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wr1t3w1tm3 · 1 year ago

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Will Turner Wednesday Post!

Decadent

Potc5/Modern/Coffee shop/Will out of Water AU

SFW, a couple of f-bombs

Words: 3,269

She takes him to what she calls a coffee shop. A packed one at that. They wait silently in line, she preoccupied with a slim purple and black rectangle that glowed. Will busied himself with observing those around them. The strange new clothes, the many, probable majority of them women, and the majority of them garbed in trousers. My, wouldn’t Elizabeth have been pleased. Many tack away at gray and black machines which glow like the one in Mary’s hand. Some pour over books with garish colored instruments and a few speak with those across and around them. Two young women bustle behind what looks awfully similar to a bar top, preparing a myriad of things in a multitude of cups.

“What’ll it be?” The blonde situated between a large glowing machine and a little wooden basket filled with multi-colored sachets leans against the counter, a small smile graces her weary face.

Mary leans against the bar top, glancing behind the girl at a top lined with clear bottles of multi-colored liquids. For all he cares, the place could be an apothecary lair. It most certainly looks the part. “Um, can I get a large hot, ah, chai latte please. Dirty,” she turns to Will, gesturing at Joan with her chin, “what do you want, Will?”

He freezes, his mouth open slightly and his eyes darting about. He is completely out of his element, a fish out of water if one would. He couldn’t tell port from starboard if this were a ship, and it seems the girls can tell. Joan looks to Mary, who takes a step back to check a black board hanging above them. “Uh… just do a hot chocolate. Large still. And the dirty chai is my shift drink.”

“When do you come in?” Joan asks, apparently writing on what must be a white cup.

“I close tonight. Plus I picked up the next shift.”

“Aw, and right after break too?”

“Yeah. I need the money. Plus I had to stay over night in KC anyway because of how bad the snow was supposed to be this down south this morning.”

“Down south?”

“Yeah. Wichita is supposed to see more snow than Kansas City.”

“Maybe there really was something to all that climate change stuff, huh?” A smile cracked Joan’s lips, and Mary nodded with a chuckle. “That’ll be five-twenty.”

Mary produces a slim, colorful something from the black pouch hanging from her wrist. Joan takes it and slides it along the edge of her magic, glowing box. Will is able to see that the yellow specks on the pouch are, in fact, flowers of some sort. “Was you’re break good?” Mary asked.

“Yeah, it was nice to just be home and rest.” Joan smiles and seems almost reminiscent.

“Oh yeah. Slept in every day I could,” Mary adds with the same smile, “have a good one.”

“You too.” Joan sets the cups against the bar top with a hollow pop, at the end of a line about six long.

“Come on,” Will turns to find Mary seated at the bar. She motions to the chair next to her, which remains empty for now. Will’s forced to squeeze past a few young women, who he hears giggle with each meek “pardon me” that escapes his lips. Mary rolls her eyes once he’s seated, turning to the other young woman behind the bar. “How was your break, Carolee?”

“It was great, love,” the young woman replies, turning to a gleaming silver machine set against the wall. Within a divot sit three tiny glass cups, two full with water, one being filled with an earthy brown liquid from the spout above. It smells strong, a little bitter, yet a might sweet. “How was yours?”

“It was fine, ‘sides havin’ to stay in KC overnight. Wichita was forecast to get anywhere from four to eight inches of snow.”

“That’s south of here, right?” Carolee, her auburn hair tied back in a small ponytail not unlike his own, moves quickly, removing some little metal basket with a long handle from the machine and placing it at another.

“Yeah. I was there over break.”

“Funny,” she hits a button, and the machine begins grinding something brown and course into the little metal basket. It’s rather loud though. “We barely had any snow in Cody when I left yesterday to fly out.”

“I know. We’re in a la nina. Or el nino,” Mary shakes her head lightly, a dismissing the notion with a wave of her hand. “Whichever one is less common. We haven’t had snow at all for the last couple years then suddenly we get a freakin’ dump truck piled on top of us.”

