|"Legerdemain," PG-13, Tia/Will, Jack/Will, for viva_gloria.
||[Dec. 31st, 2006|05:18 pm]
Pirates of the Caribbean Secret Santa Fest!
Title: Legerdemain |
Author/Artist: Anonymous Secret Santa
Pairing: UST of Tia/Will and Jack/Will
Summary: A missing scene from DMC
Warnings: Don’t flog me for my Tia-speak
Disclaimer: Property of Disney, Buena Vista, Bruckheimer, and all those whose souls are financially held by the preceding. I’m just playing with them.
Author's Note: Thanks to my betas; they know who they are and I’ll list them when I can post openly
“Wait.” Both men stopped at the same instant, turning almost as one. “I’ve no’ seen your hand, William.”
The blacksmith exchanged a glance with the pirate next to him, who only shrugged one shoulder in nonchalance. She knew his mind better than that, and concentrated instead on Turner. “I trust you no black spot ta hide.” To her satisfaction, Sparrow winced. Turner only offered his hand in return, eyebrows drawn as if wondering what in Cronus was going on.
Trapping the large, calloused hand between hers, Tia Dalma drew closer and gently pried his long fingers apart before stroking the tip of her middle finger down his, sweeping his palm toward his wrist, lightly. “Dis de strongest part of your hand,” she murmured, tapping the heel. “Known as de will.” She emphasized the last word and was rewarded with a shy half-smile that set off Turner’s youthful beauty.
“I think we’ve paid for ‘nough,” chirped Sparrow, and she pointedly ignored him, returning Turner’s smile. Valuable, that – when she pulled at the younger man, the older bristled and responded, like a puppet-by-proxy.
“And what,” the young man answered, also apparently ignoring his temporary captain, “is my will?”
Oh, cleverer than she’d imagined! By the expression on Sparrow’s face, he hadn’t given the lad much credit, either. She pitied him; it was a shame to want to fuck someone you didn’t fully respect. “Why, ta save de fair governor’s daughter, of course.”
“Of course,” Turner repeated, low and husky. He blinked, lucidity shifting in his brown eyes.
“Course he wants to help th’ strumpet,” Sparrow put in. “’S the bloody boy’s whole reason for bein’.” He was standing closer now, almost defensively, and Tia Dalma let her fingertips play with Turner’s palm, tracing lifeline, heartline, and the line she knew led straight to every man’s yard. Turner gasped softly, and Sparrow bristled. Beautiful!
“Yes.” Turner nodded in agreement. She could tell his reason was warring with lust and a need for reassurance from anyone, even her. “Do you see … success?”
Quite single-minded, this one; no wonder Sparrow was frustrated. “Le’s have a closer look.” She lifted his hand reverently, cutting her eyes to Jack. “Hand me de small green bottle,” she commanded quietly.
“The one on de table next to de vial you stole.”
To his credit, Sparrow didn’t bother denying or even flinching. In a smooth flounce, he turned and paced the few steps, returning presently to hold it just out of her reach. “I don’ see how this is at all helpful,” he faintly sneered.
“Fine.” She nodded once. “Le’ me have de compass.” His eyes widened reflexively, and she just managed not to laugh. She knew where it pointed for Sparrow, and she knew where he thought it tried to point, and she was pretty sure he wasn’t aware they were two destinations. Except, by the look on his face, maybe he was; a pretty, starstruck girl, after all, was easier to use as a prop for his virility than a surly fellow half his age twitching with resentment and not inclined toward manipulation. Tia Dalma snapped her fingers once, and Sparrow handed her the bottle as if he’d planned to all along, charming smile and shuttered eyes.
Uncapping it, she poured a drop of oil into the direct center of Turner’s palm, then handed the bottle back, not even looking to see that Sparrow took it. Dipping the tip of her middle finger, she traced the deep groove to his wrist, then back up into the middle of his own center finger. The trail of oil glistened in the low candlelight, and she felt the man’s pulse kick higher as it released a faint scent of patchouli and rose, earthy and elegant all in one go. There was a reason she’d chosen this one for Turner, just as there was a reason she’d chosen this method for Turner – it was unlikely he’d know to see through her amateur voodoo. She had no more need for palmistry than a ship did for land, to divine these mortals’ thoughts, especially those as raw as the blacksmith’s.
