going on without him. He had left their bodies with a son he barely knew and the neighbours he had never really met and headed back to his duty, wondering if his children felt about him the same way he had felt about his own father; a strange mixture of resentment and idolization. He hoped not. Will had been halfway back to his ship when he saw Jack coming down the beach, towards Elizabeth’s body, same battered hat pulled low over his eyes, oilskin coat tight around his shoulders.
Will had turned around, dragged Jack into the shallows, and punched him in the face. He blamed Jack for the curse. He blamed Jack for the too-short time he and Elizabeth had had together. Jack, nose bloody and eyes wide and wild with something other than pain had told Will he had come to find him. Will had told Jack he wished he’d let them hang him, that day in Port Royal. It was another two years before they saw each other again, and in that time Will had realized something he had missed before, in his anger and grief; Captain Jack Sparrow had not aged a day.
Christ, Will thought, picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of his shirt, he must be landsick if he was thinking about all that. Landsick and already sick unto death of Sleepy Hollow and the Crane family drama and he just wanted Jack’s bloody ship back the way she was supposed to be, so they could leave. He got up and, hoping he wasn’t about to give anyone the fright of their lives, walked through the walls of the Van Tassel house until he was in the wine cellar and then back up to where Jack was staying. Secretly, Will still got a slight thrill at the trick.
Jack was standing at the window, still wearing most of his layers, as though he was intending to leave at any moment and though he cocked his head to one side at the thick sound of Will coming through the wooden wall, he didn’t turn around. “Got anything to drink, luv?” Jack asked, though didn’t sound optimistic.
“Actually, yes,” Will said, and set the bottle down hard enough that Jack could heat the solid thud of glass on the wood of the desk. Jack turned around then. “I assumed you would be feeling a little parched.” Will pried the cork out with a knife and took a drink. It was harsh cider, he hadn’t wanted to take any of their wine uninvited, and it burned all the way down and settled warm in his stomach. He passed it to Jack whose throat worked smoothly as he swallowed. Jack was barely breathing hard when he took the bottle away from his lips. Will went to take the cider back from him, but Jack caught hold of his wrist with the other hand and pulled him closer.
“Why’d you come?” Jack asked, looking oddly serious.
“In over fifty years,” Will said, not really sure what his answer would be, even as it came out of his mouth, “you’ve never asked me for a favour.” It wasn’t the right answer. Not for Jack, Will thought, and not really for himself either.
Jack let go of Will’s wrist and turned again to stare out the window. “Thought it was seventy,” he said.
Will tugged the bottle out of Jack’s hand and took a fortifying swig. “Seventy years since I became captain,” he said and Jack said “Oh,” and they stood in silence for a while.
“Not like you owe me,” Jack said, finally. “Reckon I still owe you a few.”
Will could see out of the window, but he wasn’t sure what Jack was even looking at. There was nothing outside but the Western Woods and deep, white, unbroken snow. He didn’t know what Jack was looking for and he was starting to feel certain that, whatever it was, the return of the spirit of the Pearl wasn’t going to help him. He put his arms around Jack, resting his chin on Jack’s shoulder. Then, just because he could, Will tucked his hands under Jack’s shirt and put his cold hands on Jack’s warm belly. He didn’t feel the cold like he did before he became captain of the Dutchman, but Jack could.
Sure enough, Jack yelped and squirmed unhappily. “Christ ablaze, William,” he complained. “If you needed warming up you could have just told me.”
Will laughed and rubbed his hands over Jack’s stomach. “What’s that, then?”
Jack twisted around and kissed Will, pushing him back towards the narrow bed. “So coy,” Jack said, biting at Will’s bottom lip. “Yet here you are, sneaking into my room without a by-your-leave, when the Cranes might stop discussing their marital state at any moment and come looking for us.”
Will, content that his hands were warm enough not to provoke too much argument from Jack, started unbuttoning Jack’s breeches. “You think they’ll come in?” he asked, sitting on the bed when his knees banged up against the wooden frame.
Jack pulled off the two shirts he was wearing and tossed them onto the floor. “P’raps not,” he said. “You’re such a noisy thing, I reckon even Ichabod would know better.”
Will tugged Jack’s breeches down, licking over the curve of one of Jack’s hipbones. “I’m the noisy one?” Will asked, lips against the skin of Jack’s stomach. Jack stepped out of his trousers and crawled on top of Will, goosebumps rising on his skin from the chill of the room. “Care to wager on that?”
“Not a chance, sweetheart,” Jack said, grinning, tugging Will’s shirt out of his trousers, “now be a dear and take - ” he fluttered his hands at Will, “everything off.”
Will slid his hands up Jack’s thighs, curving over his hips, thumbs stretched out to brush teasingly at Jack’s erection, before he tipped Jack to the side and obliged, stripping out of his clothing. Jack watched, lazily stroking his own cock. He was dirty and dark against the clean white linens, the paler skin of his thighs and abdomen still darker than the palest parts of Will’s body, pink puckered scars and black ink that would never fade with age and sun. Will watched him for a moment, listening to Jack’s rings clacking together softly as he worked himself, muscles in his stomach and thighs tensing. He leaned over and Jack made a small, pleased noise when Will finally kissed him again.
Jack swung one leg down off the bed so there was space for Will to kneel on the narrow cot. He put a (slightly sticky) hand in Will’s hair, arching up and tugged at Will’s earring with his teeth. “Just planning on looking or something take your eye?” Jack asked.
Will hummed thoughtfully and traced one finger over the curve of Jack’s cock, thumbing over the head, through the slickness there. He licked his thumb with a slight shrug. “I’ve got a few ideas,” he said.
“Don’t tease,” Jack complained. “It’s too cold.” He pulled at Will’s shoulder and hair until Will relented, stretching out on top of Jack, lazily grinding their hips together.
“When’s the last time we did this?” Will asked as Jack lifted one leg so his heel fit into the curve of Will’s back.
Jack used his grip on Will’s hair to tug him down for another kiss before replying, “Last night, remember?”
Will tilted Jack’s hips up a little further and smiled as Jack moaned, heel digging in painfully. “Mm, no,” Will said. He decided that, considering he already knew the answer to his own question, he wanted to enjoy what time they had together, especially since with the ghosts and the Cranes and Jack’s odd moods, he was unlikely to get as many chances as he would like. He had considered just grinding and rubbing against Jack until they both spent, but he could feel Jack’s erection against his stomach and he wanted, abruptly, to taste it. To have Jack under him, noisy and present and not wandering off in his head wherever it was he went when he stopped, like a wound-down watch, staring off like he was looking for something.
Will pushed Jack’s leg away and curled up, hands planted firmly on Jack’s hips. “I meant how long since we’ve been alone together, like this.” He bit at the pale patch of skin where hip, groin and thigh came together and Jack sighed and squirmed.
“Bloody hell,” Jack said, “I don’t remember.” His hands fluttered over Will’s shoulders. Apparently he had learned that when Will decided he was going to suck Jack, it was better for him not to do anything foolish, like pull Will’s hair. Will licked up the underside of Jack’s cock in an encouraging sort of way. “Half a year,” Jack said.
Will raised an eyebrow. “It’s been a whole year, Jack. Most of which you spent ashore.”
“I was looking for my ghost,” Jack said one hand thumping down onto the sheets when Will sucked on the head of his cock.
Will lifted his head, licking his lips. “You were avoiding me.”