Will has no idea what a dump truck is, but he assumes it’s something rather large. Carolee grabs the little basket, sets it against the bar, swirls then pushes the contents down with two different tools, and finally pushes it back into the machine. She presses a button just above it and with a bit of a groan, the same brown liquid pours from the machine into an empty glass cup. She takes one cup which is full and dumps it into one of the white cups on the bar top. In a metal pitcher she produces from who knows where, she pours something white - hopefully milk - and brings that over to the machine. She slips a gleaming metal wand into it, and with the flick of a lever it roars to life, pulsing into the milk. A moment later, she flips the switch back and sets the pitcher on the bar top. It steams as she gently hits it against the bar top, and with the white cup in her opposite hand she gracefully pours the hopefully milk into the white cup. The brown liquid from before rises to the top and once she’s nearly run out of milk, it comes to the surface and she adds a small heart.

She sets the white cup down, and with a strong voice shouts out “Vanilla Lavender latte for Jack!”

Will glances over his shoulder. A force of habit really. “...his name?”

“Will Turner. He’s apparently my cousin.”

Apparently the women had continued their conversion without his knowledge. Will turns back to the bar top. Carolee looks him over, he can feel her eyes searching him with some intensity, at the same time she stirs the contents of another white cup. Her blouse is a rather garish orange color, with some words he can’t quite understand and what look to be several stains. She then turns to Mary, eyebrow cocked. “What do you mean apparently.”

Mary leans back in her chair, drawing a knee up and holding it there with her hands. “Mom’s Mexican side. Nobody really talks ‘bout that side ‘cause there’s supposedly some gang ties in Chicago or somethin’.”

Carolee’s eyes go wide. Will feels his do the same. Whatever Mary just said can’t be good. “Gees, girl, okay. Vernon!” She slides another white cup across the bar top and sets it next to Will, but she continues. Her conversation and her work. “Where are you from Will.”

“You said somewhere in England, right?” Mary jumps in, shooting daggers where his heart should be. “Brighton, right?”

“Yes. Brighton.” He parrots. He has no idea where Brighton is, but Carolee is busy and doesn’t notice the brief panicked look that flies over his face.

Mary shakes her head, chuckling a little. “I only managed to remember cause it’s the place that one British guy mentioned this viral video he made about how to American’s, the like, two hours it takes to get from Brighton to London is a day trip or whatever.”

“That’s cool. What brings you to the states, Will?”

“Work,” he says crisply, with a lick of his lips, “I was hired to work on ships not far from here.”

“Somewhere in Kansas City, I think.” Mary adds.

Carolee nods, sliding a cup to Mary. “Here’s your dirty chai. And you’re hot chocolate is coming right up.”

“Thanks Carolee,” Mary stands, leaving Will alone for just a few seconds. A precious few seconds.

Carolee asks a question. “What kind of work do you do on these ships?”

Will glances out the window past Carolee’s head. “Mostly building them, though I have Captained a vessel before.”

“That’s cool.” Carolee slides another white cup across the top, this time to him. Mary appears to his starboard, a shiny black thing in her hand. She takes Will’s cup, sliding it towards herself a ways and snapping the thing on top of it. Evidently it was some sort of a lid. “Thank’s Carolee. Have a good one.”

“You too. Nice to meet you Will.” She turns back to the machine. Will stands. “And you as well, ma’am.” Mary practically forces the drink into his hands and he follows her out into the building the coffee shop resides within.

He ducks close to her ear to whisper “You lie like a pirate lass.”

“I doubt that’s a complement,” she mutters, stopping, then motioning towards a fireplace on the opposite side of the building. “Nobody every sits over here.”

They sit in two red leather chairs, one across from the other, the fire place between them. Mary takes a sip from her cup, through a small hole Will discovers in the black lid. She sets hers on a small wooden table next to her chair. Will opts to hold his, the warmth welcome as his hands have yet to fully warm from the frigid weather outside.

“I meant that as a complement.” Will says, his tone even.

Mary rolls her eyes, leans back in her chair, and crosses her arms. She really does look like Elizabeth now. Particularly a cross Elizabeth. “Elizabeth could lie with her hands on the Bible. There was nary a way any mortal man could tell.”