“Hm,” she mumbled, frowning. A sigh to her right told her Sparrow wasn’t buying her act, but he remained otherwise silent. She knew how to fix him, and he wasn’t likely to forget it. Turner watched avidly despite himself, waiting for any hint of news about his ladylove. “I feel … you endure great trial before you see her ‘gain.” Not unlike Heracles, that rash bastard. “She is safe, for now.”
“Because of her father?” The naked hope betrayed Turner’s skepticism, revealing too much youth.
“She not with him.” Before he asked more, she stroked the line of oiled skin again, holding his eyes with her own, and his pupils dilated as he fell incurious. Any guilt she might’ve felt immediately flashed into amusement at Sparrow’s increasing agitation. She wasn’t sure if he was merely envious or genuinely worried for Turner under her ministrations. That’s interesting, in the pirate’s own words.
Tia Dalma cocked her head at Sparrow. “Your right hand,” she requested, extending oil-tipped fingers. He hesitated, but presented, and she tugged him closer, facing her and Turner’s sides. Their bodies all nearly touched, and the local temperature notched up.
Lifting each hand she cradled, she pressed them together, heel to heel, small fingers to thumbs. She laced her own through theirs, joining all four hands warmly, and stroked the backs of their hands. “No falsehood shoul’ destroy dis partnership,” she intoned.
“Partnership?” Turner had other ideas, contempt for Sparrow cleanly in his features. At the same instant, Sparrow exclaimed, “Falsehood?”
“I don’t stutter.” She squeezed their hands tighter, forcing their fingers to twine. “De both of you lie, but need far too much for it to put dis asunder.” Releasing their hands, she petted the backs of them lightly, willing the blood to rush skin-to-skin between the men. “Say it,” she commanded.
Sparrow glared at her while Turner glared at him. “Aye, whatever,” he shrugged.
“I’ll do whatever is required to find Elizabeth’s freedom.”
She rolled her eyes. “To each uder,” she directed. “It not kill you … it might if you don’t.”
Balking like two rams in spring, the men looked back to one another. “All right,” Turner said. “But no more lies, Jack.”
“Upon me word, mate.” He winced, baring a few teeth, as she saw the muscles in Turner’s hand tighten on Sparrow’s fingers. “Now, Will-“
“Your word isn’t worth much. I know bloody well there’s more to that key than you’re telling, but I also knew it wouldn’t do me any favors to ask, since I doubt I’d have gotten a straight answer anyway.”
“Just as you told me th’ truth ‘bout who gets my compass?”
Sparrow said nothing more, openly glowering at Turner, and Tia Dalma nearly averted her eyes for privacy. Enmity was more personal between these two than sex or brotherhood, and she wondered what sliver of soul had been split between them at Creation. Awareness leaped between them for perhaps the first time in this life, and both relaxed into feral smiles, their grip loosening. She knew, then, it was to be competition – the form it took didn’t matter, only the victor.
“Go on, den,” she advised, gently. “May de seas be fair.” She spoke of judgment, not calm, and Jack alone understood as he gave her his first outwardly honest expression of the night: Fear.
For a moment, she saw that Turner recognized the look and, puzzled, opened his mouth as if to ask a question. Insecurity got the better of curiosity, though, and he clamped shut as he and Sparrow released each other’s fingers, wiping oil off on waistcoat and sash, respectively.
As Turner descended into the boat, Tia Dalma quietly said, “Jack.”
He turned sideways to regard her, jar of dirt under his right arm, and flashed her a gold tooth as part of his humorless smile. “Captain Jack Sparrow, darling,” he corrected.
She crossed her arms, silent again. He executed a flourish of a bow and mounted the ladder without a look back. Tia Dalma considered, as he bobbed out of sight, that Sparrow had lived by pride – and was already dead of it.
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