Forgiveness
Disclaimer: Jack and Elizabeth belong to each other, anything else to the mouse
Beta: sparrowsswann
Status: Complete (One-Shot)
Words: 3970
Characters: Captain Teague, Jack Sparrow, Elizabeth Swann
Pairings: J/E
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slight spoilers for AWE
There's something slightly unsettling about the crowd that has come to populate his retreat during the past few hours, Teague thinks. He has come to appreciate the ethereal solitude of this place, the waves crashing against the rotten planks: a sound he is no longer able to differentiate from the all-embracing, never-changing silence of Shipwreck Cove, and now, suddenly, the sea is nothing but a faint whisper, drowned by what seem to be a million different voices, talking, laughing, screaming, crying in a hundred different languages, and he feels lost. Sitting in a shadowy corner, the ever present guitar on his lap, his eyes roam the candlelit hall, taking in faces foreign and familiar, but not the one he's looking for.
Dark, kohl-framed eyes, features that may have been his own, but still carrying the painful reminders of a long-lost love, a betrayal he'll never be able to amend, and he curses the day that brought his son back into his life. All his failures, all the wrong he's done in the face of his own flesh and blood, angry and desperate during their argument this afternoon, and he wonders what would've been necessary to prevent the inevitable. He plays a few chords, a melancholic beginning to a song that still needs to be written, and finds the girl carrying Sao Feng's Piece of Eight is standing in the centre of the room, leaned back against a splintered mast. She's no longer wearing that ridiculous Chinese armour, but a brown skirt and a white blouse, both far too large for her skinny appearance, and he assumes they belong to feisty Mary Reid. Mary, who's laughing and dancing with some Indian pirate whose name he can't remember. She's a real pirate and she will fight. About the girl, he's not so sure. He trusts Feng, and he's sure he wouldn't have sent her if she weren't prepared to do whatever was necessary, but there's something awkward in the way she moves and talks, something that is so very much like Jack it pains him to even watch her. They don't belong here, his angry, disappointed son and that girl, and he wishes it was in his power to keep them out of this. Both of them, for he knows she will be either Jack's salvation or his downfall, and none of it altogether if they die tomorrow in a battle that is not theirs to fight.
He feels rather than sees him enter the hall, senses his presence moments before he makes out his black mane and flying scarf as he strides through the crowd, right to where the girl is waiting for him – for that's what she's been doing, he now realizes. He observes them from the shadows, understands that there's no need to talk when Jack grabs her hand and leads her out of this place, away from the noise, the singing and dancing, accompanied by a melody that doesn't need an instrument to be played, and Teague feels very old, his heart an empty shell, while he remembers the only woman he's ever loved, her ghostly face full of reproach and sadness.
They pass by an army of drunkards lying on the floor while the remnants of their drunken revelry spill on the planks, leaving dark trails along the shady passages of this mysterious hideout where the secrets of the Brethren have been kept safe for centuries. They're no longer safe now with only a few hours separating them from the battle that may end it all, and because they may be dead tomorrow, there's no use in holding back the frail bits of hope still left to any of them.
He takes her to a corner barely reached by the sounds of those celebrating what might be their last night on earth. Fragile strands of silver moonlight creep through splintered wood, and Elizabeth thinks she can hear the comforting sound of the sea moving in quiet waves while he pushes her up against the wall and slams his lips down upon hers. He kisses her roughly and she savours the feel of his teeth scraping over her lips, his tongue fighting to dominate hers, and when she tastes blood, she finds she wants this not because she needs comfort in a moment of painful solitude, but because she needs him, and only him, to make her feel alive. She doesn't know what it is about with him, if she loves him or just craves for the feline darkness of his body, but as long as it is going to last, she'll take it, no matter what it is he makes her feel. He grabs her buttocks, pressing her against his body, and she's grateful he has been thoughtful enough to take his belts off, pistol held in place by the worn pink scarf he wears wrapped around his waist. She buries her hands in his braids, marvelling at their softness while she keeps him close, her hips meeting his until he's hard against her thigh.
His lips leave hers, planting open-mouthed kisses across her cheek and jaw-line while he grabs some lose strands of hair, yanking her head back. She screams, if from pleasure or from pain, she cannot even tell, but everything seems to merge anyway and boundaries extend until they're nothing more than diffuse lines on a map displaying uncharted territory. He ravishes her throat with violent tenderness and she's convinced the bite-marks he leaves will still be visible tomorrow, reminders of dangerous waters, both sailed and yet to overcome.
