Rating: R
Pairing: Jack Sparrow/Agent Sands
Fandom: PoTC/OUaTiM crossover
Summary: "There is Veracruz below, with its sweet misery and catcalls, with its nightlife and debauchery in the darkest corners."
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.


By Ignited

On a clear, cold night off the coast of Veracruz, Sands takes a sip of his drink. The streets below are filled with bustling commoners, stands selling fragrant foods and sweet drinks. Shouts of laughter echo, the songs filled with warbling voices and drunken phrases. He can feel his legs take him down into the madness, feel his hands snatch up bottles and teasingly trace the flesh of women nearby.

They ask him to remove his sunglasses. He soldiers on. Stumbling, broken, he slumps near the dock. He's been there for God knows how long.

A boot nudges his leg.


He is sculpted out of darkness, traced with beads and fire, rimmed with kohl and all the trimmings. A ragtag sort of individual, hair messily combed and pulled back, bandana at a jaunty angle. Dreadlocks snake down to his shoulders, a bone sticking out of his hair. Shiny, solid bone, ivory and clean. It is the sole spot of brightness in the darkness.

Sands has not seen any of these things. Never will.

"What're you doing down there, boy?"

A slur that tumbles into words."Fuck you."

A pause, a hand grabs his arm. Pulls him up. "No need for that."


"What's your name?"

"Fuck you."

"Y'know, seein' as I'm the only one 'ere who's not particularly sozzled, for once, I'd say you are, and that you're in no condition whatsoever to oppose me. Therefore, you answer me question, I'll take you home. A bargain?"

"Sands. Agent Sands," he responds, a mocking tone. Too many drinks and with this new idiot's accent, he finds himself imitating Sean Connery's Bond.

"Ah. An agent. See, there we go. Progress. Now, that's the ticket - there's a boarding house over there. Perhaps you've got accommodations-"

"Why are you helping me?"

"'Cause you need it."


Muscles sag as his body rests, slumps, and melts into his chair. Pride deflates, stringy hair askew, sunglasses resting on the edge of his nose. Sands is vaguely aware of this other man rummaging through the little possessions that he owns-gun, comic books, moustache collection most important-but makes no move to stop him. Of course, training made him more aware of these things.

Here he is, our glorious anti-hero, drunk, moaning, a pitiful spit of human waste. A stranger in his apartment, the same build, but having two things Sands does not: eyes.

Sands lights up a cigarette.


Jack Sparrow has known for some time now that his compatriot has no eyes. It does not disturb him in any sense-no, he's seen far worse, hell, Cotton had no tongue-instead, it intrigues him. He takes another glance around this nondescript room, the little valuables, the twisted sheets and crumpled newspapers. Rolled cigarettes lie at odd angles in an ash tray. The floor is stained with coffee and liquor.

The date on the newspaper reads somewhere in the twenty first century, but on nights like these, the man's memories are centuries past. Old sin has sweet, modern children.


A cool breeze licks against Sands' cheek, indicating that the shutters have been pulled open, farther than the crack of blue light. He hears a rustling noise, a shuddering sound. Sands cocks his head, listens, waits.

"Other than standing there and catching a cold, what the fuck are you doing?"

"Do you want to find out?"

His voice is low, concentrated. It stirs something inside of Sands. Not arousal. Not amusement.

It is not fear. No. It is not.

"If you'll just stop bein' scared and come 'ere...."

Sands allows himself a smile. "I don't get 'scared'."

He stands up.


It is a few moments later that Sands feels rough, hard hands grab his own smooth ones, let them guide his fingers. They arch up, travel past ragged scraps of material and cloth. He has found out this man's name is 'Jack', a simple murmured name amongst his ramblings. He asks once more if Sands is afraid, receiving a scoff in return, before those fingers grab onto Sands' own, hard.

This is when Sands realizes they are bony digits, cool and slick to touch. Fingers guide his hands along a skeletal ribcage, strange music touch plays along a xylophone surface.


Snarls of thick black hair and dreadlocks, bones, beads, but Sands does not stop to examine them with his hands. Rather, he is guided to touch a bony face, caress a brow with little flesh. To feel cheeks that are gaunt and hollow, swirl a finger around a braided beard.

This 'Jack' murmurs something of being cursed, devil gold and lonely nights. But Sands knows this is total bullshit, really. He can't be standing with this skeleton or drinking himself into delusions.

Most of all, with the grip he has on Jack, he knows Jack doesn't spend his nights alone.


He does though, because he's passionate and raw, rough and tumbling. Jack flicks the sunglasses off of Sands' face with a bony finger. He traces the ridge of brow bone, cheek bone, doesn't let his fingers into the hollow cavities. Because that would bring everything into focus, and now there is no time for focusing. Now there is only time for touching and burning off rum and tequila in blood.

It's not logical, he would imagine Will saying.

Will was far away, cold and stiff, buried in the recesses of a pirate's memories.

And then Sands would say, "Fuck logic."


It is some time later-after kiss, touch, rip, fuck, pause, fuck, release-that Sands lights up a cigarette. He lets Jack spider walk his fingers along his chest, tan against pale skin. So pale, translucent in the dark - but really, he doesn't know, he doesn't have eyes. He imagines Jack and his features. They must be tan, obviously, if he sails. He must be good looking, a good fuck to boot if he's that-

Sands sucks in a lungful of smoke. He waits.

"Next time I might show you the chambers," Jack says, drawing the outline of a ship.


"Who says there'll be a next time?" Sands asks.

Hot breath against his face that becomes cool, a soft funnel of air. Jack blows air against Sands' face before he stops. Sands can imagine a grin, can imagine golden teeth, a leering gaze. He can't see these things, and yet he feels them, he knows them.

"We're anchored in the harbor," Jack says.

The air settles. Sands frowns, jerks a hand in the dark.

The sheets are twisted wet and tired with sweat, but there is only one occupant in the room.

A cigarette cools, flame flickers and goes dark.


This is the second time since Sands has lost his vision that he has felt this alone.

He doesn't like it.

So after Sands has gotten dressed, buckles his belt and slips on his boots, he heads over to the window. There is Veracruz below, with its sweet misery and catcalls, with its nightlife and debauchery in the darkest corners. The sky will lighten in a few more hours and the moon will sleep.

Sands will sleep off the day once more, caught in his twilight.

Then, after that? He just might check out that boat docked in the harbor.


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