best community ever, pretty much. yep. thanks so much for the lovely pirates.

Title: First Warning
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Will/Jack
Warnings: Slash. Drunken not-quite-debauchery. Possibly a WiP, partly because it feels unconcluded but mostly because I just want to write something that I can label "Rating: ARRRRRR". Not sure precisely how long the journey from Port Royal to Tortuga would have taken. I make a lot of things up.
Disclaimer: Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate-of-Disney's-intellectual-property's life for me. But at least an honest one.



Will always imagined that the shells and beads woven into the dark tangle of Sparrow’s hair served much the same purpose as a bell around the neck of a particularly vicious and ill-smelling cat: a warning for birds, the infirm, and the allergic. Except that this cat was six feet tall, feral, dark, and completely mad, and didn’t so much eat mice as pin them in the cup of his hand, stare at them contemplatively for a while, and then mumble dangerously “I think I’ll have a biscuit today, mate, but you’re bloody lucky.”

And-–unlike the unfortunate birds–-Will was always given more than one warning for the pirate's approach. First, of course, the clinking and jingling (his hair and assorted weaponry), and one wanted to get out of the way right then if one were going to get away at all--because then came the Smell: rum, seaweed, sweat and fish in a horrible salt-sweet miasma that reminded Will of nothing more than (and it gave him a secret, nasty little thrill of pleasure every time he thought it) Commodore Norrington’s cologne.

If one waited long enough to hit the Smell, there was no escaping, because Sparrow was always right behind it with a nonsensical comment or a scathing remark about one’s sailing ability. Which was ridiculous really because of course one had never crewed a ship before, and here one was, hefting sails and tilling rudders and manning whatever-it-was with admirable alacrity, and all one got for it was sarcasm and an occasional thwack over the head with the boom.

(“How in the hell did you ever command a crew?” Will had snarled once when he completely lost his temper, being ordered starboard and port and let this out and reef that and what do you mean you don’t know what reefing is? and all right then just–-just stay out of the way because you’re making everything worse, there’s a good lad.

Sparrow stared at him a moment, then tapped the side of his head, favored him with a golden grin, and said, “your dad, mostly,” --and then, whistling, jumped off the foredeck, sauntered into his cabin and let a rather stunned Will finish lashing up a flapping sail in relative peace.)

Today, they were trapped--trapped in a tiny cove under cover of a sharp, jagged cliff, where on the map Will had no idea. “Red sky at morning, sailor take warning,” Sparrow had said at sunrise with irritating superiority. “We’ll drop anchor here for the day.”

“We can’t!” cried Will, outraged. “Look, there’s not a bloody cloud in the sky, and what about Elizab--Miss Swann? I’m not dropping anything!”

“Look,” and Sparrow closed his eyes in silent supplication for patience, which was completely infuriating, “since you are so determined not to be a pirate, stop pretending you know things a pirate knows. If you want to drown and lose your lady love forever, then by all means jump off the side and do so. I’ve other plans. We’re going into that cove until this storm blows over, and then--since we won’t be dead, thanks to me--we can talk. Now tack the-–pull on that big rope,” condescendingly, “and stop making noise.”

It had now been proven fact: Jack Sparrow was the biggest idiot on the high seas. The morning was particularly beautiful, and blessedly silent except for the lapping of the waves against the hollow hull. Will sighed, rolled his shoulders back, and leaned against the rail, determinedly enjoying the wind tangling itself in his hair and the golden path of sunlight on the water, and not thinking about days: how many days had it been since Port Royal, how many more in this stupid cove, how many more than that to Tortuga, how many more to Elizabeth.

It was not working. He thunked his head gently against the rail, moaning quietly to himself.

Clink. Jingle.

Damn.

“Wotcher, eunuch,” said Captain Jack Sparrow, emerging from the captain’s cabin in worn breeches and wild hair and precious little else–-excepting, ridiculously, his hat. Will was not yet fully adapted to piratical standards of modesty; he’d managed unbuttoning his shirt a few notches ever since the day he nearly got heatstroke, collapsed, and woke up to Sparrow trying to give him the kiss of life, and considered this a great accomplishment. Sparrow, on the other hand, pranced about jingling, tanned, and practically naked as if deliberately trying to make Will nervous. It was working. “Not capsized yet, are we?”

Will flung himself off the rail, paced furiously back and forth several times, stared hard at Sparrow, and finally burst out with “Do we have to stop over at Tortuga?”

Sparrow blinked at him several times–his worst habit, in a great array of terrible habits, was always staring at Will for what felt like a few minutes before he ever got around to saying anything--and then said, infinitely patient, “Now, mate, I can’t just fish us a crew out of the sea, can I? Difficult as it may be for the young and impressionable to believe, I am but a simple man, entirely without miracle-working capabilities.”