His passion draws her in, envelops her like a finely woven blanket, and she moans in frustration when she finds his mouth gone, his breath warm and ragged against her shoulder.
"I'm sorry," he whispers and she freezes momentarily, caught off-guard by his words, but suddenly overcome with feelings reserved to a man she won't allow herself to think about just now.
"Don't be," she says, her hands roaming over his quivering back. "There's no need for 'sorry' between us."
A fiddle, lutes and a guitar have joined forces to terrorize his exquisite ear, and for a moment, Teague considers telling them to shut up. Of course, he could just as well play along, but he doesn't feel like giving music lessons right now, and it's not as if anyone here would appreciate his talent, anyway. So he leans back and continues plucking the strings of his guitar, his tune an almost inaudible protest against the unmelodious jig that is floating the hall, and he allows his thoughts to drift to the one woman this song of his will always belong to.
She's with him all through his wake, reveals her face in dreams, and whispers to him in the early hours of the morning when the light is yet too dim to drive away the shadows of the night's ghostly visitors, but he has never felt her presence as real and tangible as he does right now. Her vividness and passion, her hunger for life, the rebelliousness of her words and the dreamy melancholy of her eyes seem to be strangely alive in her son, and though he has watched his path over the years, he now realizes there is something in him he'd never have dared to hope for, something he has denied himself to accept over the years, and suddenly finds he's scared by it.
He thought he's left it all behind a long time ago, but now, it seems like the past is coming after him, extending his betrayal from the woman he loved to the son he thought he'd never see again, and he feels he has yet to learn how to deal with this new-found sense of guilt, responsibility – and, yes, love. Over the years, he has come to terms with himself and his own demons, has accepted that there are things beyond this earth and the need for darkness in order to see the light, but today has made him realize that he doesn't know how to be a father - which, maybe, has gained of new importance since his son entered the peaceful isolation of Shipwreck Cove, accompanied by a girl fierce enough to kill him while stealing his heart, and if there ever was a situation that required fatherly advice, it probably has to be this one.
Jack sinks to the floor, head and shoulders resting against the wall, and when he reaches out to her, his eyes glittering in the darkness like obsidian, Elizabeth follows him. Straddling his hip, she wraps her legs around his waist and kisses him again. She feels he's trying to be tender, stroking her back while his tongue explores her mouth, almost shyly now, but she cannot help but urge him on until he loses it again. His hands tangle in her hair, holding her still so he can take her in like a drowning man his last, deathly breath, and she blindly grabs his shirt, clawing at his chest, until it's becoming too much and she pulls away, gasping for air.
She looks at him, eyes clouded by the velvety veil of passion, and finds his lips slightly parted, swollen and luscious, every bit as sinful as the act they're about to engage in, for she's already craving for more, yet knows it will never be enough. He slowly opens his eyes, head leaned back against the wet planks and she starts unbuttoning her blouse, holding his gaze. The expression on his face is a variety of lust and pain, reminding her that what they're doing is wrong, but an invitation all the same, and she takes his hands and puts them on her bared breasts, eliciting a moan from his mouth. His rings are cold, and the leather strap on his right hand feels rough on her skin, but his touch is everything she needs just now, is shelter, comfort and salvation, and she knows that from today, she will be struggling to forget how right it feels to be here with him, sharing this moment. Lowering her gaze, she marvels at the perfection of his fingers flexed around her curves, dark shades mixing with each other until there's nothing left to tell them apart, and she presses herself further into his touch, closing her eyes to savour the sensations he causes while his hands work their magic. He kneads her breasts, his thumbs occasionally flicking her nipples, and she sighs into his ear when he leans closer, whispering endearments and obscenities that carry no meaning beyond the rhythm of their syllables and, like the wind sweeping in from the sea, send shivers down her spine.
She grinds herself against his crotch, led on by the aching dampness between her legs, and when his arms wrap around her body, pressing her to his, she thinks she'd be willing to believe everything he says, for all the truth she needs is in the way he holds her, his heartbeat a wordless testimony of a million things he would never tell. When he starts moving them together, she buries her face in the thick braids falling softly across his shoulder, the faint scent of patchouli as intoxicating as his hips against hers, while he takes her to places new and exciting, and she knows she'll leave this place a different woman. Elizabeth Swann, the pirate … Elizabeth Swann, the pirate's lover ...
