Jack/Will-a-thon
Title: The Last of the Great Navigators
Author: xzombiexkittenx
For: metalkatt and veronica_rich
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Melancholy; angry sex.
Disclaimer: If wishes were horses then I’d be sneezing because I’m allergic to horses. The title is stolen from the title of a Bluetones song.
Summary: Autumn is a season, an age, a state of mind, and Jack is starting to feel the cold. Fifteen years after Jack falls off Fort Royal and our heroes are not quite as young as they used to be.
Thanks to smtfhw for the speedy beta.
Challenge: The fabulous team of N. Ranken and V. Rich requested, “No ‘WetBitch!Will’, ONLY J/W relationship mentioned in relation to each other, and no J or W character death.” They had no other stipulations so I picked up the “autumn” theme and went a bit wonky with it.
*~*~*~*
It’s been raining hard for three days now and Jack’s barely slept. The Pearl isn’t as young as she used to be and he worries about her, even though she’s in as good shape as she was when she was made. Barely a timber on her is an original save for the figurehead; bits and pieces have been replaced as needed, so she’s holding together a lot better than her aging captain.
The crew too have come and gone, with only a small number remaining from the Isle de Muerte adventure. Notably missing from the account are Gibbs, Mr. Cotton and Marty.
Gibbs gave up piracy and sailing to take his share of the treasure and open a tavern. The last time Jack saw him, he was sitting by the bar, drinking grog and entertaining a number of wide-eyed young men with the tale of How Mr. Cotton Taught the Parrot to Speak. The story involved an unbreakable code, a man who spoke all the languages of the world, and three coconuts.
Mr. Cotton is dead and his parrot, living comfortably in the care of Gibbs, no longer talks except on nights when the veil between this world and the next is thin. Will said Gibbs was a little more addled from drink these days, until Gibbs found Cotton’s widow via the parrot. No one knew Cotton had been married. She had turned out to be a girl from a tiny jungle tribe whose language was a series of whistles and clicks not dissimilar to the sounds made by a parrot.
Marty too, is dead, having passed away at the tender age of thirty-one. The doctor had claimed it was an apoplexy because of his stature. According to Marty’s wishes, he’d been buried ashore. Jack had bought the coffin and plot himself. They had both been full size.
The storm is clearing, though the rain persists. Will, deciding he is no longer needed above decks, finds Jack sitting on their bunk, staring at his hands, eyes wide and over-bright in the dim, flickering light. Only one lamp is lit since Jack can find his way around the ship with his eyes shut and the water is choppy enough that every light is a hazard.
Jack’s hands are swollen and knotted with arthritis that set in a few years ago. He never complains, but Will can see him struggle sometimes to do tasks that require delicacy of touch and he sees Jack pretend on cold, wet days that his hands don’t pain him something terrible. It would have been better to stay in the Caribbean, but Spanish gold beckoned once more and they sail around hunting galleons from the New World now. Jack says frequently that the golden age of piracy is over, but then he always grins and makes disparaging remarks about how backwards the Spanish are, and ain’t it a good thing that they’ve not yet realized that, or he’d be out of a job. The change in climate has made the crew of the Pearl obscene amounts of treasure, but it certainly hasn’t done Jack’s poor knuckles any favors.
“I can’t fuckin’ move ‘em,” Jack says softly, not looking up, and his voice is tight with pain. “Jesus, Will, I can’t move ‘em at all.”
Jack is fifty or thereabouts, perhaps a little older; either he isn’t entirely sure what year he was born, or he’s not telling. In the decade and a half that Will has sailed with him, Jack hasn’t aged as other men do; He has a few more gold teeth (but that might have more to do with the handful of bar fights and the copious amounts of rum), there are laugh lines etched white under Jack’s kohl and his hair is starting to grey. Those are the only signs of age that Will can spot. Jack thinks they make him look old and less, as he likes to say; “handsome as the devil himself.” Will thinks they make him look distinguished. Will is thirty three. He still can’t grow a proper beard.
Jack turns his hands over, looking at them as though he’s never seen them before. There are still white bands of skin from where he had to abandon his rings. Will had to cut two of them off. They are all sequestered away somewhere in the tangle of Jack’s hair. “You have t’ leave,” he says. Will thinks he means the room, for the moment, perhaps to fetch their sawbones. This illusion lasts only a second when Jack says; “I’m puttin’ everyone ashore, next port. The Pearl an’ I have one last adventure to make.” Jack shakes his head and looks up; his eyeblack is smudged in trails down his face. “Last thing I’ll be fuckin’ good for in this state.”
Will thinks, of all the daft things Jack has ever said, this might be the stupidest of all of them and he says as much. “My mother,” he says coldly after letting Jack know how idiotic he is, “used to sew to earn a little extra money. Between the damp and the needlework her knuckles were like stones. She might have gone blind too, if the fever hadn’t taken her first. In all those years I never remember her saying she was going to burn the house down around her just because she couldn’t do a stitch that day. You have a crew of men who can easily do the tasks you can’t manage and, since you’re the captain, they won’t even ask why. So don’t you dare tell me that you’re going to sink the Pearl and go down with her, because if I hear another word like that out of your fool mouth again I’ll…” He can’t think of a threat he’s willing to carry out, so he frowns and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’ll tell Anamaria,” he says finally. “And then you’ll have to hear about her female pains.”
Anamaria no longer bleeds each month but she’s twice as bad tempered since the hot flushes have set in. She never got her own ship. Every ship that Jack found her had something wrong with it. After a while Jack stopped mentioning it and the first time they passed up a ship that he normally would have offered to her, she smiled and touched the Pearl in a way that wasn’t dissimilar to Jack’s usual caress. Anamaria has been his first mate since she brought him back the Black Pearl and saved him from being returned to the gallows. She too has threads of grey around her temples and lines on her face that weren’t there ten years ago but, like Jack, she’s still beautiful and still dangerous as hell.
Jack laughs, but it sounds half-choked. “We all got our crosses to bear,” he says softly.
“And mine is you,” Will huffs crossly, kneeling in front of Jack so he can look at Jack’s hands. “Christ, you’re freezing! No wonder they hurt.”
He strips Jack of his wet clothing and puts him to bed, with orders not to shift until he’s caught up on his sleep. Jack doesn’t protest and Will goes down to the galley while Jack curls up around his hands and pretends to nap; the little choked whimpers he is making tell Will otherwise. Will takes rags and warms them in front of the fire, then returns to their cabin to wrap Jack’s chapped, gnarled hands in them. Jack stays very quiet but Will can see there will be new lines around Jack’s eyes in the next few years and these ones won’t be from smiling. He gently kisses the very tips of Jack’s fingers.
