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It had all gone frustratingly wrong far too quickly.
Now, if Edward Teague were to make a bid for when something was to go irrevocably and horrifically sideways aboard his ship, he would have set his bet as it occurring after the second, yet not after the fourth week of a voyage. If he were to guess what, he’d have told you Navy, or perhaps Company ships, maybe a particularly strong storm.
Edward Teague would never have guessed a calamity worth turning the boat around would strike not even three days in, not when Shipwreck Cove was only a strong winds’ day away. The first mate had come up from the cargo hold pissed to all hell, and it when Teague had walked down to investigate the ruckus himself, he’d found that a good third of their barrels were nothing but rot below the surface, swimming with maggots and rancid meat that would run through a man faster than water.
Not being fool hardly enough, nor stupid enough to send his crew off across the Atlantic with hardly the food for the trip, they turned the Troubadour around to sail back towards Shipwreck Cove. He’ll spend tomorrow hunting down the flea-bitten knave who sold him rotten meat, restock his ship with food that’d be edible after a few weeks at sea. But before that? Teague is going to get a drink, down enough rum the irritation at how many plans this has dashed against the rocks fades to a simple drolling discontent.
But tonight, he has sent his crew out to find board where they will, a hot meal if they decide too, and left his first mate to watch the Troubadour.
For now, he’ll be taking a handful of reales from the safe, as to not pull from money he is meant to use at port, and leave this damned cove behind come as-soon-as-he’s-inspected-all-the-barrels.
Shipwreck is a blasted nightmare of a port. Devil may know why Ma left Libertalia for this wreck. Certainly, it's more defensible, and that has its merits in these increasingly Company run waters, but it’s nothing short of a crick in his neck to sail back and forth from. It’s near two months sail from here back to Madagascar, two months of travel he could be spending plundering and looting, doing things a ‘better’ man would call evil, and a ‘lesser’ man would call righteous. Fuck the Company and their black gold, by all means, if he’s to be a thorn in their side as they ship people as cargo, then he will do it joyously.
(Sometimes he thinks back to that time Jackie went missing. That was about a year ago now. The whelp had run off as he always does the moment someone takes their eyes off of him. He’d gotten tangled up with a now quite dead acquaintance of his. By the time Teague managed to track down where he’d been brought, he was about 30 seconds from being sold to servitude. Terrible, that sort of business, and Teague would ever take anything less than pleasure in taking their cargo.)
Despite any of that, he does not like Shipwreck Cove.
Even if he were to disregard the outrageous time it takes to return to Madagascar, none of the ports sin - from the fact it is the ugliest port he’s laid his eyes upon, to that it has worse company than even Tortuga - will outplay the worst miserable action this port has done to him in his seven years of regular presence: The disastrous storm took his poor poor Misty Lady from him.
Bashed her against the jagged rocks it did, ran her afoul off the coast as what felt like a hurricane swept through. Last he visited her corpse, her bow had been carted off, (reportedly the wall of a brothel now. He should charge rent, he should.)
Her fate breaks his heart, and while his Troubadour is faster, she has less cannons, and no matter how many months he spends behind her wheel she simply will never be the same as his poor sunken Lady.
He muses about this as he walks, one hand on his cutlass as he strolls, eyes dark. Shipwreck’s company are a violent sort, and he’s in no mood to part with his coin. Not a soul makes a movement towards him as he storms his way towards the hollowed out building Ma stays in.
The house in Libertalia is much nicer. He may not live there, too many McFlemings in its halls, but he will never understand why Ma left that house for this one.
Ma’s Shipwreck house is an ugly thing. Teague doesn’t grasp the appeal, what with its perpetually wretched view, loud neighbors, and proximity to truly dreadful taverns. This set of traits almost makes him guilty to be leaving Jackie with Grandmama while he sails.
