We Invented the Remix...Redux V

Title: Full Circle (World on Your Back)
Author: cherryice
Summary: Elizabeth, caught in the tides between two worlds.
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Pairing: Nominally Elizabeth/Will/Jack
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Disney owns all.
Original story: Full Circle by Molly
Notes: Spoilers through Curse of the Black Pearl

***



The parlor window overlooks the bay, day's last dying light reflected off the water as ships nestle into port. The air in the room is still, and Elizabeth stands with one hand pressed to the curtains. They are soft to the touch, velvet, dyed scarlet. A wedding present from a friend of her father. In her other hand is a coin, metal long-since warmed to skin temperature.

"Did you have a pleasant day?" Will asks. She knows without turning that he will have soot streaked across his forehead, cheekbones, fingers. If he takes a few steps inside the door – or if she turns and moves into his arms – he will smell like the smithy, iron and hay, coals and smoke.

"I took tea with the Winchesters," she says. They sat in the drawing room, stuffed full of books that canted in toward them, as if to fall. There were scones but no windows, no sound but the tick of the clock and the white noise of small talk, and she could hardly breathe.

"How are they faring?" Will asks, voice bright, like he cares.

Because he does care, Elizabeth thinks, and loves him for it. The drapes beneath her hand, scarce a year in use, release the smell of dust. "Their oldest daughter is showing marvelous progress in her dance lessons," she says. In her other hand, the skull cast on the coin digs deeply into her skin.

*

"Loosen my stays?" Elizabeth asks. She sits in front of her vanity, maid running a brush through her unbound hair. At the touch of Will's hand, the maid leaves. She's a small, quiet woman, a Port Royal native, fine lines at the edges of bright eyes. Elizabeth watches her go, then turns back to the mirror. Will's hands ghost over her shoulders, skin rough from work. His eyes fix on the necklace, on the coin that glows dark gold in the candlelight.

"A replica," she tells him as his fingers find the laces, as the corset loosens and her lungs expand. "A reminder," she says, as he pulls back her hair and kisses her neck.

"Elizabeth," he murmurs into the join of her shoulder. She remembers the soft thrill the first time she'd teased her name from his lips (not Miss Swann but Elizabeth, Elizabeth), remembers the airy expiration of its first gasp, his breath teasing against her cheek.

She remembers dark eyes in the firelight and her name with a sardonic, drunken inflection. Taste of salt and rum. Remembers, but only sometimes.

Will's nimble fingers remove the necklace, and she turns into his arms.

"Will," she says.

*

The air is hot, full of too many types of cologne, perfume, the scent of powder. Will's hand on her back is warm, solid. There is no looseness to his stance here, signs of grace evident only in the arcing movements of his head, the curve of his neck. All of the litheness he has gained from his work with the sword, from walking riggings, fails him at parties. He takes care to keep his hands out of sight, ashamed of the black worn into his fingers, under his nails, of the roughness of his skin.

She wants nothing more than to pull him to the centre of the floor, to press kisses to his palms and bring his fingers to her lips.

Around them, the socialites of Port Royal ebb and flow. She catches sight of her father through the crowd. He is standing at the window, watching the sea. His skin has an ashen cast she doesn't like, and she has a sudden and vivid flashback to her mother's face, at the end.

"Everything all right?" Will asks, lips almost brushing her ear. The string quartet in the corner shifts into something baroque, viola coming in a quarter note too late. She wants to waltz, fast turns and Will's body close to hers. Wants the call and answer of fencing, the weight of a sword, the wind in her hair.

"Everything's fine," she says, watching her father through the crowd.

*

Norrington is the one who delivers the news. Eyes direct and voice restrained, he sits on the divan across the table from her. He drinks the tea she orders brought, one hand always on the cup and the other carefully flat against his thigh, like he's afraid he'll reach out and touch her.

Will sits with her long after Norrington has gone, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. His shirt is cotton, soft from wear, and he holds her as she stares blankly at the wall.

She cries at the funeral, wet tracks streaking down her face behind the black veil. Will holds her hand throughout, her gloves stripped off so that she can feel his warmth, the sword calluses.

They walk home, silent, and as she stares out the window he wraps his arms around her. Their reflection is caught in the glass, chiaroscuro between the blood-red reflection of the drapes. She thinks of her father and the sea, of being twelve years old and the way the mist parted around their ship, waves delivering Will unto them. Her.

"Now we can join Jack," she says.

She's never liked the drapes, anyway.

*

Tortuga is quieter than they last left it. There's a sense not of calm, but of something lacking. Elizabeth finds herself looking for some sign of energy suppressed, waiting for a fight to spill out from the next tavern. Most of the ships at the dock are fishing vessels, independent operators.

