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jedibuttercupPG-13; B:tVS/PotC; 3000 words. More of the Daughters of Charon 'verse.
Almost exactly a year after the ritual that had restored Jack to both mortality and the sea, the Flying Dutchman reappeared.
Title: Turn Your Sail Toward Home
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not.
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Post-series for B:tVS and Potc: AWE
Notes: Another chapter in the Daughters of Charon 'verse. Titled from a line in "Hoist the Colours". In the service of corralling the threads of plot dropped in previous parts, and to clarify exactly how this 'verse diverges: contains a few allusions to the 'alternate canon' of On Stranger Tides, Dead Men Tell No Tales, and Buffy Season 8. :)
Summary: Almost exactly a year after the ritual that had restored Jack to both mortality and the sea, the Flying Dutchman reappeared. them a little more maturity-- if she hadn't seen Angel and Spike do the same thing, time after time. 3000 words
A sudden gusting breeze blew salt-scented strands of sandy blonde hair into Buffy's face, and she sighed as she brushed them back out of her eyes. "Finally."
"Now, now, love. It's hardly the whelp's fault he failed to adhere to your preferred schedule, considering you never discussed it with him in the first place," Jack replied wryly at her side.
He was taking advantage of their current brief detour on land to dress more like Giacomo Passero, former Immortal, than was typical for Captain Jack Sparrow, wearing a suit from the expensive modern side of his wardrobe that had languished in various closets while they spent the last several months aboard the Black Pearl. Jack might have dived right back into the lifestyle of an age-of-sail pirate with gusto, but he'd acquired a taste for the finer things during his centuries ashore that nicely matched her own love of fancy clothes, scented soaps, and excellent shoes. She'd known what she was signing up for when she and Willow had helped him break his curse, but it was nice to just relax, eat a meal someone else had prepared, and feel gorgeous occasionally, too.
"Because I didn't think I'd need to! Sure, I figured he'd need to interview Angel's old frenemy himself, make sure the guy was going to be a good fit, but it's not like he had any kind of extended apprenticeship. It's been months!" Like ancestor, like great-however-many-granddaughter; Buffy had been a cheerleader one moment and Slaying the next, and she'd been under the impression that the former blacksmith's transition to full Davy Jones-hood had been equally abrupt.
Out beyond the Turner clan's private beach, the Flying Dutchman's longboat was just pulling away from the weathered wooden shape of the ghost galleon; long, slow-travelling waves lapped lazily up the gently sloping sand where Buffy's group was waiting, ushering the boat along. From a distance, it looked like there were two men at the oars: one of them tall and lean, with an open-breasted crimson shirt, a sword-belt with a great silver buckle thrown over one shoulder, and a bandana wrapped around his head, and the other man a couple of inches shorter with a similarly styled outfit of much more modern fabrics and manufacture.
"Well, there wasn't all that much for him to learn," Jack shrugged. "Lad took to the sea like he'd been born for it... which I suppose in a way he was. Barely had to show him the ropes, in more than one sense of the phrase, before he was keeping up like an old hand. By the time we put that knife through Davy Jones' heart, Will already knew how to hand, reef, and steer, and Calypso herself had already given him destiny's touch. Is it really any surprise that an Oklahoma boy turned demon lawyer might've needed a little more schooling to take his place? It ain't all magical tattoos and gold hoop earrings, love; old-school piracy's much more than just an aesthetic."
"I guess if you put it that way," Buffy snorted. "Darn modern technology, making travel so much easier."
"You laugh, but hasn't it been nice, taking the slow way round?" Jack teased, giving her a warm, sultry look.
She leaned in to kiss the smirk off his face, because okay, he might be right, but she wasn't going to say so.
They actually had been able to put the year to good use while they waited. And not just via getting to know one another better in every nook and cranny aboard Jack's other great love, the Pearl. It turned out that during his Immortal years he had squirreled away a lot of cursed treasure, old mystical books, and maps that led to other dimensions among his various vaults, exactly the kind of thing that a Watcher's Council who'd lost their library and a bored army of young Slayers in need of new challenges could use. (After properly compensating him for the expenditure, of course.) The world collection tour slash honeymoon they'd embarked on to gather it up-- including a few explorations of old haunts along the way-- had further opened a side of the supernatural to her that she really could have used as a terrorized and disillusioned fifteen-year-old. Here be dragons: an entire other world full of wondrous things as well as horrors.
