Repression, Obsession & Past Life Regression

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Taxes Part 3 - Repression, Obsession, and Past Life Regression
Part 1 of 8: See Jack Surf
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The agile little beast crawled across the edge of the cursed treasure. It reached in, slowly...

//No, don't...//

Snatched back quickly...

//Stop...//

Turned skeletal in the moonlight lea leapt at him with a snarl-

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-and Will Smith, no relation, sat straight up in bed, dislodging the other man, whose loose dark hair tickled unmentionable places.

For someone in bed with his new lover, though, (new being extremely relative,) Jack Byrd was himself unaccountably tense. Will knew, somehow...

"You were dreaming about that damn monkey too, weren't you?"

"Ugh. Yeah."

"That was weird. It couldn't have been a memory - you were on an island drinking rum, and I...I was still in England when the curse took hold...and anyway, if it'd happened like that, they'd never have spent the stuff..."

"Maybe we're having their nightmares. Or maybe it's something symbolic..." Jack Byrd shook his head, levering himself up on his elbows. He winced. "Ow. Caffeine withdrawal. I cannot have deep thoughts before my first cup of coffee. It's impossible."

"Improbable?"

"Improbably painful. Be a good cabin boy and make me some java before you leave...ow!" For Will had whacked him across the back of the head.

"Hazy memories or no, I'm fairly sure I was never your cabin boy."

"Well, you certainly weren't me *first* mate." Will smiled at the touch of pirate lacing Jack's voice, of a sudden. "Though I may have been yours?"

"Not in *this* lifetime."

Jack snorted. "Well, that's a given. I recall a certain couch..."

"I'm never going to live that down, am I?"

"Not likely. Although I'd consider a parley over..."

"Coffee?"

"Very good."

It was, at that - Will made a mean cup of Joe for Jack, although Jack's machine ground its own beans and was practically idiot-proof. Over breakfast, they sat, each leafing through a book or pamphlet that Will's colleague Liz had dropped off earlier that week. Liz had claimed to have obtained them from a friend, all the treatises on past lives and reincarnation, but Will had a sneaking suspicion that one or two were hers, the result of Elizabeth Swann whispering in her ear.

"Ha!" he said, grabbing a pencil and underlining, then touching Jack's sleeve. "This is what I meant to show you yesterday. Right here. It talks about triggering your past life memories."

"I think I glanced at...no...maybe I didn't..."

"Look. It says everyone has a different trigger. You may go all your life without hitting it, but there are some very specific actions that create such a strong sense of déjà vu that the past personality breaks down the barriers of your conscious mind."

"So you were mine, and I was yours."

"In more ways than one."

"Indeed. In word and deed, as it were."

"It were. It is."

A lengthy, vaguely toast-flavored kiss broke apart with regret on either side. "At least it's Friday," Will said, on his way to the door. "We'll have the whole weekend to do whatever,"

"Which I fully intend to do..."

"And Liz is coming by later tonight to compare notes."

"You know, in this life, she could quite possibly kick both our asses?"

"Me, maybe. You? Annie Mae let slip about the black belt in Tae Kwon Do."

"Only because nobody *really* teaches Drunken Boxing. Jackie Chan is God."

"Heathen."

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The day's work proceeded apace, Jack with Annie Mae and J sif sifting through Royal Inc's finances with a fine-toothed comb. By now, they all had a definite sense that something in the firm's tithe to Uncle Sam didn't quite fit, even if they weren't yet quite sure of the thing's shape in and of itself. Annie Mae was certain the answer was to be found in the facilities costs, and Jack didn't dispute her - at least, not today.

Quite apart from the pirate prowling his back-brain, Jack's mind was not entirely on his work. He knew it wasn't always obvious, as his focus (while not seeming to focus) was legendary, but he had the feeling that his colleagues were catching on. Annie Mae, at least, could usually pinpoint this particular mood.

For while his carnal desires had been sated lately, extremely so, there was another longing that rose in Jack on a regular basis. In Captain Jack Sparrow, it had been the need for a deck beneath his feet, and the endless horizon before him. Jack Byrd felt the echoes of this, more strongly now than once, but in his own lifetime, the sea-call had been subsumed. Sublimated, plowed under, emerging anew as a different imperative.

//Must surf.//

//Must Surf.//

//Must SURF.//

When Josh Gibson hid the spreadsheet covering his screen to find tidal charts, Jack knew the game was up. The older, stouter man looked over at Annie Mae and clicked his tongue. Annie Mae rolled her eyes. Jack raised his arms, palms flat, in a theatrical shrug, eyes downcast but somehow utterly unrepentant.

The day's end came as ever, and while the government crew usually stayed late into the night, Annie Mae reached over and snapped Jack's laptop shut.

"I can see it in your eyes, honey. You're no good to anyone. I'll get you home, you hitch your board to your bike, and you get out there."

"Who's whose boss here?"

"Get out there, *Mr. Byrd.*" She tossed him the car keys. "Don’t get any funny ideas. I'm driving. But you go on ahead." She caught up, not too much later, after a quick detour through manufacturing, to drop a note on the desk of a certain manager.

When she left Jack at his door, it was with a command to "shoo!" So half an hour later, he was shoeless, and otherwise wrapped in Neoprene. Jack watched the deep blue of the Pacific curl up and fade to green, and licked his lips.