His younger brother, Ace Brannigan, shows up here in Shipwreck time from time, Teague knows, typically his only goal being to annoy Ma, so far as Teague can tell. All while his sister McFleming and her ilk stay far away. Such a thing is fine by him, even if he does miss young Valerie something fierce. She was a good influence on his Jackie, a proper piratical one.
Val listens to orders, keeps her mouth shut when she neds too, and does as told without question or complaint. Never once in her months of sailing with them did she get herself neck deep in trouble and need saving. Never once did she run off. Simple things Jackie struggles with, and no matter how often he told Val how glad he was to have her aboard in front of the lad, Jackie didn’t pick up any of her good habits.
Sure as the rain pours, his son never listened a moment.
Jack Sr. stays and sails in Libertalia, which Teague is at least a bit thankful for. He keeps the place sane for when he returns to his own waters. Devil knows if someone trespassed, one of the Fengs, perhaps, Jack Sr. could pretend to be him long enough that by the time Teague returned he could take over seamlessly, without a soul noticing the switching act.
He wishes Ma still lived in Libertalia. It would make leaving Jackie with her all the easier.
It’s been just shy of a year since he dropped Jackie off, and until his wretched whelp learns how to follow orders, stick by his side, and not get himself into helplessly dangerous situations by provoking pirates and nicking money from places he surely knows better than to, Teague intends to leave him here.
Grandmama knows how to teach a boy to listen, after all.
He bangs the front entrance, frowning when no one answers, what sort of man needs to break into his own house?
The sort of man whose Ma left her fancy house in Libertalia for this wreck, it seems.
He shoves open the door with his shoulder, it’s not even barred, which annoys him more than it should. Ma never has less than 30 daggers on her, not to mention the sword she keeps tucked away in her cane, that old wench could kill a man while asleep and wake up not even noticing she did until the corpse started to stink.
His son though? His little Jackie hardly knows how to hold a sword, and he’s frail as anything. He’s a scrawny sort of lad no matter how often Teague sets food in front of him. Ace and Hazel’d always been slight things, so perhaps it’s just Ma’s inheritance showing its teeth, but he nor Jackie’s ma had been any sort of frail, at any point, so perhaps it’s some fault of the boys' own.
It matters not, though, because any lecherous drunk pirate could shove their way in here, ransack the place, and take his boy again. Or worse yet, Jackie could get out and get caught up in something without Teague hearing a word of it for months.
He hasn’t left the boy here to run free, he’s left the boy here to grow up enough he doesn’t need to constantly keep an eye on the lad.
He bars the door behind him, locks up the place properly as he heads to the saferoom, or rather, where they hide the gold.
Every good pirate has a buried treasure somewhere, but every smart pirate keeps enough nearby to purchase a ship and more than enough rum around in case of tragedy.
(like what happened to his Misty Lady.)
He’s in the middle of prying up the floorboard. It had all been put back in place recently, it looks like–the nails aren’t even in the plank–when from upstairs, he hears a dull sound. Something hitting the ground. A crash.
At first, he calls it nothing. No one answered the door when he pounded on it. Ma and his Jackie must be out.
He’s counting out reales from pieces of eight, noting that they’re one piece of eight shorter than 3 days prior, when he hears a sound again. Except this time it’s a lot more like footsteps, quick-paced, but not heavy.
He looks up, frowning up at the wooden planks, about to climb the stairs to be certain there isn’t some sort of thief here, when Ma’s angry, almost shrill voice all but shakes the foundation:
“I knew ye back-stabbing, thieving rat stole from me,”
Teague feels every hair he has go on end, (memories of being screamed at himself jumping to the forefront of his mind), and with less than a second to think, he’s already taking the stairs by twos to see just what is happening up there.
Yes.
Fine.
Jack had stolen a piece of eight.
But honest! He’d thought Grandmama might even laugh it off. He’s stolen! That’s a piratical thing for him to do!
The old bat always grabs him by the jaw, hot breath and flecks of spit burning against his cheeks, yelling about how he should be a better pirate, so he’d thought she might even be proud of him for nicking a coin!