Jack propped himself up on his elbows. “I was not,” he said, sounding affronted, which was rather impressive, considering he also sounded as though he was about a minute away from begging Will to shut up and suck him.
“If I was avoiding you,” Jack said, arching his back in a distracting sort of way, “I wouldn’t have asked for your help.”
“You’d ask the devil himself for help if you thought you had a shot at getting what you wanted.” Will shrugged one shoulder. “I’m just curious,” he said.
Jack flopped back against the sheets, one arm over his eyes. “I wasn’t avoiding you,” he said and after fifty years Will had a pretty good sense for when Jack was lying to him. The set of his mouth and the fretful twitch of his fingers said he was telling the truth. Will frowned thoughtfully. He had had his own theories about their wild goose chase and it seemed as though he had guessed wrong.
“All right,” Will said, and put his mouth to Jack again.
Jack groaned happily, hips pushing up against Will’s hands. “I missed you,” Jack said and Will nearly choked. “Oh, don’t stop,” Jack said when Will coughed, wiping at his mouth, startled by the confession. “Honestly, Will,” Jack said. “Either you didn’t get enough affection as a sprog, in which case let me assure you that I will shower you with my thoughts and feelings once we are finished, or you have an awful sense of timing, which, to my impeccable recollection, you do, in which case, let me assure you that we can have a heart to heart once we are finished.”
Considering that Will was permanently a young man and Jack was…Jack, ten years at sea without hope of touching port was not as bad as it could have been. Jack, for one, was very rarely not interested in sexual relations and when he wasn’t (or was too drunk) he was so tactile, and so prone to draping himself over Will, regardless of whether Will was upright or horizontal or minding his own damn business, that there was never any want of physical affection. It was nice, Will thought. He wasn’t used to it, even after so many years, but he was slowly getting used to the idea that he could have it, if he asked, (and even when he didn’t) and it wouldn’t be rebuffed.
“Later then,” Will agreed and whatever Jack was going to say became a muffled whimper when Will returned to sucking and licking at his cock.
His own erection was leaking against his stomach, a pleasant ache but one demanding attention. Will reached between Jack’s legs and rubbed thoughtfully at Jack’s hole with a dry finger.
Jack’s head thumped back against the pillow. “Buggery,” he said.
Will looked up, a little distracted. He had been wondering if he wanted to attempt to fuck on a bed barely wider than Jack’s narrow hips, move to the cold wooden floor, or see how sturdy the desk was - and whether he’d rather get Jack on whatever their chosen surface turned out to be and fuck him insensible, or if he was more in the mood to be fucked himself. “What?” he said. “Yes?”
Jack sat up, nearly sending Will tumbling to the floor. “No,” he said. “Or, rather, yes, but also no, ‘less you’re up for something fast and rough, because I don’t know about you, darlin’, but it’s been a while and I don’t have anything, and I doubt rummaging about in the drawers is going to yield much.”
Will groaned. “Bloody hell,” he said and then made an executive decision. “And bloody puritans,” he muttered, sliding down the bed so he was kneeling in between Jack’s legs. “Nothing but quilts and whitewash. Turn over.”
Jack huffed out a laugh and did as he was told, stretching out, the muscles in his back shifting under his tattoos. “Demanding,” he said, though it didn’t sound as though he minded. Will spat in his hand and slicked his cock. Over his shoulder, Jack gave him a curious look and shifted so he was on his elbows and knees. “Fast and rough then, eh?” he asked.
“Not that rough,” Will said, sliding his cock between Jack’s thighs.
“Ah,” Jack said, putting his thighs together without Will having to ask. “That’s what I like about you, William. You’re a regular gentleman.” He hummed his appreciation when Will curved over him, steadying himself on one hand, curling the other around Jack’s erection, slick from his spit.
It wasn’t the same as fucking, not the same tight push, not the same fullness and ache. But Jack’s thighs were tight around Will’s cock and the dry, almost too dry, slip was gradually eased by sweat as Jack warmed under him, as he fisted Jack’s cock until he was shoving back against Will, muffling his curses and moans in the bend of his arm. Will pressed his face against the wing of Jack’s shoulder, scraped his teeth over the skin there, tasted old sweat and new sweat and he turned his face so he could feel the beating of Jack’s heart against his lips, like he felt it against his chest.
“I don’t care,” Jack said as Will’s cock slipped over his hole, catching for a moment before sliding back between his thighs, the head nudging against the soft underside of Jack’s sac. His legs sprawled apart as he tilted his hips up, shoulders down, one hand wrapping tight around Will’s wrist, stilling his hand. “Please.”
“No,” Will said. He pushed Jack’s thighs back together, planting his knees on the outside of Jack’s, keeping them in place.
Jack twisted around as much as he could and bit at Will’s mouth. “William,” he said, Will’s name drawn out into a whimper and head dropping down, hair sliding forward, when Will tightened his grip, rubbing hard at the base of Jack’s cock. “Just fuck me.”
Will set his teeth into the sweaty skin at the nape of Jack’s neck, thick, tangled hair getting in his eyes and mouth so all he could smell and taste was Jack, and thrust against him. He wanted to fuck Jack, on land, in the hard blue light of winter in the north, where he could see everything. He wanted Jack to fuck him here too, but there was no space and no time and Jack was so determined not to tell him everything, and so determined to cling to old, old habits and run rather than fight, certain he was on his own. Will bit down harder, as though leaving his mark on Jack would convince him otherwise. He came, panting against Jack’s back, legs abruptly feeling soft as pudding.
Will crawled down the bed until he was in danger of falling off the end of it. “Jack…” he said, stupid from coming. and stupid from seeing the results of it, smeared viscous and sticky on Jack’s arse and thighs. He spread Jack with his hands and licked at the mess. “Touch yourself,” he said shouldering Jack’s legs further apart so he could push his tongue up inside Jack, push his come inside Jack just to watch it seep back out again.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Jack said, thighs shaking, whole body humming under Will’s hands. Will could feel it as he started fisting his cock, shoulder working and he pressed his thumbs in next to his tongue and pulled, gently, enough so he could fuck Jack with his tongue, spit sliding down his chin, until Jack gasped Will’s name and spent over his own hand before his arms gave out under him and he slumped face down onto the bed.
Will grinned and wiped his face with the back of his hand as Jack turned over, belly and cock now, as well as thighs and arse, shiny with come and spit.
“You look pleased with yourself,” Jack said, panting.
“I am.” Will thought about bringing up the notion that Jack had missed him versus been avoiding him again, but he was feeling a little too good to reopen a topic that Jack clearly had no desire to talk about. He decided, instead, to wait for a time when Jack would be pliable, but not too tired, drunk or busy fucking to bring it up again. It was, Will thought, going to be a delicate balance, and not a call he was looking forward to making.
Will ran his fingers over the tattoo bracketing Jack’s thigh, watching as Jack’s breathing slowly began to even out. “This one’s new,” he said, tracing the path of his fingers with his mouth. The muscle jumped under the skin and Will bit down on the un-inked strip between one band of patterned black and the other and bit and sucked until he could see a bruise rising under the pale tan of Jack’s thigh. It would be gone by the end of the day. Will wished he could have seen what Jack would look like as he got older. He wished he could have watched the lines at the corners of his eyes deepen with every smile, and watched for more gold teeth, and grey hairs in the tangle of unbrushed, salt-locked hair. But he was glad he didn’t have to watch Jack die of his lifestyle, of his career, or of his disease. He was glad he wouldn’t have to watch Jack die before he ever had the chance to grow old. He was glad Jack wasn’t going to die.
