the Dalaverse

I felt the writing bug tonight and so here you are - the penultimate installement of 'Keeping Faith.' Billy sleep through most of it, which is fortunate since it features a somewhat private encounter between Jack and Will. This is the first smut I have written in a LONG time, so please don't judge it too harshly.



back to part V
Keeping Faith (Part VI)


It has been a long time since Elizabeth stood at the helm of the Pearl. Even now, while they lie at anchor in the shelter of the bay, she can remember the thrill of full sails and racing winds beneath her hands. It makes her ache to sail, to fight, to scale the bloody island – anything but this interminable waiting. In a few hours, she’ll have spent more time away from her son than at any other point in his short life.

“Thought I’d bring ye somethin’ to eat.” Gibbs comes up behind her with a tin plate. They caught a wild pig in the afternoon and there is still plenty of meat left, cold though it is. He’s garnished it with some biscuit, one of the last oranges, and a pretty purple blossom. Touched, Elizabeth climbs up on the capstan to eat and gestures for Gibbs to join her.

He leans against a spoke, carefully – she knows his eyes are bad in poor light. The lantern he carries only helps a bit. They both look out to sea so that he won’t have to squint at her while they talk.

“It’s good,” she remarks, forcing herself to swallow although her throat is dry.

Gibbs hands her his flask to wash it down. “Figured ye’d fret yerself into a faint without a bit o’ food in your belly.”

“I can hardly help it.” She peels the orange, wafting the skin’s fragrant musk up to her face. “We’ve no idea where they are, what they’re doing, if –” Finishing the sentence is not an option. She would know. Will would come to her. Somehow, he would find his way to her for that.

Gibbs takes a proffered section of fruit with a nod of thanks. “’M sure they’re fine. Jack hasn’t survived this far without a mite o’ luck.”

Both of them smirk at the trifles he has left out of this truncated version of events. Luck he has in spades – it’s just that it has turned bad as often as good. There was a time when she wouldn’t have trusted Jack Sparrow farther than she could spit, but this is a new day. In this current thread of their history, there is no one she would trust more with the life of her only child. It doesn’t slow her pulse, though, nor quiet her restless mind. Mostly she thinks she should have pulled a pistol on Jack to convince him to pull Billy back through the gate.

“You know,” she says, sucking the juice between her teeth, “I’ve felt frustrated and helpless more than once over the years. But never more so than today, when I could not physically reach my son. And now I haven’t the least idea what to do with myself other than worry about him.” Twirling the flower between her thumb and forefinger, she sighs heavily. “What on earth will I do when he’s really grown up?”

Gibbs pats her knee. “He’s a boy yet, Miss Elizabeth.”

She smiles to hear the old familiar name. Sometimes she misses being known as Swann. It was easier to let go of her married name, for she’s never really had a chance to be a Turner.

“But he won’t be a child forever. We have been living hand to mouth for so long now….I haven’t dared to think on any sort of future.”

Somewhere behind the stones, the two men she loves are working on that question without her. And now it is her turn to leave the meat out of the story. If Gibbs knows or guesses why, he doesn’t say.

Instead he replies, “Well, you’ll always have a berth on the Pearl, should you wish it.”

“And Will too,” she says, too strident. Gibbs only nods: of course.

Gnawing on a hangnail, she is silent for a moment. He speaks very nearly the exact thought on her mind.

“But ye wonder – is it enough?”

Elizabeth rolls the petals in the palm of her hand and nods once in consideration. Is any of it enough? Or rather will it be too much, after all this time? How will she learn to function if the earth slides out from under her feet once again?

“’F ye want my opinion –”

“Always,” she simpers, her expression exaggerated enough for him to see in the dark.

He snorts in amusement. “Then I say - take back who ye were.”

“And who was I?” Her voice quavers at the end, unbidden. It’s been so long since anyone knew her as more than Elizabeth Brown, sailor’s woman or wife or widow. It was all the same to them that met her. No one to remember, not even the boy who became her treasure out of that long and painful journey. She fought to keep him and then she fought to keep his past from him. If he were older, she fears he would not forgive that.