But now, almost exactly a year after the ritual that had restored Jack to both mortality and the sea, the Flying Dutchman had reappeared. She was several years ahead of her usual visitation schedule, but the Council's seers had been tracking her ever since she and Jack had dropped off Lindsey McDonald, and a few days ago the current Turner matriarch had taken a quick, discreet trip to the Bahamas with a certain chest disguised inside a red cooler marked Human Organ for Transplant. So now, finally, centuries after his last mortal breath, Will Turner was about to rejoin the world of the living, too.
"Guys, I'm standing right here," Dawn interrupted from Buffy's other side, eyeroll clearly audible in her tone. "Tell me you've spent the last several months mostly alone without actually telling me, why don't you."
"Sorry, Dawnie," Buffy said, pulling back from her boyfriend to throw her sister an apologetic laugh. "Although if you think this counts as too much PDA...."
"Ew, ew, ew, and also ew," Dawn replied teasingly, wrinkling up her nose. "You're my sister, and he's older than America."
"I should think that would be a selling point, not a cause for revulsion," Jack grinned over at her. "Think of all the experience thereby implied!"
"Trying not to, actually," Dawn gave a feigned shudder. "Please tell me you're planning on toning it down a little when the rest of us come on board for this Poseidon quest thing."
The longboat had finally reached the beach; the new ferryman stayed at the oars, nodding solemnly to the welcome party. The previous captain-- who now bore a fresh, vivid new scar paralleling the old one across his chest-- clapped a hand on Captain McDonald's shoulder, then stepped out into the surf, eyes fluttering briefly closed as his feet touched solid ground.
"No promises," Buffy said to her sister, then laced her hand through Jack's and ran laughing across the sand.
The ensuing reunion, spreading out until the shadows stretched far down the beach, was a jumble of happy embraces, laughter, stories, and celebration, much like the last Turner Day but with an extra degree of incredulous joy. Buffy and Jack-- and Dawn, whose eyes went wide with wonder at whatever their ancestor murmured in her ear-- didn't try to keep the center of attention; almost everyone else had their modern lives to get back to, after all. They were the ones still waiting when the crowd began to clear to escort him up to the cottage and lighthouse above the dunes for a night of respite on solid ground before taking their next steps.
Not that actual steps seemed to be a problem; like grandfather, like granddaughter in that too. No transition from sea legs to land legs necessary. He may have lost his immortal status and ability to more-or-less teleport over the waves, but he still had some kind of supernatural balance going on, and who knew what other gifts. Which made sense, if Calypso's favor overall operated separately from the Davy Jones curse. It wasn't like Buffy had become any less a Slayer after she died and relinquished her first-in-Sineya's-line status, for example, and Buffy had heard stories about some of Calypso's other favorites over the years, from Barbossa to Elizabeth Swann to Jack himself before he voluntarily chose to be stranded ashore under another authority. Mortals gifted by Higher Powers did tend to have a little more luck-- whether good or bad-- than the rest of their brethren.
The Turner House was a sprawling old multi-level place with a great beach-side balcony and a kitchen that could easily feed dozens; the four of them rattled around in it like a handful of peas in a pod that evening. The bones of the 'cottage' had been laid down by Captain Swann and her children and crew when the climate in the Bahamas had become more inimical to their chosen lifestyle, as a place to rest between voyages, and it had been updated every few decades since with modern amenities. Captain Turner spent several hours wandering through it with Dawn as guide, appreciating several centuries' worth of stories and mementoes. Then they introduced the eighteenth-century sailor to more modern cuisine via burgers and vegetables cooked on the outside grill, and gathered on the balcony under the emerging stars with glasses of rum and chardonnay to decompress.
Will kept touching one hand to his chest, where a pulse beat beneath the parallel scars for the first time in centuries, and then looking out over the wine-dark sea with a wondering expression. The breeze had picked up a little more after the sun dipped below the horizon, and long rolling waves shushed audibly against the sand, calming and comforting to Buffy too after all those months aboard the Black Pearl.
"All those centuries. Did you ever really think your curse would end?" she wondered aloud, watching him.
