The Flying Dutchman emerges from the sunset, the sky flaring coral and gold above the wrack of wood and men scattered darkly over the metallic surface of the water. Her captain stands behind the bowsprit, tall and straight, scanning the detritus.

—Mostly gone, lad, says a voice at his shoulder. —A few still alive to larboard, though. See? There.

—Lower a boat.

The man's hair was gold once, now streaked grey. His eyes are soft as he looks at his captain. —They're not your concern yet. If we wait a while, they'll be ready for us. A few hours of night, and...

The captain turns. His expression is hard. —I think you served too long under this ship's former master.

—William, you're—

—I am captain, and that is an end of it. I am happy to have you sail alongside me, Father; but do not presume to tell me how I should do my duty.

—I'm just sayin' that—

—Lower a boat.

William Turner Junior, captain of the Flying Dutchman, turns away. His father is presumptuous. He seems to think that the tie of blood grants him more than, as far as the captain is concerned, it does.

Without his heart, William no longer becomes passionately angry. But he does become annoyed; and this subtle insubordination, with its fragile basis in a familial tie long severed, annoys him quite immensely.

Beneath the bow, the gaunt figure of a man rises cool and spectral from his bobbing corpse and flows aft to join the dead, sighing throng in the Dutchman's wake. A pirate, from the look of him, William thinks, and that supposition's quickly supported by the sight of a black and red flag, twisted around the floating remains of the mast. William sighs. But it is not his place to judge; and besides, he has known many pirates who were at heart good men. And many good men who were, at heart, pirates.

Oars plashing softly through the water, the ship's boat makes its way to larboard, where there are still a few survivors, crying out at this sight of this ship. And one survivor who, mysteriously, is waving and hallooing. And who—now that Will looks closer—is distinctly familiar.

*

—You took your bloody time, says the survivor in an accusatory tone as he vaults over the taffrail in a far more sprightly and cheerful manner than the majority of their visitors. Behind him, the crew are persuading the handful of remaining pirates aboard, attempting to convince them that this ship, under its new management, is no longer a place of death and enslavement.

—Jack Sparrow, says William. —Jack.

He is faintly bemused. Jack would never sail under another man's flag. Surely? But then, Jack Sparrow has never failed to surprise him, and that would merely be one more in a long line of surprises. Jack has surprised William by showing his true colours as a good man; then by showing his possibly truer colours as a deeply callous one. Then by performing another volte-face and saving William, if this life he lives now can be called safety.

Most of all, Jack surprises William by refusing to give up his place in Will's imagination; Will would say, in his heart, if he yet had one. By making Will smile when he thinks of Jack's sharp tongue, his mobile face. His wicked smile; his louche walk.

William has been too long a-sea. Too long away from Elizabeth; he might be heartless now, but the rest of his body is wearingly insistent. He swallows, and forces his mind back to the present situation, in which he is faced with a sleekly wet Jack Sparrow, smiling in an unreasonably victorious way for a man whose vessel has just sunk.

—Was that your ship, Jack?

—Don't be silly. She was John Gunn's tub. Arsehole. Just desserts, that's what this is. Karma.

Jack turns and surveys the assembly of bedraggled sailors behind him, who appear to be quite ready to inflict some serious damage on him. (This is often the way other people regard Jack Sparrow, and William finds it rather endearing.) He says, more cockily than his situation should logically allow: —That'll teach you, you bastards. I'm not a man to cross. And certainly not a man to lock in your pathetic excuse for a brig, unless you're first going to remove all munitions from said man's person. Which you signally failed to do. Ooh! Bill, is that you? Your looks've improved quite markedly since I saw you last. No starfish?

—No starfish, says William's father, slapping his old friend on the back. —So you blew their brig, Jack?

—I did indeed. Lovely explosion, it was. Oh look, I singed my cuff. Bugger.

—Fuckin' maniac! yells one of the rescued pirates, and he has a point.

William suggests that blowing holes in ships in which one is currently a passenger could be construed as unwise.

—Could be, could be, says Jack. —But if you've got friends in high places, as I quite clearly do, it's a risk worth taking. And talking of risks, why did you pick up this lot? They're not dead yet. And they're not nice blokes, I should warn you.

