"Marks," PG-13, Jack/Will, for elspethdixon.

Title: Marks
Author: Anonymous Secret Santa
Recipient: elspethdixon
Pairing: Jack/Will
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Will is not un-marked anymore
Warnings: setting off timeline, angsty
Disclaimer: I don’t know them and this (obviously) never happened.
Author Notes: Thanks to namarie120 for the beta.



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Will is not un-marked anymore. The whip might not be as bad as a brand, but Jack can well imagine how capable the crew of the Dutchman is to do harm. He has to rely on his imagination (which makes things worse), because Will refuses to talk to him. Jack could use a few answers (concerning keys and beasties), but he hasn’t forgotten to ask on Will’s behalf (not this time), and that is something new. Panic is eating his wits, fear is gnawing in his stomach, but he realizes something is not quite right, and his mouth runs away with him, one more time, before he can stop himself. He should know better than to ask Will questions that won’t be answered, but he can’t help himself. Does Will really believe he would have sent him over to that blasted ship if he hadn’t known that there was an ally he could rely on, that there was someone on board who would be willing to protect him at any cost? Jack had known Bill Turner would. Or at least he’d assumed that he possibly, maybe, meaningfully, would do so.

Don’t approach Will Turner (good strong name) when he is angry or, in general, unwilling to speak. Don’t invade his personal space and touch his (delicious) arms, when you are not invited. Jack expects him to hiss and draw back. He draws back and gives Jack a silent stare. Which is much worse.

“Will, you will want me to look at that. Or someone, at least. You will have someone looking at that. Could be nasty, you know. I mean, it probably is. It could get worse, you know, when -”

And there it is. Will actually growls at him. Growls. Jack has only heard that sound from Will’s lips one time before, and that was under completely different circumstances. He would love to sit and remember those circumstances for a while, but this seems not the time.

Will jerks his arm out of Jack’s slender-fingered, silver-ringed grip and moves away.

Touching his shoulder is not playing fair, Jack knows that, but then he has stopped doing so a long time ago.

Will flinches and turns around, catching the hand in a rough hold. “Jack. Don’t.”



The whip-marks might be not as bad as a brand, and they’re not as bad as you would them expect to be, when they were delivered on the Dutchman, but they are bad enough.

Will is bent forward, upper body bare, back exposed to Jack’s eyes.

His knuckles are white, gripping the wood of the table and he grits his teeth, swallowing any noise that might escape from him.

Jack does what he can to make it better, but his resources are limited to rum and a salve of unknown origins and frankly, Will doesn’t know which is worse.

The rum makes him sick (consumed in such haste and amount) and every new touch of gentle fingers only feeds his anger and his shame.

He felt the need to hide the marks, to don his cotton shirt again, from the moment he was released, the fabric clinging agonizingly to the torn skin.

Jack is trying to distract him from the dance of his fingers on his back, with sure and small strokes across his chest and stomach, and he almost succeeds, making it difficult for Will to breathe for more than one reason.


Later, Will is lying on his front, exhausted. The pain is dulling but still makes each move uncomfortable enough to avoid. Jack’s fingers tangle in his hair, tracing the outline of his jaw, the arch of his cheekbone. Will is not sure if the touches are real. He stares into the open space of the cabin, blinking. His tongue seems unable to move, and so the words are left unspoken. He has never questioned Jack, never asks for explanations or reasons.

Maybe there are none.


“You don’t need me,” Will says when the morning dawns, and his voice is crusted, like algae has grown on it. Jack isn’t sleeping (he sleeps remarkably little these days); he sits at the table and opens and shuts the compass, measuring non-existing distances on the nautical chart and scribbling with quill and ink.

Jack needs him. He has no idea how much he needs him. Right now. In general. For company. Of various kinds. For friendship (because Jack Sparrow has a crew and has acquaintances, but he really, really, needs a friend). For looking at. Because, damn, he is gorgeous. So gorgeous that Jack might give him that fancy leather coat he has gotten his hands on (in one of his little adventures involving black sails and his pirate crew a while back).

He looks up. He doesn’t like the tone in Will’s voice. Jack has become good friends with despair. They have been sailing together for quite a while now. He knows her. But Will shouldn’t.

Not yet.

Not intimately. Not well enough to know the wrinkles in her ageless face, anyway.

There is no need to tell him. No need to let him be hurt even more. But words are his element, just like the Sea is. He can’t imagine being without either.

“I need you. I need you to do things I can’t do, to go to places I can’t visit.”

“Places like the Dutchman.”

The voice is near to bitter.

They stare at each other, wordless.

Will shifts to lie on his side and moans. He had forgotten about his back for a moment; he is too busy thinking.

“I don’t know you.”

There is disbelief in his voice, and Jack (generally) would do a lot to make it go away (but not, you know, right now). Because he needs him. In more ways than he can imagine.

“Why are you so frightened?”

“What?” snaps Jack, instinctively. “I am not frightened. I am disbelieving in fortunate events concerning my person in the near future. That is not entirely the same, mind you.”

“You send me there-”

“Because I couldn’t go myself. Told you.”

Will gives him a long stare. Jack fidgets with the quill in his hand.

“You could have asked. I would have gone for you. If I had known. If you had told me.”

I would have gone for you.

But Jack would never have asked.

Jack doesn’t ask. He takes things or finds a way to get them, but he never asks.



Walking over to the bed, he halts next to Will and plucks the linen off his back in a quick move.

Will flinches and bucks.

Jack deliberately stretches a hand and touches a flayed end of one of the welts, leaving an ink stain on the reddened flesh. A fingerprint.



He will never forgive Davy Jones for leaving his mark on someone that doesn’t belong to him.

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