Gibbs turns to her and runs a fingertip along her brow, across the bridge of her nose, down her jaw, and pinches her chin gently. “Why, th’ bold lass what demanded parlay with Cap’n Barbossa! Th’ girl who, being rescued, turned right about and rescued her champion in turn. Th’ woman who chained Jack Sparrow to ‘is doom –” Elizabeth feels herself blanch, even now, but he takes no notice. It’s a part of the story, after all. “Then journeyed t’ world’s end to bring ‘im back. Bride in a maelstrom, tiger of a dam t’ a bonny lad.” He spread his arms wide. “Pirate Lord of Singapore, governor’s daughter, King of the Brethren Court.”

“Oh, but you’ve left out seamstress, governess, serving wench, shop-girl…” She holds out her arms. “Look at my hands! As rough and horny as an old washerwoman’s. Which, come to think of it, is probably the least memorable job I’ve taken over the years.”

Gibbs takes her left hand, tracing the lines on her palm. “Aye, those things too,” he says affably. “No shame innit neither. Your father’d say the same, saints rest his soul.” She smiles at that, grateful – always forgetting to remember that Gibbs helped see the governor and his daughter safely from cold waters to warm. “What’s this?”

Elizabeth flinches as he lightly brushes the broken skin. “Blister from sparring with Jack. All my old sword calluses disappeared long ago, and the hilt seems to rub in all the wrong spots.” She flexes her fingers, part of her relishing the ache despite her complaints.

“It’ll heal over, soon enough.” He folds her hand in both of his, solid and warm and scarred from a lifetime spent at sea.




“The tide will recede in the morning,” Bill Turner assures Jack later in the evening, when the weary travelers have been collected – and the dead neglected for the first time in a long time. “Souls’ll keep until then.”

Jack looks out at the crowd of people, vaguely dissatisfied but unconcerned about their future. He supposes they know precisely where they’re going, at any rate, which is more than he can say for himself. “And you’ll be off, I imagine.”

“Forth again, and back,” Bill confirms with a nod. Jack heartily approves the lack of any fishy accoutrements to his natural beauty, such as it is, and tries not to be jealous at his obvious lack of aging. “That’s how it works. This is the first time the captain’s had a night off in – how long, now?

“Eight years and nine months,” says Jack, gazing at the younger generations of Turner stretched out side by side on the deck. Billy wanted to know about the pictures these stars formed in the sky and then, when Will admitted that he had no idea, asked him to make some up. He certainly has been spoiled by his imaginative mother and Jack’s tongue-wagging crew. Thus have they been occupied for the past hour, although they haven’t been raising their arms for a few minutes. “Give or take a couple of weeks.”

Bill glances over at the silent pair. “I wager the lad’ll be falling asleep at his soup, day he’s had. Not that we’ve any soup,” he adds. Sure enough, Will sits himself up slowly, careful not to disturb Billy. Jack cocks his head and hears the boy’s soft snores for the first time. There’s no doubt he got that from his mother.

But he’s not so deep asleep after all, as he stirs when Will kneels and starts to gather him up.

“Da?” he says in a muzzy voice, blinking.

Even from a height and a distance Jack can see the warmth in Will’s eyes. “Bedtime, then.”

“No,” Billy protests, struggling upright and fighting down a yawn with admirable success. “’M not tired a bit, really.”

Bill steps forward to lift his grandson to his feet. “Why don’t you and I go see the great organ, then – whilst your da and Jack catch up a bit.” Billy looks swiftly at Will; but having his count of family trebled has made him more pliant than usual, and he slides his hand readily into Bill’s when Will nods.

The captain’s face carries no more expression than a cloud. Bill, however, casts an appraising glance over his shoulder as he leads Billy off. Jack’s mustache twitches. Bill always did have his odd canny moments.

