"They Only Hit 'Til You Cry..."
Jul. 28th, 2006 11:31 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
psalm_onethirtyoneI wrote Waen's Bootstrap/Davy Jones! It's rilly, rilly, rilly bad! XD But now I'm done, so I can go have breakfast, and make an apology-card-present for Mary-Jane at the library, for FAILING AT LIFE.
In any case: bad.
A Man of the Sea
Moment of madness.
Or maybe just a moment of lucidity.
Because he'd been down there so long. So long. The water pressing in, and things trying to nibble on him--he was, in his own way, a quiet man. Not soft, but quiet. So when things nibbled, he never screamed (but he did inside his head). And there was the hunger, too--undead, so he couldn't starve, but he was hungry like he'd never been before, until he tore off pieces of his clothes and ate them, and if a crab crawled up his leg he'd snatch it off and tear it to pieces. Never made a difference. But he felt like he had to do something.
And he'd been down there so long, until it felt like there was never a time he'd been anywhere else, never a time when there wasn't water pressing down--he'd live and die like this, like nothing--didn't even feel like an animal, there wasn't any animal could live like this.
And then Davy Jones came.
There was something attractive about him, never mind the squid--octopus--whatever the squelchy thing with a million arms was. He was like Jack. Not drunk and mad like Jack, but--just that interesting and that way he had that made you want to stay with him, learn more about him, especially to get his liking. Although he didn't think much about that then, when Davy Jones first came. All he thought about was--he didn't know. He kept thinking something confused, and his eyes felt like they were going all kinds of colours.
(He saw monsters down here, monsters at every turn, you couldn't look around without seeing something horrible--and he wasn't sure whether being undead meant his eyes couldn't rot out from the seawater--)
And the thing was, thing was, when Davy Jones put that pipe in his mouth and puffed, even at the bottom of the sea, and when he said,--
"Well, well. Aren't you a funny fellow?" and reached out and peeled some kind of thing off Bill's face and flicked it away into the current--
Well. What could he have done?
He couldn't talk by then--took too much effort, and he hadn't done it in so long he didn't think he knew how any more. So Davy, he did all the talking.
"You look tired," he said. Somehow it was so understanding. Bill--he never thought of himself as Bootstrap--was tired. In every way a man could be, he was tired. "When I come for the men, strange but they're always about to die. You're not dying."
He paused.
"All the same, I think you'll come. I'm going to get you out of here. Take you off this cannon here, let you join my crew." That was where he reached out again and stroked Bill's cheek with the long tentacle where his right hand out to be. "Get out of the water. Water's in you, sailor, you don't want to leave it, but how'd you like to be on top of it?"
(His eyes were always moving, Davy's, and looking at something, and they were so pale and flat you didn't know what he was looking for, thinking of--Bill was just looking at him, trying not to think about the monsters all around them (thinking of being free).)
"That's worth your soul, isn't it?"
So maybe it was a moment of madness, or maybe it was the one wise decision he'd ever made in his life, but he nodded. It was hard to do it, even when Davy moved with all that grace--but Davy was part of the sea already, growing with it, where he was something strange in it, someone who had to fight for his movements. Anyway it was as easy as that. As easy as that, and suddenly his poor body, where the skin was sloughing off from the salt water working at it for years and years, was tucked under Davy's arm. And they were off. Easy as that. Easy as giving up his soul.
Turned out, even, that Davy didn't want it for-ever. A hundred years was all the same to him, him who'd been heartless for longer than that. But Bill kept thinking, a hundred years he was promised to be out of that water. He didn't think he'd even mind dying at the end--after all, dying was just another way of getting out from under the sea, so he didn't much care. If Davy had offered him the choice between being his crewmember or dying, Bill'd have taken dying. Davy knew him. 'Get you out of the water', he'd said. Well, that was the only thing that would have done it.