It’s not like she needs it. Not really.
….
Well, alright, fine, he’d known she’d be mad, but he didn’t exactly count on her finding out while he was hiding it in the house!
He had put together such a brilliant plan, he’d hollowed out a sliver by the window, just large enough to slip the coin in, no one would have seen it, and he would have been able to retrieve it at some point! Been able to nick it and run to sea, maybe, stow away on some ship and do… something with it. He knows if he’s ever going to get out of this house he needs money. So what better way to get it, than taking it from Grandmama?
In his defense, it had seemed like a good idea at the time.
But now, as he shrinks towards the wall, staring into the maw of the beast, Jack really regrets not trying his hand at being a pickpocket.
He must be shaking a bit, because her scowl only deepens as she steps towards him, knuckles white around the handle of her cane. Her brow is furrowed so deep he can see the depths of hell in her wrinkles.
“Well, Grandmama, stealing is such a harsh word!” he tries, waving the piece of eight to try and distract her, “You see I was just, uh, I was going to go cut this piece of eight up for you! It’s no matter, really-”
Her claws snap around his wrist like a chain, and she heaves him towards her, dragging him off his feet as she rips the coin from his fingers. As he kicks his feet, trying to find the ground beneath him, she sneers.
“You know, Jack, I don’t take much kindly having my gold taken, right from under my nose.” She shakes him, “And ye know what I do to thieves, Jackie boy,”
He cringes, he hates when she calls him that. Grandmama lets him down enough to find solid ground, and the moment he has both feet planted he tries to twist away, to run towards the door, what he doesn’t have on her in strength he has in speed, he can get out of here, let her cool down a few days–
His shin knocks against something hard and long, and his chin has slammed into the floorboards before he can formulate another thought.
Grandmama leers down at him, draws her cane back to her side.
She tripped him.
“Stand, boy.” It’s an order, and as much as he’d rather make a run for it, slowly, he does. His keen eye has noticed the dagger in her free hand, and he knows she’ll throw it if he bolts.
Standing before her, looking up at her dark eyes is always harrowing, because Jack knows, he knows she might kill him.
(she’s nearly killed him once already.)
“Hold out your hand.” She orders, and he cringes, doesn’t move immediately. His chest feels tight, lump in his throat.
“You know, Grandmama, I- I’ve learned my lesson, yeah? So why don’t you just let me off–”
“Jack.” There is a warning in her tone. “Hold out your hand, boy.”
He does, eyes shut tight, face screwed up. He looks away, not wanting to watch. His fingers tremble, and he feels ill with anticipation.
(It’s not the first time she’s caught him stealing.)
It never hurts any less, you know?
He might expect it, when she winds up to hit him, but it doesn’t make any of it hurt less.
Grandmama brings her cane down across his fingers, with all her strength - which is more than you'd expect for a woman pushing seventy.
At first he doesn't feel it, thats the thing with shock, at first his hand feels cold, then he moves, only a fraction of an inch, and the pain stabs up his arm so fiercely he yelps.
Which, bad, bad, weakness just sets her off, but as he yanks his hand back to his chest, shoulders heaving, he’s sure she’s broken a few fingers this time.
Every heartbeat his hand pulses, tears bite at his eyes, but he blinks them back. He can’t cry. He can’t. She doesn’t like it when he cries.
When he looks back up at her face, she doesn’t look any less angry - scowl still set in stone, and he’s sure she’s about to strike him as she speaks, “What do ye say, boy?”
“I’m sorry, grandmama—” he starts, fast, trying to get the words out before she hits him, before something else happens, but just as soon as he starts talking, he’d cut off by the sound of the door opening, and he just about jumps out of his skin as he looks over his shoulder.
Teague stands there, hand on the doorknob, and Jack feels his heart climb into his throat, there are two now.
Teague heard everything.
By the time he’d opened the door, he’d heard Jackie scream, and his heart is pounds against his ribs.
