fic: Intoxicating Brew 2/?

[novembersmith]

Posting here first...just to see if everything works. Anyway. Um...if anyone notices I've done something stupid, please let me know. I changed some stuff and I cannot figure out if it sucks or not. So tired. Will think on it more later. Will post to pirategasm tomorrow. (procrastination, ahoy!)



Title: Intoxicating Brew, 2/?
Author: Toby novembersmith
Pairing: Will/Jack
Rating: PG? PG-13? I dunno.
Disclaimer: I have no claim on anything related to the film “Pirates of the Caribbean.” No claim at all. Just me and Edgar, here. Yep.
Summary: Will’s attempt to sail off into the horizon doesn’t go quite as he planned.

Notes: I owe Doll my first-born child, or possibly a new hat. A really big one. She’s brilliant, talented, and kind enough to help keep a poor writer like myself sane and coherent. (“Sane?” everyone laughs. “Wherefore is this ‘sane’?”) All this *and* she’s a brilliant artist. Go check out her work in her livejournal, dollsdaugher. Go. Shoo.
Laura P. is an absolute genius. Without her, you’d all be forced to endure many glaring errors, and I can’t thank her enough for taking the time to help me out.
Any problems or general terribleness is my own fault, of course.
Again, sorry about the delay in posting this, and I hope it you guys don’t hate me now. And that you don’t hate this. Ack.




Chapter Two: (stir in sugar and syrup and one grated lemon)

Will fell to sleep easily for the first time in weeks, but even the lulling roll of the waves couldn’t halt the dreams.

His twilights twisted through the depths of Tortuga, skulking about the docks or winding through a smoky bar. There was always a warm presence by his side, humming and vibrating, always a lilting voice murmuring in his ear, leaving him flushed and shaking when he opened his eyes.

He banished these visions as best he could.

Sometimes, though, the dreams turned sour (bleached bones and hangmen’s ropes too late god too late jack no please don’t please wake up please ) and the taste of bile burned his tongue. Those nights he awoke cold, drenched in terror.

The dreams were supposed to have ended with that one decisive step from dock to deck, with his return to freedom and the open ocean. But somehow that didn't help, somehow it wasn’t the same. There was no swaggering man besotted by sail and sea to share his smiles, no whistling haunting the decks, just the wind in the sails and the creaking of wood.

And he still dreamed.

Oh, it was better than Port Royal, with its chains and lace and silverware. Here he fell asleep to the shifting of wood and roll of waves, and woke free from dinner parties and pounding anvils. Here his days were filled with winds and dolphins, all (all, oh never all and everything, can’t miss what never was, lad) he’d ever missed and pined after in his whitewashed room back home.

And it wasn’t as though being alone with Jack on the Interceptor had been so wonderful. Jack, swishing about, calling him to swab decks and wondering aloud if the smoke from that furnace had wilted Will’s brains as well as his balls, because he distinctly recalled telling Will to pay out the starboard anchor, dinnt he?

Will would reef the sails clumsily and there Jack would be, jeering and condescendingly working Will through the process, again. Despite angry blushes and a few impromptu swordfights, Will’s hands and fingers gradually learnt, and Jack’s lectures on proper seamanship grew shorter and less cutting.

But now Will’s days were solitary; no rough voice startled him awake in the morning or shouted insults from the crow's nest as he worked. He could walk about the decks and forget all about Edgar and his servant Gilly. It had been impossible, even on a massive empty ship, to forget about Captain Jack Sparrow.

Gilly, a solid African with steely eyes and blinding teeth, seldom spoke or looked at Will. He prepared Master Humphreys’ breakfast each morning and his grim appearance on deck was Will’s cue to haul aboard the anchors and unfurl the sails.

The rest of the days blurred together in a haze of heat; he stumbled and dropped things, forgot how to tie a reef knot and smacked his head on an unfastened boom. A bruise blossomed on his cheek, his skin chapped by the salty wind and roasted by the sweltering sun.

But Jack’s lessons slowly returned to him, as if the dark pirate stood swaying beside him, mockingly reminding him of the best way to knot a rope, to scale a mast, (to name the stars and catch a sea turtle, to allow dark deft hands to knot a bandana about his head because you’re of no use to me blind lad).

Days later, when the bruises had faded and his skin had cooled, Will held the wheel while Gilly and Edgar talked late into the afternoon. Their conversation rose through the thin walls, sharp and staccato, indistinguishable and angry.

The air was thicky and syrupy with heat, and Will, melted and drooping, couldn't call forth enough effort to eavesdrop. Instead he rested his head on his arms and remembered another afternoon, sticky and hot at the helm, an amused pirate hovering at his elbow.

