Fic: "Down With His Ship" for ficathon (original) (raw)

For cinderelski for forcing the bunny down my throat and offering to beta, even though I know she thinks Jack/Will is silly. ;)

Down With His Ship
Fandom: Pirates, with DMC spoilers.
Rating: R because I am evidently a pansy
Summary: After Elizabeth does that thingy near the end of DMC (spoiler), Will saves the day. Featuring Will as the hero and Jack as the damsel in distress, only not really.
Warnings: Slight AU, slash, violence, adult themes, slight gore, ambiguous ending, odd tone.

He should have seen this coming.

That was what Will thought, sitting there in the longboat and peering up through the rails of the ship as the girl he'd always professed to love wrapped her arms and lips around a man he'd once thought he'd always hate. Will thought, I should have seen this coming, and then he didn't think much of anything because he was busy being consumed with emotion.

It filled him – from tip to toes, to the brim, it filled him: pain, regret, anger, jealousy.

Relief.

But mostly pain, regret, and anger. It was all Will could do, when Elizabeth dropped into the boat beside him to announce that Jack was staying behind, not to slap her across the face, and that scared him more than anything because Will had never felt anything less than tender towards her. It scared him, because this was an utterly inopportune moment to be having any kind of awkward self-discovering epiphany, because if they all didn't haul arse they were going to be sea food.

It scared him, because among the conflicting notions now battling for supremacy in his head, Jack's voice stood out above the rest.

Don't do anything stupid.

“Oh, bugger this,” Will said aloud, and reached for the rope to climb back aboard.

The anger had taken over now, boiling in his veins and so hot he could barely see, guiding him across the deck to the very last keg of gunpowder before he could even recognize the distinct lack of Jack's immediate presence or horrible excuses or distinctly rum-soaked smell. Finally the red in his vision receded enough for him to recognize Jack lashed to the mast and Will allowed himself one moment of pure, unadulterated confusion before concluding that he had, in fact, done something incredibly stupid.

For some reason, he was still angry.

Jack looked up from his struggle with his bonds when Will kicked the barrel free of its ropes, his expression nothing short of dumbfounded. As per usual, his recovery was remarkably swift. “Ah, William. Come to finish what Lizzie started, eh?”

A wave of heat washed across Will's face. “Certainly not!”

Raising an eyebrow, Jack leered impressively. It never failed to amaze Will that Jack could be threatening and disgusting even when tied with both hands behind his back. Interesting. “Well, if you'll not be feeding me to the kraken, I could use some leverage.”

Will chanced a look at the roiling waves, knowing it wouldn't be long now. If he had any chance of getting out of this alive, he was going to need another set of hands. In fact....

In seconds, Will had crossed the deck again, fishing in the pocket of his trousers for the dagger. Setting it between his teeth, Will knelt behind the mask, pulling Jack's palms sharply downwards and away from the rope. He yanked aside the tied linen, peering closely at the black mark, now barely visible.

A howl of pain escaped Jack, followed by a litany of loud and inventive curses, many of them aimed at Will's questionable heritage. “Jesus buggering Christ, Will! What the bloody fuck do you think you're doing?”

Will grit his teeth and held Jack's wrist tighter as he squirmed, thick fingers biting into flesh. With his right hand he wielded the dagger, digging a deep circle into the soft part of Jack's palm. Blood oozed from the wound, blacker than it should have been and thicker, too. Somehow, Will wasn't surprised. “Hold still,” he growled, finally finishing the cut as the ship gave a particularly harsh lurch.

Slumped against the mast, relying solely on the Pearl for support, Jack was breathing heavily, eyes half-closed and mouth half-open. Will let him rest for a moment, eyeing him warily. Then, resolutely, he stood, unbuckling his belt. There was a terrifying look of realization in Jack's eyes when Will threaded the leather between his lips; then his eyes were closed and his head was back and Will had the bloody lump of flesh that was Jack's palm beneath his fingers.

A twist, and then another vicious slash with the dagger, and the sticky lump came free, sending Will to the decking with a thump. Holding his breath in an attempt to dispel the sudden nausea that had nothing to do with the increasing waves, he plunged the dagger again and again into the black mess of skin and rotting flesh, until finally the tiny barnacle rolled onto the deck, wet with shed blood.

It was almost funny how unassuming the mark of a debt to Davy Jones could be. Will held it carefully on the tip of his dagger, not trusting his fingers. “Jack.”