Ma’s expression darkens, and Jackie goes several shades whiter as he sees him. Taking a few steps towards the wall, looking between them, his hand pressed to his chest, and the emotion Teague’s heart settles on is anger.
“Ma?” he asks, accusatory, as he steps inside, Jackie stumbles to the wall. “What the devil is happenin’?”
“Edward,” she greets, and he recognizes that look from years ago. Teague’s heart clenches, but he does not stagger, “Yer son stole a piece of eight form me, I expect ye to punish him properly—”
“He didn’t make off with it, did he?” Teague snaps, steps between her and Jackie, “I left him here with ye because I didn’t trust the sort of pirates at port near Madagascar with the lad, and ye do this?”
Behind him, he can hear Jack’s breathing speed up.
“Jackie, go to the Troubadour, me an’ Grandmama need to talk.”
“Jack, don’t ye dare—” Grandmama starts, but the lad is out of the room before she finishes the sentence.
“Ma,” Teague starts, hand on his cutlass, in case, he thinks, just in case, “I think ye need to learn not to overstep with me lad.”
Jack, safe to be said, does not go to the Troubadour.
That’s a stupid idea. He’d be running right from one devil to another
So Jack is running. Where to? He hasn’t quite figured that out yet. He thinks on his feet, or on the ropes, wherever he may be while running.
His hand pulses with every beat of his heart, which… isn't all that good! The last time his hand hurt like this he’d been six. There’d been a gash across his hand, deep enough Teague had been worried it’d take off half his fingers. He’d been lucky, Teague had said, after all, the axe had been for his wrist to take the whole hand. He hadn’t felt lucky, then, though, mostly he’d just cried. Teague had told him not to pickpocket men with axes, or at least not to do it badly.
He hadn’t had feeling in his pinky finger for 2 years after that.
Having no feeling it it would be nice now, though, because as he holds his hand to his chest, pain stabs up his arm in waves.
He’s running. He sprints down the boardwalk, scrambling down the less traveled paths between the houses below his.
He knows better than to go to the Troubadour. Knows better than to do anything but hide.
He needs Grandmama to calm down to before he shows his face again. And even if she doesn't catch and beat him bloody, Teague will throttle him. He stole. From grandmama. There’s no way he won’t take Grandmama’s side in this, he always does. No matter how many bruises Jack shows him, no matter how many times he begs not to be left here with her any longer.
She hurts him. Teague never cares. So there is no way, no way at all, Jack is going anywhere near him for a few days at least.
So, mid sprint, Jack determines he must hide. He has many hiding places! All over the cove, you never know when someone might want to get a piece of you, and he has enough hideaways he could make it…. at least a while before needing to head back to Grandmama’s. A week, maybe, and Teague would be gone by then, so it will just be Grandmama who will hurt him.
He can handle that. He has for months.
So, hiding. The whole… broken hand rules out more than half of the good ones, rooftops and high-up alleys you need to climb to reach, and Jack loves climbing. But… broken hand. So he’ll improvise, and use the slightly-worse-and-much-more-damp hollows he’s found and excavated in various wrecks along the shore. Sure, all the good ones Teague knows where to find him. But he has many, many ones he’s managed to keep hidden.
And maybe his hand isn't broken, maybe… maybe after a few hours it will hurt less, and he can climb up somewhere that doesn't smell like rotting wood and dead fish.
He has just the wreck in mind. An older one, used as a sort of bridge, or support for the boardwalk, and if you’re small, and nimble, which Jack is both, you can crawl your way in. Sure, it's dark and soggy, but it's hidden, and so far, whenever he’s hid here, he hasn’t been found once.
When he jumps off the side of the boardwalk to get to the crack of an entrance, his ankles jar against the silty sand. The entrance isn’t obvious, an old cannon hole in the side of the hull, he’d kicked the edge months ago so he could fit, but only just.
But the fact he hasn’t been found here isn’t the only reason he chose this spot, sure, it's convenient, and close, and down, not up, but it’s beneath the boardwalk. Jack can hear the passing conversations from down here, and he really, really needs to know if he’s being looked for.