“Lovely.” Mary whistles, then pauses. Suddenly, she leans forward and begins an interrogation “Where are you from really?”

“Port Royal. However, I was born in Glasgow.”

“What year?” her voice is sharp. Her brow furrowed.

That… that is something Will couldn’t be sure of. He knows for a fact his and Elizabeth’s wedding was in 1728… or 9. “I lived there no later than 1729.”

“Port Royal or Glasgow?”

Will frowns, he hadn’t been very clear, had he? “Port Royal. Elizabeth and I were to be wed at the fort in either 1728 or twenty nine. However, we were rather rudely interrupted by one Lord Cutler Beckett of the East India Trading Company.”

“Fuck,” she grumbles, glancing out at the main section of the great common room. A great frown has appeared over her face. “What were your kids name? You said something about a kid, right?”

Will doesn’t quiet remember if he’d mentioned him, but that matters not now. “I had only the one, Henry.”

“The one who married Carina?”

“Aye.” He did mention Henry.

“Did they have kids?”

Will smiles fondly, nodding. “Several. William was the eldest, then Grace, Michael, and little Lizzie was the youngest.”

“Did any of them have kids?” Something clicks, and Will glances from the dancing flames in the heart to Mary. She seems to be scrawling away at her forearm with a black stick. He shakes his head, unsure if he should chuckle or scold the girl.

Will turns back to the fire and shuts his eyes, trying to picture them. He’d only met a select few of them, the ones he was now forced to assume where the eldest. “I know of very few. William’s George and Henry where his only that I knew. Grace had an infant named Carlisle and I believe Michael adopted a child by the name of Finnegan after Andrew was born.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Will knows he should never have spoken them. Mary’s face clouds, and she reaches for her drink, taking a sip perhaps to hide her face. But her stormy eyes are harder to hide, even if they are kept locked away behind heavy spectacles.

“This is going to be… difficult. Hell, that’s a fuckin’ understatement.”

“If it is of any assistance, the last time I saw any of them was the 1820’s.”

“We’ll see if it does,” She seems to consider something a moment, then she begins to ramble, “if I check the men’s names, and I back track from mom, there’s only like two or three generations I’m missin’.”

“Is it possible?” Will finds himself asking the question with bated breath.

“I need time,” she glances at something on her wrist. A watch, he guesses. They’d become quite fashionable to be worn at the wrist. “And I don’t have that now. I work in thirty minutes.”

Will nods, standing. “I’ll take my leave, then?”

Mary groans when she stands, and turns back to collect her cup. “Yeah, come on, I’ll let you grab your stuff out of my room.”

She seems to know the path better than he does. Once they return to her room and she clambers up to retrieve his blade, he mentions he’s not quite sure how to get back to the bluff from where they are. But Mary drops from the top bunk once again, and with a loose cough motions for him to follow.

She leads him along a gray path that runs parallel to what appears to be the main black road. There are a few more adolescents milling about. When they jog to the gray path opposite them Will spies a young woman flinging herself into the tender arms of her patient love. He’s a tall, scraggly thing, topped with a bushy head of brunette hair. Mary mutters “idiota” as they turn along another, shorter black path where the gray path falls away. Mary contents herself with acting as a tight rope walker along the red raised edge, and he slips behind and treads along the grass to her port. Rising to their starboard is the grand stone building he’d first seen once he emerged from the wooded path.

“What is that?” He asks.

Mary glances at it. She only shrugs, “That’s the abbey. Monks live there.”

They continue in silence. She leads him along the black path until it abruptly turns gray and loose. They trek up the winding hill, sweeping wide around the trees. Mary avoids the weeping willow leaves all together, her face screwing in disgust as a hand searches her scalp for intruders.

At the top of the hill and too their port is the cemetery, and to their starboard is the bluff. He starts towards it, cutting Mary off. A protest strangles in her throat as she catches sight of what is just over the bluff. Will looks back, a cheeky smile on his lips “Come along. Keep up!”