"No, not truly," he replied with a wry, distant smile. "There was a time during those first couple of years, before Elizabeth went back to sea full-time and took Henry with her, that I feared I would go the way of Davy Jones, transformed by despair and duty into something inhuman. That I would have passed the weight of knowing a father cursed and dooming oneself to free him onto my son; and I could not want that fate for him. But Elizabeth was made of sterner stuff than that. She was determined that we should all live our best lives, and that I had enough ties to keep me sane even after I ferried her to where she waits for me to join her."
Surprise jolted though Buffy at that admission; she had been aware that his wife hadn't partaken of either his cursed immortality or the version Jack had subscribed to for a time, but she hadn't thought it through. Of course Pirate King Elizabeth would have insisted on being at sea when her time came, if at all possible; of course Will planned to join her, when he finally followed. That had... implications for her and Jack, and probably Dawn too, that she'd need to think about later. But she banished it from her thoughts as Will continued, shrugging.
"I suppose I always thought I'd remain at the helm of the Dutchman until belief ebbed too far to sustain Calypso's enchantments, or until someone discovered the heart and put an end to me. Voluntary retirement, even to this degree, never figured into my imaginings."
"The family Turner: defying fate for three centuries and counting," Jack spoke up, shaking his head. "Numerous apocalypses-- apocalypsi?-- included. Which seems to be what Calypso's warning was about, by the by-- we did some research via my records and less-savory contacts after our last meeting."
"I thought we weren't talking business until tomorrow morning," Buffy sighed, shifting a little on the wicker chaise she and Jack were cuddled up on, pressing her cheek against his shoulder.
"Just thought it might help him to know, love," Jack shrugged. "Turns out, my no-longer-ferryman friend, the Fountain I found wasn't the only; t'other was actually destroyed by naval officers from the Spanish court. And there actually was a prophecy about the end of Calypso-- and every other supernatural species, demi-deity, and magical working connected to the sea-- back in the eighteenth century. One that didn't come to pass because your shrewd and deadly lass declined to surrender her crown. She borrowed my map to conjure a way to get back in touch with you, I used a different source to find what I sought... and your eldest did not grow up so desperate to break your curse that he joined a quest for the Trident of Poseidon."
Will drew in a sharp breath, turning away from the deck's railing to stare at Jack. "For such to have been the result... Henry would not only have had to find the Trident, but destroy it." He'd been, effectively, the priest of a sea-deity for a very long time; of course he knew about the ancient and mighty relic of a more powerful sea-god.
"That's what we think," Dawn spoke up. "There's been a lot of chatter about it lately, starting after Buffy showed up in Rome to stay-- thwarting another apocalyptic prophecy, apparently-- and especially after you picked one of Wolfram and Hart's runaways as your successor. They've been positioning themselves to come out on top after the inevitable apocalypse for literal eons, and they're getting impatient with being blue-balled out of it. According to our sources, finding the Trident and thinning out some of the competition is the next step in them being more proactive."
"We can talk details on what we're going to do about that tomorrow. But you and I just being here-- we're already living in a better timeline than that would've been. Savvy?" Jack grinned at his old friend.
"That is a good thought. Thank you, Jack." Will's smile widened into something more genuine, and he turned back to the ocean, something lighter in his stance and the set of his shoulders.
They left him and Dawn there after a while to absorb the evening air in peace, the siren call of a good mattress and clean sheets drawing Buffy back into the house with her fingers tangled in amongst her lover's. Jack was happy enough to follow, humming sea-shanties faintly under his breath as they undressed and stripped back the bedcovers.
One of the things that had convinced Buffy from pretty early on that 'Giacomo' wasn't as bad as his reputation with the Watcher's Council suggested was the tattooed poem written all over his body, wound around other symbols both arcane and ordinary. She reached out to trace her fingers over a particular favorite line, then pressed a kiss to another before reaching up to thread her arms around his neck.
Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Dawnie said the poem was called the Desiderata, and that there must be some temporal or magical nonsense going on with it, since his particular brand of unageing survival had included healing scarlessly from any and all wounds and it hadn't been published until long after he became the Immortal. Buffy hadn't asked him about it; whether inspiration, reminder, or something else entirely, it was clearly deeply personal, and while they might be building a mutual partnership together that didn't mean excavating each and every one of their closely kept secrets. There was another one on his wrist, though, that caught her attention now, reminding her of something he had said that day.
"Which came first," she asked casually, "the tattoo or the name?"
"Hmmm?" Jack frowned distractedly as he settled his hands on her hips, dark eyes smoldering with opaque emotion. "Not sure what you mean, love."