No response. He looked up, annoyed, a rebuke ready on his lips, only to find Jack unconscious. The belt lay at his feet, a jaw-sized hole bitten clean through the leather. “Jack!” Quickly, Will deposited the parasite into the gunpowder barrel, then stood, slapping at Jack's face. “Jack, wake up!”

Swearing, Will stood, heading on shaky legs towards the captain's cabin. He had just found the box of matches and the candles he'd been looking for when the kraken's thick tentacle slammed into the side of the Pearl.

Will dropped the matches and two of the candles, managing to catch the box with his foot in time to save it from rolling off the edge with the candles.

It was then that he realized Jack was still tied.

“Bugger,” Will said feelingly, launching himself across the deck. Scrabbling for his dagger, he sliced the bonds on Jack's bloody hands, hauling him backwards on the deck. He locked his knees around the gunpowder barrel, lit one of the candles and used it to soften the wax on the remaining stub.

Shoving the stub as far as he could into the hole at the top of the powder keg, Will lit the impromptu fuse, scrambling away just in time as another of the kraken's suckered tentacles swept across the deck. He had just enough energy to haul Jack into a longboat being used for storage before the Pearl broke in two, bobbing gently in slowly-calming waters. Almost comically slowly, the gunpowder barrel tumbled down the broken ship until it reached the mouth of the kraken, open wide for its marked prey.

The ensuing explosion sent a jet of water two hundred feet into the air, and Will had to duck to avoid being hit by flying debris and fried calamari. Sighing, whether it was with relief or exhaustion, he picked up the oars and began to row.

Thanks to Jack's superstition, and partly because he was rowing with the tide, it took Will only ten hours to find a shoreline – any shoreline; at this point Will wasn't picky – and another fifteen minutes to drag the boat ashore. Of course, that was ten hours including bailing time,; evidently there had been a reason that particular longboat had had barrels in it. Jack was still unconscious, although at this point he seemed to be resting peacefully as opposed to in shock.

Until ten hours ago Will wouldn't have believed Jack was even capable of shock. It was anathema to his worldly ways. Then again, Will supposed if someone had cut a great bloody chunk of flesh out of his hand, he probably would have passed out, too.

Speaking of flesh wounds, Will supposed he should probably check it. With a lurch of disapproval from his stomach, he knelt in the sand beside the boat and gently pulled back the cloth he'd wrapped around Jack's hand.

It was festering – full of black and yellow pus, and Will was fairly sure that was bone sticking out here and there – and Jack made an almost-conscious effort to take his hand away. Maybe it was better that Jack stayed asleep. Either way, the hand needed to be cleaned if Jack was going to retain any kind of control over it at all.

A precursory inspection of the barrels Will had managed to commandeer - most were empty - revealed a week's supply of salt pork and seven gallons of second-rate rum. Until that moment he had been sincerely hoping for at least one barrel each of food and fresh water. Now that he had to clean Jack's hand – and more importantly, now that he was facing the prospect of a waking Jack, who would want to know what the bloody hell had happened to his hand, never mind the Pearl – Will grimaced – he wished they were both rum.

“Best get on with it,” he mumbled to himself, dousing a strip of cloth from his sleeve rather liberally in rum.

A piercing yell split the air when Will touched the impromptu sponge to Jack's hand and Will, without thinking, reached up just far enough to push Jack's head in the direction of the open rum barrel. Several bubbles and loud gulps later, the noise resolved itself into words. “Fucking Christ,” Jack howled. “What the bloody fuck've you done to m'hand?”

“Cut it open,” Will said shortly, wrapping it in a makeshift bandage. “Cut out whatever Jones marked you with and saved the kraken from eating you.”

Jack opened one eye warily, leaned over, and threw up violently into the sand. “Should've let it have me.” He listed further to one side and eventually rolled onto his stomach, looking as piteous as Will had ever seen him.

Will opened his mouth, completely wretched. “Jack, there's something I-”

“Don't tell me,” he said quietly, both eyes closed now. “Don't tell me where Pearl is.” A beat. And then something Will had never heard from Jack before. “Please.”

Stomach heaving, Will bit his lip. “Alright,” he barely whispered, and swallowed the burden of knowledge that burned in his throat as Jack's breathing evened out again and he lapsed into sleep.

It was evening before Jack woke, and Will spent his time alone gathering firewood and pulling the few supplies they had further up the shoreline, creating a semi-defensible niche and making use of a few trees for shade. If Jack had woken earlier, he might have gone searching for fresh water, but he had a feeling wandering off alone with no-one to guard a sleeping Jack – or their supplies – came under the heading of don't do anything stupid. He would have to make do with rum for the time being.

