Chapter Text
Jack Teague is a riddle of a boy, and not to be trifled with.
Bill knows this: he knows this for sure, like he knows that the rolling ocean below the ship is treacherous, like other such immutable facts of life. He's been free of the navy's press for nine years, a pirate for six of those, the intermediate miserable and dull years aboard a merchantman being best not mentioned, and he's done well enough for himself throughout all that by his fine-tuned instinct for trouble. Sometimes it is to be faced head-on, he accepts that, and he does so when necessary, braces himself by his bootstraps and allows the storm to hit in the knowledge that it must be weathered. But for the most part he keeps his head down and he most certainly does not seek out that trouble.
Which is why, when Jack Teague turns over in his hammock and looks hard into Bill's eyes like a man starved, Bill closes his eyes and wills himself to sleep.
Captain Carlisle isn't a bad captain. He's lenient, is the thing, which Bill likes in the atmosphere aboard the Dido well enough after the strict discipline of the navy and the cruel nature of a merchant vessel, but which sometimes makes him twitch. Like when the quartermaster had announced, casual as anything, that they'd taken on a few extra men from Shipwreck Cove - the general presumption among pirate crews seeming to be that any man (or woman, for the matter) living for a significant stretch of time on such a god-forsaken heathen rock as the Isle of Shipwreck is must be a decent enough sailor, or at least a decent enough thief, to be of use - and made absolutely nothing of the fact that, standing before the mast just apart from the others, was the son of one of the most ruthless and feared pirates in the world. The crew had reacted as Jack must surely have known they would - whispering, wide-eyed blatant staring, confused - but he'd stood there confident as anything with his arms crossed over his tattered shirt, his dark eyes glinting beneath the kohl and a small smile just a little too visible on his beardless young face, like nothing was unusual and he was no different from the rest of them. Like there was not a piece of eight, one of the pieces of eight of stunningly recent pirate legend, hanging from the scrap of cloth he'd tied into his tangled hair.
All credit to the boy, he made it easy enough to forget his background all too fast. He's young, not yet twenty by Bill's estimate, but he sways with the swell of the waves beneath his feet with the familiarity of someone at sea almost their whole life, and he does as the captain and the quartermaster and the bosun bid him, and he works hard and he laughs with the men and he drinks rum as though it's water. Everything necessary to fit in, all done with the effortless ease of a charismatic teenager. He settles in and the rest of the crew, as shallow as pirates are by their very nature, accept the boy as a useful oddball and move on to thoughts of gold or whores or blood without further questions on why a man such as him would ever serve as an ordinary hand.
But it would have taken longer for Bill to relax than for the others in any case, and the matter of the Dido's first prize after taking Jack on reminds him not to let his guard down. There's something unnatural about a man so young and so seemingly healthy beaming so bright in a battle, delighting as he does in the clash of steel and the blood on his hands, something that grates on Bill's nerves. Captain Edward Teague is a man with a dark reputation, after all, even by the standards of a pirate lord; there's the outlandish stories of shrunken heads and a throne made of bones and the such like, and then the more chillingly realistic ones, of beating a man to death with that damnable guitarra of his for insulting the code, of casting men, women, and children into the sea and smirking as he watches them drown, of a temper like a snake striking.
The more Bill looks for signs of similarity to the father in the son, the more he sees an edge of crazy in Jack's coal-dark eyes, and the less he wants to do with him. Bootstrap Bill Turner has a nose for danger, alright, and the stench of it hangs off Jack Teague like a cloud.
He still maintains that he isn't responsible for his actions under the influence of intoxicating substances, though. They'd taken another prize, a rich, easy surrender with no need to spill blood, and chosen as a collective to drink away their rations of rum all in one night, and Jack had sat beside him on deck and pressed closer and closer, and smiled that awful, honey-sweet, crooked smile of his. Yes, it had taken him far too long to catch on to the lad's intentions; yes, he should have shoved him away as soon as he had realised; no, he did none of that. There would be no admitting it aloud, not in a thousand years, but he's not blind, and he's a man with a healthy libido, and Jack's sharp features and dark eyes aren't unappealing. Bill is just glad that his crewmates had all been utterly out of their skulls drunk enough to remember precisely nothing of what the half-mad Teague boy was trying to do to cautious Bootstrap in a corner, and that Jack himself hadn't actually managed to carry through with whatever he'd been planning on before even he passed out. For which Bill makes a rare thanks to Heaven.
But all the rum was clearly not enough to entirely erase Jack's memories of that night. The Dido isn't big, particularly, and the men sleep in close quarters: Bill thinks nothing of it at first when Jack starts to shift around where he slings his hammock, then clocks that he's moving closer and closer to him, and begins to wake to that feeling of want and being wanted. Which, ironically enough, he doesn't want. The desire is there, but so is the sensation of all his instincts screaming at the distinct impression he has - and one that grows daily - that all kinds of unnatural and weird happenings are drawn to Jack like iron to a magnet, and furthermore that Jack likes it that way.