"The sparrow," she clarified. "Dawn says a sparrow tattoo used to mean you'd sailed all the oceans many times over. That much could have been a coincidence. But you told me your dad's name, when we found his copy of the Code in one of your vaults-- and there's zero references out there to 'Jack Sparrow' being an alias. Plus today you told me it isn't all magical tattoos and gold hoop earrings. Am I wrong to connect a few dots?"
"Ah," he said, smile slipping into something lazy and smug; one of his more piratical expressions. "One of my earlier negotiations with Tia Dalma, that, long before the Song was sung. The tattoo did come first, back when I was just a boy on the Code Keeper's crew. Getting it enchanted, establishing an independent identity and encouraging everyone at Shipwreck Cove to forget I was ever Jack Teague unless they had sufficient reason otherwise-- call it a bit of adolescent rebellion that grew legs as the years swept on."
"Until even the historical record only remembers Captain Jack Sparrow," Buffy replied, ruefully. "I get it; sometimes I wonder if the supernatural world will even remember that I had a name besides Slayer after a few centuries. Or, you know-- that vampire's ex. You've been good for my reputation there at least, especially since the ritual. How's it feel to be a good example for once?"
"Terrible," Jack replied lightly, giving a theatrical shudder. "You realize I'm going to have to do degenerate and filthy things to you now to wash the awful taste of those words off your tongue, don't you?"
Since that was exactly what she'd been hoping for when they came inside, no, she didn't mind at all. "Oh no, I've taken a wicked pirate to my bed, who shall save me from being ravished?"
He waggled his eyebrows at her as he began taking slow steps backward, tugging her after him toward the bed. "If you need saving, then I'm doing it wrong," he said, voice pitched low and sultry. "Say, there's a thought; would the wench like to show the dastardly pirate the error of his ways?"
Buffy laughed, tumbling after him onto the clean sheets, then rolled them over, grinning up at him. "Perhaps the wench just needs to be convinced that a pirate's life really is for her?"
Jack smirked, pausing to hold up a finger. "This is the day you will always remember as the day you almost escaped Captain Jack Sparrow," he promised in ostentatious tones... then proceeded to spend the rest of the night fulfilling that vow.
(x-posted at AO3)
Almost exactly a year after the ritual that had restored Jack to both mortality and the sea, the Flying Dutchman reappeared.
Title: Turn Your Sail Toward Home
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not.
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Post-series for B:tVS and Potc: AWE
Notes: Another chapter in the Daughters of Charon 'verse. Titled from a line in "Hoist the Colours". In the service of corralling the threads of plot dropped in previous parts, and to clarify exactly how this 'verse diverges: contains a few allusions to the 'alternate canon' of On Stranger Tides, Dead Men Tell No Tales, and Buffy Season 8. :)
Summary: Almost exactly a year after the ritual that had restored Jack to both mortality and the sea, the Flying Dutchman reappeared. them a little more maturity-- if she hadn't seen Angel and Spike do the same thing, time after time. 3000 words
A sudden gusting breeze blew salt-scented strands of sandy blonde hair into Buffy's face, and she sighed as she brushed them back out of her eyes. "Finally."
"Now, now, love. It's hardly the whelp's fault he failed to adhere to your preferred schedule, considering you never discussed it with him in the first place," Jack replied wryly at her side.
He was taking advantage of their current brief detour on land to dress more like Giacomo Passero, former Immortal, than was typical for Captain Jack Sparrow, wearing a suit from the expensive modern side of his wardrobe that had languished in various closets while they spent the last several months aboard the Black Pearl. Jack might have dived right back into the lifestyle of an age-of-sail pirate with gusto, but he'd acquired a taste for the finer things during his centuries ashore that nicely matched her own love of fancy clothes, scented soaps, and excellent shoes. She'd known what she was signing up for when she and Willow had helped him break his curse, but it was nice to just relax, eat a meal someone else had prepared, and feel gorgeous occasionally, too.
"Because I didn't think I'd need to! Sure, I figured he'd need to interview Angel's old frenemy himself, make sure the guy was going to be a good fit, but it's not like he had any kind of extended apprenticeship. It's been months!" Like ancestor, like great-however-many-granddaughter; Buffy had been a cheerleader one moment and Slaying the next, and she'd been under the impression that the former blacksmith's transition to full Davy Jones-hood had been equally abrupt.
