Title: Marianne with the Nasty Tongue
Author: kHo (email@example.com)
Pairing: Jack/Will, implied Jack/Bootstrap
Rated: PG-13 for slashiness
Summary: That's when it clicked for Will. It hadn't been anger, it had been jealousy. Jealousy that it was Bootstrap Bill Turner that once again had gotten somewhere before him. He'd gotten to freedom before him. He'd gotten to treasures before him. He'd gotten to manhood before him. He'd gotten to the Pearl before him. And, what seemed to sting the most, was that he'd gotten to Jack before him.
Notes: Why do I never know where these come from? This started as a drabble not unlike Through a Veil, and turned into a whole other thing full of angst. LOL. *shrugs* Whatever.
'It doesn't matter,' Will tried to convince himself. 'It's late, and we've had too much rum, and I'm reading too much into him like I always do.'
Except it's not really possible to read too much into something Jack's said or done, is it? Jack is, after all, always saying more than what one thinks. With every sentence he utters there are three ways to take it, and five ways to mean it. Will's only been able to decipher half of the things Jack's said while not saying it, and tonight's one of those rare nights that it matters for some reason.
"Remember," he'd said, those gold teeth glinting at Will under the soft glow of candle. His eyes were soft and wistful, his tone low and conspiratorial. "Remember in Tortuga, William?"
That had been the first sign that something was amiss. Jack never called him William. He called him many things-- things like love, and mate, and whelp-- but never William. He went to great lengths to not call him William, it seemed. He'd even gone so far as to get half way through the full pronunciation of his name before reigning himself back and correcting it to Will.
"In Tortuga, with Marianne," he'd said, his grin widening as he'd slung an arm around Will's shoulder. "Nasty things she did with her tongue, that one."
Will had only been to Tortuga three times with Jack Sparrow, and one of them had been before he'd called him a friend. In none of those trips had they met a Marianne. And certainly, in none of those trips had any woman done anything nasty or otherwise with her tongue. Still, Will remained silent.
"Never did figure out how she did that," he'd said, laughing and nodding, turning slowly to look at Will and wink. "Might should've asked her, aye?"
He hadn't asked what it was this Marianne had done with her tongue, and he almost hadn't wanted to know. There had been a cold feeling creeping up the back of his neck by that point, and it was all he could do to not shake Jack's arm off as it had slinked around his neck even tighter.
"What was it she told you," he'd asked, fingers coming to rest lightly on Will's neck, tracing soft circles on his collarbone. "Somethin' 'bout countin' the birds b'fore the eggs'd hatched?"
The familiarity with which Jack spoke, the assuredness of it, made Will almost think that maybe he'd just simply forgotten these things. Perhaps he'd forgotten about a girl named Marianne and her less than proper tongue. But then, perhaps the look in Jack's eyes wasn't that of nostalgia, but merriment at getting Will's goat again.
"But we know better, don' we love," he'd said then, leaning in closer, his breath tickling Will's ear as it floated past him. "Never had the problem before, or since, aye?"
The redness that colored Will's cheeks had been blessedly covered by the darkness of the night, not bright enough for the candle's soft glow to pick up. His skin had been prickly with a sense of foreboding and something else he didn't want to put a finger to. Jack's breath had smelled like fish and ale, and his hand had felt too comfortable resting on Will's throat.
"It's been too long, though, hasn't it," Jack had said, leaning in and resting his lips to the side of Will's neck, causing the boy's eyes to close involuntarily. "Might've forgotten your sweet spots by now."
Two schools of thought had begun to war within Will's brain and heart then. One of them said Jack was clearly deluded, and didn't know what he was doing. It said that a man's lips were not supposed to feel good when pressed against one's throat, and that it was cause for a good blow from fist to chin at the very least. The other side though, the same side that made him love the sea and led him to leave with Jack that day on the bluff, said lips to throat just wasn't enough.
"But I never forget, not entirely, do I," Jack had said, his fingers stroking back and through Will's hair, tugging just so on the curly locks. "I remember most o' it."