“Can you play it?” Billy asks, loping along beside Bill’s long stride.

“Oh, a bit here and there – we’ll see what we can manage…” Jack snorts. If Bill can plunk out the simplest tune on that blessed instrument, Jack will eat his hat.

Will watches them go with that same eerie stillness. Jack rather misses the days when he carted all his passions out for the world to see. At least a body mostly knew what to expect, before he got all secretive and then all immortal. When Will jerks his chin, Jack is spooked enough to follow along to his cabin with hardly a word.

“Nice,” he can’t help venturing once inside. The room’s as bare as the collection plate in a Tortuga chapel. "Simple, but elegant. Suits you."

Will slams the door and whirls – now he’s got an expression for Jack, and the clenched fists and tense shoulders to go with it. Jack braces himself.

“How dare you bring my son here? You hadn’t the slightest idea where you were headed!”

Jack raises one finger in defense. “Actually, ‘twas Billy what –”

“You stupid irresponsible clod!” Will thunders over him. “What the devil were you thinking, Jack? You might have drowned before we put in – you might have been attacked by any number of foul things in the dark places of this world! I cannot believe – simply cannot believe you would risk a little boy in such a fool’s endeavor, much less your own sorry hide.”

He stalks to the drab little desk in the corner and sits heavily, rocking the chair back on two legs before it settles under his weight. Breath coming short, he rakes the scarf off his head.

Jack crosses his arms over his chest, sensing a break in the wave.

“When’s the last time you had a good shout at someone?”

Will tips his head back with a groan. “Too long.”

“Well, I was glad to be of service,” says Jack gravely. To his immense relief Will’s shoulders begin to shake with laughter. To his surprise he joins in, falling back on the orderly bunk.

The mirth is welcome but short-lived. As their chuckles die down, they can hear a few notes being painfully extracted from the organ. Will makes a face and Jack grins to see it.

“Elizabeth is truly well?” They did cover this territory earlier, but Jack can certainly understand Will’s anxiety. Unfortunately he hasn’t quite worked up the nerve to let slip that it may be well founded.

“Somewhat put out to find herself barred from this little journey, but well enough.”

Will’s eyes crinkle at the obvious understatement. He shakes his head in wonder, drumming his knuckles on the arms of the chair. “My God, Jack – I’m still reeling that you managed to find us at all. You’ve no idea how I have tried to get back.”

Jack means to say that he does have some idea; however, it seems all he can do is gaze at Will’s easy smile and familiar face. Time and peculiar duty have changed him, but you wouldn’t know to look for it unless you’d known him well. It’s been a long while since Jack thought on how grateful he was to possess that knowledge. Elizabeth has taken up all his attention, as is her nature – but here is Will Turner again, whole and handsome and nothing like the shades that flock toward the ship. Nothing like Jones.

To cover the bitter flavor of guilt in his throat, he says, “Lizzie’s not the only who missed you, y’know.” It comes out more hoarse and raw than he intended. The difference does not escape Will’s notice – sharpened by the experiences about which Jack knows and in which he participated, and countless others he will never be able to name.

“I’ve ferried men who were hanged for the way you’re looking at me just now,” he says quietly.

“’S a bit of an exaggeration,” Jack replies with only a moment’s pause to regroup once again. “The navy’s no picnic, but it don’t hang men just for looking.” He shifts on the bunk, unnerved again by the stillness in the cabin. A single heinous note punctuates the silence. “I’ll stop if you like.”

Will stands, gaze never wavering, and slowly comes to stand before him. The beat of blood at his temples quickens.

“I didn’t say that, Jack.”

He doesn’t lean forward to kiss Jack so much as fall upon him, all hungry mouth and lean strong limbs. Elizabeth brought this kind of abandon, this near desperation in those nights long ago when she would not speak of her fears; Jack had met it then with a certain degree of caution. Now he tugs Will down into a fever of long regret and longer desire, kissing him with force enough to bruise. It doesn’t matter if Will never wanted this as Jack did, before his wedding night, right back to the first accord – he wants it now and that’s good enough.