Unfortunately, Will's mental repertoire was full of other stupid things to say. Now that the anger, and resentment, and disappointment, and fear, and, and loss had had a full day to settle in, he could no longer hold his tongue. “I saw you and Elizabeth kissing.” It came out sounding surlier than he'd expected, more accusatory.

Jack didn't even bother to look at him, just swigged rum from a coconut shell and stared into the fire. “You saw your fiancee distract me and tie me to th'mast of me ship so you could get away. Well done, that.”

The short fuse of Will's temper was really starting to surprise him. “A kiss is a kiss, Jack. You weren't exactly complaining. If you were distracted, it was because you were enjoying yourself.”

“Well of course I bloody liked it!” Jack snapped. “Don't know what you've 'eard, William, but it's not every day a girl like that throws herself at me, savvy? I am not accustomed to refusing kisses!”

“A girl like that,” Will mocked. “A girl that ties her friends to doomed ships! She all but signed your bloody death warrant!” He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the way Jack had flinched when he'd said doomed ships. “She betrayed you, Jack!”

And Will came to the uncomfortable realization that, no matter who had enjoyed what kiss, and regardless of the fact that Jack had a very questionable track record when it came to his loyalty to Will, it was Elizabeth at whom the force of his anger was directed. And not for kissing Jack.

He wanted to be sick.

Jack didn't give him time to sort himself. Instead, he merely raised his eyebrows and asked, too shrewdly, “Are you angry with me for bein' distracted, or with Lizzie for tyin' me up?”

“Both!” Will fairly shouted, and then, quieter, “Both. The both of you. You kissed her, Jack. God only knows what else happened while I was away! And she left you for dead.” I should bloody well just kill the both of them.

Turning away, Jack stared into the fire. “Will,” he started, then lapsed into silence, as if, for once, he was at a loss for words. After a long moment he said, “A captain goes down with his ship.”

“Bollocks,” Will said. “You were going to escape with the rest of us.”

But he'd caught the shadowed look in Jack's eyes and knew he'd never intended to abandon the Pearl. A ship, a thing, which technically wasn't even alive. Loyalty, thought Will, feeling a bit guilty, and maybe a little jealous as well. He knew the Pearl was alive, at least for Jack. Aloud he said, “Oh.”

And that made him even angrier, although he hadn't thought it possible. Kissing Elizabeth – well, that was to be expected; Jack was a pirate, after all, and Elizabeth certainly hadn't seemed unwilling. Sending Will to meet Davy Jones (literally) was just another example of Jack saving his own skin. But Jack sacrificing himself for the “greater good” – whatever that was – didn't sit right with Will, whether he was going down with Pearl or not.

“Stand up,” he demanded, brushing the sand from his beltless trousers and following his own orders.

Jack was unfazed. “And why should I do that?”

“Because I'm going to hit you, and it's rude to hit a man when he's sitting down.”

This seemed to amuse Jack more than anything, although while at one point he may have laughed, today this command barely warranted a twitch of his lips, and there was no spark in his eyes. He sipped a bit of rum from his coconut flask and didn't even look up to aim when he stuck out his foot sharply, knocking Will's ankles together and sending him tumbling to the ground.

Will grabbed hold of Jack's elbow when he fell, taking him down into the sand. Forget fairness and propriety – Will was going to hit Jack now or he was going to do something else he regretted. His right elbow pulled his fist back before he could even think about it.

The punch landed squarely in Jack's gut, knocking the wind out of Jack and bringing a sting to Will's knuckles; he hadn't anticipated the amount of resistance Jack's muscles would offer. The next blow was Jack's knee to his ribcage – Will heaved a breath and struck back blindly, losing himself in the choreography of strikes and fades, evasions and pain. He saw stars for a moment when something connected with his temple but he lashed out again anyway, tasting blood, struggled and kicked and slashed and bit until it was all he remembered, just that moment, adrenaline and fury to mask the pain.

Will didn't know he was speaking until Jack stopped fighting back. His ears rang and his head spun and he couldn't quite focus on the words he was saying until Jack snatched his flailing hands and rolled him onto his back. “Will.”

After a long moment of furious flailing and a half a second of forced restraint Will realized, horrified, that he was on the verge of tears. When he slammed his eyes shut at last his words finally swam into perception. “You gave up,” he heard himself say, as though from a very great distance. “You gave up on yourself and Elizabeth gave up on you and you both gave up on me.” He took a very deep breath and let the rest of the words tumble from his lips, unadulterated. “You're worse than bloody coddling parents!” he accused, not even flinching with the guilt he felt at the thought. “I don't need to be protected! I bloody well saved both your arses more times than you can count and you're keeping things from me.