“It wasn’t the fever that killed my mother, not really.” It hurts to face Jack and say it, but he is no coward. “It was losing my father. If you go down with the Pearl, and I’m not there with you…”
Will and Jack have been together for eleven years. In all that time Jack only said, “I love you,” once; when he thought Will wasn’t listening. Will doesn’t mind because he has been with Jack longer than Jack chased the Pearl. Since Jack professes on a regular basis how much he loves his ship, Will imagines he’s in good company.
Jack says it now. His voice is barely a whisper and he won’t look at Will, but he says it.
Their initial arrangement eleven years ago was simple: Will, the Pearl’s official carpenter, bunked with the crew, but most nights he would come to Jack’s cabin and they would fuck. Or, rather, Jack would fuck Will, since it turned out that he was seriously disinclined to be on the receiving end of such attentions. Then Will’s hammock - an old, spare thing - had torn quite badly and Will had moved into Jack’s cabin on the assumption that he would leave again once he had a new one. (The Pearl was overstocked on the oddest things and under-stocked on others, since Barbossa had made something of a mess of her inventory and Jack was still in the process of figuring out what they were missing.) He had never moved out. By this point, Jack had taken to automatically pouring two drinks in the evening, sleeping on one side of the sheets even if Will wasn’t in the bed, and generally behaving as though Will was a welcome and expected resident in his room. Jack, as far as Will knew, hadn’t been with anyone else since Will had moved in.
Two years into what most would have considered a long-term, monogamous relationship Jack finally let Will have him. Jack, for all his bravado and innuendo, had been nervous enough that he trembled in Will’s arms and needed far more gentling and coaxing than Will ever had. Afterwards he had been very quiet and had curled up around Will, not in his habitual sprawl, but almost clinging.
He had muttered it into Will’s hair when he thought Will was asleep. The next morning he was his usual self again, and they never said anything more about it, though Jack was less reticent about allowing Will to take the lead.
Jack looks up and brushes his poor abused fingers across one of Will’s cheeks. He says it again, in a more audible tone.
“You’re a daft bugger,” Will replies, and kisses him. “And you’re clearly overtired. I’ve not seen you this emotional in years.”
He strips off his own clothing, sure the crew can do without them for at least the night (and it’s not like most of them haven’t walked in on either Jack or Will in some state of undress and impropriety at least once anyway) and then climbs onto the bunk, shoving at Jack until he shuffles over. It’s a nightly ritual, in a way, to see how much space he can manage to get and how much he’ll have left in the morning once Jack has finished hogging the sheets. Not that he minds, since he’s a hard man to move, so mostly Jack wakes up half draped over Will, something Will isn’t about to complain about.
Tonight he doesn’t press too hard though. Instead he twines his limbs about Jack’s; one thigh between Jack’s legs, one of his arms under Jack’s neck and the other over his waist. Jack’s hands stay curled up between them, resting warm and soft against Will’s chest. Jack gives a soft sigh of contentment and his eyes flutter shut.
Will has spent enough time in the world of sailing to have heard men of all ages talk about the women they have conquered or the problems they now suffer due to age or disease. In the time he has spent with Jack Will has not noticed any remarkable difference in Jack’s virility and Jack has aged and suffered all manner of bizarre tropical diseases. The only arena in which Jack can no longer compete against Will is sheer stamina; he needs a little longer to recover these days (and his knees aren’t quite what they used to be, which gives Will another small advantage of leverage). It is something of an indication of how much pain Jack is in that his cock is soft against Will’s leg. Will kisses Jack softly, half thinking that it might be best if it was a goodnight kiss, but he can feel Jack stir against his thigh and he has to work hard not to roll his eyes.
“You’re incorrigible,” he says, but his hand trails lightly over Jack’s spine, making Jack shiver.
Even in the dim light of the cabin he can still see Jack’s gold teeth glinting. It’s not the tired, pained smile of a moment ago, though it is still a little strained about the eyes. Rather, it is the smile Jack saves for those intimate (or public, depending on how risqué Jack is feeling) moments and it is still enough to twist Will’s guts up in that pleasurable sensation it did all those years ago when Jack first curled his lips up in that way, about a second before he slammed Will up against the cabin door and sucked Will off.
Jack shifts one leg strategically so it rubs gently against Will’s suddenly very interested anatomy. “Insatiable, darlin’,” he growls and wraps that smile around Will’s tongue. His hands stay nestled between them, in the way of closer contact, elbows pressed lightly into Will’s ribs, but likely to get uncomfortable if Will moves any nearer. Jack groans softly into Will’s mouth and his hands twitch against Will’s skin. “Fuck,” he mutters pulling back so they can look at each other without going cross-eyed. “I can’t even touch you.”
Will grins wickedly and pushes until Jack is lying on his back. He catches Jack’s wrists and pins them to the bunk up by his head. “I seem to remember a certain pirate captain pinning me down like this, oh, less than a fortnight ago and giving me a rather detailed demonstration in the art of Not Touching.” His smile grows as Jack’s eyes first widen in understanding then narrow again in low-lidded arousal. “Oh aye, Captain, turnabout is fair play.”
“But I don’ play fair,” Jack demurs, arching up, heels digging into the sheets, grinding up into Will.
“Ah, ah, Jack.” Will lifts himself up onto his hands and knees, still pinning Jack’s wrists. “None of that. I’m in charge tonight, since you’re too daft to do for yourself.” The soft edge to his voice shows he’s only teasing. “Don’t move.”
Jack gleefully squirms, hooking one leg around Will’s hips and tugging down so Will almost lands, rather heavily, atop him. “An’ if I promise to behave?”
Will quirks an eyebrow, a trick he’d learned from Jack. That delicious little expression that meant so many things from Christ, Will, you’re an idjit sometimes to One more little tease an’ I’ll have you up against the mainmast, you see if I don’t. “We’ll see,” he says, licking his lips and it earns him a little groaning sigh from Jack. “Now, hold still.” He lets go of Jack’s wrists and Jack doesn’t follow the letter of the law, (but when has he ever?) instead he crosses his wrists above his head and leers up at Will.
“How’s that?”
Will leans down and bites gently at one nipple, tugging slightly and Jack groans in earnest, toes curling because he can’t clench his fists. “It’ll do.” Will moves across Jack’s chest to tease his other nipple with the very tip of his tongue, shifting his weight so he can run one hand across the corrugation of Jack’s ribs and under, to the small of his back, holding him still as he abandons the peaked flesh in favor of kissing and licking his way down Jack’s breastbone to the concave of his stomach.