“Aye,” Jack said.
Jack swatted him away, tugging at Will’s shoulder and bicep until Will was pressed, mostly on top of Jack, bodies sticking together with cooling sweat and pulled the quilt over them.
Will tugged at one of the braids in Jack’s beard thoughtfully. “You said it had been…” he trailed off, not sure the best way to ask if Jack had been sleeping with others. “Never mind.” He was fairly sure Jack wasn’t capable of being faithful and it seemed like a stupid thing to get upset over, since they had never made any sort of agreement. They had never really spoken about it at all.
Two years after he had left his surviving children who barely knew him and Jack, bleeding from the nose, on a beach in the middle of the night, Will had gone looking for Jack. Still at sea, still leading a life devoid of real purpose, still sway-hipped, his smile still bright with gold and his attitude still welcoming.
“Never got a chance to tell you sorry about Lizzie,” Jack had said, sprawled out, half-dressed in the close air of his cabin on the Pearl. There had been no air, a hot week, and Jack was wet with perspiration, slight shine in the lantern-light and he smelt rather strongly of rum. He must have been around fifty, sixty, maybe even pushing seventy, Will still didn’t know how old Jack was, but he didn’t look any older than he had the day Will had found him in Brown’s smithy.
Will had leaned against the wall and crossed his arms and ankles. “Thank you.” Will had said. “You’re looking remarkably well.” Jack had laughed and offered him a chair and a share of the rum. William had got drunk and listened to what was almost certainly an embellished tale about how Jack had found the Fountain of Youth and they had told each other tall tales of storms weathered, and odd crew members, and strange things seen. And Jack, too close suddenly, one hand curled on Will’s shoulder, had said, “Let’s not wait another twenty years, eh lad? You know how to find me,” and it had sounded oddly like an apology. Will said, “I don’t really blame you,” and he thinks he remembers Jack saying something like, “You’re the only one left who believes it all,” and then Will doesn’t really remember anything else except the hangover the next morning and that he threw up twice before giving up on breakfast, and coherent thought.
They met again, a few months later. And then again, and again, and then, one night somewhere off the coast of India, Jack had taken Will’s face between his hands and said, very seriously, “I’d like to kiss you, William, I’ve thought about it on an’ off for twenty years, but you’re the only one like me and I’druther carry on as mates than have you push me away.”
Will had said, “I didn’t think you had that sort of patience,” when what he meant was a jumble of, ‘I didn’t want to assume you were like that just because of the way you act sometimes,’ and ‘I didn’t think you actually wanted me, I thought you were just flirting like you do with everything else that moves,’ and ‘We’ve betrayed each other and saved each other and we’re going to live forever and even you can’t hold a grudge that long, and I wouldn’t, not over something like that, so just fucking do it already.’
Jack had hesitated, looking unsure and Will had put his hands into the thick tangle of Jack’s hair and kissed him because Jack was clever and beautiful and Will was lonely and he wanted Jack in the same sort of ways he had wanted Elizabeth and Christ, he was a Death, did he really need to overanalyze his feelings for another immortal?
“What’re you thinking about?” Jack asked, prodding Will in the side, pulling him back to the present and away from the coast of India.
Will shrugged one shoulder as best he could. “Nothing important,” he said. “I wonder if the Cranes have come to any sort of reconciliation.”
“Doubt it,” Jack said, but slapped Will on the arse and pushed at him until Will got up. “Wonder if we could get some water. You smell dreadful.” He winked, pulling his trousers back on.
There was a hesitant knock on the door and Will stifled a laugh as Jack hopped about on the cold floor, tugging socks and shirts on, making shooing gestures at Will. Will stole Jack’s quilt, so he had something to wrap around himself, snagged his clothes from their place on the floor and walked back to his room through the walls.
The servant girl brought only tea, not news that he could leave the room and Will, re-clothed and in need of more answers than he thought Jack likely to give him, simply thanked her, shut the door after her, and walked out through the walls again. He found the Hessian sitting on a plush chair in full armour, sharpening his sword. The horseman did not seem discomfited to see another man walk through walls. If anything, the set of his shoulders eased, though Will was hesitant to think he could read Christiaan at all.
“May I join you?” Will asked and at Christiaan’s nod, settled himself on a sofa. “This is a beautiful house,” he said. “I wonder that Constable Crane does not spend more time here.”
Christiaan barked out a laugh. “No you don’t,” he said. Will wondered how such a man would manage an eternity. It would certainly not be easy with his attitude, and harder still with those teeth.
Will bowed his head in agreement. “I suppose not.” He tapped his fingers idly against his knee. “You fought in the revolutionary war,” he said, simply for something to say.
“I died in it,” Christiaan said wryly. “And you at sea before that, and now we must fear the changing times, the metal beasts and factories that rise out of the cities and swamp the air with soot, and choke the trees with black, and poison the waters with their runoff. Now we must fear the world that will not believe in magic, ghost ships, wandering immortals, and soldiers who will never die.”
Will could see how Ichabod, who obviously liked to be as close-mouthed as Jack, would find such introspection irritating. “I have nothing to fear,” he said.
“No,” Christiaan said, “perhaps not.” He returned to sharpening his sword. “I suppose men will continue to die at sea, and continue to fear that end, and you will continue to ferry, and collect, and carry on until you grow weary of your duty.”
Will smiled placidly. “Shockingly enough, I enjoy a little routine to my life.”
“A long time to follow one path.” The rasp of Christiaan sharpening his sword seemed almost thoughtful. Will wondered if it really needed to be sharpened or if it was just habit. “Your woman, she was not faithful?” Christiaan asked, still concentrating on his sword.
Will bristled. “How dare you -” he started, getting to his feet.
Christiaan just looked up, surprised and said, “Is that not the nature of your curse?”
“What?”
Christiaan examined the edge of the sword, testing it with his thumb. “Ten years at sea and then, if she was faithful, you could return to land.”
Will sat back down. “Not that I ever heard,” he said. “The captain is the captain for as long as he is captain. I’ve been trying to get word from Tia -Calypso on that matter, but she’s incommunicado still. I became so because I killed Jones, I’ve no idea how I will cede the title, but I hope it’s not in such a way.”
“But I thought…” Christiaan frowned. “What about the heart? Ichabod told me your heart was cut out of your chest. Because of a woman.”
Will pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jones cut out his own heart for love of a woman. My heart was removed because…My father, God rest his soul,” he said. “My father was not….” he sighed. “Not sane, I suppose. He sort of came and went. Too much time at the bottom of the sea before Jones picked him up, I think it drove him mad. My heart could have stayed where it was, but my father had it in what’s left of his mind that it was a prerequisite. My wife was faithful to me.”
“Then why are you not so to her?”
“It’s been fifty years, mate,” Jack said, slipping into the room from the hall where he had certainly not been eavesdropping. “Lizzie died a good while ago.” Will suspected he was still sore about being betrayed and eaten, and he had hinted that just because Will loved her didn’t mean that Jack had to forgive and forget. Never let it be said that Jack Sparrow could not hold a grudge. Just ask Barbossa. “The nature of William’s condition is something we’re looking into,” Jack said smoothly. “I’m still hoping we might get it straight from the horse’s mouth, but we’ll see. I’m looking for Crane, have you seen him?”