It's getting late and Teague can almost smell the morning in the air, even though it's still hours away. Maybe it's the gift of the sleepless, he muses, a slowly developed faculty to read the night and its companions, the darkness and the memories. Silence is slowly claiming his home again, music, singing and laughter reduced to barely audible voices, and he cannot help but feel relieved when he watches his fellow pirates return to their ships or fall asleep on the floor, merry with rum and many a dance or kiss to accompany them into tomorrow's battle. He feels the evening has served its purpose, and, recalling his son and the girl, maybe in more ways than one. He's not very good at reading people, lest of all the man he's just started thinking of as his son, but some things he still can see, and this one he's had a fair share of himself.
He takes a hearty swig from one of the bottles he has tied to his belt, the rum unusually sharp in his throat, and suddenly, age feels like a heavy burden lasting on his shoulders. It's been a long way and one he cannot go back again, which pains him more than he usually lets on. He's not a man with many regrets, but if he had the chance to make the past undone, he'd screw up his courage and stay with her. Not only was she the most beautiful woman he's ever met in his life, a true princess if he's ever seen one, but also a brave and devoted companion, a passionate lover and the only one who's ever dared to stand up to him, and he still misses her. When he left, he told himself his intentions were nothing but noble and unselfish, but many a lonely night has made him realize that he's been cheating himself. He cannot really tell when it happened, but one morning, he woke by her side and found he was scared. Scared of losing this - her, taken from him by life's own cruelty, and when he found he had to choose between devoting part of his life to her and their son, to accept love, fear and all the responsibilities that come with it, or to let go forever, he was too cowardly to take the risk.
He tries not to remember her face, sad and knowing the day he left for good, and yet hopes her ghost will take pity on him and sit down by his side, revealing all the secrets not even time could tell. His wrinkled hands roam over the polished wood of his guitar, mimicking a lover's touch while he waits for a sign.
"Elizabeth …," Jack groans, and she's surprised to hear him using her full name. No "luv", not even "Lizzie" or a roguish "darlin'", just "Elizabeth", and for the first time, she thinks that there's actually something special about her name. The way he says it is a benediction and a prayer, a sacred invocation she answers by pressing her lips to his, kissing him until he grabs her shoulders and shoves her away.
"This is not a kiss anymore," he says, almost reproachfully as if she didn't know.
"No," she replies, feeling the cool wind from the sea caressing her heated skin. "But I don't care."
"Tomorrow, you will." She knows he's right, but his hand is already beneath her skirt, on her thigh, and she finds she doesn't have it in her to push him away. When his fingers find the forbidden place, she presses herself into his touch, yet feels a little embarrassed at her own wantonness. She's wet and she knows he can feel it through her undergarments while he teases her, his knuckles barely brushing over the thin fabric until she can no longer tell whether the sea is raging against the weathered façade of Shipwreck Cove or virtually inside of her.
"It's alright," he whispers soothingly, wrapping an arm around her and cradling her to his chest. "Just let me …"
And she surrenders, wraps her arms around his neck and buries her face against his dirty shirt while every stroke of his hand, every whispered word brings her closer to the realization that he knows her better than anyone, better even than she knows herself. He tells her that it is this she wants, the one thing Will could never give her, and there can be no doubt he's not talking about the things his fingers are doing between her legs.
"He'll never see you like I do now," he breathes into her ear. "Never see you for what you really are."
She lifts her head and looks at him, asking: "What is it I really am?" Her vision is blurred, her mind focussed on the tingling sensation slowly conquering her body, but she has to know what she is to him, needs to understand why he can make her feel like that.
"You're the sea," he says, and she closes her eyes, her mouth opening in a silent gasp when he rubs her harder. His beard is rough against her cheek while his lips seek hers, pulling her into another kiss. The rhythm of his tongue matches the movement of his hand, and it feels like the waves are drawing her out into the open sea, to a place where there is nothing left for her to do but drown, but when she's almost there, she finds she doesn't want to leave him.
"Jack …," she moans, breaking the kiss. "I want …"
"I know," he says, his voice calm and reassuring while his fingers press down more forcefully.
"No, not like that … I want … want us to share this."
He draws his hand away, startled. She meets his gaze, knows he's struggling with himself, and for the first time, it occurs to her that he might be afraid of what is happening between them.
