FIC: Ill Wind
Title: Ill Wind
Author:
xzombiexkittenx
Pairing: Jack/Will
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 512 words
Disclaimer: Still not mine, Disney etc.
Spoilers for the end of DMC, but no AWE speculation.
Author’s notes: Written for
meletor_et_al's birthday
Jack licked a finger and held it up to the dead air. “Easterly,” he said. Will rolled his eyes but if Jack noticed, he didn’t say anything. “Don’t you feel it? It’ll storm tonight. Eggs is eggs and all that.”
Will could feel the sweat sticking his shirt to his chest and back, but no, no wind. And he had no idea what eggs being eggs had to do with it, but sure enough, that night, the Pearl was rocked by a - to be fair - relatively minor storm. He wouldn’t have thought twice about the matter, but Gibbs was muttering about ill-portents into his ale, and Jack was usually far better at predicting the weather but Gibbs swore blind that the storm should have been days coming. That, and Jack was raging drunk, which he usually didn’t do if there was possibility of risk to the Pearl.
“Changeable,” Jack whispered into the curve of Will’s neck, licking at the pulse there, dirty fingers smudging black streaks over Will’s shoulders and arms. “Lightning and thunder baby. Ask Gibbs, ‘s bad luck.”
Will didn’t really want to be thinking about Gibbs while he was pressed naked against and in Jack. “What?” he asked, but kissed Jack before he could reply and ruin the moment with drunken ramblings and focused instead on making Jack stop talking into his mouth and start moaning again instead.
Afterwards, with the storm settling outside the windows of the great-cabin, and Jack sweaty and sated in his arms, Will had no excuse not to listen but Jack now seemed disinclined to say anything. He was utterly quiet instead, which was probably more of an ill-omen than any storm. Will had tried the subtle approach on Jack more than once, and it either completely missed the mark, or Jack saw right through it, so he opted instead for just asking, bluntly, what was wrong.
“Every year,” Jack said, after a moment. He sat up and stretched, the long line of his back silvered in the moonlight. “I thought it would be a bigger storm this time around.”
“Why?” Will crossed his legs at the ankle and wondered if, with enough persuasion, Jack would be willing to go again. The look on his face suggested maybe not.
Jack shrugged carelessly and Will didn’t buy it for a moment. “Storm baby,” Jack said and lay back down, tugging on Will’s earring with his teeth. “We’re bad luck. Nature likes to remind me every go around.”
Will tried to make sense of this rather confusing speech and finally just drew the blankets up over them. “You could have said something,” he said crossly. “I would have got you a gift if I’d known you’d managed to make it another year of life without getting killed. Again.”
Jack smiled against Will’s shoulder. “I like storms,” he said, voice already slurring at the edges from sleep, or perhaps it was just the large amounts of cheap wine he’d drunk.
“How old are you now?”
Jack’s eyelashes tickled against Will’s skin. “Not a hope, lad, not a hope.”