Christiaan rolled his eyes towards the door. “In the gardens, but do not go to him. He is with his white witch. She does not like you, though I believe she still likes me less.”
“Why?” Will asked.
Christiaan sheathed his sword. “I killed her father, so I suppose that is why.”
“You what?” Will said, aghast as Jack tipped his hat to Christiaan and headed out of the room. Will got up and followed Jack, not sure he really wanted to know the details from Christiaan, and more curious about what Jack was doing. But Jack flapped an irritated hand at him.
“No need to hover,” Jack said. “I just need a word with Ichabod.” He continued down the dark, cold hallway of Ichabod’s house, leaving Will standing foolishly outside the drawing room wondering what on Earth Jack was doing and why he was needed so desperately one moment and shooed away the next.
There was a soft sound from behind him and Will spun on his toes to see Christiaan leaning causally against the doorframe, watching Jack round the corner and disappear. “I have killed a lot of men,” Christiaan said. “A few were at the behest of a witch; the murders you have likely heard of that happened here. Katrina’s father, among them. But mostly I killed men because I enjoy it, because I love war, and in this world, there will always be a place for me. Once I am free of these lands, and the bondage of the Tree, I will walk amongst the living and continue on as I did before. I can learn this new warfare, I think, and discover the ways in which it stirs my blood.”
“Is there a point to all that?” Will snapped and was then irritated that he had lost his temper.
Christiaan smiled, sharp, sharp teeth glinting in the light. “If I know nothing else, I know what fear looks like,” he said and nodded in the direction that Jack had gone.
Will managed to smile back, though he suspected it was more a baring of the teeth than anything else. “Jack and I have killed two men who others said were immortal. I have long since tired of those who inflict pain on others simply for their own enjoyment. Do not doubt that if I tire further of you, I will find a way to make you stay in the ground.”
“Is that how they used to ask others to keep out of their affairs from when you were a mortal man?” Christiaan asked.
“No,” Will said, “that was a threat.” He stormed off after Jack, determined that if Jack was going to drag him into another ill-advised adventure, they were going to do things a little differently this time. If Jack was in more trouble than he was letting on, Will thought, it would be nice to know ahead of time for once.
TBC.
Title: Last Resorts 2/5
Fandoms: Sleepy Hollow/ Pirates of the Caribbean post-AWE era
Pairings: Jack/Will, (more mentions of W/E, Ichabod/Hessian and Ichabod/Katrina)
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 7,366
Summary: Will’s used to dealing with difficult people, but this is getting ridiculous.
Disclaimer: The characters aren’t mine. The wacky crossover is entirely my fault.
Notes: Christiaan is one of the Sleepy Hollow fandom names for the Hessian. You may notice I have an opinion on the curse of the captain of the Dutchman. Hey there Ted and Terry, if it ain’t ever written (or in the outtakes or deleted scenes), I don’t have to listen to it…
Thanks to ainsoph15 for the speedy beta and the encouragement.
x-posted to sleepy_hollow pirategasm jackwill
Part one
*~*~*~*
It was the first time in over seventy years that Will had spent two days ashore and the first time in months that he had slept. He usually took the opportunity to sleep when Jack was around, partly because he thought the idea that he didn’t have to sleep disturbed Jack, and partly because he missed waking up next to someone. Waking up in the Western Woods though, Will felt a little groggy and a little landsick. Actually, he felt a lot landsick and when Ichabod shook him and Jack awake, Will could only lie unhappily on the ground and wish it would stop pitching and rolling quite so much. Will groaned and pushed his face into the blanket underneath his head. He heard Ichabod’s quick, measured footsteps scuff away over the furs a moment before Jack’s strong fingers dug in to pressure points somewhere between Will’s jaw and ear. The spinning sensation eased and Will opened one eye cautiously.
Jack’s moustache was curling up on one side and down on the other and there were lines on his cheek from the pillow. “Rise and shine,” Jack said, sounding half asleep himself, as Will reached up and thumbed Jack’s moustache so both sides curled the same. Unless there was an immediate crisis to warrant his being awake, Jack was a useless lump in the mornings until he’d had a cup of tea, or a cup of rum, or whatever his poison of choice that year was. Will hoped Jack hadn’t started drinking coffee again. They had had a bad patch of three or so years where Jack had been an insufferable nightmare. Jack’s fingers withdrew and Will pushed himself up into a sitting position.
By the time Will was upright and had wiped the sleep from his eyes, Jack was sitting at the table, bare feet up near the fire, drinking strong (and if Will knew Jack, with more sugar than was good for him) tea. “I put a cup of ginger on for you,” Jack said, already sounding more alert. “Ought to help.”
“Ta,” Will said and walked in a surprisingly straight line to the other chair. Jack obligingly lifted his feet so Will could sit, and then promptly put them in Will’s lap. His feet were dirty, smelled approximately as sweet as the rest of his corpus, and there were black threads between his toes from his woolen socks, but Will was used to that sort of treatment. He plucked Jack’s mug out of his hands and helped himself to some of Jack’s tea. He was right. It was thick with sugar.
Someone coughed softly from the other corner of the room, and, for a moment, Will was surprised to remember that Ichabod might care. He nudged Jack’s feet off his lap and gave him his cup back, certain that his face was a bright red. Will supposed, when he bothered to think about it at all, that his and Jack’s relationship was not traditional, or, perhaps, even moral, but considering he was a Death and Jack was Jack, Will rarely concerned himself with what others thought. The only others who saw them were his own crew, who knew better than to backtalk their captain, and Jack’s crew, whoever they were, who would backtalk Jack (hopefully good naturedly) no matter what he did and so it was ignorable.
Ichabod was already dressed, monochrome and stiff in a suit that looked as though he didn’t often wear it. Will would have gambled his finest sword on Katrina having given it to Ichabod, had he still been making swords and were he in the habit of gambling. Ichabod looked like a man going to his own funeral.
As though having his feet moved had been a prompt, Jack got up and fetched Will a mug of ginger tea to settle his landsickness. “Ta,” Will muttered again, ducking his head down to drink it. It sat poorly with him, being ashamed of what he was doing. Jack, as per usual, seemed utterly oblivious, but Will had learned that what Jack seemed and what Jack actually was, were often two different things.
“We should leave within the hour,” Ichabod said, startling Will. He scalded his tongue on the tea, and then it burned all the way down when he swallowed it. Jack hid a laugh, badly, behind his mug. “It will not be a long walk, but the wind is up this morning.”
“Will Christiaan be joining us?” Jack asked, delicate as always.
Ichabod shrugged. “He will do as he pleases.”
Will thought for a moment, that he might understand what Ichabod really meant. He tried hard not to look at Jack who was pulling on his layers of shirts and socks, readying himself to go back out into the cold. It was strange, sometimes, how Jack would sail in and out of his life, sometimes passing in the night, sometimes staying long enough that Will had to put him ashore, just so he could do his job properly. Jack was the only thing in his life that did not run on a schedule, other than the wrecks and wracks and deaths at sea that came so frequently that it didn’t matter if they were planned, because they were constant. And maybe Jack was a bit like that too, sometimes, though Will wasn’t sure he would be flattered being compared to a shipwreck.
With that in mind, Will wasn’t too surprised to see Christiaan, sitting on his horse, waiting for them outside the cave. He looked irritated, but Will wasn’t sure if that was just the way he always looked, or if he and Ichabod were constantly exasperated with each other. Jack sidled up next to Will as Ichabod and the Hessian exchanged a low conversation.