They tear at clothing, impatience making them clumsy. Jack’s sure that if Will thinks about this for long enough he’ll call a halt to all proceedings. Hell, he’s not entirely sure he won’t do it himself. Elizabeth will –

It suddenly ceases to matter what Elizabeth might do because Will is yanking his breeches down and Will’s mouth is at his neck and Will’s lovely rough hand is wrapping around his cock. Jack nearly chokes on a cry, writhing beneath his steady grip. Will shows his first and only sign of uncertainty as he reaches back with the other hand, gingerly pressing – there –

“Is this right?” Will’s voice shakes out between his heaving breaths. “Should I –”

“You had damned well better,” Jack hisses, lifting his hips as two fingers slip into him. The sweat from both their bodies eases the way somewhat, although Jack still grits his teeth against the burn. His trembling hand finds Will’s cock, finds it to be not inconsiderable in the least – draws away for him to spit on – and returns to a shuddering gasp from Will. Fortunately for Jack’s sanity, he is sufficiently informed to figure things out from there. He pulls back long enough to let Jack turn over and then stretches across him, heavy and warm. A brief fumble, a muttered curse and he is pushing inside, moving against Jack – finally moving with him.

Even if Jack were more of a gambling man he’d never have cast a wager on the probability of his being laid out in the Dutchman’s cabin like a common rentboy. But this is one fool’s wager he cannot regret. It’s no easier and no less sweet than riding the Pearl’s swell in a rising sea.

Will doesn’t last long – near a decade of celibacy will do that to a man – but he proves the considerate sort, just as Jack figured it. Jack presses his lips to the hollow of Will’s throat and comes with a low grown, clutching Will’s hip hard enough to leave a mark. He wonders if that’s even possible and then stops wondering because it is a bloody stupid thing to ponder when he hasn’t said one word of his promise to Elizabeth – nor of any other promises made in times past.

Will rolls onto his back, one arm crooked beneath his head. Jack waits for his own heartbeat to slow before speaking – it would be rude to draw attention to it, after all. But in point of fact he misses his chance.

“It’s strange,” Will muses, sounding nothing but relaxed. Ordinarily Jack would take pride in a job well done; on this occasion he’s just grateful not to be slapped for breaking the other half of the same vow. Not that Will would know it; not that he would have borne Jack down to his bed if he had. Jack’s throat tightens once more.

“We never did find James Norrington,” Will continues, “though he died on this very ship.”

Jack had the tale from Elizabeth years ago and he cannot help but feel sorry at the thought that peace eluded the former commodore at the end – for her sake, mostly, and now for Will’s as well. “Huh. Mayhap he found his own way.”

“Perhaps,” Will allows, tugging the sheet up past his waist. “Sometimes they do.”

He is even, he is steady, he is level as he can make himself – as level as Will would make a supper table. “And Beckett?”

“He did not go quietly, but no amount of pleading or threats would have earned my sympathy, and in the end he went.” Jack can feel Will looking at him although his own eyes are trained firmly on the crooked boards above their heads. “Jack –”

“Good,” says Jack sharply. Will falls silent but his hand covers Jack’s wrist, light and ready to be put off by the slightest twitch. Jack remains still, and it stays.

After a long moment of silence Jack is drifting closer to slumber. It would seem not to be such a concern for Will, for he picks up the conversation topic of his occupation once again.

“There was one man, not long ago, who had grown up on the Pelegostos’ island – in Calypso’s swamp when she was calling herself Tia Dalma.” Jack makes a noncommittal noise a half-second before it dawns on his tired mind where this is heading.

“He told me about how he was rescued from a slaver as a boy. The actual incident had been either lost from his memory or locked deep inside, but his mother told him the tale, and about the man who’d broken the chains.”

Jack pulls in a long, shallow breath. He’s of half a mind to feign sleep. No one now living knows that tale – or at least they wouldn’t be able to name his place in it.