He didn't mind when he noticed the starfish slowly pushing its way out of his face. He was too excited by his first new discovery--being undead with Jack and Barbossa, all the food in the world couldn't take away the hunger. Being with Davy Jones, he could eat and feel it. As long as it was something from the sea, anyway, and Bill didn't mind eating little shellfish or the sand crabs that found their way into his clothes sometimes. Wasn't much different from what he'd done before. And more satisfying.
For the first while of it, he thought he was really happy. Knew it wouldn't last, but he was too relieved to be free. It was as heady as sailing with the wind.
But he was a quiet man, and he still kept to himself. Not like some of the crew, the big ones more sea than sailor. They were rough and quick and spent plenty of time betting with each other for years of their time, or roughing each other up with their claws and sharp shark teeth. He stayed out of it. He stayed by himself.
A lot of the time, he started thinking of Will. Now that he had his head back--now that he could think at all--he realised it'd been a long time. A long time. The boy would be grown by now. Wonder what he'd've done? Not been a pirate. Not with his sweet, beautiful mother to look after him. Maybe he was married to a girl as good as her. Bill followed a jellyfish down in the water, slopping along the waves all purple-like. Hard to know.
Then he remembered the coin. He hadn't left the boy with his mother. He'd taken him away that last voyage, when he was angry over Jack's marooning. He'd been feeling grey and smouldering inside, he was angry; and he'd taken Will away from his mother and put that coin around his neck, got on the merchant ship instead of back with Barbossa, and Barbossa followed him.
Last thing he'd done, he'd clapped Will over the head with something--trying not to be too hard, trying not to be too gentle--and laid him on that piece of driftwood, and sent him off. Didn't know whether anyone would find him or not, but Bill had trusted to luck.
Damn fool.
And then the tentacle slipped over his shoulder. "Sailor."
He looked up and over at once, saw Davy's suckered tentacles dripping down from his face, and couldn't look away. "Captain."
"Now what are you sitting out here for?"
"Sorry, Captain." But he still couldn't stand.
Then Davy sat down beside him, slowly, with the effort it took to put down that one hard clawed leg, get himself comfortable, pull his moulded, carbuncled coat out from under him. "Now, now, no need to be sorry. What are you about?"
"Thinking," he said quietly.
"Sorry you're here?"
"No."
"Are you glad you're here?" The face-tentacles moved around, something that was supposed to show Davy was surprised, but not really surprised.
Bill was quiet for just a minute longer, and then he said, "Aye, glad."
The arm-tentacle reached out and started to touch the starfish growing out of his face, almost a kind of gentle. He looked at Davy's strange flat eyes for a minute, and then touched back. He didn't know what it felt like Davy touched that starfish with that tentacle, but when he touched Davy's face-tentacles, they were smooth and wet some places, except the suckers that pressed onto his fingers without stinging, and he couldn't really help going on with it, feeling over them. It was mad. It was different from the things down under the sea. Davy was something like none of the sea and the whole sea all at once. He was like a different sea. A new sea. All seas.
Bill thought he was so sick of the sea he'd give anything never to go back to it, but he ended up with both hands wandering through Davy's beard of face-tentacles, while Davy's arm went down from the starfish and to his breastbone, where a small delicate patch of coral was growing, then back up his face to the little buds on his other cheek, the ones that hadn't opened up yet, the ones that were some new kind of sea-thing.
And Davy's face-tentacles curled over his hands, slipped along his arms, and then, and even though it was unexpected Bill couldn't really say he was surprised, touched up against his lips (still so shrivelled and grey from the sea, so that he couldn't feel very well with them, could only just feel Davy, even).
They didn't speak, either of them, just felt each other like it was a new thing altogether. Well, and Bill wondered how long it was since Davy'd gone touching someone that was nearly human. Couldn't even guess as to it, himself. All he knew was he liked it, somehow found he liked the sea after all. In his blood, he thought, thinking of what Davy had said. He didn't want to leave it, but he wanted to get out of it for a while.
Well, it had been a while.