“I’d wager they argue while they fuck,” Jack said, casually, and Will would have been more startled but Jack said strange and inappropriate things all the time.
“They aren’t arguing right now,” Will said. “And they aren’t fucking either,” he added firmly, adjusting his hat more securely on his head. It stank like wet wool; he thought he might burn it when the adventure was over. “You think everyone is having relations with everyone else, and they’re not.”
Jack laughed. “If you say so, William,” he said and started trudging through the snow. “I’m from the Caribbean,” he called out to Ichabod and Christiaan, “I’m not ‘zactly inclined to stand about here, savvy? Let’s discuss the ins an’ outs of whose head came off whose shoulders when we’re inside.”
And so they were on their way, swept along in the ineffable wake of Jack Sparrow.
Katrina Crane was waiting for them when they arrived at the house. She was standing in the doorway, hair whipping in the lash of the wind and Will thought she was beautiful, curved and soft like Elizabeth hadn’t been, but cold too. He didn’t wonder that Ichabod lived in a cave. There were some days Will missed his wife fiercely, missed her sharp tongue and her courage and he knew she wouldn’t have hesitated to come to Sleepy Hollow. He wondered if Ichabod ever missed Katrina at all.
“Ichabod,” she said.
“My dear wife,” Ichabod replied, bowing stiffly.
She gave Will and Jack scathing looks and did not glance once at Christiaan. “You, of course, are welcome home but I will not have these two under my roof. Nor will I countenance-” She hesitated, as if unsure how to address the issue of Christiaan’s presence, without admitting he was sitting right there, atop his horse.
“They are all to be guests,” Ichabod said. He sounded weary and apologetic instead of cross, which was what Will had been expecting. “The captains require hot water for washing and I believe we could all do with something warm to drink.”
Katrina’s frown tightened. “I will not have them in my home.”
“You must.” Ichabod’s breath hung heavy in the air. “I am sorry.”
Katrina stormed back into the house, but she left the door open behind her, banging against the wall in the wind. Will guessed that was as much of an invitation from her as they were going to get. He hoped she was far less powerful than Ichabod; he didn’t fancy being hexed or cursed any more than he already was and he didn’t trust Jack not to do something unpleasant in retaliation if he was likewise the subject of witchcraft.
“I’ll behave,” Jack said, although Will was certain he hadn’t voiced any of his concerns out loud. “No stealing, no trouble-making. Cross my heart.” Will didn’t trust Jack as far as he could throw him, but it was nice of Jack to lie.
The house was no less chilly this time around and the boy, Mas-something-or-other, Will couldn’t remember, was nowhere to be seen. Somewhere a door slammed and Ichabod flinched. “I had better go see about that,” he said. The cold had failed to bring color to his cheeks but embarrassment did the job instead. “There should be- ah.” He looked past Jack and Will to where a girl, a servant judging by her plain clothing and her curtsey, waited. “Rachel, show these two gentlemen their rooms, please. And if you could see about getting us something warm to drink…” he trailed off, hopefully.
Will, who could still remember, even so many years later, what it sounded like to be spoken to as a servant, wanted to shake his head in sympathy. Ichabod, clearly, was not used to having one. Elizabeth had never been proper and Will thanked God for that. What he would have done with a wife who actually behaved like a lady, Will wasn’t sure. She probably would have found him to be lacking, in the end, and he would have resented her. Add witchcraft to that…
Will patted Ichabod on the back. “Never mind the tea, Crane,” he said, not feeling old, precisely, but certainly older than this young couple and older than Christiaan, who lingered outside. “We’ll manage to keep ourselves amused until you’re ready for us.”
“I must ask you to stay put for the time being, while…” Ichabod looked away. “She can be…She can be vindictive sometimes…and…”
“’S all right,” Jack said, finally. “Like William said, we’ll be all right on our own for the time being.”
The servant, Rachel, who was trying her hardest not to openly stare at Jack, not that Will blamed her, he still found himself marveling from time to time, showed them to separate rooms. The room Will was left in was an attic room, the bare beams perfect for smacking one’s head on - even if one was used to the low quarters of a ship - and the angles caught him off-guard every time. There was little in the room other than a washstand, and Will could well imagine Jack’s disappointment at there being nothing to steal, assuming Jack’s room was as bare bones as his was. Will sighed and prodded the mattress with one finger. A narrow bed, narrower even than his own bunk. At least the mattress was soft and the straw in it fresh.
Will stripped down to his breeches and shirt and flopped onto his back, on top of the quilt, staring up at the ceiling. He wanted a bath. He wanted to be back at sea. Funny how when he had first been cursed, when the excitement of the adventure had died down, he had paced his ship at all hours, feeling trapped by the Dutchman, hating Jack for binding him to the duty and to the ship. Now the room felt too still, the hush of winter too silent, no waves, no rush of water around him. He missed the salt-smell and the noise of his crew.
It had taken him a long time to forgive Jack Sparrow for what had become of his life. He hadn’t seen Jack for nearly twenty years. Elizabeth was not yet forty, a mother of three, a boy who was nearly twenty and twin girls who were not yet ten, and she was dying. Neighbours carried Elizabeth to the beach, lashed by the sand and sea on a night so miserable that Will sent his ship on without him, certain there would be deaths that would need attending to. The last he saw of his wife and daughter was as they washed away from him, sitting in a small rowboat, lit by lanthorn, going on without him. He had left their bodies with a son he barely knew and the neighbours he had never really met and headed back to his duty, wondering if his children felt about him the same way he had felt about his own father; a strange mixture of resentment and idolization. He hoped not. Will had been halfway back to his ship when he saw Jack coming down the beach, towards Elizabeth’s body, same battered hat pulled low over his eyes, oilskin coat tight around his shoulders.
Will had turned around, dragged Jack into the shallows, and punched him in the face. He blamed Jack for the curse. He blamed Jack for the too-short time he and Elizabeth had had together. Jack, nose bloody and eyes wide and wild with something other than pain had told Will he had come to find him. Will had told Jack he wished he’d let them hang him, that day in Port Royal. It was another two years before they saw each other again, and in that time Will had realized something he had missed before, in his anger and grief; Captain Jack Sparrow had not aged a day.
Christ, Will thought, picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of his shirt, he must be landsick if he was thinking about all that. Landsick and already sick unto death of Sleepy Hollow and the Crane family drama and he just wanted Jack’s bloody ship back the way she was supposed to be, so they could leave. He got up and, hoping he wasn’t about to give anyone the fright of their lives, walked through the walls of the Van Tassel house until he was in the wine cellar and then back up to where Jack was staying. Secretly, Will still got a slight thrill at the trick.
Jack was standing at the window, still wearing most of his layers, as though he was intending to leave at any moment and though he cocked his head to one side at the thick sound of Will coming through the wooden wall, he didn’t turn around. “Got anything to drink, luv?” Jack asked, though didn’t sound optimistic.
“Actually, yes,” Will said, and set the bottle down hard enough that Jack could heat the solid thud of glass on the wood of the desk. Jack turned around then. “I assumed you would be feeling a little parched.” Will pried the cork out with a knife and took a drink. It was harsh cider, he hadn’t wanted to take any of their wine uninvited, and it burned all the way down and settled warm in his stomach. He passed it to Jack whose throat worked smoothly as he swallowed. Jack was barely breathing hard when he took the bottle away from his lips. Will went to take the cider back from him, but Jack caught hold of his wrist with the other hand and pulled him closer.
