Windswept

Hearing about El Nino all day and getting caught in a windstorm inspired me. Follow B*Witched and blame it on the weatherman.


~*~


It was a freakish hurricane season and to escape it the Pearl fled north. Almost too far north, but whenever Jack Sparrow thought to turn back to warmer waters they’d come across another storm. It was getting later in the year, though, and the unnatural weather had the crew tense.


He kept their hopes up by raiding the few tea ships they’d come across, the cargo of which was currently highly valued in the American colonies, and if one knew what he was doing, could make himself quite the profit in black market trade.


But it was cold, terribly so for those so used to warm, Caribbean waters. Jack especially noticed it now, as the Pearl was caught in a rainstorm thrown up from one of those unusual early winter hurricanes. His hands clenched the helm unbearably tight, seeking and finding no warmth from the lifeless wood. He watched his crew toil beneath him on the deck with glazed eyes, trying to concentrate on anything but the cold until Gibbs came to relieve him of duty.


When Gibbs finally came, Jack had to pry his hands loose. He shook them a little distastefully, and then acknowledged Gibbs with the same look that always passed between them when Gibbs took over. Words here were no longer needed, nor could they be heard anyways over the crash of rain against ocean. Take care of my lady. Jack silently begged.


But tonight, something was a little bit different tonight. Gibbs sharply jerked his chin in the direction of the decks below. Jack raised an eyebrow at the older man. When Gibbs did it again, Jack made a face and shrugged. Gibbs finally shook his head and pointed.


Jack followed his finger to… oh. Will Turner. The young man Jack had shanghaied from Port Royal. The young man who, after his initial protests, managed to adjust quite well to the life of a pirate. The very same young man, who, Jack had heard in a whisper to Gibbs, admitted that he’d never been this far north before. He, most of all the crew, would not take well to the harsh northern winters. Especially after working throughout the night and most of the next day in near blackness in wind and rain.


Jack let out a bit of a sigh and moved over to where, yet again, Will was tying down the boom. Jack gestured to Will, and a little painfully, his joints near frozen, gestured that the boy was to come with him.


Will gave his usual confused look, but handed the rigging off to a nearby crew member and came. These past few months he’d learned better then to question his captain, though the fire of rebellion still sparked in his young eyes. Truthfully, Jack wouldn’t have it any other way.


Will followed Jack to the captain’s quarters, having to fight with the wind to get the door shut behind them. Then, wearily, Will looked up at Jack.


Jack was pleased to see the small stone fireplace at the forefront of the room was already lit and waiting. Ana Maria was thinking of him, in her own special way. Though she insisted she only did it because she herself wanted to be warm, but Jack was certain he knew better. Even if he was wrong, he tickled his fancy to think otherwise.


He shoved aside the many maps and compasses that littered his desk and picked up a bottle of watered down corn whiskey, they’d looted from some fat colonel of the East India Company. Jack was certain that man would be fine in the coming winter months.


But Will wouldn’t. Jack could see that from the way he was shivering even in the considerable warmth of the room, though the boy was putting up an admiral fight to hide it.


“I rather wish it was rum, but this should help warm you up anyways.” Jack said, holding out the bottle.


Will shook his head. “You know I don’t drink, Jack.”


Jack nodded, grinning despite himself. “You will tonight.”


Gingerly, Will accepted the proffered bottle and popped the cork off, but didn’t raise it to his lips. He got a whiff of the fumes, and visibly winced, wringing a chuckle out of his captain.


“Good God, Jack, how do you drink this?” Will asked, in all seriousness.


Jack let out a shrug. “Better then nothing. Give it a go?”


Will very slowly raised the bottle to his lips, took a little swig, and immediately choked. Will was doubled over, coughing and hacking and holding on for dear life the mantle. Jack was in hysterics before Will could look back up at him with disdain, watery eyes unable to dilute the loathing in his stare.


“Are you quite finished?” Will asked, his voice still hoarse from the fit, and paused to spit back into the fire.


Jack had to wipe a tear from his eyes before he could respond. “Not quite. Come here.”


Will gives him that look again, and it’s all Jack can do to keep from poking the boy in the forehead, just to spur further reaction from him. Silently, and still unwittingly clutching that damn bottle from before, Will approaches him.


Jack took the boy’s head into his hands, and graced him with a soft kiss to his forehead. Then, Jack led him to the oversize bed, and pushed him down on it. Jack gestured to a folded up quilt at the foot of the bed, then back at Will.


“Get some rest, and try to keep warm, eh lad? We have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow. “


Will looked up at him, his previously confused look transforming into one of understanding.


“Alright.”


Jack himself took a place in a chair next to the fire, and let the wind and the rain carry him off to sleep.


~*~


PSYCHE OUT. XP


Those really are nautical terms, by the way. (Boom made me laugh a little.) I looked them up, dammit.