—The same reason I picked up you, says William. —Because I cannot just let a man drown.

—Isn't that your job? Jack needles, pulling a wide-eyed face and putting an inquisitive finger to his cheek.

—No, it is not.

—Lighten up, mate. I was just joking. I know, it's all different now. You're doing your captainly duty, doing right by the dead, et cetera.

—And by the living, when I can, says Will. He turns to his father. —Take these men to the brig; we'll drop them near Fort Henry.

There is a brief uproar, rapidly quelled. Jack follows Will up to the quarterdeck.

—What about me?

—You are neither dead nor dying, and though you may well be outlaw you are nevertheless my... acquaintance. When we approach land where you will be safe, you may leave the ship. Will motions to his bo'sun to hand over the wheel, and takes control.

Jack wrings out various sections of his clothing and hair, all the while regarding Will curiously.

—I know I once said you were a bit of a stick, he says eventually, —but you really do seem to be quite terrifyingly solemn at present. One might even say humourless.

—The natural consequence, I think you'll find, of having no heart. My actions are governed by intellect, now, Jack; by reason. By sense.

—Mmm. Yes. About that.

But Will does not have time to find out what Jack wants to say about that. A cry comes on the breeze, carried leagues and more leagues to this ship, this crew, this captain; a cry of a dying man, and the Dutchman must turn into the wind of that cry, must honour its call.

*

Jack waits in the Great Cabin, which is very much more pleasant and civilised than (presumably) it was under Captain Jones. For starters, it is remarkably dry, and contains absolutely no fish parts. It does, however, contain several rather nice bottles of Portuguese wine, to which Jack has been helping himself.

So far, so good; he's made it onto the Dutchman, and into what seems to pass, these days, for William's good books. He should, he knows, just deliver his little message as soon as he sees Will again, in the spirit in which it was originally intended. That would definitely be the nice thing to do.

But he can't help being just a little bit fascinated by this whole calm, rational, I-have-no-heart thing. What keeps a man going, if he lacks that? And, in a darker, warmer corner of Jack's mind, a curlier question forms itself, complete with raised eyebrows: what else does he lack?

So Jack's not in any mad hurry to get on with things, really. It's not as if he's got anywhere else to be.

As if he can read Jack's mind, Will's opening salvo when he finally returns to the cabin—followed, thank goodness, by a bloke, a tray, a loaf of bread, a large round of cheese, and some cured ham—relates to that very issue.

—Where is the Black Pearl, then, Jack? If she's gone down, it was without any loss of life.

—The Pearl is very much afloat, thank you. But she and I, explains Jack, with nonchalant dignity, —have been unavoidably but temporarily separated. And then, to change the subject, he adds, —Much like you and your Elizabeth.

He watches Will's face closely as he says this (never a hardship, that) in order to ascertain the effect of heartlessness on True Love; and apparently, when one is missing this vital organ, a ten year separation from one's beloved has much the same impact as a large gas bubble in the gut.

Unkindly cheered by this (the bint did try to murder him, after all, without so much emphasis on the 'try') Jack launches into supper. It's not bad, in fact the cheese is unreservedly excellent.

It's only after he and William have demolished most of the loaf that he ponders on the apparent propensity of the heartless, undead Captain to enjoy a good meal.

—You still eat, then?

Will raises an eyebrow.

—Despite, you know. Jack makes a gouging motion on his own chest, accompanying the charade with disturbingly realistic sounds.

—My body still functions, Jack.

—I s'pose so. Oh! 'Course it does. Your wedding night, or rather afternoon. How could I have forgot? You're fully functional. I remember now.

—You know nothing about it, Jack. Don't pretend you do. William, with a distinct lack of empathy for his fellow diner, pops the last of the ham into his mouth. He seems unperturbed by Jack's unsubtle reference to matters which, in previous times, would have brought a delightful flush of scarlet to that long throat.

—I know enough. Jack essays a leer. —Pirate grapevine, mate. Congrats on your paternity.