“Why’d you come?” Jack asked, looking oddly serious.
“In over fifty years,” Will said, not really sure what his answer would be, even as it came out of his mouth, “you’ve never asked me for a favour.” It wasn’t the right answer. Not for Jack, Will thought, and not really for himself either.
Jack let go of Will’s wrist and turned again to stare out the window. “Thought it was seventy,” he said.
Will tugged the bottle out of Jack’s hand and took a fortifying swig. “Seventy years since I became captain,” he said and Jack said “Oh,” and they stood in silence for a while.
“Not like you owe me,” Jack said, finally. “Reckon I still owe you a few.”
Will could see out of the window, but he wasn’t sure what Jack was even looking at. There was nothing outside but the Western Woods and deep, white, unbroken snow. He didn’t know what Jack was looking for and he was starting to feel certain that, whatever it was, the return of the spirit of the Pearl wasn’t going to help him. He put his arms around Jack, resting his chin on Jack’s shoulder. Then, just because he could, Will tucked his hands under Jack’s shirt and put his cold hands on Jack’s warm belly. He didn’t feel the cold like he did before he became captain of the Dutchman, but Jack could.
Sure enough, Jack yelped and squirmed unhappily. “Christ ablaze, William,” he complained. “If you needed warming up you could have just told me.”
Will laughed and rubbed his hands over Jack’s stomach. “What’s that, then?”
Jack twisted around and kissed Will, pushing him back towards the narrow bed. “So coy,” Jack said, biting at Will’s bottom lip. “Yet here you are, sneaking into my room without a by-your-leave, when the Cranes might stop discussing their marital state at any moment and come looking for us.”
Will, content that his hands were warm enough not to provoke too much argument from Jack, started unbuttoning Jack’s breeches. “You think they’ll come in?” he asked, sitting on the bed when his knees banged up against the wooden frame.
Jack pulled off the two shirts he was wearing and tossed them onto the floor. “P’raps not,” he said. “You’re such a noisy thing, I reckon even Ichabod would know better.”
Will tugged Jack’s breeches down, licking over the curve of one of Jack’s hipbones. “I’m the noisy one?” Will asked, lips against the skin of Jack’s stomach. Jack stepped out of his trousers and crawled on top of Will, goosebumps rising on his skin from the chill of the room. “Care to wager on that?”
“Not a chance, sweetheart,” Jack said, grinning, tugging Will’s shirt out of his trousers, “now be a dear and take - ” he fluttered his hands at Will, “everything off.”
Will slid his hands up Jack’s thighs, curving over his hips, thumbs stretched out to brush teasingly at Jack’s erection, before he tipped Jack to the side and obliged, stripping out of his clothing. Jack watched, lazily stroking his own cock. He was dirty and dark against the clean white linens, the paler skin of his thighs and abdomen still darker than the palest parts of Will’s body, pink puckered scars and black ink that would never fade with age and sun. Will watched him for a moment, listening to Jack’s rings clacking together softly as he worked himself, muscles in his stomach and thighs tensing. He leaned over and Jack made a small, pleased noise when Will finally kissed him again.
Jack swung one leg down off the bed so there was space for Will to kneel on the narrow cot. He put a (slightly sticky) hand in Will’s hair, arching up and tugged at Will’s earring with his teeth. “Just planning on looking or something take your eye?” Jack asked.
Will hummed thoughtfully and traced one finger over the curve of Jack’s cock, thumbing over the head, through the slickness there. He licked his thumb with a slight shrug. “I’ve got a few ideas,” he said.
“Don’t tease,” Jack complained. “It’s too cold.” He pulled at Will’s shoulder and hair until Will relented, stretching out on top of Jack, lazily grinding their hips together.
“When’s the last time we did this?” Will asked as Jack lifted one leg so his heel fit into the curve of Will’s back.
Jack used his grip on Will’s hair to tug him down for another kiss before replying, “Last night, remember?”
Will tilted Jack’s hips up a little further and smiled as Jack moaned, heel digging in painfully. “Mm, no,” Will said. He decided that, considering he already knew the answer to his own question, he wanted to enjoy what time they had together, especially since with the ghosts and the Cranes and Jack’s odd moods, he was unlikely to get as many chances as he would like. He had considered just grinding and rubbing against Jack until they both spent, but he could feel Jack’s erection against his stomach and he wanted, abruptly, to taste it. To have Jack under him, noisy and present and not wandering off in his head wherever it was he went when he stopped, like a wound-down watch, staring off like he was looking for something.
Will pushed Jack’s leg away and curled up, hands planted firmly on Jack’s hips. “I meant how long since we’ve been alone together, like this.” He bit at the pale patch of skin where hip, groin and thigh came together and Jack sighed and squirmed.
“Bloody hell,” Jack said, “I don’t remember.” His hands fluttered over Will’s shoulders. Apparently he had learned that when Will decided he was going to suck Jack, it was better for him not to do anything foolish, like pull Will’s hair. Will licked up the underside of Jack’s cock in an encouraging sort of way. “Half a year,” Jack said.
Will raised an eyebrow. “It’s been a whole year, Jack. Most of which you spent ashore.”
“I was looking for my ghost,” Jack said one hand thumping down onto the sheets when Will sucked on the head of his cock.
Will lifted his head, licking his lips. “You were avoiding me.”
Jack propped himself up on his elbows. “I was not,” he said, sounding affronted, which was rather impressive, considering he also sounded as though he was about a minute away from begging Will to shut up and suck him.
“If I was avoiding you,” Jack said, arching his back in a distracting sort of way, “I wouldn’t have asked for your help.”
“You’d ask the devil himself for help if you thought you had a shot at getting what you wanted.” Will shrugged one shoulder. “I’m just curious,” he said.
Jack flopped back against the sheets, one arm over his eyes. “I wasn’t avoiding you,” he said and after fifty years Will had a pretty good sense for when Jack was lying to him. The set of his mouth and the fretful twitch of his fingers said he was telling the truth. Will frowned thoughtfully. He had had his own theories about their wild goose chase and it seemed as though he had guessed wrong.
“All right,” Will said, and put his mouth to Jack again.
Jack groaned happily, hips pushing up against Will’s hands. “I missed you,” Jack said and Will nearly choked. “Oh, don’t stop,” Jack said when Will coughed, wiping at his mouth, startled by the confession. “Honestly, Will,” Jack said. “Either you didn’t get enough affection as a sprog, in which case let me assure you that I will shower you with my thoughts and feelings once we are finished, or you have an awful sense of timing, which, to my impeccable recollection, you do, in which case, let me assure you that we can have a heart to heart once we are finished.”
Considering that Will was permanently a young man and Jack was…Jack, ten years at sea without hope of touching port was not as bad as it could have been. Jack, for one, was very rarely not interested in sexual relations and when he wasn’t (or was too drunk) he was so tactile, and so prone to draping himself over Will, regardless of whether Will was upright or horizontal or minding his own damn business, that there was never any want of physical affection. It was nice, Will thought. He wasn’t used to it, even after so many years, but he was slowly getting used to the idea that he could have it, if he asked, (and even when he didn’t) and it wouldn’t be rebuffed.
“Later then,” Will agreed and whatever Jack was going to say became a muffled whimper when Will returned to sucking and licking at his cock.
His own erection was leaking against his stomach, a pleasant ache but one demanding attention. Will reached between Jack’s legs and rubbed thoughtfully at Jack’s hole with a dry finger.