"Please," she says, putting a hand to his cheek
His hands slip under her skirt and over her thighs, gripping her undergarments, and when she hears the sound of tearing fabric, she knows he's ripped them apart. She holds her breath when she feels his fingers nestling over her curls, his eyes locking with hers while his rings brush over her folds, cold metal against heated flesh, and she cannot help but moan at the contact. He knows how to draw this out, withholding his most intimate touch from her until her hips come up on their own accord, pressing rhythmically against his teasing fingers, but never quite reaching their goal. He brings his hand to her face and brushes his thumb across her lower lip, his eyes glittering with a dark fascination she's never seen in them before, and it's strangely arousing to think it's her he's looking at. She wonders what it is he can see in her eyes, whether it is lust and longing, only the tiniest trace of fear, or something she's not sure she would want him to recognize.
The thought makes her shiver and he instantly pulls her closer, his hardness stirring against her hip now, and she reaches down, curious on how it might feel. He leans back, breathing raggedly, and she dares to run her fingers over the bulge in his breeches, unsure what to do until he covers her hand with his and presses down hard. The faint echo of passing voices floats down their hideout and mixes with the roaring sea, but there's only him, their entangled bodies a fortress against a world that is slowly falling apart.
He neither protests nor does he show the slightest inclination to help her when she starts undoing the buttons and laces of his breeches, freeing his cock. It's too dark to see anything and she wraps her fingers around his length to find out what it feels like, exploring him with coy curiosity until he thrusts up into her fist, groaning.
She has nothing more than a vague idea how this is supposed to work, but her whole body seems to be begging for it, spread open and ready, and she knows it's time now. The expression on his face is unreadable and feverish, the moonlight caught in his eyes while he watches her getting to her knees and poising herself above him. Quivering fingers guide him to her entrance, holding him where he can feel her wetness, while she searches his gaze.
"Will it hurt?" she asks, almost casually.
"Maybe."
She can see he wants to add something, maybe tell her they don't have to do this, but she doesn't want to hear him say it. Biting her lip, she closes her eyes and sinks down upon him. There's pain, but there's also him, like water in the desert an oasis of hope, and she takes him in until he's fully sheathed inside her body. Gasping, she instinctively tries to move away from the sting between her legs, but his hands are on her back now, reassuring and tender, and when she finally dares to open her eyes, she finds he's smiling at her. He's never looked at her like that, no one ever has, and she returns his smile, stripped bare to raw emotion and a never-experienced awareness of the infinity of time.
He grabs her buttocks and pulls her close, holding her with him and his voice against her hair is like a reflection of a thousand different images, a picture through a shattered mirror.
"If I died tomorrow-," he starts, but when he hears her gasp, adds, "I won't die, but if I did, I know I could never get any closer than this. Neither to heaven, nor to hell."
His fingers intertwine with hers, finding their way to where their bodies join, and tenderly, he reveals the meaning of his words to her, a tormenting heat, but still holding the promise of heavenly salvation. And then, for a long moment, time ceases to exist, and she feels like she's part of Shipwreck Cove, breathing in the rhythm of the waves. The water is inside and all around her, floating right through her, but she is neither afraid nor astounded; she doesn't think, her thoughts as unconscious and eternal as the waves.
Her body's moving on its own accord now, still pressed against their joined hands while she's holding on to his neck for support. She cannot see or listen, just feel, knows there's only him in the dark, melting with her, and when she finally shudders against him, the sea takes them both. She's drowning … drowning, but then, suddenly, the storm calms, and what remains is the realization that they're both in the middle of a vast ocean now, without a boat or land in sight, but carried by the hope of being swept to a faraway shore, free of what was and what might have been.
It's almost dawn when Teague sways towards his quarters. Silence has conquered its rightful place again, and he walks the corridors like he does every night, chasing the shadows and stopping from time to time for a wordless chat with the sea, his ever-faithful companion. When he finds his son, he cannot even tell if he's been looking for him, or if an unknown power has led him to this draughty corner.
Jack is sitting slumped against the wall, the girl cradled to his chest. They're both asleep, an image so peaceful it's almost grotesque to picture them going off to war when morning breaks. Teague watches his son moving in his sleep, wrapping his arms more tightly around the girl's frail body, and instinctively, he steps back, feeling like an intruder. The wind howls through the weathered planks and he shivers, frowning when he realizes that the lovers' entangled shapes are exposed to the chilling cold. For a moment, he considers waking them, but then changes his mind. Careful not to make any sound, he divests himself of his worn red coat and puts it around the girl's shoulders. She sighs, but doesn't wake and with one last, almost protective glance, Teague turns away and walks towards his own quarters, pleased with himself.
That night, he can feel her caress on his cheek, and after all those years, he knows he's been forgiven.