Out beyond the Turner clan's private beach, the Flying Dutchman's longboat was just pulling away from the weathered wooden shape of the ghost galleon; long, slow-travelling waves lapped lazily up the gently sloping sand where Buffy's group was waiting, ushering the boat along. From a distance, it looked like there were two men at the oars: one of them tall and lean, with an open-breasted crimson shirt, a sword-belt with a great silver buckle thrown over one shoulder, and a bandana wrapped around his head, and the other man a couple of inches shorter with a similarly styled outfit of much more modern fabrics and manufacture.
"Well, there wasn't all that much for him to learn," Jack shrugged. "Lad took to the sea like he'd been born for it... which I suppose in a way he was. Barely had to show him the ropes, in more than one sense of the phrase, before he was keeping up like an old hand. By the time we put that knife through Davy Jones' heart, Will already knew how to hand, reef, and steer, and Calypso herself had already given him destiny's touch. Is it really any surprise that an Oklahoma boy turned demon lawyer might've needed a little more schooling to take his place? It ain't all magical tattoos and gold hoop earrings, love; old-school piracy's much more than just an aesthetic."
"I guess if you put it that way," Buffy snorted. "Darn modern technology, making travel so much easier."
"You laugh, but hasn't it been nice, taking the slow way round?" Jack teased, giving her a warm, sultry look.
She leaned in to kiss the smirk off his face, because okay, he might be right, but she wasn't going to say so.
They actually had been able to put the year to good use while they waited. And not just via getting to know one another better in every nook and cranny aboard Jack's other great love, the Pearl. It turned out that during his Immortal years he had squirreled away a lot of cursed treasure, old mystical books, and maps that led to other dimensions among his various vaults, exactly the kind of thing that a Watcher's Council who'd lost their library and a bored army of young Slayers in need of new challenges could use. (After properly compensating him for the expenditure, of course.) The world collection tour slash honeymoon they'd embarked on to gather it up-- including a few explorations of old haunts along the way-- had further opened a side of the supernatural to her that she really could have used as a terrorized and disillusioned fifteen-year-old. Here be dragons: an entire other world full of wondrous things as well as horrors.
But now, almost exactly a year after the ritual that had restored Jack to both mortality and the sea, the Flying Dutchman had reappeared. She was several years ahead of her usual visitation schedule, but the Council's seers had been tracking her ever since she and Jack had dropped off Lindsey McDonald, and a few days ago the current Turner matriarch had taken a quick, discreet trip to the Bahamas with a certain chest disguised inside a red cooler marked Human Organ for Transplant. So now, finally, centuries after his last mortal breath, Will Turner was about to rejoin the world of the living, too.
"Guys, I'm standing right here," Dawn interrupted from Buffy's other side, eyeroll clearly audible in her tone. "Tell me you've spent the last several months mostly alone without actually telling me, why don't you."
"Sorry, Dawnie," Buffy said, pulling back from her boyfriend to throw her sister an apologetic laugh. "Although if you think this counts as too much PDA...."
"Ew, ew, ew, and also ew," Dawn replied teasingly, wrinkling up her nose. "You're my sister, and he's older than America."
"I should think that would be a selling point, not a cause for revulsion," Jack grinned over at her. "Think of all the experience thereby implied!"
"Trying not to, actually," Dawn gave a feigned shudder. "Please tell me you're planning on toning it down a little when the rest of us come on board for this Poseidon quest thing."
The longboat had finally reached the beach; the new ferryman stayed at the oars, nodding solemnly to the welcome party. The previous captain-- who now bore a fresh, vivid new scar paralleling the old one across his chest-- clapped a hand on Captain McDonald's shoulder, then stepped out into the surf, eyes fluttering briefly closed as his feet touched solid ground.
"No promises," Buffy said to her sister, then laced her hand through Jack's and ran laughing across the sand.
The ensuing reunion, spreading out until the shadows stretched far down the beach, was a jumble of happy embraces, laughter, stories, and celebration, much like the last Turner Day but with an extra degree of incredulous joy. Buffy and Jack-- and Dawn, whose eyes went wide with wonder at whatever their ancestor murmured in her ear-- didn't try to keep the center of attention; almost everyone else had their modern lives to get back to, after all. They were the ones still waiting when the crowd began to clear to escort him up to the cottage and lighthouse above the dunes for a night of respite on solid ground before taking their next steps.