So that’s where he is now. In the long rotten hold of this old ship.
He could stay in here for hours and not be found. Which is good, because being found would spell something of a disaster. Probably, anyway. In the very least it’ll end with a few more bruises.
The hidey-hole isn't the most spacious, sandy, ugly, but safe enough for now. Jack crosses his legs, leans back against the rotting wood walls.
For the moment, he is safe enough. And he should probably figure out how badly Grandmama hurt him. He holds his bruised and shaking hand up to the light poking through the cracks between the planks above.
At least one of his fingers is broken, he thinks. Maybe. The other one is probably just jammed, but what does he know? Both are red and swollen, when he tries to flex them, the pain is so sharp he nearly sobs, only managing to stop himself by biting down on his cheek.
Sobbing would be bad. He can’t be found. Not yet.
But this time, when tears burn in his eyes, he doesn’t stop them from falling. Merely hugs his knees to his chest and cries.
Soundless. Quiet.
He doesn’t want to be found after all.
The conversation with dear old Ma didn’t go any better than Teague hoped it would, and after several minutes of swords clanging, and daggers flying, Teague stormed out with one last shout behind him.
He’d been answered with a dagger sailing past his head and impaling in the wall across the way.
He storms down the boardwalk, back to his ship. They’ll restock in the morning. Jackie’s cabin boy again, it seems, and he’s not leaving the lad here again.
Upon returning to the Troubadour, significantly less drunk than intended, and with a significantly hotter temper, it's no surprise that Ruthless Roger Mortenson informs him there has, in fact, been not a hair seen of his lad so much as in the shipyard.
Teague wants to shoot someone.
He orders all of his crew still aboard to start looking for the whelp, and turns tail to find him.
He can’t have gone too far.
The good thing about hiding is that you can doze without worrying the door will suddenly open to a face full of screaming Grandmama.
So he’d been dozing. Eyes shut, curled about himself, as comfortable as he can be with a broken hand and only stiff wood for company, when from right above him, he hears his name called by Rufus – one of Teague’s crew – and just about jumps out of his skin. He hits his head against a board, and through the pain he hears more voices join in. It's panic then, because with as many men as he’s hearing looking, they might actually find him.
So Jack listens, rapt, eyes wide, trying to gauge if he needs to run, and plan for if he does, where he should run to.
The issue, an issue he should have thought of, is that this hidey-hole is quite low. And he… can't get up, easily.
He’ll run for the embankment, he figures, trudge up it, he’s quick, and he can probably make it, but unfortunately, just as he turns to climb out the cannon hole entry, the planks above him are lifted, daylight shines and before he can so much as jump, “He’s in here!” is called out, and a hand seizes his arm, and he’s dragged kicking, biting, and screaming out of his hidey-hole.
He screams. He doesn’t mean to, not really, he’s just had a few too many terrible experiences being grabbed and dragged around by men he hardly knows in his life to not. There are hands all over him, then. One closes over his mouth, and he falls silent save muffled shouts as his arms are wrenched behind him, his hand throbs with a fire he’s rarely felt. Spots dance in his vision, and for several moments after he’s deposited back on his feet, back on the boardwalk, he thinks he may fall.
But he doesn't, his feet find a solid footing beneath him, and when the hand is removed from his mouth, all he can do is gasp for air.
He feels very small. He hates feeling small, so he puffs out his chest, tries to paste on a brave face, makes his face turn to a grin. “Congrats,” he says once he gets enough control of his lungs to speak, “Ye all found me, now I– This was a... A test! To-- to see if you all could... Find a escaped– prisoner? Yes. Um. East India Trading company. All that. Ye can let me go, now.”
None of them look quite impressed, the hands holding his arms behind him don’t budge.
“Or uh--” he backpedals, “I’ll– I’ll walk? Let– let go.”
“Lad, you’ll run, Cap’n Teague told us to get ya to the Troubadour.”