Four-foot swells. He could handle waves far taller than this, could have turned pro in his misspent youth. He hadn't, though - surfing in front of a crowd, for him, was like having sex in public. Not that there was anything wrong with that, per se, but there was a time and a place. The ocean lapped at his feet.

//Oh, I've *missed* you...//

He hefted his board, tossed it with the two cartoon turtles face up, lay atop it. Jack paddled out beyond the first breakers, and just swayed awhile. Then the ocean made herself known to him, gathering force at his back.pullpulled himself up and felt that *click,* and then...he flew.

The next hours were lost in a haze, all spray, salt, and sand. Gradually, he became aware of a tickling, there in the back of his mind. He listened...heard...

//...oh, now. I rode her long and hard, true, but I never did touch her so intimate...//
//...jack?...//
//...something amazing you've found for us...//
//...do you want to?...//
//...lend me a bit, then...//

Jack Byrd focused on the distant voice, let himself fall, just a little, let something *else* support his legs and arms. //Like so, and like so,// he thought, and felt the answering thrill, a wild manic sensation.

The pirate, it seemed, had been made for this, more a thing of the sea than his present self. He felt her take him as he'd dreamed she could, pulling him into a flight worthy of his namesake. She curled about him, became his land and sky and...

//...ah, now what?...//
//...hold your breath...//

She milled them under in a cloud of sand, a rolling, punishing series of blows.

//...I don't think I deserved that...//

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Following Annie-Mae's cryptic note, Will arrived at the small beach. If he hadn't been told exactly where the access whe'he'd never have found it, but...just so. Anamaria had drafted more than a few treasure maps in her day.

The sun neared the horizon, casting everything in warm tones. Jack's bike was parked near rickety plank stairs, overgrown with thin coastal weeds. A towel lay tossed across the seat. Will removed his shoes and socks and walked out onto the beach in jeans and a t-shirt. Upon consideration, he turned, grabbed the towel, tossed it over his shoulder, and then proceeded.

William Smith considered himself grounded, a person with roots - friends, family. Still, he'd never been able to live far from the ocean. He'd never much considered the hold the vast blue had over him, just taken it for granted. To see it in the distance, daily...then, he could breathe. But this was now.

Then...

Then he had been the son of a pirate, with salt in his blood. Then, he'd felt the ocean's lure oh so strong, and sought to deny it. And he had, until Jack. Jack, who was the capricious sea personified, fallen into his smithy by chance and cunning.

Jack, who swaggered out of the surf, here, now, dark hair dripping, board under one arm. The body and the clothes were Byrd's, and perhaps some of the look in his eyes, but oh, he moved like Jack Sparrow, board and all.

Jack and the sea called Will Turner, and with every step toward the water, Will Smith fell away. Here, near the element that was his addiction, Will Turner filled the skin of his present self, who welcomed his possession, and eagerly awaited possession of a different sort.

The sand grew packed and damp beneath his toes, and Will was strong now. He ran his fingertips along the edges of the denim pants, enjoying sensation...and of a sudden there was fear. The memory of a damned captain who also longed to feel....

His present self felt his alarm, if not all the reason for it. Waves of reassurance, mixed with need...

//...ssh...it's all right...go to him...//
//...you associate me with sex...//
//...is that a bad thing?...//

And Smith did have a point.

Besides, the ocean was in his ears, and Jack filled his eyes. Byrd's or Sparrow's, the other man's gaze fairly burned. Will reached up, grabbed hold of the damp locks, and pulled him in for a kiss.

The kiss turned about on him as Jack bore them both to the sand, pressing in until Will felt thoroughly looted. And he hadn't even been plundered yet...

When they came up for air, Will ran one finger beneath a raw, red scrape on Jack's cheek.

"She likes it rough," Jack explained, with a grin.

"Ah."

Then a flurry of movement, wet sand flying as Will's clothing went likewise. A wetsuit, alas, could not be ripped off with ardor...

So Will unzipped it with his teeth.

At length, he peeled Jack from the modern fabric. His captain was on him with a growl. They rolled hard across the sand, the towel left behind as wishful thinking. "Oh," Will said, "How I have missed you..."

He felt the smile against the quick kiss that captured his mouth as Jack leaned up and back, pulling him along. "Said the same to her earlier," he murmured. "Fancy a threesome?" And Will realized he really should have paid more attention to where they were going as water rushed in up to his calves.

Water this cold might unman one, but here and now it was only enough of a shock to keep Will dizzy and off-balance. As warm hands rubbed the grains of sand across his chest and Jack's hips set a different rhythm, length against length, Will could only gather more sand in his fists and moan softly. He felt the sea on his legs and heard the sea in Jack's voice as it washed them, shocking cold in time to the warm beat of his heart. He rose to meet Jack, rolled, plunged against him, regained a bit of himself and set a rhythm, was rewarded with a groan. Then Jack's hips refused to follow any pattern and rolled up, down, and sideways, and the sea hit his calves again, and they were touching so, aligning...aligned, rubbing sinfully, and the ocean washed to their thighs, and Will felt the cool of her and the warmth of Jack, the utter heat of him....

Back arched...eyes rolled back...pressed so hard into Jack again and again, both pulsing and oh, the tide, Jack was so like the tide...breath caught in his throat and ... oh...yes....

Will collapsed against Jack and the sand, eyes opening to a particularly sated grin. Smith was a satisfied murmur in his mind, but growing in strength. Turner let go with a twinge of regret, and as he fell away, whispered, "Who am I?"

Jack, being Jack, answered the question differently.

"Who do ye wish to be?"

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