None of the locals can answer their questions about the Black Pearl.

She's wearing trousers and carrying a sword, heft rapidly coming familiar. Her corsets are a thousand miles away.

"We'll have to try Petit Goave," Will says. She's leaning against a tavern wall, toying with the necklace, and Will, one hand shading his eyes, is watching the horizon.

"And if not there?" she asks. She wonders what he sees.

"New Providence. Somebody will have word, I am sure of it."

She feels like laughing, or crying, thinks of the open sea and her father, thinks of the roll of a deck beneath her feet and too-sharp smiles. She thinks of Will and of Jack, of Jack's hand low on Will's back, the fresh sea air, and the bottom of her stomach drops out.

Petit Goave it is.

*

Petit Goave is a bustle of activity, markets that smell of cardamom, chicory, and cinnamon. No sign of the Black Pearl, but she pays an exorbitant amount of money for apples. It's worth every penny to watch Will's face as he bites into one, bright red skin and crisp flesh giving beneath his teeth.

In New Providence, they find the Pearl before they even dock. She's bobbing in the harbour, and is not quite as Elizabeth remembers her. The deck is familiar underfoot, but the sails are mended and the holes patched, wood grain visible through a much-reduced layer of grime.

Anamaria is asleep on deck in the afternoon sun, all long legs and caramel skin. Her hat is pulled over eyes; hand on her pistol as soon as Elizabeth leans over to shake her awake. She laughs when she sees the pair before her, Will with hair curling and windburn coming up along his cheeks, Elizabeth flushed for other reasons entirely.

"Knew we hadn't seen the last of your lot," Anamaria says.

"Jack?" Will asks. Elizabeth's hand tightens around his arm, and something in her chest catches.

Anamaria yawns, tip of her pink tongue visible for a brief moment. "First tavern off the docks, o' course," she says, settling her hat back into place. "Should find the sight of you… interesting."

*

The tavern is, of course, a den of inequity. Elizabeth decides she finds Jack's predictability charming. It's midday, bright, but the light closes off as soon as they step through the doors. The floor is hard-packed dirt, cracked, damp for any number of reasons on public display. Jack is sitting at the bar in half-profile, and the perfect way the lantern light catches on his skin alerts her to the fact that he knows they're there, or that they were coming.

She leads and Will follows. She drapes her arm over Jack's shoulder and plucks his drink from his fingers, helps herself. It's a burn, going down, slow past her throat and into her gullet. Smoother than she remembers, and she wonders what it would taste like from his mouth. There's a quick cough she can't hold back, then she leans in and whispers in his ear: "If it must be rum, at least it's of finer quality than we last shared."

One corner of Jack's mouth twitches upward. Will's hand is on her back and she moves into it, away from Jack. Jack tilts back in his chair, precarious, head craned, eyeing them lazily and almost upside down. "Condolences in order, Mrs. Turner?"

"Elizabeth. You'd heard, then?"

"Gov'ner's death makes waves. Nice of you to finally show up, too -- been waiting nearly two weeks."

She's pressed against Will, so she can feel the tenseness in his body, possessiveness in his touch. It is only at this point she realizes the danger of the game she's playing. She's seen: Will look at Jack and Jack look at Will. Jack looks at Will slightly differently than he looks at her – not as a kindred spirit waiting to be exposed, flesh peeled and fruit eaten, but like something curious, something rare and delectable.

She turns into Will's arms as Jack rises, takes Will's hands and presses a kiss to his palm, to the inside of his wrist. She loves him sometimes so much her heart could burst. The ocean, she thinks, lifting her head as a couple of patrons stumble out the doors, breeze coming in off the bay.

"Coming, loves?" Jack asks, sidling up beside them, breath warm and strong with rum. Slides an arm around her shoulders and leads them back towards the dock.

The breeze is cool despite the sun, but she feels over-warm, Jack pressed on one side and Will on the other, Jack's arm draped across her shoulder and resting on Will's arm, fingers drawing curling patterns across his neck. He smells like anise and cloves.

No one here is losing anything, she wants to say. Thinks of her father and the ocean, and slides her arm around Will's waist. Turns her face into his shoulder as Jack raises a hand to brush his cheek, and she feels all the resistance leave his body.

"Love you," she murmurs into his salt-stiff shirt.

*

New Providence falls away behind them like every other port they've ever left, falling below the horizon and into the blue. The sky above them reaches down to meet the ocean, scattered clouds wispy and bright.

Jack is at the wheel, coattails whipping in the wind. Will leans against the rail, watching, while she stands at the bowsprit, salt spray cool against her skin.

The air is clear, and for the first time in a long while she can breathe.