Title: Eleven Marks
Author: Stef (ignitedangel@aol.com)
Pairing: Johnny Depp/Orlando Bloom
Rating: R
Summary: Skin and bones, strike a match and paint more memories.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue
Feedback: Gladly appreciated!
Author's Notes: Frustrated by layout block and other things, I did this. Dark, moody, hopeful. Also, first posted RPS. So I apologize in advance if it's wonky.

"I haven't done this in a while."

He doesn't speak often. And when the words flow, the voice is murmuring. Covers his mouth, rubs his chin, doesn't look up. He'd rather look down, lost in musings, his own world. Does he always dream? Is this a trait? Between the lines of his words, there is something deeper. Experience. Wishful, strange, always different.

So he doesn't speak often. When he does though, the words are reserved for something important. His choice.

"It's good - I mean, don't worry about it. You're doing a good job."

He goes on. The quota has not been filled for today, so he saves the words for later. Pick them out yourself. A few of 'yes'. Maybe a grunt or two. One 'Orlando'. That's for special use. That will come in later.

The words fall away from a sober mind, a swish of fingers against cold hips. The bone juts only slightly underneath, needle toying along the surface. Skin flexes, turns black under ink. Permanent. Johnny does a fairly good job, considering it's his second try. Nine, ten, eleven experiences, and he watches. Watches how the needles worked along his skin, leaving marks.

Tattoos.

His body is a living canvas, covered with etchings, memories and loves. The names and symbols all have meanings to him, different, deeper than on the outside. Glance at the 'Wino Forever' tattoo on his shoulder. Someone would scoff. He doesn't. He knows the times they kissed, cried, laughed, and loved. He knows more than tabloids, than headlines and rumors.

His daughter and son's names on his body are a testament to his love for them. Burning love that sears and stings, a fresh mark on pale skin.

He drags his fingers along your hip the way he drags nicotine into his lungs. Only a thin barrier of plastic remains between. Plastic gloves are on his hands as he traces the tattoo device along the hipbone, eyes focused. Scant strands of dark hair frame high cheekbones, the harsh light of above casting hollows on his face.

You know it takes you all that you can to not to unleash the dark, long hair pulled back into a ponytail.

Restraint. Show it. Hard to get, they say, and this is true. Engagements were broken, torn apart by anger and time spent away. This past one didn't last. Too much time, he says. Seventeen days and he'd chew his hand off, he had said, in the past. This was different. This was months. And so he went along. You don't ask him why. Because somewhere, deep down, you think you know. But you don't, not really, no.

You're not sure if this will last either.

Sigh. And wait.

Johnny doesn't care about those thoughts, but for now, he wants to get this right. This one thing right.

"Hurts?"

Close your eyes. Offer a smile.

"It's a good kind of hurt."

He pauses for a moment, charcoal stare that is burning black into your skin.

"Always is." He raises his head slightly, eyes lifting from marked flesh. A quick smile just then, and the pain lifts. "Almost done."

He doesn't lie. Minutes later you find yourself picking at the bandage, pulling it back. Is it real? Is it on you? There. A squiggle of line, upside down but right side up to his eyes. The 'J' curves along your hipbone, the other letters sway and linger down. It's not smoke, not life experiences that mean nothing until now. This means something; this is forever.

That's your third mark. 'Johnny'. A place no one ever sees, and no one other than Johnny ever will.

Look over at him again. Eleven marks.

Wait for him outside the tattoo parlor. His friend is awfully kind to let him use the tools. Johnny would not have it otherwise. Wonder if he's afraid of you getting hurt. Think that, for a moment. Then your logic, however scarred and twisted now, kicks in. He doesn't want any other knowing you like he does.

Awfully possessive, he is. Not that you mind.

He has finished rolling up his cigarette now, a flick of his hand and the match dies. Jack Sparrow surfaces, only a moment, how his hand moves. How he grins as quickly as the fire goes out, match thrown to the ground. Artist hands shove into pockets, the source of light moves up and down. It glows bright amber, a soft hue amongst the glare of street lamps.

Overhead lights snake along taxi surfaces, fluorescent red and blue on dark yellow. Slicked black and dirty, the street resembles a frozen stream, potholes splashes of water in stillness. Trees linger and twist branches up to the black sky, hands begging for? for what?

"You all right?"

The light bobs up and down again, cigarette dangling from his lip. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling it back and out of his face. Johnny pulls the cigarette away, holding it lazily from a finger. The flash of white skin in darkness makes him concerned, eager. Pull up your jeans and hear murmuring from his direction. Disappointed, to say the least.

"I'm fine."

He hails a cab and slips his hand inside your jean pocket.

--

Twenty-one minutes pass.

On the twenty-second minute, you feel the sting of steps against your chest, a flood of dark red carpet underneath. Grinds you into it, he does, how his hips buck and slam against butt cheeks. Again. Again.

Call his name once, let the glare of hotel lamps fade and buzz. A crackle of static, a sheet being lifted, and it is over. Another minute, panting, soft words, and the room's empty save for one.

It feels so crowded inside. So very, very crowded.

The air is stuffy, hot and dismal. Do your legs work yet? If they do, touch bare feet against the carpet gingerly. There - there is the dresser. Shoot a hand up and hold onto it. You can use it for support. Don't fall down. Not yet. Look around the room-messy, though not totaled. No, he wouldn't want to get that attention again. Jeans and boots and shirts and leather bands litter the ground. They bring startling blips of color to the dark red of carpet.