His eyes had remained closed as Jack's hand drifted lightly down his back, the fluttering fingers tapping out a code of familiarity that wasn't earned yet. His breath had caught in his throat as Jack's teeth scraped lightly over his neck and his other hand had rested on Will's leg. He'd wanted to turn his head and meet Jack's teeth with his own. He'd wanted to place his hand on Jack's on his leg and move it to where he most wanted it. Instead, he'd opened his mouth.
"I've never known a Marianne, Jack," he'd said, frowning and biting down on his lip as Jack's teeth scraped once again and his nails dug into Will's leg. "Jack, did you hear me?"
"Aye," Jack had said, lifting his head slightly and frowning at Will. "Ever told you ya talk too much? Can't you see I'm seducing you, William?"
"You never call me William, Jack," Will had said, ignoring the protestations telling him to stop talking now and just feel. "Why have you started now?"
"'I've always called you."
That's when the shiver had found it's way back into Will's spine. Jack's mouth had suddenly paused mid sentence and then violently shut as his eyes widened almost imperceptibly. His hand had withdrawn from Will's leg and his body had leaned back to further the distance between him and Will.
"Apologies, Will," Jack had said, frowning and casting his eyes towards the flickering candle on the table. "Was somewhere else I think."
"Where," Will had asked, knowing he didn't truly want to know. "With my father?"
"No," Jack had said, frown deepening as he swayed back even further and shook his head. "Was somewhere else entirely."
"Yes," Will had said, fighting back the shiver that was almost to his throat by now. "With my father."
He'd never seen Jack look guilty before but there was no mistaking the look in his eyes. He was taken aback by how vast it was, how those soulful eyes of his had spoken of true sorrow and horrible loss without his mouth having to say anything. He watched as Jack blinked rapidly as he tried to smile. For the first time since Will had known him, he failed.
"Yes, Will, with your father," he'd said, reaching up and running a hand through the tangled mass of knots and trinkets that was his hair.
"I remind you of him then," Will had asked, leaning forward. "I look like him, or act like him, don't I?"
Jack had nodded, scraping a dirty fingernail over his tooth and chewing thoughtfully on it. "Aye."
"Which," Will had asked, shaking his head and trying to figure why exactly the emotion he was feeling first and foremost was anger. "Looks? Actions?"
"Soul, love," Jack had said with a soft smile as his hand lifted to touch Will's cheek. "Same soul as 'im." The smile had widened as Jack nodded. "An' looks, yes. Same bone structure. His head was a little wider, fatter-- but yes, same cheekbones."
"And you loved him," Will had spat out, not sure if he was angry with himself or with Jack. Not quite sure what cause he'd even have to be angry.
Jack had nodded. "Aye."
"So," Will had said, his mouth flattening to a straight line and his heart beating in his chest. "When you look at me like that, or talk to me with that tone in your voice-- it's actually him--"
That's when it clicked for him. It hadn't been anger, it had been jealousy. Jealousy that it was Bootstrap Bill Turner that once again had gotten somewhere before him. He'd gotten to freedom before him. He'd gotten to treasures before him. He'd gotten to manhood before him. He'd gotten to the Pearl before him. And, what seemed to sting the most, was that he'd gotten to Jack before him.
So before Jack could say anything in return, or probably even wrap his head around what Will was trying not to say, he'd gotten up and left. He had found his way to an oft forgotten room in the ship's hull and barricaded himself in without even a candle to light his way.
And there he sat, trying to tell himself it hadn't meant anything. Trying to tell himself that he'd been drunk. That it had been too long since he'd had the touch of a woman, and that was it. Trying to tell himself that it wasn't that it was Jack's hand tracing circles on his neck, but that it was a hand other than his.
When that didn't work, he tried to tell himself that the guilt in Jack's eyes wasn't guilt, but embarrassment. That it wasn't that Jack never looked at him with want in his eyes and love in his heart, but that he hadn't been at that particular moment. That Jack still saw Will himself despite the fuzzy haze that was his father within him.
Then he just tried to tell himself that it didn't matter because they'd have forgotten by morning.
Except they wouldn't.
Because Jack never forgot anything, not entirely.
And Will wasn't that drunk anyway.
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