William, astonishingly, pours himself a second glass of wine and says that he prefers not to think about it. This seems so wildly out of character that Jack is momentarily speechless; politely, William fills the gap.

—I cannot take care of either of them as a husband and father should. To all intents and purposes I am not a husband; not a father. To cloud my thoughts with paternal worry would be pointless. It would be illogical.

Oh, this is terrible. Really terrible. The poor bloke! Jack fears for a moment that he might blub. To forestall such a disaster, he tries to look on the bright side.

—Still. Must be a lot easier to get on with the ol' captainly duties, eh, without all that heartache? Without missing her so much? Without the sailor's constant companion, unrelieved lust? Shocker, that can be.

Will fails to rise even to this bait, even though Jack would earlier have bet a lot of money, and possibly a body part, on a rise of volcanic proportions. He merely grunts, scowls, and fidgets in his seat.

What's a fellow to do, save try to press the matter? Jack shakes his head and rolls his eyes. —Absolute shocker. 'Specially for a captain. Fraternisation being such a risky thing. Bloody long way between ports, sometimes.

The sudden quirk on Will's face could almost be a smile, if it wasn't so angry. —Ten years is indeed a bloody long way.

—But... but that's my point, William. That it's all right for you. Now that you're, haha, disheartened. Innit?

Will looks Jack in the eye then; a straight, dark gaze that turns Jack's belly over.

—Don't confuse the heart with the cock, Jack. It's not all right for me at all.

*

This is a rare moment, and one to savour: Will has quite clearly put Jack Sparrow on the back foot. It feels good.

As does the tightening knot of lust in his groin. A knot which has been featuring rather prominently in Will's life of late; and no amount of self-relief, it appears, is capable of untying it. In his more masochistic moments, it is almost enjoyable. The rest of the time, however, it drives him insane.

But Will is starting to realise that a fine solution may have presented itself; is, in point of fact, sitting here right across the table, brandishing a cup of wine and a startled expression. The idea—the realisation—does surprise him somewhat. But its rationality is unassailable.

Never having propositioned a man before, Will is uncertain of the formula; he is, however, confident that men would be far more straightforward in these matters. No point in beating around the bush, is there?

—So, Jack, since you're here, and no-one seems to be dying at the moment... shall we fuck?

Wine actually comes out of Jack's nose. Handing him a napkin, Will frowns. This is not the response he was hoping for.

—Really, Jack, I would appreciate it an awful lot. And it wouldn't be too much of a hardship for you, would it? You've certainly given me enough lewd looks before now that—well, I was under the impression that you might be quite keen.

Jack clutches the napkin to his face, his absurdly darkened eyes peering over it like a maiden in a harem. —Keen, he echoes in a muffled sort of a way.

He doesn't appear to be offended, at any rate. Perhaps Will has just been a little precipitous in his proposition? He just needs to state his rationale more clearly. Yes. That's it.

—As you said, Jack, these urges can be very distracting. Ten years is an unconscionably long time.

—I did say that, it's true.

—Elizabeth is required by the terms of the curse to stay true to me, but I don't believe that the reverse applies. Does it?

—Er. Not so far as I'm aware.

—And I'm confident that you of all people, Jack, would not let it become public knowledge if you and I were to... I know you've always held Elizabeth in high regard. (Will suspects this is not entirely true, not since the Kraken incident at any rate, but it would be useful if it were; therefore he states it with confidence.)

—But—but... Jack waves the napkin around for a while, wordlessly.

—Fair enough, Jack, you have concerns. Present them to me, and I shall address them. Will is becoming quite excited now. This makes such perfect sense!

—Well, what about your dear papa? He wouldn't be very delighted.

Bounding up, Will locks the door. —There, he knows nothing. Besides: he has been interfering more than I appreciate, lately.

—Wouldn't Elizabeth be a teeny bit annoyed?

Jack is not looking Will in the eye any more; following his line of sight, Will notes that his breeches hide absolutely nothing. So be it; the loss of his heart brought with it a concomitant loss of shame. It's a perfectly nice cock, and an erection like that can only be a compliment to the other party in the room. Jack should be flattered.