He worries himself almost sick, then comes within less than a quarter-inch of his life fighting some determined Spanish bastards in a storm, and thinks almost right there and then, with a gunshot ringing in his ears and a blade sliding down his soaked coatsleeve as he brings his arm up to deflect it from his neck, what will happen with that boy will fucking happen and it's past time to accept it. And then he reaches for the dagger in his boot and shoves it up beneath the chin of the Spaniard he's fighting and lets the thought sit at the back of his mind, germinating into a sort of curiosity that he knows will come with trouble but begins to want to come anyway.
*
The rest of the crew is on shore leave, and, really, Bill doesn't know why he's not. He should be. He's been twenty seven years on this Earth, and eleven those barely even upon the earth; he's got that same longing as at least half the men for the stability of solid ground beneath his feet and the other, less tangible, stabilities of a life on land.
But Jack had waved off the offers of women and wine, crossed his arms beneath his head, and kept on the ship, watching the sky. And Bill knows he isn't half so peaceful as he appears. That's a tomcat waiting to pounce, not one stretched in the sun, he thought - and was goddamn right.
Jack Teague is quiet right until the last sailor leaves, and then Bill finds himself quite suddenly crowded up against the wall outside the captain's cabin, the lad's dark hair close enough that he can see that it isn't as dirty as it seems, just sun-lightened, and with strong arms leaning up on his shoulders to keep him there.
"Can't pretend you don't want this, Bootstraps," he says, with a slight growl in his voice of the desperate desire Bill remembers undercutting a lot of his teenage years too. "We're alone, now. Y'got no reason to."
It would follow that a pirate-raised boy wouldn't have anything near a normal concept of the shame and self-hatred surrounding buggery, wouldn't it? Bill almost laughs. He almost does as he had planned to, denies, it, tries to push Jack away. But instead, he puts his head back against the wood, chin up, and responds to the demand with nothing less than calm.
"Alright."
That, at least, stops Jack in his tracks. He doesn't seem to have expected it. Bill sees a kind of surprised, delighted light in those dark eyes.
"What?"
Jack is still pinning him back by his shoulders, and it's difficult, but Bill reaches up and pulls close for a kiss. It's not biting or scolding or magical - it's just a kiss, is what it is, a sweetness, an I consent.
He gets a flash of a bright grin, and then he's being pushed through the door of the cabin, stumbling back until he hits the captain's desk.
"Wait, wait, wait," he says, sudden alarm overtaking desire. "Jack, we can't do it here."
"Why not?"
"Because it's the captain's room, you fucking lunatic-"
Jack takes hold of his face and kisses him, and it's as open-mouthed and intense as Bill's wasn't, and it quiets him for a moment.
"What's going to happen?" he asks, tone still light, as Bill tries to recover his wits. "Carlisle kicks us off the ship? I don't care. I'm going to have my own ship, one day soon, a great one."
He can't help but roll his eyes, even as Jack goes to the door to throw the bolt across and then stands over him.
"You're like a cat." he says, without thinking about it.
"Tactile?" smiles Jack, stepping even closer and brushing Bill's rough hands with his own.
"With an acute sense of who doesn't want you near, and a desire to get right on top of them."
He regrets the words as soon as they leave his lips, the accidental innuendo in them far too stark and obvious. Bill only manages a glance at the boy's smug expression, the laughter bitten back behind his teeth, before he has to look away again, for the sake of his dignity as much as anything.
"I like the ship's cat." Jack says, soft and frivolous.
"Go bother him instead, then."
"Her."
Bill frowns. The cat's name is Pierre, it was brought onboard by the carpenter's mate, a Frenchman.
"Him."
"Her." insists Jack, shaking his head. "And she's pregnant, too."
He frowns to mirror Bill's frown, and pushes a thigh between his legs.
"And she ain't what I want to talk about."
Oh, you want to talk? Bill would say if he could, but there's pressure being put right where he wants it most and he finds that he can't make any more noise than a groan that he instinctively chokes off. Jack, being the fiddly creature that he is, manages to wriggle one hand into Bill's pants even as he tilts his head up for another kiss, his tongue pushing into Bill's mouth like he's plundering it.
"Come on," breathes Jack, sexy and vibrant and young and all but alight with energy, smelling enough of rum that Bill is reminded of the first night that he'd even allowed himself to acknowledge he likes the man. "Tell me honestly you're not interested."
With Jack's quick fingers squeezing his hard length, he finds he can't.
"Don't stop." he says, instead, pushing Jack's knee aside so there's more room for Jack to pull him free of his breeches and jerk faster, tighter. Clearly this isn't a man with a mind to messing about: he doesn't hold it light as a feather or keep Bill on edge, slowing down; he finds a rhythm, hard and no-nonsense and expert, and he sticks to it. What's more is that he looks down and grins like it's a birthday present.
"You're fucking magnificent, mate," he says, and shifts them around so that he's standing behind Bill and hugging him tight, the both of them leaning on the desk; Bill laughs a little at the inanity of the statement until Jack squeezes at the head, if only because Jack's so exuberant about what, to most, is a dirty, rushed experience. "Look at that piece of machinery - I want to fucking kiss it."