It was then that the conflicting emotions choked him – he wanted to sulk, or lash out, or prove himself, or - or hurt someone, the way Elizabeth and Jack had hurt him.

They thought he couldn't handle loss.

Well, Will Turner had experienced more loss than they could ever understand, mother taken by illness and father by the sea and its cruel master, forced to live a hundred years in slavery and then die without a shred of humanity. Twelve years old and he had lost everything he had in the world to pirates and the sea; he had lost Elizabeth to Barbossa and then to Norrington, only to win her back just in time lose her again to Jack.

And now he was going to lose his last friend to the Pearl, a ship that was already gone.

It was another two breaths before Will realized he'd said all that out loud, and the guilt it twisted in his chest for mentioning Pearl to Jack was a hundred times worse than the anger and the frustration and the jealousy and the impending loneliness. His stomach tried to heave up his meagre meal and he pushed up against the grip Jack held on his wrists, but though Jack's eyes were fixed on the horizon, his hands didn't budge.

“Let me go,” Will said plaintively, and finally, finally Jack looked at him again.

Will knew then that he had been wrong about loss.

Gradually, Jack's grip on him loosened. Will didn't bother trying to move. After a minute Jack explained, “A captain goes down with his ship.” Gently: “So he doesn't have to watch her sink. Savvy?”

Somehow Will understood that Jack wasn't just talking about the Pearl any more, and stared. It made sense. All of a sudden, under unfamiliar stars on an unknown island with a man he wouldn't have hesitated to call insane, he understood - understood jealous lovers who became jealous murderers, suicide, lovers' pacts, Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet.

Romeo and Julian, Will's treacherous mind supplied.

It was all so very, very stupid. Stupid and rational. Will was surprised Jack allowed himself the luxury. He opened his mouth to say as much, but couldn't find the words.

“Will,” Jack began, looking away again, to the horizon, to the sea. He was fading already, here on dry land before Will's very eyes.

Something inside him broke free. It took his hands, forcing them to turn Jack's face towards him, and it took his breath when he saw the expression there. It took Will's lips just seconds before he took Jack's.

The kiss was angry, a struggle still, and Will was losing: he could still taste blood, and sweat, and rum, and kissing Jack meant bitten lips and scraped tongues and savage hands that kissing Elizabeth hadn't prepared him for. Two of those savage hands were his own, scratching and clawing and tearing at Jack's chest, at his back, at his shirt; Jack was pawing Will's sides with his good hand and leaning too heavily on the other. In a second, Will unbalanced him, sent him sprawling into the sand by his side, breaking the kiss only long enough to prevent injury.

It was then that Will gave up the struggle, too far gone to care what he looked like, what he sounded like, that Jack was taking him over. It was like drowning: there was touch everywhere, pleasure everywhere, Jack everywhere, and Will could hardly take a breath. There was skin, his own and Jack's, and sand against it and between them, and everything went hazy and indistinct until Jack's cock brushed his own.

Then Will was bucking and groaning, fighting again for every fierce brush of contact, letting the pressure and the pleasure build and overtake him, reached half-blind for Jack's cock to slide it harshly against his again, felt the curses Jack muttered into his skin. The world went white-hot behind his eyes as one clever finger slipped back and in and curled and God, Will was coming, head back and mouth open, just aware enough to feel Jack spend against his stomach, but too far gone to catch his expression.

For a long time neither of them moved or spoke, and for an hour or so Will didn't wonder, couldn't think properly anyway. Eventually he realized Jack was sleeping and took his cue, drifting into an uneasy slumber.

The first time Will woke it was to the chill of the sea breeze leeching the heat from the sand and from his right side; his left shoulder was damp and numb. Jack was plastered to his body, mouth slightly open and wounded hand tucked under his chin. Looking at him was painful, so Will closed his eyes again, feeling the tight pull of dried salt on his cheeks. The sea played a haunting melody and Will swallowed thickly, put it out of his mind. He decided that this one night he would let himself wrap around Jack, to keep them both warm.

When Will woke the second time he was alone and it was the water that called him, gentle and quiet but steady and undeniable. He sat slowly, turning towards the lapping waves, and squinted into the darkness. In the moonlight his eye caught a set of footprints disappearing into the surf, gradually being pulled away by the tide. For a moment on the horizon he thought he saw a ship, but when he blinked the sleep from his eyes it was gone, nothing more than a ghost in the night.