Jack’s eyes squeeze shut with the effort of not moving. “It’ll do?” he manages to grate out. “Jesus.”
“Stop talking, Jack,” Will mutters, “you’re distracting me.” Then his hands slide up the sides of Jack’s thighs and he licks one long line up Jack’s cock.
He can still remember the first time he did this, how Jack dug his nails into the sheets so he wouldn’t do the same to Will’s hair and how he’d panicked and choked. He can remember that glorious moment when he found his rhythm and the almost pained sigh that Jack made right before he came. Now he knows to slide his thumbs into the hollow of Jack’s hipbones and press, and it makes Jack’s cock twitch against his tongue. He wraps his lips around the head of Jack’s erection and runs the flat of his tongue over the tip before he sucks hard and then opens his throat and pushes down until his nose is bumping against the wiry curls at the base of Jack’s cock. He knows the way Jack will whimper before he even does it, and he’s not disappointed. Familiarity hasn’t bred anything but more desire because he can play with what he knows, curling his tongue as he sucks, moving slowly up and down, and it draws a strangled curse from Jack, one he’s not sure he’s heard before; the bastard child of Fuck, Will, yes, a moan and Jesus Christ.
Will sits back on his heels, and Jack is beautiful, panting already, a fine tremor running through him. Will digs his hand under the mattress and pulls out their little bottle of oils. They’ll need to pick more up or they’ll be stuck with lamp oil and Will has long since decided that it’s not good for his health to be wandering around with an incendiary fluid drying on and in his person. That, and it smells a little funny after a few hours. He coats his fingers and reaches back, spreading his legs and twisting two fingers up inside himself.
Jack cheats. He sits up and kisses Will but he keeps his hands to himself. Jack moves his mouth along the line of Will’s jaw to nip behind Will’s ear. His eyelashes flutter against Will’s skin and then Jack sets his teeth into Will’s shoulder. “Please,” he says softly, and it’s not a plea, it’s a demand, but all a-sigh and Will has never learned to say no to Jack.
He pushes Jack back down and runs his oiled hand over Jack’s cock. “Hold still damn it,” he chides, teasing.
“Aye, aye, sir.” Jack bites at his own lip when Will straddles him and eases himself down, slowly, oh, slowly and the slide and stretch of it is still delicious and Will can’t help but leaning forward as he does so, so he can capture Jack’s wrists again, holding him still as he lifts himself back up, and then lets his weight do the work, dropping fast and hard so Jack is buried deep and they both gasp and pant.
Jack cheats again, not that Will expected anything else of him, and he digs his heels into the sheets and rocks upwards. They’re moving together then, and sweat tickles down the curve of Will’s back and shines in the dim light on Jack’s chest. It’s actually quite leisurely, a respite from the pain and the grim weather and the press of age on Jack’s mind.
Will lets go of Jack with one hand so he can stroke his own cock, moving faster now until Jack’s mouth opens wide enough that Will can count his gold teeth, and he shudders, feet slipping on the sweaty sheets. Will grinds down and tightens inside so his name is drawn out of Jack in a long sigh. For all his chatter and noise, Jack is surprisingly quiet when he comes. Will is not. He yowls when Jack rolls them over, pulling out and curling over to bat Will’s hand away and wrap his lips around Will’s cock. He cries out Jack’s name between clenched teeth as he comes and Jack sits back on his heels, looking smug and sleepy.
“How’d that do?” he grins as Will kisses him, messily from satiation.
Will hums happily and flops down onto the bunk, one arm out so Jack can settle into his sprawl over him and the majority of the space. “Did me just fine.” He presses a kiss to Jack’s forehead. “Good night, Jack.”
Jack grunts and shifts about a little more before he finally settles. “Night, lad.”
*~*~*~*
Jack isn’t in the bed when Will wakes up and the bandages from his hands are scattered over the table next to a basin of mostly clean water. Will tidies himself up, debates the merits of trying to find a cleaner pair of breeches, gives up on the idea and makes his way out onto the deck.
The air outside is no warmer than it was the night before, but at least the rain has ceased and the sun is creeping half-heartedly towards penetrating the clouds. They’re near enough to shore that Will can see the seasonal trees are starting to brighten into hues of red and gold. He makes a mental note to go through their winter clothing and make sure it’s not all as ragged as their summer things have become.
Jack comes to stand beside him, hands clasped behind his back so Will can’t see them. “Lovely mornin’, Mister Tuner,” he says quietly, “if not a bit chill.”
Will turns so his back is against the taffrail. “You sound like the commodore.” He grins, trying not to be too obvious about giving Jack the once-over to make sure he’s whole and hale. Jack won’t ask which commodore, though they’ve seen their fair share of them. Norrington shared their Aztec adventure and had a hand in getting Jack his Pearl back and that makes him the commodore and not just any other. Last they heard of him, he was still about the Caribbean, hunting the Spanish instead of pirates. Will isn’t sure what he is hoping to accomplish by mentioning their old haunts, but he’s learned to trust the little needles of instinct that occasionally keep him from doing the compulsively stupid acts of rashness that had so characterized his early pirating days.
“’S that so?” Jack sounds contemplative. “I wonder…” He shakes his head, a wry smile on his face. “I wonder that we’re standin’ about like a couple of old maids wiv their tongues a-waggin’ when we’ve got work needs t’ be done.”
That wasn’t what he had been going to say, and Will would be a simpleton not to notice that. He shrugs one shoulder instead of leaping to attention. “If I might make a suggestion, Captain, we might put to shore and let the crew have some leave. It’s been a horrible few days.”
Jack gives him a sharp look. “If you’re doin’ what I think you’re doin’, Mister Turner, than I suggest you stop right there.” He puts his hands on his hips and Will draws in a sharp breath. Jack’s hands look worse than the night before and it’s a wonder that he can move them at all without wincing. His eyes narrow at Will’s expression. “Will-” he starts in a low tone, but Will cuts him off.
“Can I speak to you in the cabin, Captain?” He takes hold of Jack’s arm, not really giving him a choice in the matter and steers Jack back towards their bunk. Will manages to keep his peace until the door is closed behind them and then he sits, quite calmly, down on the bunk. “What did you do to them?”
There is a surly expression on Jack’s face that doesn’t bode well for the conversation. “Lines needed seein’ to, not that it’s any of your damn business.”
Will puts his head in his hands. “Christ Jesus, Jack. You’ve got to take it easier.” He stands up again and takes Jack’s face in his hands this time. “I’ve got…Jack, we can’t keep this up and…well, I think we should go back to the Caribbean and speak to the commodore about getting a privateer license. There. I’ve said it.”