He looked at himself for a minute--up to his arms in the sea, and the sea reaching out for him, pulling him in, and he thought about it--he thought about it, for a minute.
And then he went back into the sea.
Moment of madness, maybe. Maybe just a moment of lucidity.
In any case: bad.
A Man of the Sea
Moment of madness.
Or maybe just a moment of lucidity.
Because he'd been down there so long. So long. The water pressing in, and things trying to nibble on him--he was, in his own way, a quiet man. Not soft, but quiet. So when things nibbled, he never screamed (but he did inside his head). And there was the hunger, too--undead, so he couldn't starve, but he was hungry like he'd never been before, until he tore off pieces of his clothes and ate them, and if a crab crawled up his leg he'd snatch it off and tear it to pieces. Never made a difference. But he felt like he had to do something.
And he'd been down there so long, until it felt like there was never a time he'd been anywhere else, never a time when there wasn't water pressing down--he'd live and die like this, like nothing--didn't even feel like an animal, there wasn't any animal could live like this.
And then Davy Jones came.
There was something attractive about him, never mind the squid--octopus--whatever the squelchy thing with a million arms was. He was like Jack. Not drunk and mad like Jack, but--just that interesting and that way he had that made you want to stay with him, learn more about him, especially to get his liking. Although he didn't think much about that then, when Davy Jones first came. All he thought about was--he didn't know. He kept thinking something confused, and his eyes felt like they were going all kinds of colours.
(He saw monsters down here, monsters at every turn, you couldn't look around without seeing something horrible--and he wasn't sure whether being undead meant his eyes couldn't rot out from the seawater--)
And the thing was, thing was, when Davy Jones put that pipe in his mouth and puffed, even at the bottom of the sea, and when he said,--
"Well, well. Aren't you a funny fellow?" and reached out and peeled some kind of thing off Bill's face and flicked it away into the current--
Well. What could he have done?
He couldn't talk by then--took too much effort, and he hadn't done it in so long he didn't think he knew how any more. So Davy, he did all the talking.
"You look tired," he said. Somehow it was so understanding. Bill--he never thought of himself as Bootstrap--was tired. In every way a man could be, he was tired. "When I come for the men, strange but they're always about to die. You're not dying."
He paused.
"All the same, I think you'll come. I'm going to get you out of here. Take you off this cannon here, let you join my crew." That was where he reached out again and stroked Bill's cheek with the long tentacle where his right hand out to be. "Get out of the water. Water's in you, sailor, you don't want to leave it, but how'd you like to be on top of it?"
(His eyes were always moving, Davy's, and looking at something, and they were so pale and flat you didn't know what he was looking for, thinking of--Bill was just looking at him, trying not to think about the monsters all around them (thinking of being free).)
"That's worth your soul, isn't it?"
So maybe it was a moment of madness, or maybe it was the one wise decision he'd ever made in his life, but he nodded. It was hard to do it, even when Davy moved with all that grace--but Davy was part of the sea already, growing with it, where he was something strange in it, someone who had to fight for his movements. Anyway it was as easy as that. As easy as that, and suddenly his poor body, where the skin was sloughing off from the salt water working at it for years and years, was tucked under Davy's arm. And they were off. Easy as that. Easy as giving up his soul.
Turned out, even, that Davy didn't want it for-ever. A hundred years was all the same to him, him who'd been heartless for longer than that. But Bill kept thinking, a hundred years he was promised to be out of that water. He didn't think he'd even mind dying at the end--after all, dying was just another way of getting out from under the sea, so he didn't much care. If Davy had offered him the choice between being his crewmember or dying, Bill'd have taken dying. Davy knew him. 'Get you out of the water', he'd said. Well, that was the only thing that would have done it.
He didn't mind when he noticed the starfish slowly pushing its way out of his face. He was too excited by his first new discovery--being undead with Jack and Barbossa, all the food in the world couldn't take away the hunger. Being with Davy Jones, he could eat and feel it. As long as it was something from the sea, anyway, and Bill didn't mind eating little shellfish or the sand crabs that found their way into his clothes sometimes. Wasn't much different from what he'd done before. And more satisfying.