“I won’t, sir, just--“ He sucks in a strangled breath. He’s shoved a step forwards, towards port, away from anywhere he could possibly hide. “Just let go of me, savvy?”
He isn’t let go. The grip on his arms is so tight it's painful, and as he’s marched down to the docks, his eyes burn with tears he can’t hold in, and his chest aches with the strength it takes not to sob.
Ruthless Roger frowns down at him from the deck as he’s hauled aboard. Through watery eyes, and ringing ears, Jack listens to him order the second mate to fetch Teague.
He’s scared, and with the hands pinning him in place, there isn’t a thing he can do to get away.
First Teague checks the spots he knows the whelp lurks. Jackie always holes himself up in shadows and battered ships, and Teague knows where to look. Unfortunately, he only knows places where Jackie lets himself be found.
When all that proves for nothing, he starts ducking into doorways and stoops.
He is going to throttle that boy when he sees him. How dare he run off like this, how dare he disobey him like that.
After too long of looking, time he could have spent doing anything else, his second mate approaches, signaling they’ve found his lad, and Teague accompanies him back to the Troubadour. Teague is seething as he boards, scowling as he scans the deck for Jackie.
He expects Jackie to be looking smug, or perhaps proud of himself for hiding for so long. He usually is when he causes problems like this. But he doesn't.
Any anger there might’ve been ices over when he finally catches sight of Jackie. Renegade Robbie has his arms pinned behind his back, and Jackie…
Well, his head hangs in front of him, hair a mess, covering his face, but from what Teague can make out, his cheeks are red, and his eyes puffy from tears.
The anger is gone. There is nothing left but worry.
“Let him down, Robbie,” Teague barks, and Jackie’s knees almost buckle as he’s let go. Teague watches, expression tight, as Jackie straightens out, even if he is swaying in place a bit.
“Captain,” Jackie says, and Teague takes a moment to look at him. His cheekbone has a large greening bruise across it, one he didn’t have only a week ago. His eyes are glassy with tears.
It makes him furious.
“Jackie,” Teague greets, “Did Robbie hurt ye, lad?”
Jackie stills further, shrinking, and that’s answer enough.
Teague sends a scathing look at his crew member, who shrugs, like what was I supposed to do? Not hurt him?
Pirates.
“Come to my cabin, Jackie. We need to talk.” Teague gestures Jackie forward, and for a moment, he thinks Jackie might not follow, but he does. With one nervous step after the other, he walks the boy into the privacy of the cabin.
“Sit,” Teague orders, gesturing to the bed, “Take a breath, lad. I’m not mad at ye.”
Jackie doesn’t look convinced, which… but he sits regardless. The lad looks nothing short of hellish, or perhaps more aptly put, miserable. His shoulders tremble, his hair is all sorts of tangled, and he’s so small. Too small for any lad of his age.
(It bothers Teague, always has, how small the lad is.)
Jackie clutches a hand close to his chest, and Teague squints at it. Ma’d hit his hand, she’d said, and if memory serves, being hit with that metal cane hurts more than ye would think it would.
It brings back memories, carrying Jack to the ship surgeon after he nearly got his hand severed, all those years ago. He recalls the anger he felt as his surgeon said the lad might lose half his fingers, anger enough once Jackie’d gone to sleep he’d gone to cut off the man who had done it’s pinkie and ring finger, with a promise off if his lad lost more he’d find him and take the whole arm.
He still remembers tending to the bandages, keeping an eye on the sutures for inflammation while making sure the bandages stayed new.
He had been furious.
“Jackie,” Teague starts, holds out his hand, “Let me see your hand, boy.”
Immediately, Jackie’s expression goes blank, though his skin loses a shade of color. Jack looks at him, and Teague nods.
Slowly, slowly, Jackie extends his hand out. The boy’s entire arm shakes, and he looks away, eyes all scrunched up.
Teague takes his hand, and Jackie pulls away, bites his lip.