‘Not so stiff, you’ve got to move with her. Y’see,’ a phantom voice whispered in his ear. ‘’S like sex, really.’ Jack had a way of drawling and lifting his upper lip into a half-smile that sparked flames of indignation in Will’s stomach.

‘Must you be so vulgar?’ he’d snapped, clutching the wheel in white-knuckled fists, feeling the blood heat in his cheeks.

‘Ho, look at the virgin blush! Bloody hell, look Will, you’ve got to lean with her, feel her moving beneath your fingers, see?’ All this murmured into his neck as the smirking pirate pressed against him, hands overlapping his own, lips moving against his skin.

Will had tensed up even further and felt the rumble of Jack’s laughter against his back. But he’d finally eased down, finally felt the rhythm and sway of the ship in his bones, and steering felt like swinging a blade or balancing on a wooden beam. Jack had smiled at him.

The memory haunted him in strange dreams and odd waking moments, like now, as he leaned against the wheel and wondered at the tightness in his chest. He pulled out the compass to check his position and jumped at the sudden crashing of a door.

"Will! What a seaman you look!"

It was Edgar padding up to him, beaming and sweating profusely. Will smiled back, but it faltered as Edgar got closer and the lines of worry upon his brow became more apparent.

"Ho, Edgar," he said. "What news? We should come up on Manzanilla right on schedule, if this wind holds."

"Ah, yes," Edgar said, fiddling absently with his drooping mustache. "About Manzanilla. I was hoping I might ask you a favor, lad. I’m afraid our pursuits on this voyage are not entirely...proper."

Re-eally, Will thought. "Oh, yes?" he asked blandly. He looked out at the gentle swells, and eyed the clouds on the horizon with some misgivings. True, the little skiff had done surprisingly well in the squalls they’d encountered thus far, but one never knew.

"You see, my lad, I have decided you’re to be trusted." Watery blue eyes looked up at him sincerely, and Will shivered, suddenly cold. "I know you were planning to leave us at this port and seek employment elsewhere, but...could you perhaps stay onboard with us until we reach Tortuga? I’m afraid we’ll need an extra hand for our departure."

Upon seeing Will’s hesitation, he continued. "We’d pay you for all the extra days, of course. How does five pounds a day sound, my boy?"

Will stared. If the weather held, that was nigh on fifty pounds, more than he’d ever been offered for any sword or ironwork. But he’d need lodgings in Tortuga, and a new pistol, and perhaps a hat, none of which came cheap.

"What would you need me to do?" Will asked Edgar, squinting away from the glitter of the sea and the man’s toothed smile.

"My dear boy," Edgar said primly, rocking back on his heels to look up at Will. "We wouldn’t want you mixed up in any of the criminal element we might encounter on our venture, so all we’d ask is for you to man the boat."

Will blinked.

"Keep it ready, as it were," the Englishman persevered. "You’d have a night’s leave to pick up supplies and see Manzanilla, but as you know, our business is always brief."

"Ah," Will said, and couldn’t keep a small frown from creasing his brows. Edgar had never given him a night’s leave when they’d stopped at earlier ports. Manzanilla, though, Will remembered Jack telling tales about past raids and ships and barmaids, and mentioning Manzanilla.

"I accept, sir."

The lines around Edgar’s mouth softened, and the man clapped him on the back heartily.

"Good, good. We should be getting in tonight, then, and begin our business in the morning." The British man handed him a coin purse, and turned to go. Then he paused at the entrance to his cabin. "You’ll want to stay on the shore tonight, Will Swann," he said neutrally, and disappeared into the shade.

Will felt his eyebrows rising. Ah, well, he thought. At least he’d have a chance to find out what Manzanilla was like, get a bit more experience with larger ports before taking off for Tortuga on his own.

------

The next morning, wincing at the vicious light of the sun, he still couldn’t really say what Manzanilla was like.

He had a vague impression of pungent, smoky streets, peppered with gunshots and scantily-clad women, and of a riotous bar filled with sailors. Will remembered, in the loosest sense of the word, a young man roaring that he didn’t look like much of a pirate and dragging him down some alley. Then it all went feverish and grey.

He’d woken midmorning in a gutter with a splitting headache, a hideous taste in his mouth, and a stabbing pain along his back that throbbed whenever he moved.

Somehow he’d staggered through the maze of streets back to the docks. The Stallion was moored at the outermost posts, and as he swerved through crates of livestock and unloaded goods, he could see Edgar pacing about the decks. Gilly stood at the bow cleaning a dagger, and watched Will’s approach through the throng of merchants with dark glittering eyes.

His gaze was a tangible weight on Will’s shoulders as he climbed the gangplank and a satisfied smirk played about the edges of his mouth.

"Welcome back, Master Will," the man said, smiling widely and inclining his head, and Will couldn’t remember Gilly ever speaking to him before.