—One, Elizabeth won't know; two, every sailor in the world whores when he's away; three, you're a man, so surely you don't really count. Oh, come on, Jack.

Will takes two long strides across the cabin, and pulls Jack to his feet, shaking him by the shoulders.

—There's only one real consideration here, Jack Sparrow: do you want to, or don't you? And I, says Will, checking his assertion with a hand at Jack's groin, —I certainly believe you do.

—Oh bugger, says Jack, squeezing his eyes shut and shivering a little as he presses against Will's palm. —Oh buggery crapping bugger.

*

This, Jack Sparrow tells himself, is where your bloody curiosity gets you. Couldn't just tell him what you need to tell him and get out, could you? Oh no. What's it like, mate? What's it like?

What it's like is nothing that Jack would ever have imagined. All William Turner's bright young lust still present and correct, and him willing to take the most practical route to carnal relief? No, couldn't have guessed that in advance.

Will's standing so close. His palm is so warm, the smell of him is rich and salty, and will the scent of smoke never leave him?

Will hums, and smiles just a little; and then he does something perfectly unforgivable. He steps back into the centre of the cabin and, without so much as a by-your-leave, begins to disrobe. He's halfway out of his shirt before Jack's tongue becomes functional again.

—Wait, stop, what are you doing?

—I'm helping you to make an informed decision, says Will. —You might not want to fuck if you didn't like my body, so I'm showing it to you.

The shirt's over his head now, and 'like' really isn't the apposite word. Jack wants to eat him. The waist, narrow and muscled; the flare of shoulders, rounded and strong. The skin, so damn perfect, marred by the terrible pink scar on his left breast. That mark draws Jack like a lodestone; he reaches out and runs his fingertips over the knotty scar-tissue.

When he blinks he can see it all still in his mind's eye, hear it so clearly. The way they descended on William, on his poor dying body. It should never have turned out that way. Never.

—I'm, he starts, and then stops. This isn't a word he's practiced much. —I'm, you know. Sorry.

—What for? I'd be dead, if it weren't for you. And as you can see, I'm not. Well? Do you like me well enough?

Will takes Jack's hand, then, and runs it down his chest. Over his belly; with his other hand, he is flicking open the buttons of his breeches.

Beneath Jack's fingertips, curls; then, ah, Christ. Beautiful. Beautiful.

It would take a better, and far more recently sated, man than Jack Sparrow to turn away from that.

*

Jack's face transforms when his hand touches Will's hot, swollen flesh; Will can almost see his misgivings dropping away. What they leave behind is the Jack Will knows, all lazy, greedy smiles and lustful glances from under unbearably long lashes. Such a remarkable creature. Those eyes, that rosy bitten lip!

—I want to kiss you, Will informs him, and does.

It's wonderfully interesting, the way that sensation shoots down his spine. When Jack opens his mouth and lets Will in, mmm, it's warm and wet and tastes of very good wine and a very wicked man. Jack's moustache scratches and tickles; it's not reminiscent of kissing Elizabeth at all. Interesting. Yes.

Jack's hands are bold, now, in Will's breeches. One's still wrapped around his cock, stroking long and firm; the other's slipping round to clutch at Will's buttocks, and Jack's making a humming sound as if he likes the feel of that.

—Oh, says Will gravely, breaking away from the kiss. —Do you want to fuck me? I thought I'd fuck you. But I suppose it would work either way—

Jack's hand leaves Will's nether regions and clamps itself firmly over his mouth.

—Stop it. Just stop it.

It is unclear exactly what Jack wants him to stop, so Will stops everything, standing still and letting Jack do what he will.

And what Jack will is very gratifying. It involves gently pushing Will backwards until he bumps into the edge of the table, and Jack saying, here, hang on to that, you'll need to. It involves Jack working Will's breeches down over his hips until they fall and tangle around his knees, and then starting to kiss and caress his way around Will's body in a confusing and beautiful swirl of wet tongue and teasing fingers.

Will watches, and heat gathers low; he wonders how he could not have noticed, before now, just how incredibly sexy Jack is. And then he snorts, and admits to himself that he had always noticed; but, with his heart firmly in his chest, he had not permitted himself to fully admit it.