“I know that,” said Will impatiently. “I only thought-–well, this is working fine, isn’t it? Just with the two of us?”

“‘Just the two of us?’” Sparrow eyed him. “Not getting attached to me, are we?” and leered unpleasantly at him.

“No,” gritted Will, “absolutely a thousand times no, only it would be so much quicker.”

Sparrow lifted his eyebrows, then fluttered his hands dismissively at him. “Boy, let me tell you something: this would go quicker if I had a bloody one-legged dwarf for a crew instead of you. One day in Tortuga’s not going to kill you. I mean the people there,” he added, reconsidering, “now, yes, they’ll kill you. But the extra year we’d have to spend on the ocean with me trying to teach you the difference between port, starboard and your own arse and you taking a wrong turn and steering us to bloody France-–well, that’ll kill your strumpet too. And me as well. Since I’ll shoot myself.”

“If one of us is going to shoot himself,” Will ground out, keeping his temper with a good deal of difficulty, “I rather suspect I’m going to beat you to it.”

“Ah ah ah,” said Sparrow, waving a finger. “But who’s got the pistol, eh?”

“Well then, go ahead,” said Will darkly. “And I’ll have you on a biscuit when I run out of food and be jolly grateful you died.”

Sparrow made a horrible face. “Poor choice. Tough. Stringy as anything. And-–” he held up one finger, looking deathly serious “--heavily and exotically flavored. And probably ’stremely diseased.”

“But quiet,” Will pointed out. “And no worse-smelling than usual, even taking into account the rot.”

“You just wait three days, that’ll show you worse-smelling.”

“I’m going to salt and dry you. So you’ll keep. And not smell.”

“Ah. And attract swarms of black flies. Have you ever been in the middle of a swarm of black flies, boy?”

“Of course not.”

“Well then,” said Sparrow with insufferable smugness. “Go right ahead. Dry me poor old corpse. Do it right there on the deck. See where it gets you. Malaria,” he added, nodding sagely, “that’s where.”

“Really?” said Will with morbid fascination. “Is that fatal?”

“Dunno, luv,” said Sparrow, weaving slightly, “didn’t kill me, did it?” and fell to intense, slightly cross-eyed scrutiny of an empty spot on the deck.

It was too much, Will thought desperately. He was trapped, trapped on a stolen ship with nothing but a mad disease-ridden pirate, a plethora of disease-ridden rodents, and countless crates of armaments he didn’t even know how to use, and now they were going to some French den of sin to waste more time picking up more mad, probably disease-ridden people so that he could go die in foreign waters without ever seeing his Elizabeth again, and if he didn’t go mad himself in the next ten minutes it would be a bloody miracle.

He gave a little groan, collapsed onto the deck, and lay there. Except to throw himself off the side and end it all now, there seemed nothing in the world worth getting up for.

Something poked him in the side. Will regarded it listlessly; it appeared to be the toe of Sparrow’s boot.

“Now who’s getting dried and eaten?” said Sparrow, sounding unbearably self-satisfied.

“nffgh,” said Will. Up close, the glossy deck was pockmarked and rough and maybe even worse-smelling than Sparrow. “How much further do we have to go?”

“Well, let’s see.” There was a jingling thud as Sparrow thumped down onto the deck beside him. Will could imagine him perfectly, sprawling around like a stretched-out monkey, folding his long brown arms over bare, skinny knees, regarding Will slantwise out of hooded, kohl-smeared eyes. “It’s a day and a half with a full crew and the perfect wind; which makes it about a week and a half or worse with you. And we’ve had...what? Two, three blissful days already? Honestly, mate, I’ve no idea. So we’d better just shut up and enjoy the company. Difficult though that may be,” he muttered as an afterthought.

Will pushed himself up on his elbows to regard Sparrow in disbelief; Sparrow looked blandly back, managing to look both diabolical and innocent. “You mean you don’t know?”

“Oh, I know,” said Sparrow comfortably, leaning back and folding his arms. “Maybe I just choose not to tell you, savvy?”

“You don’t know,” protested Will, struggling upright, “you just said you had no idea! ...Right?”

“Oh, did I? Right, I suppose.” Sparrow, appearing to have lost interest, started cleaning out his ear with the barrel of his pistol. “No idea. Not the foggiest.”

Will whimpered and buried his head in his hands.

“You know what you need,” said Sparrow sagely, “is a good strong drink.”

“I don’t drink,” said Will primly.

“You will soon enough,” and Sparrow gave a dark little cackle. “You just come to me when you do, eh?” and stretched like a cat, luxuriously unfolded himself, and wandered to the foredeck, humming tunelessly and doing a little jig.



"When you do” turned out to be about an hour later.