He edged away from the dark African and went to stand by Edgar, who had stopped pacing and stood staring out at the city.

"There you are, lad," Edgar said hoarsely as Will approached. He dabbed at his face with a lacy handkerchief, and glanced up. "Have a good night?"

"What?" Will asked, squinting at the pale, pinched face. "Oh, yes, sir. I suppose."

Edgar smiled at him, but it was a shaky smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "Well, then, lad. We’re off. Do try to get some rest, eh?"

Will nodded, and immediately regretted it. When he opened his eyes again he found Edgar and Gilly had already disembarked, their retreating forms dark against the sun-bleached wood of the docks. He stared after them, and felt absurdly out of place.

Closing his eyes, he tried to make the throbbing in his temples stop so that he could think rationally. There was a score of cannons firing inside his skull, and he had a hazy memory of telling a barmaid in quite thorough, albeit slurred, detail, his plans to get to Tortuga and find one Captain Jack Sparrow (’s a pirate, m’lady, dark and gold and he dances when he walks and he left and i was late but i jumped, see, i fell too so it’ll be alright, won’t it? will it be alright?)

He ground the heel of his hand against his eyes, and felt himself flush with embarrassment. His feet kept moving out from under him and the sun was painfully bright, and he wanted to lie down, to sleep and forget those slender golden hands and feet.

It wasn’t until later, after he had woken tangled and sweaty in his cot, that he remembered the look on Edgar’s face and the darkness of Gilly’s smile. So he pushed away the sheets and shuffled into Edgar’s cabin, because those secrets were more pressing problems, and hopefully less painful than his own.

Edgar’s room was lacy and opulent and disappointing; if anything of interest resided there besides terrible romance novels, Will didn’t see it.

Gilly’s room smelled of years of candle smoke, of something strange and sickly sweet, of dust. A plethora of exotic weaponry hung gleaming on the walls, copper scythes and obsidian blades. Around the bed lay neat stacks of books, bound in leather and written in French.

Might as well have been Mongolese, but Will dutifully flipped through them all and found nothing more than incomprehensible words. A drawing of a snake and a chart of constellations had been tucked between the pages of one book, and on a whim he slipped both into his pocket to study later.

Gilly’s room was interesting and disturbing, but not terribly enlightening. Nothing to suggest why two such different men might be journeying together, no secrets revealed.

The hold was the logical place to look next. In the two weeks Will’d spent aboard the Stallion, he had seldom ventured below deck save for brief, hurried dashes to grab an extra coil of rope or casket of water. Something about the enclosed space made him think of watching eyes, of unseen creatures coiled in the shadows.

But really, what kind of pirate was afraid of the dark? Jack wouldn’t have stood at the entrance, shifting nervously from foot to foot. Jack would have sprung in, waved his sword about a bit, and found what there was to find.

Will lit a lantern, took a deep breath, and slunk in.

The hold was a haphazard maze of stacked trunks and oddly-shaped bags. It was difficult to breathe the stagnant, sickly sweet air. His light guttered and flickered, but despite the dimness he could make out strange discolorations along the floor and walls.

Sloppy caulking, Will thought, and would have gone on his way and thought nothing more had he not happened to look down and glimpse something pale against the shadowed ground.

It was a worn pink ribbon, curled limply by the wall. Will stared at it blankly a moment, at this strange childish ornament lost among the trunks of an empty boat, and bent to pick it up. The silk clung to his fingers, sticky and wet.

Will inhaled sharply. Blood, red and liquid, and there in front of him was a footprint, outlined in clotted crimson, and another. Still clutching the ribbon, Will mechanically tracked the drying footsteps deeper into the hold.

His torch wavered, shrank to dull embers, but he could see any attempts to clear away the gore must have been abandoned. He felt his shoes clinging to the floor and the hand he placed against the wall to steady himself came away tacky and red.

He had stopped breathing, pulled forward by silent feet, and in the quiet heard a faint unidentifiable sound. Out of the corner of his eye he sensed something moving, and achingly slow, and he suddenly didn’t want to see, he didn’t want to see it, but still he turned around.

A coarse sack hung suspended from the ceiling, dark and heavy and dripping, swaying slightly in the still, hot air.

As he watched, an engorged droplet trembled along the canvas corner and fell with a thick splash to the planks below. Another swelled in the silence, fell, and the air pulsed to the rhythm.

Will felt his legs go cold and leaden, felt the blood draining from his head and his heart beating in slow cadence.

Jack, he thought incongruously, and shuddered, took a jerky step backwards.

Took another and another, and somehow blundered back to the square of sunlight, somehow slammed the door behind him, and the world rushed back, loud and hot and vivid.

Will stood under the sweltering blue sky, listening to the familiar clamor of the docks and the slap of waves against the hull, and shivered.