Go up two steps that pounded when your chest slammed onto them. The curtains are closed; a shaft of moonlight peeks through. There is no cart, no room service. Towels? Yeah, they're there. The 'Do Not Disturb' sign is on the door, too. Think they'll listen? Probably not.

Your hip still stings. Wince, touch the bandage, drop down to swipe a towel. Put it 'round your hips. Show some sign of decency, your inner voice goes, then just as soon dismisses that notion with a string of inner cursing.

A soft cloud of cream-colored sheets and white bedding await you in the room. He paid for it; might as well use it. More comfortable than the floor. Yet it doesn't hum. Doesn't scratch and wake you to bloody magnificence. The feel of ground beneath you, him inside you, over and over - you're alive this way. You're not on a pillow, soft and daisies, a product, a sexy fuck toy.

The floor is very real and it stings and so you give in, fall onto it.

"Orlando?"

The name is used once for tonight. Johnny's voice seems far away. It is in the next room, and he is rather stoic. Naked, of course, thin fingers gripping the neck of a wine bottle.

There are forty-six tiles in the ceiling, you count later, but before you find this out, he enters the doorway.

"Didn't like the floor?" he asks, voice low, a trace of a smirk. Leans against the doorframe - one swig of the bottle. One. Offers it, cants his head, brown silk falling off his shoulders and down his back.

Shrug, rest tired and spent weight on elbows. "Come over here."

A nod of his head. He does so. Let him lean back, and ignore the feeling of indifference towards the surroundings. Take it in. All of it. See how the light plays along his skin, tanned and sweat. Skin and bones and blood strain, the glare of ruby red wine perched in lamplight casts a bloody swath on his chest. Disappears just as easily when he puts the glass on the bedside table.

This is when you pause and change gears. The second part begins. Now for the tally.

You're not done yet.

Run down furrows along his arms; grin at the slight curve of his mouth. One, two, three on the left, two on the right. Five marks. Straddle him. The towel falls to the floor, a soft *plop* of fabric. Bare hips touch each other, burn, melt. Bend your head and kiss his inner right arm. A mark of 'The Brave', a project he did, he loved. Six. His daughter's name perched on his heart, dark black and red in the light from lamps and wine. Seven.

Four more.

Your hands move down and trace the lines of his hips. Fingers swirl down his thighs, slow. Make him grit his teeth only slightly. Slightly. Won't show it. No, he never does. Not that you mind. Feel the musculature of his right leg; linger on his calf. Skull and crossbones. 'Death is certain'. You wonder why its there, but for now, leave it be. Rub the symbol on his right ankle, the inside.

Two more. Nine down. Two to go.

Guide his hands to your mouth. Kiss the skin of his left hand, the '3', right hand, suck on his pointer finger. Three rectangles. Count them exaggeratedly, one, two, three, and watch him laugh. He doesn't laugh often, but when he does, it is a full one. There are no cameras, no pirates milling about. He doesn't wear the braids, tricorn hat and pirate regalia. No, this is Johnny and not Jack, Johnny laughing and at ease.

Smile a little. Go ahead... Grin. It is impossible to stop it. And when you feel laughter spilling from your lips, fall into the comfortable space of his arms. Let muscle wrap around you, let your fingers linger on his chest.

Make your own marks with wine. Rub a little there. Give it a name. It's a squiggle of a line, a bit of a handle. A sword seen through drunken eyes and swollen lips. That one is called 'St. Vincent'. A thoughtful, knowing look follows. Remember when you murmured about rapiers slapping butts unintelligibly to him. He laughed, asked for more wine. He laughed further still, jovial and speaking in an accent upon the plane's landing. Remember staggering behind him, hurting sides and hands fumbling to carry luggage.

That was fun, you think, and then your fingers walk on.

Johnny rubs your shoulder with his thumb, a soft stroke. His other hand moves lazily, drawing circles down his chest until he pauses at his navel.

"There. I'll get it there."

"Get what?"

"A tattoo. Another one."

"Of - what?"

He shrugs. Bury your head deeper into his shoulder. Let his long hair play along your cheek. A couple of minutes pass, in which you sigh in his arms, counting ceiling tiles.

Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. Thirty-

"An 'O' around it. Like your sun, but right around it, not below. Figure it's fair."

He doesn't speak much, and so this seems to take a lot out of him. His shoulder muscles ease, your head resting against him. Somehow your hand moves up and brushes his hair - feel his words brush against your wrist, let him kiss the marked skin in elvish.

Forty-five. Forty-six.

"That's it? Just the one letter?" You sound incredulous. It's justifiable, it is. It is!

Don't worry when he laughs. Only worry if the ground feels just as hard when a tangle of limbs, sweat and bed sheets fall on top of it once more.

"You'll have to earn the other six," he says, and then nips an earlobe.

The wine spills, the lights seem to dim. Legs have shot up at odd angles, laughter is abundant. Nips and licks and swirls of hot saliva - where's the wine, the rum? No, just wine this time - and they mix and form a pleasant buzz, static. Burned black are his eyes, and burned black is the skin on your hip, with his name.

Look over at him again. Eleven marks.

Three on you.

Smile. You've got a lot of catching up to do.

END