Not that actual steps seemed to be a problem; like grandfather, like granddaughter in that too. No transition from sea legs to land legs necessary. He may have lost his immortal status and ability to more-or-less teleport over the waves, but he still had some kind of supernatural balance going on, and who knew what other gifts. Which made sense, if Calypso's favor overall operated separately from the Davy Jones curse. It wasn't like Buffy had become any less a Slayer after she died and relinquished her first-in-Sineya's-line status, for example, and Buffy had heard stories about some of Calypso's other favorites over the years, from Barbossa to Elizabeth Swann to Jack himself before he voluntarily chose to be stranded ashore under another authority. Mortals gifted by Higher Powers did tend to have a little more luck-- whether good or bad-- than the rest of their brethren.
The Turner House was a sprawling old multi-level place with a great beach-side balcony and a kitchen that could easily feed dozens; the four of them rattled around in it like a handful of peas in a pod that evening. The bones of the 'cottage' had been laid down by Captain Swann and her children and crew when the climate in the Bahamas had become more inimical to their chosen lifestyle, as a place to rest between voyages, and it had been updated every few decades since with modern amenities. Captain Turner spent several hours wandering through it with Dawn as guide, appreciating several centuries' worth of stories and mementoes. Then they introduced the eighteenth-century sailor to more modern cuisine via burgers and vegetables cooked on the outside grill, and gathered on the balcony under the emerging stars with glasses of rum and chardonnay to decompress.
Will kept touching one hand to his chest, where a pulse beat beneath the parallel scars for the first time in centuries, and then looking out over the wine-dark sea with a wondering expression. The breeze had picked up a little more after the sun dipped below the horizon, and long rolling waves shushed audibly against the sand, calming and comforting to Buffy too after all those months aboard the Black Pearl.
"All those centuries. Did you ever really think your curse would end?" she wondered aloud, watching him.
"No, not truly," he replied with a wry, distant smile. "There was a time during those first couple of years, before Elizabeth went back to sea full-time and took Henry with her, that I feared I would go the way of Davy Jones, transformed by despair and duty into something inhuman. That I would have passed the weight of knowing a father cursed and dooming oneself to free him onto my son; and I could not want that fate for him. But Elizabeth was made of sterner stuff than that. She was determined that we should all live our best lives, and that I had enough ties to keep me sane even after I ferried her to where she waits for me to join her."
Surprise jolted though Buffy at that admission; she had been aware that his wife hadn't partaken of either his cursed immortality or the version Jack had subscribed to for a time, but she hadn't thought it through. Of course Pirate King Elizabeth would have insisted on being at sea when her time came, if at all possible; of course Will planned to join her, when he finally followed. That had... implications for her and Jack, and probably Dawn too, that she'd need to think about later. But she banished it from her thoughts as Will continued, shrugging.
"I suppose I always thought I'd remain at the helm of the Dutchman until belief ebbed too far to sustain Calypso's enchantments, or until someone discovered the heart and put an end to me. Voluntary retirement, even to this degree, never figured into my imaginings."
"The family Turner: defying fate for three centuries and counting," Jack spoke up, shaking his head. "Numerous apocalypses-- apocalypsi?-- included. Which seems to be what Calypso's warning was about, by the by-- we did some research via my records and less-savory contacts after our last meeting."
"I thought we weren't talking business until tomorrow morning," Buffy sighed, shifting a little on the wicker chaise she and Jack were cuddled up on, pressing her cheek against his shoulder.
"Just thought it might help him to know, love," Jack shrugged. "Turns out, my no-longer-ferryman friend, the Fountain I found wasn't the only; t'other was actually destroyed by naval officers from the Spanish court. And there actually was a prophecy about the end of Calypso-- and every other supernatural species, demi-deity, and magical working connected to the sea-- back in the eighteenth century. One that didn't come to pass because your shrewd and deadly lass declined to surrender her crown. She borrowed my map to conjure a way to get back in touch with you, I used a different source to find what I sought... and your eldest did not grow up so desperate to break your curse that he joined a quest for the Trident of Poseidon."
Will drew in a sharp breath, turning away from the deck's railing to stare at Jack. "For such to have been the result... Henry would not only have had to find the Trident, but destroy it." He'd been, effectively, the priest of a sea-deity for a very long time; of course he knew about the ancient and mighty relic of a more powerful sea-god.