—I definitely think I would like to be the one doing the fucking, he announces. —I found it very satisfying with Elizabeth.

—Oh, shut up.

Jack kneels down, then; kneels down and slowly, moistly, takes Will's cock in his mouth.

Elizabeth did not do that. No-one has done that. Will's whole body flares with heat and delight. It looks filthy, the hard dark shaft disappearing into Jack Sparrow's mouth; it is filthy. It feels exceptionally good, even though Will is dimly aware that once upon a time that sight—the very idea of that sight—would have shamed him to the core.

He tilts his hips, pushing in; Jack lets him.

Jack slips something out of his pocket, a pot. He flips it open, and it's grease.

—Oh, says Will. —Is that for fucking? Shouldn't you take your clothes off first?

—How about I just take this off? says Jack, unknotting his sash; and then he stands and rather rapidly ties it around Will's mouth.

Will is briefly annoyed, but then he isn't, because Jack kneels again and returns to his previous endeavour, and Will is not averse to that at all.

He is faintly averse, but mostly curious, when Jack encourages his legs apart and presses a slippery hand up behind his balls; slightly more averse when Jack's finger presses inside him; and then very very un-averse when that finger finds something deep inside that sends sparks right to the end of his cock. Jack's cheeks hollow as he sucks, and Will groans behind the gag, he feels faint with the glory of it. He couldn't possibly last until the real fucking, oh no. This is too good, this is just exactly what he needed. Jack is a genius. Jack is, Jack is...

Will screws his eyes shut, something bursts inside him, and he is lit up with the purest, brightest pleasure he has ever known.

When he can see again, Jack is looking up at him in an unusually solemn way. Will tugs the sash down, freeing his mouth, and smiles.

—Thank you Jack, that was excellent. I feel much better now. Would you like me to do the same to you?

But Jack just wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, stands, and starts tugging Will's breeches back up.

—Really, Jack, I'm quite happy to. I haven't done it before but I'm sure it can't be too hard. It's only fair. He reaches for Jack's belt, but his hand is slapped away.

—No thanks. Feeling a bit tired. What with all the incarceration, explosions, near drownings, and fellatio.

Will is confused, and perversely offended that Jack doesn't seem to want to put his penis in Will's mouth.

—You could lie down, if you're tired. It's very nice. You'll like it.

—I know it's very nice, you twat.

—Come along, then. Here, my cot's—

—Good night, William. Sleep well. And with a tight smile and a small, steeple-fingered bow, Jack unbolts the door and is gone.

Strange. Very strange.

Oh well; Will feels much better, anyway.

Undressed and in his cot, he wriggles a bit. His arse is all greasy still. It's interesting. Maybe tomorrow there could be some fucking.


2

Bootstrap is almost as Jack remembers him from their early days aboard the Pearl. Except now, of course, Jack's performed an indecent act upon Bootstrap's only spawn, while said spawn was not quite in the full bloom of mental normality. Jack consequently finds his old mate's company over breakfast absolutely agonising. He bolts his gruel, mutters something about the heads and scuttles off.

He'd run away if he could, but since he's trapped on this damn'd ship in the interim, there's nothing for it; he must make amends.

William is not on the quarterdeck. Jack is informed by the bo'sun that the Captain has remained in his cabin this morning. Which might be good, insofar as it offers an opportunity for private conversation. Or bad, insofar as it offers an opportunity for private... anything else.

Brevity, Jack instructs himself. Brevity, sensibility, normality, no discussion of fucking. He knocks on the captain's cabin door, and even to him it sounds trepidatious.

—Come.

Jack nearly does, when he enters the room and sees William, still lying abed, the sheets rucked around his perfect abdomen. Jesus Christ. He's a fabulous specimen. To make matters worse, the fabulous specimen hums a little when he sees Jack, smiles, and palms himself through the bedclothes.

—Close the door Jack. In fact, lock it. I was hoping you'd visit. I find that last night's activities have induced a strange lassitude in me. Not to mention a surprisingly strong desire for more.

Oh God. Oh God.

