Work Text:
Sextet
by Veronica Rich
Bill's call had damn near made his heart stop beating. His son, missing; Jack, his only resource.
It was election year, and Senator Turner could ill afford to step off the campaign trail, or even acknowledge crisis with so many reporters dogging his travel. Hell, he hadn't even told his staffers.
Jack Sparrow knew what to do when his old college buddy faxed the note. He warned Bill it might not be legal, not that he figured Turner would care in the end. As he crumpled the paper into his hand, Sparrow comforted his friend over the phone, vowing success.
******
The bounty hunter flew to Colombia and hitched rides the rest of the way. It hadn't taken long to figure where Will's captors were holding him, since Jack and Bill knew why - the crime family had lost three strapping sons to the senator's investigations back when he was special prosecutor.
Jack, who was not religious, prayed to find Will. Alive. He'd known the man since that first spark between Bill and Siobhan decades ago had decided his eventual conception. Jack told himself it was for his friend, rather than for those beautiful dark eyes, that he risked his own throat.
******
Will'd had the shit kicked out of him when Jack could finally make good his release in the middle of one sunny afternoon. Will's guard had wandered off to take a piss, and met with the edge of Jack's hand to the back of his neck. When Sparrow got a better look at Will's injuries, he thought about giving said guard a permanent vacation, but the younger man shook his head.
"You should see *their* bruises," he'd offered with a tired grin, making Jack pause precious seconds as he searched out his cache of hand-made knives in the old barn.
******
The young artist slept like the dead in a nondescript motel room two days later, while the bounty hunter, slumped in a chair, fought his own lack of rest.
"Jack," the baritone whispered. "You stubborn ass, there's plenty of room."
Exhausted, Jack gave up and crawled onto half the bed, stifled mid-yawn by half-lidded brown eyes. They held in their exquisite depths Jack's slumbering heart; he closed his eyes, refusing to give the rest of himself over. "Your mom and dad'll be glad to see you," he murmured.
"Mm-hmm," came the answer. Then, a pause. "Thanks for finding me, Jack."
******
He begged off and left for the airport before a weeping Bill could do more than pump his arm in gratitude. He'd delivered their son, whom he'd carefully avoided the past two years since one sloppy, mutually-drunken kiss, and told himself it was over.
He stared out the window the entire flight, at sweeping, jutting mountains, broad plains, soft clouds, ribbons of majestic water ... and all he saw were knowing brown eyes, undoubtedly judging him an old, horny fool.
Home, Jack washed off the last of his trip, drained two beers, and checked his e-mail. Time for work again.
******
"Why do you look so shocked?"
"What the hell are you doing here?" Jack demanded. "And how did you get in?"
"Key?" Will patted his front right jeans pocket, drawing Jack's eye to the snug fit. He looked quickly away. "Given what you do, one'd think you'd change your locks more often."
Jack sighed, going around him into the kitchen and setting down the six-pack. "What do you want?" he snarled.
A hand came around, deposited the key on the counter. "I've met someone."
Jack stared at it, his chest hurting. "Oh."
Fingers grazed the nape of his neck. "You."