Grass crunching is enough confirmation for him, and Will bolts, full sail. He reaches the bluff first, slowing enough that his stop against the railing is graceful rather than painful. Mary slows much farther back and stalls a few paces from the ledge. Her hands hang at her sides, her mouth agape, eyes wide, barely blinking.

Will moves to her, taking her hand in his and guiding her forward. No need to prompt, she follows willingly. He draws her along to the edge and sets her palm to the cold metal bar, his over top. Her other finds the bar immediately, and he lets his own do the same.

The Flying Dutchman is a magnificent vessel. Davy Jones had spent far to long at sea, allowed the muck and scum to overcome her hull and crew. But Will, Will had always kept her sparkling. Her sails fluttered in the breeze, bleached white and perfectly mended. Her hull free of barnacles, decks scrubbed bright even through a hurricane’s volley of salt and wind. She is beautiful, she is faithful, and she is all Will has left in the mortal world.

“Holy shit,” Mary curses softly, taking a single, faltering step back. “You… is that yours? Holy shit.”

Will chuckles, “I should hope so.”

“Does it have a name?”

“The Dutchman. However, if I were to be precise, her full names is the Flying Dutchman.”

Mary splutters, pacing. “Je… Jesus fuckin’ christ! How… how the actual’ fuckin’ hell did you get that this far up the river?!”

“The same magic that allows me to walk upright deprived of my heart.” He offers her a hand, one she either disregards due to convenience or truely fails to take stock of. Will clears his throat and only then - after a little jump - does Mary quell her pacing and eye the hand.

“What’s that for?”

“Now that you have seen, oh thee of little faith,? Will ribs with a smile, “does our accord stand still?”

Mary nods with a humph, and shakes his hand. “Yeah, but I need time.”

Their hands part. Will cocks a brow. His gut begins to churn. “How much?”

Mary hesitates, bobbing her head too-and-froe. It only further wittles at Will’s nerves. How long could it possibly take her to verify what he has said? Has he not provided proof enough?

“Three days,” she assures. “Give me three days to double check what you’ve said. To see if we really are related.”

“Where should we meet?”

Mary shrugs. “Here is fine. How about noon on day three?”

Will feels a frown tug down the corner of his lip “How will I know?”

“Listen for the clock. It goes off twelve times at twelve. I might be a minute or two late since I’ve got class right before then, but I’ll be here.”

“Very well,” Will looks to the Dutchman again. “I’ll be off then.”

“Just, do me a favor and stay on your ship.” Mary’s voice is stern, though concerned. “I promise we can talk about this more later, I’m sorry I’m running so short on time, but you need a serious reality check as far as modern life and manners go and I don’t want you to get into any trouble or anything.”

Something pangs against his chest. Will isn’t sure whether it’s grief, resignation, resentment… probably all of that and much more. He’s spent so long on the Dutchman, so very long away from land. The thought of returning there, even if it is for but three days makes his skin crawl. But he has no idea how long he’ll be, well, marooned here, no idea of what his fortune might hold, and he’s morbidly sure he’ll need help. He doesn’t want to acquiesce to such stringent terms, but he’s got as much a choice as he did when he became the Dutchman’s captain.

“We have an accord,” he offers his hand with a smile his heart’s not in.

Well, that’s not saying much as his hearts not even in him.

Mary shakes it again, though she appears bewildered. “Sounds good. I’ve got to get back, but I’ll see you at noon in a few days. Okay?”

“Aye” Will nods, turning to the path. It twists almost immediately away through the trees. Scrawny little poplars and ashes, yet without any light from the heavens, they’re dying leaves block most the light.

Mary throws a nonchalant “See ya!” over her shoulder, and she crunches back through the grass, to the path. Will, with a deep, clammy breath, ducks under a branch to begin his trek. It’s a ways down, and three days to wait.

Compared to three centuries, those three days are less than a drop in the bucket. And for that, Will is incredibly grateful.

#will turner wednesday #fanfiction #potc fanfiction #will turner #original female character #coffee shop #coffee shop au #modern au #canon divergence #little bit of crack #pirates of the caribbean

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