“You should know this has nothing to do with my resolve slipping,” said Will very stiffly, slamming the cabin door. “I’m only bored, and”–-this was the difficult bit to admit “-–it’s starting to rain out there.”

“Course you are!” said Sparrow with a good deal more enthusiasm than Will might have expected, and, to Will’s surprise, skipping blithely over an opportunity to extol his own nautical accuracy. “So’m I, lad!” and hiccupped.

“You’ve already been drinking!” He certainly had the moral edge to be offended here. God knew he wasn’t going to get drunk alone, and by the looks of him Sparrow was about to pass out any moment.

Sparrow glared blearily at him. “Lisn. I been drinking me whole life. What kind of idiot would I be to stop now when the need is greatest? Jus...siddown there and stop swaying so much.”

“I’m not swaying,” said Will sniffily, taking a cautious seat across the little wooden table. “You are.”

“You blurryright I am,” roared Sparrow, throwing a fist toward the ceiling. “Yo ho ho and a bottle of whatever this is!” He pushed it across the table with an inviting little nod. “Go right ahead, lad. Knock yourself out. Lit’rally.”

Will stared at it suspiciously, then back at Sparrow. “What do I do?”

Sparrow rolled his eyes and thumped his bare feet onto the table. “What d’you do. Idiot. You drink it! ’S why it’s in a bottle! Not complicated!”

Life of sin, Will thought dismally, might as well go all the way, and closed his eyes, leaned his head back and tipped the bottle up.

It hit his tongue like fire, closing off the back of his throat and making his tongue arch up in his mouth and he spluttered and spat furiously, coughing and clutching at his burning chest. “It tastes like soap!”

“Nonsense. Thass nat’ral vitamins. And that was a waste,” and Sparrow made a grab for the bottle.

Will snatched it protectively to his chest. “I didn’t say it was bad soap. Get your own.” He took another drink, this time preparing himself thoroughly in advance. It was...nice, he realized, the buzzing warmth that spread out in his throat and chest and the sharp, violent pinch on his throat and mouth and the bridge of his nose. And there was a little pleasant lift in the back of his head that went with each swallow, like a bellows pumping into his brain, and before he knew it he was on the floor, laughing, and he couldn’t feel his legs, and he was singing a song he’d never heard before.

“Now when I was a little sprog,” sang Sparrow lustily, with great exuberance if not accuracy, legs spread apart on the table, pistol describing uncertain orbits in the air, “an’ so me mother told me--”

“--Way haul away, we’ll haul away Joe!” yelled Will, thumping the floorboards for emphasis.

“-–that if I didn’t kiss the gals me lips would grow all moldy–-”

“WAAAY haul away, we’ll--Hallo,” said Will with blurry surprise, bubbles of laughter still exploding in his chest. “I’m incredibly drunk! Haha.”

“Good lad. That’s the spirit. Never give up.” Sparrow had produced another bottle from somewhere, a while ago apparently because it was half-empty, and was swinging it around in dizzying circles. “What d’you think of it? Give us a full report.”

“It’s lovely,” said Will dreamily. “I haven’t got any legs,” and wiggled his toes to prove it.

Outside, something went bang. “Thassa storm, mate,” said Sparrow, toppling gently off his chair to thump to the ground next to Will. “Bet you feel stupid now, don’t you.”

“Haul away,” sang Will, arching his back off the ground to take another swig of...whatever. It had long since lost the taste of soap and had started to go past his lips like water and that was nice, because it meant he could take it down in immense amounts very quickly; when he pulled it away drops of alcohol splashed onto his chin and chest and the floor boards. “Way haul away, we’ll...something something--whoa–”

The ship creaked, pitched and yawed up on its side, and Will went head over heels to slam up against a roll of canvas at the side of the boat, and then something fell on his head and the bottle flew out of his grasp and something else, heavy and warm, smacked into his stomach and the lantern swung hard against the ceiling, shattered, and went out.

“Oof,” said Will. The boards creaked under his back.

“Ow,” said the something, which appeared to be Sparrow. “That was my head, thank you.”

“Well it was my stomach,” said Will, managing a semblance of resentment, “and I’ve lost my bottle.” He tried moving an arm, experimentally; nothing happened. “And I think I’m stuck in something.”

“So’ve I mine,” mournfully. “Now what?”

“I don’t know.” The future looked bleak. Inasmuch as anything looked like anything, other than Dark.

“Well, first of all,” said Sparrow with admirable cheerfulness, though slightly muffled by Will’s shirt, “we need a new song, I don’t know any more verses and you only know the chorus.”

“Haul away boys, we’ll...Joe haul the...” Will attempted, but couldn’t quite muster up the same energy.