Jack’s head thumped back against the pillow. “Buggery,” he said.
Will looked up, a little distracted. He had been wondering if he wanted to attempt to fuck on a bed barely wider than Jack’s narrow hips, move to the cold wooden floor, or see how sturdy the desk was - and whether he’d rather get Jack on whatever their chosen surface turned out to be and fuck him insensible, or if he was more in the mood to be fucked himself. “What?” he said. “Yes?”
Jack sat up, nearly sending Will tumbling to the floor. “No,” he said. “Or, rather, yes, but also no, ‘less you’re up for something fast and rough, because I don’t know about you, darlin’, but it’s been a while and I don’t have anything, and I doubt rummaging about in the drawers is going to yield much.”
Will groaned. “Bloody hell,” he said and then made an executive decision. “And bloody puritans,” he muttered, sliding down the bed so he was kneeling in between Jack’s legs. “Nothing but quilts and whitewash. Turn over.”
Jack huffed out a laugh and did as he was told, stretching out, the muscles in his back shifting under his tattoos. “Demanding,” he said, though it didn’t sound as though he minded. Will spat in his hand and slicked his cock. Over his shoulder, Jack gave him a curious look and shifted so he was on his elbows and knees. “Fast and rough then, eh?” he asked.
“Not that rough,” Will said, sliding his cock between Jack’s thighs.
“Ah,” Jack said, putting his thighs together without Will having to ask. “That’s what I like about you, William. You’re a regular gentleman.” He hummed his appreciation when Will curved over him, steadying himself on one hand, curling the other around Jack’s erection, slick from his spit.
It wasn’t the same as fucking, not the same tight push, not the same fullness and ache. But Jack’s thighs were tight around Will’s cock and the dry, almost too dry, slip was gradually eased by sweat as Jack warmed under him, as he fisted Jack’s cock until he was shoving back against Will, muffling his curses and moans in the bend of his arm. Will pressed his face against the wing of Jack’s shoulder, scraped his teeth over the skin there, tasted old sweat and new sweat and he turned his face so he could feel the beating of Jack’s heart against his lips, like he felt it against his chest.
“I don’t care,” Jack said as Will’s cock slipped over his hole, catching for a moment before sliding back between his thighs, the head nudging against the soft underside of Jack’s sac. His legs sprawled apart as he tilted his hips up, shoulders down, one hand wrapping tight around Will’s wrist, stilling his hand. “Please.”
“No,” Will said. He pushed Jack’s thighs back together, planting his knees on the outside of Jack’s, keeping them in place.
Jack twisted around as much as he could and bit at Will’s mouth. “William,” he said, Will’s name drawn out into a whimper and head dropping down, hair sliding forward, when Will tightened his grip, rubbing hard at the base of Jack’s cock. “Just fuck me.”
Will set his teeth into the sweaty skin at the nape of Jack’s neck, thick, tangled hair getting in his eyes and mouth so all he could smell and taste was Jack, and thrust against him. He wanted to fuck Jack, on land, in the hard blue light of winter in the north, where he could see everything. He wanted Jack to fuck him here too, but there was no space and no time and Jack was so determined not to tell him everything, and so determined to cling to old, old habits and run rather than fight, certain he was on his own. Will bit down harder, as though leaving his mark on Jack would convince him otherwise. He came, panting against Jack’s back, legs abruptly feeling soft as pudding.
Will crawled down the bed until he was in danger of falling off the end of it. “Jack…” he said, stupid from coming. and stupid from seeing the results of it, smeared viscous and sticky on Jack’s arse and thighs. He spread Jack with his hands and licked at the mess. “Touch yourself,” he said shouldering Jack’s legs further apart so he could push his tongue up inside Jack, push his come inside Jack just to watch it seep back out again.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Jack said, thighs shaking, whole body humming under Will’s hands. Will could feel it as he started fisting his cock, shoulder working and he pressed his thumbs in next to his tongue and pulled, gently, enough so he could fuck Jack with his tongue, spit sliding down his chin, until Jack gasped Will’s name and spent over his own hand before his arms gave out under him and he slumped face down onto the bed.
Will grinned and wiped his face with the back of his hand as Jack turned over, belly and cock now, as well as thighs and arse, shiny with come and spit.
“You look pleased with yourself,” Jack said, panting.
“I am.” Will thought about bringing up the notion that Jack had missed him versus been avoiding him again, but he was feeling a little too good to reopen a topic that Jack clearly had no desire to talk about. He decided, instead, to wait for a time when Jack would be pliable, but not too tired, drunk or busy fucking to bring it up again. It was, Will thought, going to be a delicate balance, and not a call he was looking forward to making.
Will ran his fingers over the tattoo bracketing Jack’s thigh, watching as Jack’s breathing slowly began to even out. “This one’s new,” he said, tracing the path of his fingers with his mouth. The muscle jumped under the skin and Will bit down on the un-inked strip between one band of patterned black and the other and bit and sucked until he could see a bruise rising under the pale tan of Jack’s thigh. It would be gone by the end of the day. Will wished he could have seen what Jack would look like as he got older. He wished he could have watched the lines at the corners of his eyes deepen with every smile, and watched for more gold teeth, and grey hairs in the tangle of unbrushed, salt-locked hair. But he was glad he didn’t have to watch Jack die of his lifestyle, of his career, or of his disease. He was glad he wouldn’t have to watch Jack die before he ever had the chance to grow old. He was glad Jack wasn’t going to die.
“Aye,” Jack said.
Jack swatted him away, tugging at Will’s shoulder and bicep until Will was pressed, mostly on top of Jack, bodies sticking together with cooling sweat and pulled the quilt over them.
Will tugged at one of the braids in Jack’s beard thoughtfully. “You said it had been…” he trailed off, not sure the best way to ask if Jack had been sleeping with others. “Never mind.” He was fairly sure Jack wasn’t capable of being faithful and it seemed like a stupid thing to get upset over, since they had never made any sort of agreement. They had never really spoken about it at all.
Two years after he had left his surviving children who barely knew him and Jack, bleeding from the nose, on a beach in the middle of the night, Will had gone looking for Jack. Still at sea, still leading a life devoid of real purpose, still sway-hipped, his smile still bright with gold and his attitude still welcoming.
“Never got a chance to tell you sorry about Lizzie,” Jack had said, sprawled out, half-dressed in the close air of his cabin on the Pearl. There had been no air, a hot week, and Jack was wet with perspiration, slight shine in the lantern-light and he smelt rather strongly of rum. He must have been around fifty, sixty, maybe even pushing seventy, Will still didn’t know how old Jack was, but he didn’t look any older than he had the day Will had found him in Brown’s smithy.
Will had leaned against the wall and crossed his arms and ankles. “Thank you.” Will had said. “You’re looking remarkably well.” Jack had laughed and offered him a chair and a share of the rum. William had got drunk and listened to what was almost certainly an embellished tale about how Jack had found the Fountain of Youth and they had told each other tall tales of storms weathered, and odd crew members, and strange things seen. And Jack, too close suddenly, one hand curled on Will’s shoulder, had said, “Let’s not wait another twenty years, eh lad? You know how to find me,” and it had sounded oddly like an apology. Will said, “I don’t really blame you,” and he thinks he remembers Jack saying something like, “You’re the only one left who believes it all,” and then Will doesn’t really remember anything else except the hangover the next morning and that he threw up twice before giving up on breakfast, and coherent thought.