Yet he swallows and asks, “He died free?”

Will nods, his fingertips brushing over Jack’s pulse. “In a storm, fishing for his wife’s supper. He was worried about her, of course. I told him that she would grieve, but she’d be all right in time. I hope he found it some comfort.”

Lad, Jack thinks, the overwhelming majority of them don’t deserve you. “I imagine he did. And what I would find of some comfort is a few hours’ rest,” he adds, not unkindly, turning onto his side and resting his chin on Will’s shoulder. It’s late, and much has already been said, and it would be churlish of him to spoil it with talk of curses and conditions now.

At first Will seems to acquiesce. He blows out the lantern and shifts to a more comfortable sprawl at Jack’s side. But a slight stiffening of spine precedes his next words, belying his casual, almost friendly tone.

“Is this how you sleep beside my wife?”

Jack blinks in the dark, although he doesn’t lift his cheek from Will’s pillow. “No. She steals the bedclothes.”

“I have no need of them, for I feel no chill.”

Sighing, Jack rubs a hand across his eyes. “Doesn’t mean the chill ain't there, William.”

Now Will sits up against the backboard, leaving Jack eye level with his navel. It’s not a bad view but neither will it give Jack much leverage in the coming conversation, so he hoists himself up as well. To his surprise, Will’s eyes are not angry but bleak.

“I gather she wanted me to know?”

“Aye, she did,” says Jack heavily. “Prob’ly should’ve told you before all the – well, the further adultery. Although clearly you are not caught unawares, as it were.”

Will’s mouth thins out. “It would seem not.” He shakes his head, losing the thread of bitterness just as he finds it. “I have no words of censure for Elizabeth. I can scarcely imagine how difficult this fate has been for her; what right have I to condemn her?”

“It’s not always about right,” says Jack quietly, watching him. It hurts, that’s plain enough, but he also means what he says. From the day Jack met a bold lad and bolder maid, they’ve wanted nothing so much as each other – and each the other’s freedom. They’re a hell of a pair, no doubt about that. Sometimes he wishes he could find the words to tell them so. Instead all he has to offer is the wing of a hope.

“Can’t say what will be done about the curse, either. It may turn out in our favor at the end.” No matter how many times he has said this to Elizabeth – no matter how they held each other up in belief these past few months – he wants to cringe like a kicked mongrel when he says it to Will.

“We didn’t know…I never asked her to be faithful,” Will whispers, twisting the sheet in his fist.

“But she has been,” says Jack, wrinkling his nose at Will’s rightfully skeptical expression. “Excepting yours truly, of course – and who can blame the lass, really?” He tries a wide grin and a sweep of his arm, and is rewarded with a grudging smile. At least there’s still that, after all these years. Jack would hate to lose such a knack.

“You know yourself, Jack. I envy you that. I’ve learned here that it is never an easy thing.”

Deeming the danger over, Jack scoots closer to him again, their shoulders touching. “Nor did it come without a price or two. Sometimes on me own head, and sometimes –” He breaks off abruptly, fingers twitching. They’ve already come far enough down that road tonight.

Wisely spotting the end of the conversation at last, Will settles down in the bunk, one arm dropped over Jack’s waist. Jack hopes he doesn’t sleep as erratically as Elizabeth, who is never in the same position or part of the bed from hour to hour.

Naturally it is Will whose breathing begins to deepen while Jack stares at woodgrain. Out of irritation as much as anything, he nudges Will with a knee. “You never did say how you liked the boy.”

“I know this is a tall order, Jack, but don’t be daft.”

“Oh, he’s got his face arranged in the right order and all, but he does have a wicked stubborn streak that can drive a person to distraction. Can’t for the life of me imagine where he might’ve got that from.”

“Shut up or I’ll put you out with the shades.”

He falls asleep with the warm imprint of Will’s smile against his ear, praying to whatever powers might listen that they haven’t already crushed the seedling of what this could become – wondering at what point along the way he grew to want it so much.