Jack shoves Will away, something between fury and anguish twisting up his mouth. “I ain’t losin’ my ship to the Navy. There’s no profit down there any more an’ this is the best we’ve had it. There’s galleons all over the fuckin’ place an’ you want t’ bugger off back to someone else’s war. Fuck.” He starts pacing, begins to wave his hands and yelps in pain. “Fuck!” Jack snatches up their wash basin and throws it across the room. This time the yelp is more of a choked scream. He sinks to his knees, cradling his hands to his chest. “I won’t be bested by this, Will. An’ I’ll go straight to the devil before I roll over an’ let it have me.”
“You’ve been thinking it,” Will accuses, kneeling next to Jack. “It’s not like you’re giving up the Pearl or your freedom; we can’t stay here, you’re going to lose all use of-”
Jack launches himself at Will, cutting off the unspeakable, cursing and hissing in pain and anger as they slam into the floorboards. Will isn’t sure who starts it, but then they’re kissing, hard and desperate as Jack tears at Will’s breeches. Will pushes him off to grab hold of Jack’s shirt and pull, as though he can get it off that way. There is nothing of the gentleness from the night before because Jack’s mouth is in a hard line and there’s something dangerous in his eyes and Will wants to punch Jack for being so fucking stubborn. Jack fastens his mouth to Will’s throat, pinning him down with the heels of his hands, digging them in hard to the soft skin at the junction of Will’s shoulder and body. Will knocks his forearms against Jack’s elbows, breaking Jack’s hold, and they tumble across the floor, furious and frustrated, clothing half removed, one sleeve still keeping Will’s shirt on, Jack’s torn halfway down.
Will fights back, trying to pin Jack again, but Jack bites hard at his lip until Will can taste blood and Jack uses that moment of surprise to get Will onto his back. He gets one hand wrapped in Will’s hair, holding him down, though Will struggles against it. Jack reaches down but he can’t get his fingers inside Will. The pain drags a half scream, half moan from Jack and he falls back, eyes wide and almost frightened behind the fury.
This time Will holds his advantage and manages to pin Jack, face down, ignoring the curses and threats. He spits, though it isn’t really enough, and forces one finger inside Jack, twisting and stretching until he can slide another in. Jack’s panting and struggling but Will holds him down, one hand on the back of Jack’s neck, sitting on his legs.
“You’re so fucking frustrating,” Will snarls, pressing in hard, forcing another finger into Jack so Jack groans and goes limply compliant. “You’re not God, you’re not your own legend, you stubborn ass. I won’t let you keep doing this.” He pulls his fingers out, too rough, too angry for this, but then Jack is fighting again and they’re wrestling for control again, up, crashing into the table, stumbling across the room, tripping over breeches not quite off until Will slams Jack back against a wall, hard enough to make Jack’s breath catch in his chest and Will hauls one of Jack’s legs up around his waist and Jack bites down on the hand covering his mouth as Will pushes himself inside Jack, slow and tight.
Jack gets his arms around Will’s shoulders, using his leverage against the wall to retaliate, shoving back against Will so they aren’t making love, or enjoying a quick tumble, they’re fucking; Will’s breath fast and angry in Jack’s ear, Jack growling obscenities against Will’s palm.
It doesn’t last very long, it can’t. Jack does cry out this time, warmth and wet slick between them and the relief on his face is enough to make Will come, knees buckling so he stumbles into Jack and they slide to the floor. The rage drains away to leave them exhausted and a little weary as they lie together, panting, coming down slowly.
Jack half-lifts his head from Will’s shoulder then lets it fall back again. He turns so he can lick at the sweat cooling in the hollow of Will’s collarbone. “You think he’ll go for it?” he asks softly, muttering into Will’s skin.
“Pardon?”
“Norrington. D’ you think he’d go for it, or will we all wind up with our necks in the noose?” Jack shrugs as though it’s not really that interesting to him either way, but there’s a pensive twist to his lips.
Will tilts Jack’s chin up so he can kiss him, not as hard as a moment ago, but not gently either. “I’ll write to Elizabeth, if anyone can talk the commodore into something, it’s her.” He too flops back, too tired to instigate another round. “That girl could talk the hind leg off a donkey when the mood suits her.”
Jack gets to his hands and knees with a groan, kicking his breeches off the one leg they still cling to and stumbles over to fetch a water skin and a cloth. He settles down onto the bunk with a bit of a wince and cleans himself up as best he can without spilling water all over the sheets. “Reckon the Pearl needs a good careening,” Jack muses, not looking at Will. “Thought we might find somewhere to shore up for a bit, give the crew leave, catch our breath.” He almost drops the skin, he can’t get his hands to curl around it properly, so Will crawls up onto the bunk next to him and takes it from him, ostensibly so he can clean himself.
“Mmm, I could stop round a smithy, have a look at that nick in your sword.” Will plugs the skin and drops it to the floor, settling back onto the sheets, one arm out so Jack can curl up against his chest, as always. There’s a bite-mark on his palm and it doesn’t bother him because Jack has something similar on his neck. They’re both bruised really, but Will feels better for it, and the contented sigh Jack gives reassures him that all is well.
“It’s got bigger,” Jack replies. “’M worried it might snap.”
Will lets his eyes drift shut but he can’t help the little smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I guess I could make you a new one. While we’re in port and all. If we have time.”
Jack makes a soft agreeable sound. “’F we’ve the time.”
They’ve got the time; Will imagines they’ll have lots of time now that he’s figured out how to give Jack room to maneuver without seeming like it’s weakness. Not that the crew will mind; they’ve no need of the money, Jack’s looked after them all well enough to be sure of that.
Jack’s only fifty - or thereabouts - and Will’s only thirty-three; spring chickens compared to the likes of Mister Gibbs and he’s still kicking.
“The Commodore’s going t’ have a fit,” Jack grins into Will’s shoulder and sniggers.
Will rolls his eyes. “Honestly, Jack,” he mutters. “You’re so immature sometimes.”
He thinks of Jack that night in the cave, all bone, and grin, and decides he wouldn’t have much liked the Immortal Captain Jack Sparrow. He much prefers the grey hairs in Jack’s beard and the fact that Jack will be griping about his knees tomorrow since it means - when he curls over to claim one last kiss before they catch a quick nap - that Jack sighs and smiles, but elbows him lightly for good measure, because it wouldn’t do to be getting ‘all sentimental like,’ as he’s so fond of saying. They’ll have time enough for that when they’re old.