Bill feels sweat bead on his brow at the very idea, and from the corner of his eye catches a glimpse of Jack's smile before he feels those self-same teeth upon his neck, and cries out.
"No words for some of the things I want to do to you." he murmurs, and Bill feels the words on his skin as Jack noses there, and bites again, sucking and worrying the skin until a bruise begins to form, and all the while continuing to stroke him at that relentless pace. Bill feels his breath begin to come short, reaches around instinctively to clutch at Jack.
"Please," he gasps, not knowing how he'd finish that sentence or what he's begging for; a chance to get his breath back, probably, because this is all too much all at once.
"I want you to watch you fall apart now, though," Jack continues, voice edged with desperation. "Can you do that for me, Bootstrap?"
He most certainly can, but he doesn't want to yet, wants to make this - the tight circle of Jack's fist, the body heat behind him, the overwhelming feeling of his own arousal and the evidence of Jack's own pressing up against his arse - last. Jack pulls at his earlobe with his teeth, but he grits his teeth, tries to calm his breathing.
"Come on, let go. Come on, come on."
Both hands tighten, one on Bill's forearm and one on his cock, and he finds himself shuddering and then coming quite violently undone. His knees buckle and Jack and all of his surprising strength are the only things holding him up for that moment as he spurts, breathing ragged and loud.
He finds his footing, and clumsily turns to meet Jack's lips again, more careless now, as he tucks himself back in his pants.
"You've got jism on the captain's floor," gasps Bill, tinged with worry.
"I think you mean, you've got jism on the captain's floor, Bootstraps."
In a rare moment of affection, Jack rubs his shoulder, then steps away and allows him his space. Bill, still feeling fragile, leans back for a moment against the desk, and watches with a furrowed brow as Jack unbolts the door.
"What about you?" he says, before the other man can leave.
Jack hesitates, and for a moment looks as young as he is in truth.
"I thought I'd tug meself off in the hammock."
Bill stares at him in exasperation.
"Teague. Get back here."
Jack hesitates, and Bill drops to his knees (with a hint of regret as he just barely misses the spunk on the floor), and Jack stops hesitating and strides back over to the desk in record time. He's practically quivering with excitement, his fingers suddenly unable to pick free his trouser fastenings, and Bill smiles an honest smile up at him without meaning to.
"You sucked cock before, mate?" says Jack, excited and apparently not joking, and Bill grabs him with enough that he gets the impression; Bill has done this before, incidentally, but he's never had the chance to make a habit of it. He's not sure he believes that it matters - this is a matter of passion over technique, in his opinion.
Jack, by his moan as Bill sucks on the head of his length, seems to agree.
Bill sinks down, slowly so as to relax his throat, but still surely, and as he does he forgets the nagging discomforts of being on his knees, of his spunk drying on his leg, of the fear of being caught; they fade away, until all he can feel is the strange, perfect fullness of Jack in his mouth, and the cautiously light touch of Jack's ringed fingers on his head, and hear Jack's heavy, pleasured breathing up above him. Compulsively, so as not to choke, Bill swallows, and feels a sharp and equally thoughtless thrust from Jack - he strokes over Bill's hair in a kind of worried apology, but with no need, because it shouldn't but, Lord, it feels so good when Jack allows himself to respond with a little more of the natural roughness in him.
He chases the feeling, swallows again and again and feels Jack's thrusts grow less controlled, and he likes it each time, enough so that he thinks to himself that if her were just a little younger he might be hard again by now.
Jack is a little younger, though, and it's only a moment longer before he's jerking and coming far enough down Bill's throat that there wouldn't be much of a choice to spit even if Bill cared to do so, which he doesn't. There are more troubling things in the world that the slightly bitter taste of another man.
Especially when that man kisses Bill's brow with the strange, sweet sentimentality of the young, and collapses to the floor by him as the pair of them struggle to get their breath back.
"When I have my own ship," Jack says, all smugness tinted with sleepy satisfaction. "There will most certainly be a place for you there, Mister William Turner."
Bill feels irritation begin to boil up in the pit of his stomach, turning his happiness sour, and looks hard at Jack.
"That's not why I did that with you, Jack," he spits.
Jack looks him right in the eye, and he is suddenly, chillingly, reminded that Jack Teague is mad, and shouldn't be trifled with. What's more frightening is the realisation that Bill doesn't care anymore.
"That's not why I offered." he says back, and smiles, still. "We'll be great, you and I."
Bill allows himself to relax a little, even if he doesn't believe Jack and all his less-than-sane promises just yet.
(Next year, when Jack takes the name 'Sparrow', vanquishing El Matador del Mar up on the mast like the demented little bird he is, he'll believe him; in eleven years, when Barbossa mutinies against Captain Sparrow and Bootstrap Turner mutinies in return against Captain Barbossa, he'll believe him. But Jack is still barely more than a boy, and a mad boy at that.)