"That's what we think," Dawn spoke up. "There's been a lot of chatter about it lately, starting after Buffy showed up in Rome to stay-- thwarting another apocalyptic prophecy, apparently-- and especially after you picked one of Wolfram and Hart's runaways as your successor. They've been positioning themselves to come out on top after the inevitable apocalypse for literal eons, and they're getting impatient with being blue-balled out of it. According to our sources, finding the Trident and thinning out some of the competition is the next step in them being more proactive."
"We can talk details on what we're going to do about that tomorrow. But you and I just being here-- we're already living in a better timeline than that would've been. Savvy?" Jack grinned at his old friend.
"That is a good thought. Thank you, Jack." Will's smile widened into something more genuine, and he turned back to the ocean, something lighter in his stance and the set of his shoulders.
They left him and Dawn there after a while to absorb the evening air in peace, the siren call of a good mattress and clean sheets drawing Buffy back into the house with her fingers tangled in amongst her lover's. Jack was happy enough to follow, humming sea-shanties faintly under his breath as they undressed and stripped back the bedcovers.
One of the things that had convinced Buffy from pretty early on that 'Giacomo' wasn't as bad as his reputation with the Watcher's Council suggested was the tattooed poem written all over his body, wound around other symbols both arcane and ordinary. She reached out to trace her fingers over a particular favorite line, then pressed a kiss to another before reaching up to thread her arms around his neck.
Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Dawnie said the poem was called the Desiderata, and that there must be some temporal or magical nonsense going on with it, since his particular brand of unageing survival had included healing scarlessly from any and all wounds and it hadn't been published until long after he became the Immortal. Buffy hadn't asked him about it; whether inspiration, reminder, or something else entirely, it was clearly deeply personal, and while they might be building a mutual partnership together that didn't mean excavating each and every one of their closely kept secrets. There was another one on his wrist, though, that caught her attention now, reminding her of something he had said that day.
"Which came first," she asked casually, "the tattoo or the name?"
"Hmmm?" Jack frowned distractedly as he settled his hands on her hips, dark eyes smoldering with opaque emotion. "Not sure what you mean, love."
"The sparrow," she clarified. "Dawn says a sparrow tattoo used to mean you'd sailed all the oceans many times over. That much could have been a coincidence. But you told me your dad's name, when we found his copy of the Code in one of your vaults-- and there's zero references out there to 'Jack Sparrow' being an alias. Plus today you told me it isn't all magical tattoos and gold hoop earrings. Am I wrong to connect a few dots?"
"Ah," he said, smile slipping into something lazy and smug; one of his more piratical expressions. "One of my earlier negotiations with Tia Dalma, that, long before the Song was sung. The tattoo did come first, back when I was just a boy on the Code Keeper's crew. Getting it enchanted, establishing an independent identity and encouraging everyone at Shipwreck Cove to forget I was ever Jack Teague unless they had sufficient reason otherwise-- call it a bit of adolescent rebellion that grew legs as the years swept on."
"Until even the historical record only remembers Captain Jack Sparrow," Buffy replied, ruefully. "I get it; sometimes I wonder if the supernatural world will even remember that I had a name besides Slayer after a few centuries. Or, you know-- that vampire's ex. You've been good for my reputation there at least, especially since the ritual. How's it feel to be a good example for once?"
"Terrible," Jack replied lightly, giving a theatrical shudder. "You realize I'm going to have to do degenerate and filthy things to you now to wash the awful taste of those words off your tongue, don't you?"
Since that was exactly what she'd been hoping for when they came inside, no, she didn't mind at all. "Oh no, I've taken a wicked pirate to my bed, who shall save me from being ravished?"
He waggled his eyebrows at her as he began taking slow steps backward, tugging her after him toward the bed. "If you need saving, then I'm doing it wrong," he said, voice pitched low and sultry. "Say, there's a thought; would the wench like to show the dastardly pirate the error of his ways?"
Buffy laughed, tumbling after him onto the clean sheets, then rolled them over, grinning up at him. "Perhaps the wench just needs to be convinced that a pirate's life really is for her?"
Jack smirked, pausing to hold up a finger. "This is the day you will always remember as the day you almost escaped Captain Jack Sparrow," he promised in ostentatious tones... then proceeded to spend the rest of the night fulfilling that vow.
(x-posted at AO3)
