Pairing: Jack Sparrow/Will Turner
Summary: Thoughts regarding the Captain and his First Mate, as seen by long dead bones.
Disclaimer: The characters in this story belong to Disney, Jerry Bruckheimer Productions, and their respective actors, Mr. Depp and Mr. Bloom. No profit is made from this story.
Distribution: Anywhere, as long as my name is attached
Notes: Thanks to circe_tigana for her input and darkeyedwolf for the beta.
I am dead.
My bones have long been driven into the ground. Fallen from movement, and the briny deep envelops me. There were few tears shed on my behalf. Two faces from faded memories. The others have long disappeared from mind - they came, played their parts, and left.
I feel the water rush through them, my bones, and hear no noise. The liquid does not play upon them. There are no lyrical noises, no fancy words and hushed whispers. No, I am dead, and barely mourned.
That aside, I remember things.
I remember two faces. One older, the other younger. In written word, though personalities and appearance left something to be desired. I heard them going on about this once. On my deck, and the Captain was angry. Trying to explain the concept, albeit drunkenly, of mental ages. His first mate nodded tolerantly, rolled his eyes, and checked my rigging.
Three days later they were wed.
Matelotage. I bore witness; the Captain wore black, the first mate wore white. No, no, they did not. The water washes through me harder now, and it bites away at my memories. Back, to the left, there it is. The Captain, warned he'd be thrown into the coral if he were drunk, the first mate sullen and shouting. They were two opposites, and they were in love.
Lips were bit when they were united, and Jack roared with laughter, that way of his. I watched, quiet. Whispers of my being - did I mind that they were united in this makeshift wedding? Did I still love him? Would he keep me above, one that he lied for, fought for, hungered for? It was an unnatural thing to them - he loved his ship too much, they would think-but to the Captain, it was not. It was simple, clear as glass.
I did not speak a word.
I only watched them, and slowly grew happier. They would not leave me. Never. No, we were three, together, unable to work without each other.
Three until death.
Black material brimmed with life, stretching and reaching. I felt myself being pulled with the ocean. The wind was cool, the waves were soft; the ocean's arms stretched and handled me carefully. Her hands were rough, littered with debris-rocks, sand, coral, seaweed - that hangs through her, trinkets collected in her time. I myself carried trinkets: the coral rings, the medallions, a silver scabbard. They were given to me by my two strapping men, both amused, both quiet, both in love.
It is tedious to describe their relationship this way, but it is the truth.
I would wait in the quiet of night sometimes, linger while my sails slowed and snores were heard. The light cast soft blue across my deck, not to be confused with the sheer clarity of ocean below. The girl with dark skin and a fiery temper stood at my wheel, leading me towards whatever plunder and merriment were ahead. It was curious how the Captain ran his crew and ship-plundering, for certain, but no murders. No, none. Deaths could be dealt in self-defense. Torture was not an option. To others, this may have appeared to be a grand weakness. To the Captain, it was just the way things worked.
After all, there was nothing to be gained from murderous pirates unless he desired another mutiny.
I looked through shades pulled, through my dusty windows obscured by elaborate woodwork. Raised skin, delicate bones. There has been many a night that has passed since that simple ceremony on my deck, as it were. No, more than nights, months, seasons, years. Notches on wood and numerous bottles, chests and coins.
One day I had watched the Captain give the First Mate his hat, in a joking manner. He had plucked it off his red bandana, dusted it off just so, and jauntily stuck it upon the young man's head. After much protest and repeat fittings, the First Mate quieted and wore the hat, steering me towards a port. They had just ransacked a merchant vessel, and the rum had made the pirates hot and restless. It was quite the routine: after a successful voyage, drinks were shared, and the crew became completely inebriated.
However, while they all left to visit the port, the Captain stayed behind with his First Mate. Then and there, he plucked a hat from the pile of clothing, gold and silver coins, trinkets, silverware, furnishings and the like. The Captain offered this to his First Mate, a twirl of fingers. An exchange. He regained his hat while giving a new one in the process to the young man. That hat was gained, as well as a coat produced from the treasure. The First Mate stayed with his new hat and stolen coat. Taken, surely, and yet given dearly.
It was not a case of the Captain turning this young man into his protégé. No, it was not that at all. It was that the Captain cared for him so, wanted him to be comfortable, wanted him to be less of a stick in the mud. And the boy had taken to the clothing dearly, and so he wore it.
I saw him through my window, watched him pour over a map riddled with lines and colors. He was older now, but not by much. His coat was open; a thin scarf at his neck, a hat jauntily perched on his head. He poked with strong, solid fingers at various places on the map. The coast of Spain, now the Caribbean, the west of Africa. There he spider-walked his fingers, plotted and prodded. His hair tangled a little, mostly held back by a scrap of cloth, strands messy.
He began to speak at that point. It was lecturing, to be certain, filled with niceties amidst hard words. And, also to be certain, all of this was greeted by a curious wave of hands. I looked in further and saw the Captain there, the way his hands moved. Of course, they did not flow exaggeratedly with every movement - no, there were times when they did, and this was one. It was not constant; rather, his body used the energy in other areas. Areas being functional-stumbling, jerking, swaying swagger-and pleasurable - what went on underneath tattered sheets.
So he moved his hands, a gesture of a mouth babbling on, a wisp of ridicule cut short by the First Mate's glare. The Captain, perched on a table near, smiled, jumped off. Dangles in his hair, gold in his mouth - he was a confection of darkness, sprinkled with metallic accents. There was the bandana, the hat askew, and there was his mouth on the First Mate's neck. Composure went out the window, splashed hard into the ocean, as the view changed to moaning and further bantering.
The First Mate had been the perfect picture of a decent pirate, sculpted out of his experiences and what his Captain knew. After the Captain had taken him, he was a picture of disarray, smeared with alcohol and sweat. There were bites, mouths slammed hard against each other's lips. Nothing nice, nothing slow and soft. This was raw power, this was fury and passion and love. Slick, wet, groping, poking, biting, and moaning.
I waited, a moment longer, and let my sails billow with wind, let my shutters close.
I waited, in longing, and knew he would keep me dear to his heart, regardless of the many nights of bantering, followed by acceptance and sex.
I am the Black Pearl, and I wait at the bottom of the ocean still, and know someday I will see my Captain once more. For I was his first love, dearest, intangible in loving arms, visible in wood, metal and cloth. I may not have been able to love him as his First Mate did, but I cared for him dearly, and sailed the ocean to carry him to his dreams.
The water shakes my bones, and I let them dissolve and break.
For when he arrives, he will mend me, and I will be whole once again.
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