Author: xzombiexkittenx
For: metalkatt and veronica_rich
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Melancholy; angry sex.
Disclaimer: If wishes were horses then I’d be sneezing because I’m allergic to horses. The title is stolen from the title of a Bluetones song.
Summary: Autumn is a season, an age, a state of mind, and Jack is starting to feel the cold. Fifteen years after Jack falls off Fort Royal and our heroes are not quite as young as they used to be.
Thanks to smtfhw for the speedy beta.
Challenge: The fabulous team of N. Ranken and V. Rich requested, “No ‘WetBitch!Will’, ONLY J/W relationship mentioned in relation to each other, and no J or W character death.” They had no other stipulations so I picked up the “autumn” theme and went a bit wonky with it.
*~*~*~*
It’s been raining hard for three days now and Jack’s barely slept. The Pearl isn’t as young as she used to be and he worries about her, even though she’s in as good shape as she was when she was made. Barely a timber on her is an original save for the figurehead; bits and pieces have been replaced as needed, so she’s holding together a lot better than her aging captain.
The crew too have come and gone, with only a small number remaining from the Isle de Muerte adventure. Notably missing from the account are Gibbs, Mr. Cotton and Marty.
Gibbs gave up piracy and sailing to take his share of the treasure and open a tavern. The last time Jack saw him, he was sitting by the bar, drinking grog and entertaining a number of wide-eyed young men with the tale of How Mr. Cotton Taught the Parrot to Speak. The story involved an unbreakable code, a man who spoke all the languages of the world, and three coconuts.
Mr. Cotton is dead and his parrot, living comfortably in the care of Gibbs, no longer talks except on nights when the veil between this world and the next is thin. Will said Gibbs was a little more addled from drink these days, until Gibbs found Cotton’s widow via the parrot. No one knew Cotton had been married. She had turned out to be a girl from a tiny jungle tribe whose language was a series of whistles and clicks not dissimilar to the sounds made by a parrot.
Marty too, is dead, having passed away at the tender age of thirty-one. The doctor had claimed it was an apoplexy because of his stature. According to Marty’s wishes, he’d been buried ashore. Jack had bought the coffin and plot himself. They had both been full size.
The storm is clearing, though the rain persists. Will, deciding he is no longer needed above decks, finds Jack sitting on their bunk, staring at his hands, eyes wide and over-bright in the dim, flickering light. Only one lamp is lit since Jack can find his way around the ship with his eyes shut and the water is choppy enough that every light is a hazard.
Jack’s hands are swollen and knotted with arthritis that set in a few years ago. He never complains, but Will can see him struggle sometimes to do tasks that require delicacy of touch and he sees Jack pretend on cold, wet days that his hands don’t pain him something terrible. It would have been better to stay in the Caribbean, but Spanish gold beckoned once more and they sail around hunting galleons from the New World now. Jack says frequently that the golden age of piracy is over, but then he always grins and makes disparaging remarks about how backwards the Spanish are, and ain’t it a good thing that they’ve not yet realized that, or he’d be out of a job. The change in climate has made the crew of the Pearl obscene amounts of treasure, but it certainly hasn’t done Jack’s poor knuckles any favors.
“I can’t fuckin’ move ‘em,” Jack says softly, not looking up, and his voice is tight with pain. “Jesus, Will, I can’t move ‘em at all.”
Jack is fifty or thereabouts, perhaps a little older; either he isn’t entirely sure what year he was born, or he’s not telling. In the decade and a half that Will has sailed with him, Jack hasn’t aged as other men do; He has a few more gold teeth (but that might have more to do with the handful of bar fights and the copious amounts of rum), there are laugh lines etched white under Jack’s kohl and his hair is starting to grey. Those are the only signs of age that Will can spot. Jack thinks they make him look old and less, as he likes to say; “handsome as the devil himself.” Will thinks they make him look distinguished. Will is thirty three. He still can’t grow a proper beard.
Jack turns his hands over, looking at them as though he’s never seen them before. There are still white bands of skin from where he had to abandon his rings. Will had to cut two of them off. They are all sequestered away somewhere in the tangle of Jack’s hair. “You have t’ leave,” he says. Will thinks he means the room, for the moment, perhaps to fetch their sawbones. This illusion lasts only a second when Jack says; “I’m puttin’ everyone ashore, next port. The Pearl an’ I have one last adventure to make.” Jack shakes his head and looks up; his eyeblack is smudged in trails down his face. “Last thing I’ll be fuckin’ good for in this state.”
Will thinks, of all the daft things Jack has ever said, this might be the stupidest of all of them and he says as much. “My mother,” he says coldly after letting Jack know how idiotic he is, “used to sew to earn a little extra money. Between the damp and the needlework her knuckles were like stones. She might have gone blind too, if the fever hadn’t taken her first. In all those years I never remember her saying she was going to burn the house down around her just because she couldn’t do a stitch that day. You have a crew of men who can easily do the tasks you can’t manage and, since you’re the captain, they won’t even ask why. So don’t you dare tell me that you’re going to sink the Pearl and go down with her, because if I hear another word like that out of your fool mouth again I’ll…” He can’t think of a threat he’s willing to carry out, so he frowns and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’ll tell Anamaria,” he says finally. “And then you’ll have to hear about her female pains.”
Anamaria no longer bleeds each month but she’s twice as bad tempered since the hot flushes have set in. She never got her own ship. Every ship that Jack found her had something wrong with it. After a while Jack stopped mentioning it and the first time they passed up a ship that he normally would have offered to her, she smiled and touched the Pearl in a way that wasn’t dissimilar to Jack’s usual caress. Anamaria has been his first mate since she brought him back the Black Pearl and saved him from being returned to the gallows. She too has threads of grey around her temples and lines on her face that weren’t there ten years ago but, like Jack, she’s still beautiful and still dangerous as hell.
Jack laughs, but it sounds half-choked. “We all got our crosses to bear,” he says softly.
“And mine is you,” Will huffs crossly, kneeling in front of Jack so he can look at Jack’s hands. “Christ, you’re freezing! No wonder they hurt.”
He strips Jack of his wet clothing and puts him to bed, with orders not to shift until he’s caught up on his sleep. Jack doesn’t protest and Will goes down to the galley while Jack curls up around his hands and pretends to nap; the little choked whimpers he is making tell Will otherwise. Will takes rags and warms them in front of the fire, then returns to their cabin to wrap Jack’s chapped, gnarled hands in them. Jack stays very quiet but Will can see there will be new lines around Jack’s eyes in the next few years and these ones won’t be from smiling. He gently kisses the very tips of Jack’s fingers.