For the first while of it, he thought he was really happy. Knew it wouldn't last, but he was too relieved to be free. It was as heady as sailing with the wind.
But he was a quiet man, and he still kept to himself. Not like some of the crew, the big ones more sea than sailor. They were rough and quick and spent plenty of time betting with each other for years of their time, or roughing each other up with their claws and sharp shark teeth. He stayed out of it. He stayed by himself.
A lot of the time, he started thinking of Will. Now that he had his head back--now that he could think at all--he realised it'd been a long time. A long time. The boy would be grown by now. Wonder what he'd've done? Not been a pirate. Not with his sweet, beautiful mother to look after him. Maybe he was married to a girl as good as her. Bill followed a jellyfish down in the water, slopping along the waves all purple-like. Hard to know.
Then he remembered the coin. He hadn't left the boy with his mother. He'd taken him away that last voyage, when he was angry over Jack's marooning. He'd been feeling grey and smouldering inside, he was angry; and he'd taken Will away from his mother and put that coin around his neck, got on the merchant ship instead of back with Barbossa, and Barbossa followed him.
Last thing he'd done, he'd clapped Will over the head with something--trying not to be too hard, trying not to be too gentle--and laid him on that piece of driftwood, and sent him off. Didn't know whether anyone would find him or not, but Bill had trusted to luck.
Damn fool.
And then the tentacle slipped over his shoulder. "Sailor."
He looked up and over at once, saw Davy's suckered tentacles dripping down from his face, and couldn't look away. "Captain."
"Now what are you sitting out here for?"
"Sorry, Captain." But he still couldn't stand.
Then Davy sat down beside him, slowly, with the effort it took to put down that one hard clawed leg, get himself comfortable, pull his moulded, carbuncled coat out from under him. "Now, now, no need to be sorry. What are you about?"
"Thinking," he said quietly.
"Sorry you're here?"
"No."
"Are you glad you're here?" The face-tentacles moved around, something that was supposed to show Davy was surprised, but not really surprised.
Bill was quiet for just a minute longer, and then he said, "Aye, glad."
The arm-tentacle reached out and started to touch the starfish growing out of his face, almost a kind of gentle. He looked at Davy's strange flat eyes for a minute, and then touched back. He didn't know what it felt like Davy touched that starfish with that tentacle, but when he touched Davy's face-tentacles, they were smooth and wet some places, except the suckers that pressed onto his fingers without stinging, and he couldn't really help going on with it, feeling over them. It was mad. It was different from the things down under the sea. Davy was something like none of the sea and the whole sea all at once. He was like a different sea. A new sea. All seas.
Bill thought he was so sick of the sea he'd give anything never to go back to it, but he ended up with both hands wandering through Davy's beard of face-tentacles, while Davy's arm went down from the starfish and to his breastbone, where a small delicate patch of coral was growing, then back up his face to the little buds on his other cheek, the ones that hadn't opened up yet, the ones that were some new kind of sea-thing.
And Davy's face-tentacles curled over his hands, slipped along his arms, and then, and even though it was unexpected Bill couldn't really say he was surprised, touched up against his lips (still so shrivelled and grey from the sea, so that he couldn't feel very well with them, could only just feel Davy, even).
They didn't speak, either of them, just felt each other like it was a new thing altogether. Well, and Bill wondered how long it was since Davy'd gone touching someone that was nearly human. Couldn't even guess as to it, himself. All he knew was he liked it, somehow found he liked the sea after all. In his blood, he thought, thinking of what Davy had said. He didn't want to leave it, but he wanted to get out of it for a while.
Well, it had been a while.
He looked at himself for a minute--up to his arms in the sea, and the sea reaching out for him, pulling him in, and he thought about it--he thought about it, for a minute.
And then he went back into the sea.
Moment of madness, maybe. Maybe just a moment of lucidity.