They met again, a few months later. And then again, and again, and then, one night somewhere off the coast of India, Jack had taken Will’s face between his hands and said, very seriously, “I’d like to kiss you, William, I’ve thought about it on an’ off for twenty years, but you’re the only one like me and I’druther carry on as mates than have you push me away.”
Will had said, “I didn’t think you had that sort of patience,” when what he meant was a jumble of, ‘I didn’t want to assume you were like that just because of the way you act sometimes,’ and ‘I didn’t think you actually wanted me, I thought you were just flirting like you do with everything else that moves,’ and ‘We’ve betrayed each other and saved each other and we’re going to live forever and even you can’t hold a grudge that long, and I wouldn’t, not over something like that, so just fucking do it already.’
Jack had hesitated, looking unsure and Will had put his hands into the thick tangle of Jack’s hair and kissed him because Jack was clever and beautiful and Will was lonely and he wanted Jack in the same sort of ways he had wanted Elizabeth and Christ, he was a Death, did he really need to overanalyze his feelings for another immortal?
“What’re you thinking about?” Jack asked, prodding Will in the side, pulling him back to the present and away from the coast of India.
Will shrugged one shoulder as best he could. “Nothing important,” he said. “I wonder if the Cranes have come to any sort of reconciliation.”
“Doubt it,” Jack said, but slapped Will on the arse and pushed at him until Will got up. “Wonder if we could get some water. You smell dreadful.” He winked, pulling his trousers back on.
There was a hesitant knock on the door and Will stifled a laugh as Jack hopped about on the cold floor, tugging socks and shirts on, making shooing gestures at Will. Will stole Jack’s quilt, so he had something to wrap around himself, snagged his clothes from their place on the floor and walked back to his room through the walls.
The servant girl brought only tea, not news that he could leave the room and Will, re-clothed and in need of more answers than he thought Jack likely to give him, simply thanked her, shut the door after her, and walked out through the walls again. He found the Hessian sitting on a plush chair in full armour, sharpening his sword. The horseman did not seem discomfited to see another man walk through walls. If anything, the set of his shoulders eased, though Will was hesitant to think he could read Christiaan at all.
“May I join you?” Will asked and at Christiaan’s nod, settled himself on a sofa. “This is a beautiful house,” he said. “I wonder that Constable Crane does not spend more time here.”
Christiaan barked out a laugh. “No you don’t,” he said. Will wondered how such a man would manage an eternity. It would certainly not be easy with his attitude, and harder still with those teeth.
Will bowed his head in agreement. “I suppose not.” He tapped his fingers idly against his knee. “You fought in the revolutionary war,” he said, simply for something to say.
“I died in it,” Christiaan said wryly. “And you at sea before that, and now we must fear the changing times, the metal beasts and factories that rise out of the cities and swamp the air with soot, and choke the trees with black, and poison the waters with their runoff. Now we must fear the world that will not believe in magic, ghost ships, wandering immortals, and soldiers who will never die.”
Will could see how Ichabod, who obviously liked to be as close-mouthed as Jack, would find such introspection irritating. “I have nothing to fear,” he said.
“No,” Christiaan said, “perhaps not.” He returned to sharpening his sword. “I suppose men will continue to die at sea, and continue to fear that end, and you will continue to ferry, and collect, and carry on until you grow weary of your duty.”
Will smiled placidly. “Shockingly enough, I enjoy a little routine to my life.”
“A long time to follow one path.” The rasp of Christiaan sharpening his sword seemed almost thoughtful. Will wondered if it really needed to be sharpened or if it was just habit. “Your woman, she was not faithful?” Christiaan asked, still concentrating on his sword.
Will bristled. “How dare you -” he started, getting to his feet.
Christiaan just looked up, surprised and said, “Is that not the nature of your curse?”
“What?”
Christiaan examined the edge of the sword, testing it with his thumb. “Ten years at sea and then, if she was faithful, you could return to land.”
Will sat back down. “Not that I ever heard,” he said. “The captain is the captain for as long as he is captain. I’ve been trying to get word from Tia -Calypso on that matter, but she’s incommunicado still. I became so because I killed Jones, I’ve no idea how I will cede the title, but I hope it’s not in such a way.”
“But I thought…” Christiaan frowned. “What about the heart? Ichabod told me your heart was cut out of your chest. Because of a woman.”
Will pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jones cut out his own heart for love of a woman. My heart was removed because…My father, God rest his soul,” he said. “My father was not….” he sighed. “Not sane, I suppose. He sort of came and went. Too much time at the bottom of the sea before Jones picked him up, I think it drove him mad. My heart could have stayed where it was, but my father had it in what’s left of his mind that it was a prerequisite. My wife was faithful to me.”
“Then why are you not so to her?”
“It’s been fifty years, mate,” Jack said, slipping into the room from the hall where he had certainly not been eavesdropping. “Lizzie died a good while ago.” Will suspected he was still sore about being betrayed and eaten, and he had hinted that just because Will loved her didn’t mean that Jack had to forgive and forget. Never let it be said that Jack Sparrow could not hold a grudge. Just ask Barbossa. “The nature of William’s condition is something we’re looking into,” Jack said smoothly. “I’m still hoping we might get it straight from the horse’s mouth, but we’ll see. I’m looking for Crane, have you seen him?”
Christiaan rolled his eyes towards the door. “In the gardens, but do not go to him. He is with his white witch. She does not like you, though I believe she still likes me less.”
“Why?” Will asked.
Christiaan sheathed his sword. “I killed her father, so I suppose that is why.”
“You what?” Will said, aghast as Jack tipped his hat to Christiaan and headed out of the room. Will got up and followed Jack, not sure he really wanted to know the details from Christiaan, and more curious about what Jack was doing. But Jack flapped an irritated hand at him.
“No need to hover,” Jack said. “I just need a word with Ichabod.” He continued down the dark, cold hallway of Ichabod’s house, leaving Will standing foolishly outside the drawing room wondering what on Earth Jack was doing and why he was needed so desperately one moment and shooed away the next.
There was a soft sound from behind him and Will spun on his toes to see Christiaan leaning causally against the doorframe, watching Jack round the corner and disappear. “I have killed a lot of men,” Christiaan said. “A few were at the behest of a witch; the murders you have likely heard of that happened here. Katrina’s father, among them. But mostly I killed men because I enjoy it, because I love war, and in this world, there will always be a place for me. Once I am free of these lands, and the bondage of the Tree, I will walk amongst the living and continue on as I did before. I can learn this new warfare, I think, and discover the ways in which it stirs my blood.”
“Is there a point to all that?” Will snapped and was then irritated that he had lost his temper.
Christiaan smiled, sharp, sharp teeth glinting in the light. “If I know nothing else, I know what fear looks like,” he said and nodded in the direction that Jack had gone.
Will managed to smile back, though he suspected it was more a baring of the teeth than anything else. “Jack and I have killed two men who others said were immortal. I have long since tired of those who inflict pain on others simply for their own enjoyment. Do not doubt that if I tire further of you, I will find a way to make you stay in the ground.”
“Is that how they used to ask others to keep out of their affairs from when you were a mortal man?” Christiaan asked.
“No,” Will said, “that was a threat.” He stormed off after Jack, determined that if Jack was going to drag him into another ill-advised adventure, they were going to do things a little differently this time. If Jack was in more trouble than he was letting on, Will thought, it would be nice to know ahead of time for once.
TBC.