“It wasn’t the fever that killed my mother, not really.” It hurts to face Jack and say it, but he is no coward. “It was losing my father. If you go down with the Pearl, and I’m not there with you…”
Will and Jack have been together for eleven years. In all that time Jack only said, “I love you,” once; when he thought Will wasn’t listening. Will doesn’t mind because he has been with Jack longer than Jack chased the Pearl. Since Jack professes on a regular basis how much he loves his ship, Will imagines he’s in good company.
Jack says it now. His voice is barely a whisper and he won’t look at Will, but he says it.
Their initial arrangement eleven years ago was simple: Will, the Pearl’s official carpenter, bunked with the crew, but most nights he would come to Jack’s cabin and they would fuck. Or, rather, Jack would fuck Will, since it turned out that he was seriously disinclined to be on the receiving end of such attentions. Then Will’s hammock - an old, spare thing - had torn quite badly and Will had moved into Jack’s cabin on the assumption that he would leave again once he had a new one. (The Pearl was overstocked on the oddest things and under-stocked on others, since Barbossa had made something of a mess of her inventory and Jack was still in the process of figuring out what they were missing.) He had never moved out. By this point, Jack had taken to automatically pouring two drinks in the evening, sleeping on one side of the sheets even if Will wasn’t in the bed, and generally behaving as though Will was a welcome and expected resident in his room. Jack, as far as Will knew, hadn’t been with anyone else since Will had moved in.
Two years into what most would have considered a long-term, monogamous relationship Jack finally let Will have him. Jack, for all his bravado and innuendo, had been nervous enough that he trembled in Will’s arms and needed far more gentling and coaxing than Will ever had. Afterwards he had been very quiet and had curled up around Will, not in his habitual sprawl, but almost clinging.
He had muttered it into Will’s hair when he thought Will was asleep. The next morning he was his usual self again, and they never said anything more about it, though Jack was less reticent about allowing Will to take the lead.
Jack looks up and brushes his poor abused fingers across one of Will’s cheeks. He says it again, in a more audible tone.
“You’re a daft bugger,” Will replies, and kisses him. “And you’re clearly overtired. I’ve not seen you this emotional in years.”
He strips off his own clothing, sure the crew can do without them for at least the night (and it’s not like most of them haven’t walked in on either Jack or Will in some state of undress and impropriety at least once anyway) and then climbs onto the bunk, shoving at Jack until he shuffles over. It’s a nightly ritual, in a way, to see how much space he can manage to get and how much he’ll have left in the morning once Jack has finished hogging the sheets. Not that he minds, since he’s a hard man to move, so mostly Jack wakes up half draped over Will, something Will isn’t about to complain about.
Tonight he doesn’t press too hard though. Instead he twines his limbs about Jack’s; one thigh between Jack’s legs, one of his arms under Jack’s neck and the other over his waist. Jack’s hands stay curled up between them, resting warm and soft against Will’s chest. Jack gives a soft sigh of contentment and his eyes flutter shut.
Will has spent enough time in the world of sailing to have heard men of all ages talk about the women they have conquered or the problems they now suffer due to age or disease. In the time he has spent with Jack Will has not noticed any remarkable difference in Jack’s virility and Jack has aged and suffered all manner of bizarre tropical diseases. The only arena in which Jack can no longer compete against Will is sheer stamina; he needs a little longer to recover these days (and his knees aren’t quite what they used to be, which gives Will another small advantage of leverage). It is something of an indication of how much pain Jack is in that his cock is soft against Will’s leg. Will kisses Jack softly, half thinking that it might be best if it was a goodnight kiss, but he can feel Jack stir against his thigh and he has to work hard not to roll his eyes.
“You’re incorrigible,” he says, but his hand trails lightly over Jack’s spine, making Jack shiver.
Even in the dim light of the cabin he can still see Jack’s gold teeth glinting. It’s not the tired, pained smile of a moment ago, though it is still a little strained about the eyes. Rather, it is the smile Jack saves for those intimate (or public, depending on how risqué Jack is feeling) moments and it is still enough to twist Will’s guts up in that pleasurable sensation it did all those years ago when Jack first curled his lips up in that way, about a second before he slammed Will up against the cabin door and sucked Will off.
Jack shifts one leg strategically so it rubs gently against Will’s suddenly very interested anatomy. “Insatiable, darlin’,” he growls and wraps that smile around Will’s tongue. His hands stay nestled between them, in the way of closer contact, elbows pressed lightly into Will’s ribs, but likely to get uncomfortable if Will moves any nearer. Jack groans softly into Will’s mouth and his hands twitch against Will’s skin. “Fuck,” he mutters pulling back so they can look at each other without going cross-eyed. “I can’t even touch you.”
Will grins wickedly and pushes until Jack is lying on his back. He catches Jack’s wrists and pins them to the bunk up by his head. “I seem to remember a certain pirate captain pinning me down like this, oh, less than a fortnight ago and giving me a rather detailed demonstration in the art of Not Touching.” His smile grows as Jack’s eyes first widen in understanding then narrow again in low-lidded arousal. “Oh aye, Captain, turnabout is fair play.”
“But I don’ play fair,” Jack demurs, arching up, heels digging into the sheets, grinding up into Will.
“Ah, ah, Jack.” Will lifts himself up onto his hands and knees, still pinning Jack’s wrists. “None of that. I’m in charge tonight, since you’re too daft to do for yourself.” The soft edge to his voice shows he’s only teasing. “Don’t move.”
Jack gleefully squirms, hooking one leg around Will’s hips and tugging down so Will almost lands, rather heavily, atop him. “An’ if I promise to behave?”
Will quirks an eyebrow, a trick he’d learned from Jack. That delicious little expression that meant so many things from Christ, Will, you’re an idjit sometimes to One more little tease an’ I’ll have you up against the mainmast, you see if I don’t. “We’ll see,” he says, licking his lips and it earns him a little groaning sigh from Jack. “Now, hold still.” He lets go of Jack’s wrists and Jack doesn’t follow the letter of the law, (but when has he ever?) instead he crosses his wrists above his head and leers up at Will.
“How’s that?”
Will leans down and bites gently at one nipple, tugging slightly and Jack groans in earnest, toes curling because he can’t clench his fists. “It’ll do.” Will moves across Jack’s chest to tease his other nipple with the very tip of his tongue, shifting his weight so he can run one hand across the corrugation of Jack’s ribs and under, to the small of his back, holding him still as he abandons the peaked flesh in favor of kissing and licking his way down Jack’s breastbone to the concave of his stomach.