“Lad,” Teague sighs, and Jackie tenses.
It must hurt. Teague feels violent, he wants to go scream at his own mother over this. He doesn’t like that much.
“I can’t help if ye don’t let me look.”
Jack gives him a look Teague thinks may mean I don't want you to help, da, but again, slow as he possibly could, extends his hand.
(It's like the boy expects to be hit again.)
Teague takes his hand, holds it as gently as he can, because as he properly gets a look at the damage, the rage in his gut only grows hotter. Jackie’s pointer finger is swollen from base to tip, surely broken above the first knuckle by how the lad flinches as he presses there, and it would be fine, except the lad’s middle finger isn’t much better, similarly broken. He’ll need to bind up half the boy’s hand to keep them straight, and if two broken fingers weren’t enough, bloody scabs cross where Ma’s cane broke the skin.
Teague is going to gut her with one of her own daggers, he decides.
“Yer hands broken,” Teague confirms, and Jackie wilts. “Grandmama did this?”
He nods, stiff, silent, looking at him like he’s about to break apart. Teague hates it.
“Yer not staying with her again. I’ll be seein’ if Aunt Hazel will board ye.” Teague returns Jackie his hand, stands. He has linen bandage wraps in a chest near his desk.
“…doesn’t she live inland?” Jackie asks, like that’s any sort of pressing matter.
“Would ye rather stay with McFleming and her posse of pox-ridden spawn? Or Grandmama?”
Jackie’s eyes widen a bit, and he scowls, frowning so severely Teague barks out a laugh. “I thought not, Jacky boy. Aunt Hazel will take good care of ye.”
“I don’t want to live away from the sea,” Jack mutters, under his breath, just loud enough for him to hear.
“Well, Jackie, ye won’t be sailing with me till yer at least a bit older. Two years, maybe; fifteen’s a proper age for a cabin boy.” Teague pulls out the roll of bandages.
Jackie scowls, shrinks where he’s sitting. Teague ignores it. “I’ll get ye a tutor, have ye be learning maths and all that.” Teague sits beside Jackie, claps him on the shoulder, “Now give me yer hand again, lad, let me fix those fingers up..”
Jack hates this. He has never hated anything more than this.
(except everything he did hate more than this, like being dragged out of his hidey-hole earlier, but he’s going to ignore that for now.)
He feels very small, as Teague wraps up his fingers. More like a child than he has in a very long time. He hates it, he hates it so, so much.
Grandmama always tells him how worthless he is when she patches him up, tells him he deserves every strike of her cane. He keeps waiting for it, the ye shouldn’t steal things from Grandmama, she’ll beat you senseless, he already knows how Teague is going to say it, can already see his expression, disappointed, and it will hurt so badly he’ll want to cry, but he won’t.
Because he’s not a child. Even if how small he feels as Teague binds up his hand makes him feel like one.
But Teague doesn’t say any of it. Jack feels like the silence is going to swallow him up.
It doesn’t hurt. None of Teague fixing his hand has. Grandmama would have made it hurt. She would have enjoyed making it hurt. A continuation of the lesson, the why she hit him in the first place.
And as Teague is nearly finished, Jack feels antsy, and none of what was supposed to be said was. He feels bad. He feels small. He wants Teague to yell already.
He may as well prompt it along.
“I don’t regret stealing,” Jack says, Teague looks up, raises an eyebrow, “She hit me for stealing a piece of eight. I’d steal from her again.”
“Alright, Jackie, just be a bit less obvious next time. Yer a pirate. So is she. A bit of theft is healthy.”
He freezes. Teague makes sure his fingers can’t bend. There is a jolt of pain down his arm, but nothing punishing. He’s still being careful.
“I hate her. Grandmama. I hope she dies soon. Horribly. Painfully. I hope someone kills her. Stabs her in the stomach, maybe,” he tries, and again, Teague just looks at him, expression flat. He doesn’t even bother to look concerned, surprised.
