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Hush
Written for the 'Lullaby' Drabble Challenge

by Virgo79
February 6, 2006

Bill Turner would deny it if anyone said as much to him, but he was a man of innumerable talents.

Firstly, the thing that even people who didn't get the opportunity to know him very well could appreciate, was Bill's skill with a sword. Jack could do a bit of damage with a pointy piece of steel good as the next bloke, but Bill bloody danced with the things. Why, he could take a man's arm at the elbow and open up his throat before the poor bastard had time to scream about the arm. And the sword could hardly be seen to move through all of it. Though admittedly, watching it happen through eyes that were swollen nearly shut might've had something to do with the movement being tricky to follow. That was one fast bloody sword, all the same.

Then Bill could have that same blade through rope so deep in someone's wrists it ought to have its own pulse, so drenched with blood and sweat it's practically a part of their skin, almost before the bugger on the floor stopped gurgling.

Good reflexes all around, Bill had. Caught a body tumblin' out of a chair without battin' an eye. Didn't hurt near as much as getting grabbed like that ought to, either. And Bill knew just where to put his hand against a cracked rib to stop it feeling like it was going to snap loose come the next coughing fit. Which, when it came, was a lot easier to ride out with Bill's arm at his back instead of that chair. Felt like it only took half as long to catch his breath, and this time Jack didn't once think maybe he'd rather just not breathe at all.

Then – and this Bill would have denied `til he was blue—there was Jack's inkling that Bill could actually read minds. There he was, lying on the floor watching Bill look over his hand, which was presently several colors a hand really shouldn't be, and thinking that he didn't want to see what Bill was about to do. No sooner had the thought come upon him than he was gathered up off the floor and pulled against a chest that was much warmer and more comfortable, and his head was guided to the hollow of Bill's neck and shoulder, where the wonderful scent of pipe tobacco greeted him, and he couldn't see what Bill was doing to his hand.

"Close your eyes, Jack," Bill's voice instructed, quiet against the side of his head. His hair was brushed back lightly, tucked behind his ear.

Then the first finger was put back into place.

Bill was good at this, too, and that would be a comfort later, when the hand was healed strong and straight, but at the moment, Jack didn't give a damn. Tiny bones and joints slid and snapped back where they belonged, and Jack convulsed against Bill, stifling something in his shirtfront that wasn't sure if it wanted to be a moan or a scream.

It was finished quickly, because Bill knew so well what he was doing that each setting took but one swift movement, and he spared not a moment for hesitation, even when he felt dampness spread on his shirt and the moans became a babbling mantra of "stoppleasestoppleasestop."

"It's done, lad," he murmured when he'd finished, stripping his coat off and bundling it around the body that slumped spent and shivering against him. "It's all over."

Bill's most surprising talent, though, and one far fewer people were acquainted with than his swordsmanship, was his voice for song. Like all else about the man, it was quiet and strong and capable, and when Jack woke in the darkest hours of morning, choking on bitter-tasting dreams, it took to a lullaby that called sleep back into the room and dulled the sharp edges of unwelcome memories.

There was no one present who might've sneered at song, singer, or listener as un-pirate like, but even if there had been, Bill still had the sword, to remind them.

~ . ~

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