Jack’s eyes squeeze shut with the effort of not moving. “It’ll do?” he manages to grate out. “Jesus.”
“Stop talking, Jack,” Will mutters, “you’re distracting me.” Then his hands slide up the sides of Jack’s thighs and he licks one long line up Jack’s cock.
He can still remember the first time he did this, how Jack dug his nails into the sheets so he wouldn’t do the same to Will’s hair and how he’d panicked and choked. He can remember that glorious moment when he found his rhythm and the almost pained sigh that Jack made right before he came. Now he knows to slide his thumbs into the hollow of Jack’s hipbones and press, and it makes Jack’s cock twitch against his tongue. He wraps his lips around the head of Jack’s erection and runs the flat of his tongue over the tip before he sucks hard and then opens his throat and pushes down until his nose is bumping against the wiry curls at the base of Jack’s cock. He knows the way Jack will whimper before he even does it, and he’s not disappointed. Familiarity hasn’t bred anything but more desire because he can play with what he knows, curling his tongue as he sucks, moving slowly up and down, and it draws a strangled curse from Jack, one he’s not sure he’s heard before; the bastard child of Fuck, Will, yes, a moan and Jesus Christ.
Will sits back on his heels, and Jack is beautiful, panting already, a fine tremor running through him. Will digs his hand under the mattress and pulls out their little bottle of oils. They’ll need to pick more up or they’ll be stuck with lamp oil and Will has long since decided that it’s not good for his health to be wandering around with an incendiary fluid drying on and in his person. That, and it smells a little funny after a few hours. He coats his fingers and reaches back, spreading his legs and twisting two fingers up inside himself.
Jack cheats. He sits up and kisses Will but he keeps his hands to himself. Jack moves his mouth along the line of Will’s jaw to nip behind Will’s ear. His eyelashes flutter against Will’s skin and then Jack sets his teeth into Will’s shoulder. “Please,” he says softly, and it’s not a plea, it’s a demand, but all a-sigh and Will has never learned to say no to Jack.
He pushes Jack back down and runs his oiled hand over Jack’s cock. “Hold still damn it,” he chides, teasing.
“Aye, aye, sir.” Jack bites at his own lip when Will straddles him and eases himself down, slowly, oh, slowly and the slide and stretch of it is still delicious and Will can’t help but leaning forward as he does so, so he can capture Jack’s wrists again, holding him still as he lifts himself back up, and then lets his weight do the work, dropping fast and hard so Jack is buried deep and they both gasp and pant.
Jack cheats again, not that Will expected anything else of him, and he digs his heels into the sheets and rocks upwards. They’re moving together then, and sweat tickles down the curve of Will’s back and shines in the dim light on Jack’s chest. It’s actually quite leisurely, a respite from the pain and the grim weather and the press of age on Jack’s mind.
Will lets go of Jack with one hand so he can stroke his own cock, moving faster now until Jack’s mouth opens wide enough that Will can count his gold teeth, and he shudders, feet slipping on the sweaty sheets. Will grinds down and tightens inside so his name is drawn out of Jack in a long sigh. For all his chatter and noise, Jack is surprisingly quiet when he comes. Will is not. He yowls when Jack rolls them over, pulling out and curling over to bat Will’s hand away and wrap his lips around Will’s cock. He cries out Jack’s name between clenched teeth as he comes and Jack sits back on his heels, looking smug and sleepy.
“How’d that do?” he grins as Will kisses him, messily from satiation.
Will hums happily and flops down onto the bunk, one arm out so Jack can settle into his sprawl over him and the majority of the space. “Did me just fine.” He presses a kiss to Jack’s forehead. “Good night, Jack.”
Jack grunts and shifts about a little more before he finally settles. “Night, lad.”
*~*~*~*
Jack isn’t in the bed when Will wakes up and the bandages from his hands are scattered over the table next to a basin of mostly clean water. Will tidies himself up, debates the merits of trying to find a cleaner pair of breeches, gives up on the idea and makes his way out onto the deck.
The air outside is no warmer than it was the night before, but at least the rain has ceased and the sun is creeping half-heartedly towards penetrating the clouds. They’re near enough to shore that Will can see the seasonal trees are starting to brighten into hues of red and gold. He makes a mental note to go through their winter clothing and make sure it’s not all as ragged as their summer things have become.
Jack comes to stand beside him, hands clasped behind his back so Will can’t see them. “Lovely mornin’, Mister Tuner,” he says quietly, “if not a bit chill.”
Will turns so his back is against the taffrail. “You sound like the commodore.” He grins, trying not to be too obvious about giving Jack the once-over to make sure he’s whole and hale. Jack won’t ask which commodore, though they’ve seen their fair share of them. Norrington shared their Aztec adventure and had a hand in getting Jack his Pearl back and that makes him the commodore and not just any other. Last they heard of him, he was still about the Caribbean, hunting the Spanish instead of pirates. Will isn’t sure what he is hoping to accomplish by mentioning their old haunts, but he’s learned to trust the little needles of instinct that occasionally keep him from doing the compulsively stupid acts of rashness that had so characterized his early pirating days.
“’S that so?” Jack sounds contemplative. “I wonder…” He shakes his head, a wry smile on his face. “I wonder that we’re standin’ about like a couple of old maids wiv their tongues a-waggin’ when we’ve got work needs t’ be done.”
That wasn’t what he had been going to say, and Will would be a simpleton not to notice that. He shrugs one shoulder instead of leaping to attention. “If I might make a suggestion, Captain, we might put to shore and let the crew have some leave. It’s been a horrible few days.”
Jack gives him a sharp look. “If you’re doin’ what I think you’re doin’, Mister Turner, than I suggest you stop right there.” He puts his hands on his hips and Will draws in a sharp breath. Jack’s hands look worse than the night before and it’s a wonder that he can move them at all without wincing. His eyes narrow at Will’s expression. “Will-” he starts in a low tone, but Will cuts him off.
“Can I speak to you in the cabin, Captain?” He takes hold of Jack’s arm, not really giving him a choice in the matter and steers Jack back towards their bunk. Will manages to keep his peace until the door is closed behind them and then he sits, quite calmly, down on the bunk. “What did you do to them?”
There is a surly expression on Jack’s face that doesn’t bode well for the conversation. “Lines needed seein’ to, not that it’s any of your damn business.”
Will puts his head in his hands. “Christ Jesus, Jack. You’ve got to take it easier.” He stands up again and takes Jack’s face in his hands this time. “I’ve got…Jack, we can’t keep this up and…well, I think we should go back to the Caribbean and speak to the commodore about getting a privateer license. There. I’ve said it.”