“Well lad, yer welcome to try. She’s a mean old wench, though, she’ll be going out on her own terms. If ye intend to face her, though, try and wait until ye can use both yer hands. Aye?” With that, Teague has finished wrapping up his hand. It still throbs, but he’s allowed to hold it close to his chest.
“...Savvy,” Jack mumbles. He doesn't know what else he could say. He wants to get the hurt over with already. So he just keeps talking. “I won’t live with Aunt Hazel. I need to sail. I won’t live inland. I’ll run away if you put me there. With her. Inland.”
Teague frowns, then, and Jack’s heart skips a beat, he braces himself, waiting for the pain. But none comes, and Teague is just frowning. Not even yelling. This is wrong.
“Jackie.”
“I need the sea,” he says, a bit louder, bolder even. Challenging him.
“Do ye remember why I sent ye to live with old Grandmama?”
Jack shrugs. “Aye.” He knows. He’d done something stupid, and Teague thought he was too weak to be a pirate, so he stashed him away with Grandmama.
“We’d been boarded, lad, ye didn’t even have a sword and yet ye left me cabin. Against direct orders,” Teague reminds, and Jack glares. He’d had his knife. It was enough. “If ye want to stay aboard me ship, lad, ye would need to do as I say. Which means staying in me cabin if I tell ye to stay in me damn cabin.”
Jack huffs. “I had me knife, Da.”
“And ye were in more danger than I’m willing to have ye in just yet.”
Jack disagrees. He’s felt more endangered this past year than he ever did with Teague.
Before he can say as much, Teague continues, “But… it has been a year, lad, let’s… how about we come to an accord? If ye listen, follow me orders properly, and ye stay in me cabin if I say ta’, I’ll have ye stay on me ship again.”
“Can I add terms?” Jack asks.
“If ye must,” Teague sighs.
“Teach me how to use a cutlass. And ye can’t make me leave. Or put me anywhere else. And I...” he pauses, trying to think of a good third demand. “Ye don't... I... I get to pick a third thing, when I think of one.”
Teague frowns, but nods, and holds out a hand to shake on it.
It’s a hard ask, following Teague’s orders to the letter, but Jack… will do his best. Maybe. Not his worst, certainly. Feeling a little bit less small, he shakes Teague’s hand, firm. “So I’m yer cabin boy again?”
“Aye, lad, but yer not workin’ until ye can fully move your hand without it smartin’ too bad.”
Jack sighs. Lets himself fall backwards on the bed, crumbling into the pillows. They’re very soft. “So.. what, da, I just sit here till my hand hurts less? Very good use of me time.”
Teague sets a hand on his knee. It’s warm. It makes him sick that it comforts him. “Just rest, Lad, ye had a long day. I need to write in me captain’s log regardless,” Teague starts to stand, to step towards his desk, and Jack?
His good hand snags Teague’s tailcoat, and Jack tries to pull him back down.
“Jackie?” Teague asks, and Jack stares at him. He doesn’t know what he wants.
Teague sits down. “Yes, Jackie?”
“Don’t leave.” It comes out before he can stop himself, choke it back, and Jack feels mortified, but instead of Teague brushing him off, or leaving him anyway, or any number of things Jack is more than used to, Teague kicks off his boots, and leans back against the pillows himself.
“...Ye’ve had a long day, lad,” Teague repeats, Jack has a feeling he doesn’t know wat else to say. But Jack– his emotions are sparks, burning against his skin, but he nods, feeling… something strong in his chest, and Teague?
Well, Teague wraps an arm around him. Physical comfort isn’t a common thing in Jack’s life. Hasn’t been in years. Grandmama never hugged him, after all.
But he’d be a liar if he said he didn't roll over into his Da’s shoulder, a liar if he said he didn't cry, only a bit, though. (perhaps a bit more than a bit)
It’s not the best, and it's not the worst, but it’s something.
Perhaps Teague isn’t the worst father. (Or perhaps, Jack, for once, lets himself be a son.)