“Well, bugger it,” said Sparrow out of the darkness, “not to worry. We’ll just wait this out until we get a bit of light. D’you know The Fire Ship?”

“No,” said Will. He was starting to feel uncomfortably clear-headed, a sensation that brought with it the abrupt awareness of Sparrow’s long arm flung heedlessly across his chest, the warm ghost of Sparrow’s breath against his stomach, and worst of all the response of his own skin to other skin: it’s the drink, he thought desperately, it makes everything feel good.

“No, of course not.” Sparrow sounded rather disappointed. “Neither do I. She wept, she sighed an’ then she cried, ‘Jack, will ye sleep wi’ me?’” Will could feel the corded muscles in the pirate’s arms pushing against the skin of his chest as Sparrow pulled himself upright and he wondered, vaguely, where his shirt had gone. Sparrow’s fingers were long and calloused, knuckles skinning Will’s calf, and the pit of his stomach did something very strange.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, summoning a vestige of dignity. “Who’d sleep with you?”

“Ahh, lad,” breath hot and liquor-sweet, now against his chest instead of his stomach, hard-palmed hands against his sides, “if you only knew. So come all ye young seamen, who on the streets do sail...”

Will’s skin did the thinking for his hands, and he felt himself curling up against Jack’s hips, and the one hand not tangled in the sails coming up into Jack’s musical hair. “I’m very drunk,” he whispered, because it was true.

“Are you?” Sparrow’s voice was dark with amusement, dark as wine or the sea, and as full of promises. “If you would find companionship, beware the ships you hail...tum tee tum.” His fingers were curling against Will’s cheekbone, and when the ship dropped and rolled again a shaft of blue light slammed for an instant through the windows and burned the firelit hollows of his face into the backs of Will’s eyes. When Sparrow looked up, what little light there was shafted across his eyes so they glinted for a moment in the darkness, cat’s eyes or two black moons.

“This isn’t...” said Will uncertainly, still feeling the sweet blurry ache in his groin, the heat of his skin and Sparrow’s skin, and the shiver in his stomach and spine that he couldn’t quite attribute to the alcohol or the storm. Sparrow’s hair brushed rough against his forehead, jingling faintly. First warning, thought Will through the fog of drink. “What are you...”

“A good lass, a decent lass, but of the rakish kind,” hummed Sparrow in that low, rasping sing-song, and the sound thrummed from his throat deep into Will’s chest. “And really bad eggs. How drunk are you, luv?”

“Don’t. Just...” whispered Will, not knowing don’t what, not knowing just what, but knowing, the haze and the heat and the heavy press of Sparrow’s hips on his and twenty years of never touching anyone, knowing, and Sparrow’s hand running thrilling up his side--“please...”

...but then in that moment of that sharp sweet knowledge felt his body growing rebelliously leaden and his mind swimming away from him...


...And woke up to the gentle creak and slop of the boat, and the pale yellow sun of morning and a throbbing pain behind his eyelids and an intense, violent hatred for everything. He tried sitting up, wobblingly, and found his arm disentangled from the canvas that had imprisoned it, and his shirt thrown carelessly across his stomach.

When he emerged from the cabin, Sparrow was already on deck, diligently hoisting sails, his scarred brown back long against the dirty white canvas.

“Ow,” said Will, miserably. “What happened to me?” Alcohol, he remembered, and a song, and...oh, oh no, drinking was supposed to erase the memory completely, why why why was he still remembering these things?

“The secret weapon of the British navy,” said Sparrow with a flourish and little glittering grin, “and the improving influence of Captain Jack Sparrow.”

“Thanks,” said Will resentfully, “next time I’ll pass,” and pressed a hand hard into his eyes, where green stars were bursting. Sparrow didn’t remember. He couldn’t remember, or he would have brought it up; he’d never miss a chance to make Will nervous.

“But you’ve more important things to think about than drink and yours truly, haven’t you, lad? Think of your lovely fire ship! Weigh anchor, and ho for Tortuga!” grandly, brassily, like he was calling fifteen men to order instead of one.

“That means...turn that big shiny wheel, am I right?” said Will wearily, and went to.

When he smelled the Smell, and heard the bells over his shoulder, he didn’t turn round; Sparrow was singing, not seeming to notice him at all, rolling rough over the notes like the sea over pebbles. “I'd barely left my fire ship, it was hardly a week gone past, when I found the fire that burned in herrrr...was a-ragin' in me maaaaaaast. And tumty tumty ho. A good lass, a decent lass...”

“That’s disgusting!”

“That’s the end of the song, mate,” said Sparrow. “We never finished the verse last night. Though could be we will sometime, savvy?” and winked-–winked!–and strolled away, skin gleaming gold in the sun, leaving Will staring after him, feeling warm and strange and thrilled, and more than a little unnerved.