Jack shoves Will away, something between fury and anguish twisting up his mouth. “I ain’t losin’ my ship to the Navy. There’s no profit down there any more an’ this is the best we’ve had it. There’s galleons all over the fuckin’ place an’ you want t’ bugger off back to someone else’s war. Fuck.” He starts pacing, begins to wave his hands and yelps in pain. “Fuck!” Jack snatches up their wash basin and throws it across the room. This time the yelp is more of a choked scream. He sinks to his knees, cradling his hands to his chest. “I won’t be bested by this, Will. An’ I’ll go straight to the devil before I roll over an’ let it have me.”
“You’ve been thinking it,” Will accuses, kneeling next to Jack. “It’s not like you’re giving up the Pearl or your freedom; we can’t stay here, you’re going to lose all use of-”
Jack launches himself at Will, cutting off the unspeakable, cursing and hissing in pain and anger as they slam into the floorboards. Will isn’t sure who starts it, but then they’re kissing, hard and desperate as Jack tears at Will’s breeches. Will pushes him off to grab hold of Jack’s shirt and pull, as though he can get it off that way. There is nothing of the gentleness from the night before because Jack’s mouth is in a hard line and there’s something dangerous in his eyes and Will wants to punch Jack for being so fucking stubborn. Jack fastens his mouth to Will’s throat, pinning him down with the heels of his hands, digging them in hard to the soft skin at the junction of Will’s shoulder and body. Will knocks his forearms against Jack’s elbows, breaking Jack’s hold, and they tumble across the floor, furious and frustrated, clothing half removed, one sleeve still keeping Will’s shirt on, Jack’s torn halfway down.
Will fights back, trying to pin Jack again, but Jack bites hard at his lip until Will can taste blood and Jack uses that moment of surprise to get Will onto his back. He gets one hand wrapped in Will’s hair, holding him down, though Will struggles against it. Jack reaches down but he can’t get his fingers inside Will. The pain drags a half scream, half moan from Jack and he falls back, eyes wide and almost frightened behind the fury.
This time Will holds his advantage and manages to pin Jack, face down, ignoring the curses and threats. He spits, though it isn’t really enough, and forces one finger inside Jack, twisting and stretching until he can slide another in. Jack’s panting and struggling but Will holds him down, one hand on the back of Jack’s neck, sitting on his legs.
“You’re so fucking frustrating,” Will snarls, pressing in hard, forcing another finger into Jack so Jack groans and goes limply compliant. “You’re not God, you’re not your own legend, you stubborn ass. I won’t let you keep doing this.” He pulls his fingers out, too rough, too angry for this, but then Jack is fighting again and they’re wrestling for control again, up, crashing into the table, stumbling across the room, tripping over breeches not quite off until Will slams Jack back against a wall, hard enough to make Jack’s breath catch in his chest and Will hauls one of Jack’s legs up around his waist and Jack bites down on the hand covering his mouth as Will pushes himself inside Jack, slow and tight.
Jack gets his arms around Will’s shoulders, using his leverage against the wall to retaliate, shoving back against Will so they aren’t making love, or enjoying a quick tumble, they’re fucking; Will’s breath fast and angry in Jack’s ear, Jack growling obscenities against Will’s palm.
It doesn’t last very long, it can’t. Jack does cry out this time, warmth and wet slick between them and the relief on his face is enough to make Will come, knees buckling so he stumbles into Jack and they slide to the floor. The rage drains away to leave them exhausted and a little weary as they lie together, panting, coming down slowly.
Jack half-lifts his head from Will’s shoulder then lets it fall back again. He turns so he can lick at the sweat cooling in the hollow of Will’s collarbone. “You think he’ll go for it?” he asks softly, muttering into Will’s skin.
“Pardon?”
“Norrington. D’ you think he’d go for it, or will we all wind up with our necks in the noose?” Jack shrugs as though it’s not really that interesting to him either way, but there’s a pensive twist to his lips.
Will tilts Jack’s chin up so he can kiss him, not as hard as a moment ago, but not gently either. “I’ll write to Elizabeth, if anyone can talk the commodore into something, it’s her.” He too flops back, too tired to instigate another round. “That girl could talk the hind leg off a donkey when the mood suits her.”
Jack gets to his hands and knees with a groan, kicking his breeches off the one leg they still cling to and stumbles over to fetch a water skin and a cloth. He settles down onto the bunk with a bit of a wince and cleans himself up as best he can without spilling water all over the sheets. “Reckon the Pearl needs a good careening,” Jack muses, not looking at Will. “Thought we might find somewhere to shore up for a bit, give the crew leave, catch our breath.” He almost drops the skin, he can’t get his hands to curl around it properly, so Will crawls up onto the bunk next to him and takes it from him, ostensibly so he can clean himself.
“Mmm, I could stop round a smithy, have a look at that nick in your sword.” Will plugs the skin and drops it to the floor, settling back onto the sheets, one arm out so Jack can curl up against his chest, as always. There’s a bite-mark on his palm and it doesn’t bother him because Jack has something similar on his neck. They’re both bruised really, but Will feels better for it, and the contented sigh Jack gives reassures him that all is well.
“It’s got bigger,” Jack replies. “’M worried it might snap.”
Will lets his eyes drift shut but he can’t help the little smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I guess I could make you a new one. While we’re in port and all. If we have time.”
Jack makes a soft agreeable sound. “’F we’ve the time.”
They’ve got the time; Will imagines they’ll have lots of time now that he’s figured out how to give Jack room to maneuver without seeming like it’s weakness. Not that the crew will mind; they’ve no need of the money, Jack’s looked after them all well enough to be sure of that.
Jack’s only fifty - or thereabouts - and Will’s only thirty-three; spring chickens compared to the likes of Mister Gibbs and he’s still kicking.
“The Commodore’s going t’ have a fit,” Jack grins into Will’s shoulder and sniggers.
Will rolls his eyes. “Honestly, Jack,” he mutters. “You’re so immature sometimes.”
He thinks of Jack that night in the cave, all bone, and grin, and decides he wouldn’t have much liked the Immortal Captain Jack Sparrow. He much prefers the grey hairs in Jack’s beard and the fact that Jack will be griping about his knees tomorrow since it means - when he curls over to claim one last kiss before they catch a quick nap - that Jack sighs and smiles, but elbows him lightly for good measure, because it wouldn’t do to be getting ‘all sentimental like,’ as he’s so fond of saying. They’ll have time enough for that when they’re old.