—Come. Sit here. Will sits up, and the sheets fall lower still; he pats the bed. Jack, swallowing, sits. Or perches, at any rate.

—I must go up on deck soon... but first, why don't you join me for a while? I think it would feel good to have you naked in my bed, Jack. And I still owe you a certain debt.

He shuffles to the side of the narrow bed and throws the sheets back in invitation. He is utterly, utterly shameless; nothing is concealed. Jack wants to scream. He leaps up from the bed before he tears off every stitch of clothing and dives in there to roll around with that beautiful naked creature, never mind that said creature is functionally insane.

—Thank you, no. Listen, Will, there's something rather important I have to discuss with you. I did come to see you for a reason, you know.

—Very well. Disconcertingly, Will calmly gets out of bed, pulls on his clothes, and sits down at the table. —I thought our meeting was merely serendipitous. I did not realise it was planned. Shipwrecks seldom are.

—Well, you know how it is. I needed to be shipwrecked to find you; I knew someone who deserved shipwrecking. Two birds, one stone. Or rather, two birds, one concealed grenadoe. Same thing, really. Jack is gabbling, in order to fill time while he recovers from the combined sights of William Turner in bed, William Turner naked, William Turner putting on his clothes, and now William Turner sitting there with a calm and patient expression on his ludicrously handsome phiz.

—And now you have found me. Please. Deliver your news.

—Well. Jack takes up a place by the mullioned window, where he will be well lit for this dramatic revelation. —It's about your heart.

—It is safe in Elizabeth's keeping, I hope?

—Yes, yes, safe as a nun's knickers. But. Thing is. It doesn't need to be.

Will frowns. —Yes it does.

—No it doesn't.

—Be plain, Jack. I don't follow you.

With a sigh, Jack waves goodbye to all possibility of fucking the heartlessly, shamelessly, remorselessly pragmatic William Turner, and explains.

—I thought you'd figure this out on your own, mate, but you clearly haven't. Think about it. Why did Davy Jones cut out his heart in the first place?

—The pain of love was too much, when Calypso didn't stay true to him.

—Very good. And she didn't stay true to him because...?

—Well. They were parted for a long time, I suppose.

—Precisely! And why were they parted in the first place? What was he doing?

—What do you mean? He was at sea. He was Captain of this... oh.

—That's right. He was Captain before he cut out his heart. It's not a requisite.

Light is dawning, and the old Will would be incandescent with rage, excitement, etc. This version looks as though he might be having an insight into the puzzle of differential equations.

—But Jack, I was dying. It was the only way to live, was it not?

—Abso-frickin'-lutely. But now you have a nice shiny magicked heart that's ticking away quite nicely. Just, you know. Not in the vicinity of your corpus.

—Are you saying that I... that I... can put it back?

—Why not?

—But, the ten years! The curse!

—Oh, look, all that still holds. The moment you killed ol' Davy, you agreed to be the Dutchman's captain, you were contracted. But it's got fuck-all to do with the heart. Davy was Captain long before that whole debacle.

—Well. Well.

Jack pulls up a chair and picks at the cheese, left out the night before and now rather sweaty. Bit like himself really.

—Jack, how do you know I can put it back?

—Stands to reason, don't it? Why do you think Davy kept it in a chest? For future use, that's why. There was still a spark of hope in ol' Fishface. He didn't want to leave this world altogether; he wanted to stay here, and one day be happy again.

—I suppose so. But I don't understand. How can I just... replace it?

Jack gesticulates with the cheese-knife. —How could you just take it out in the first place? It's magic, ain't it.

—And you're sure it will work?

—I have it on very good authority, says Jack, concentrating on the cheese. Will snorts.

—By 'good authority', I take it you mean rumour and supposition?

—Well. Don't forget guesswork and optimism.

There is a small silence.

—Thank you, says William at last. —For coming to tell me this. You took a risk with your own life. But now, I need to think.

—Fair enough. I'll leave you to it. And Jack scarpers.

*

It's a quiet day; there are few storms at sea, and no major battles. They pick up a poor unfortunate who fell overboard and was met by sharks; they drop off John Gunn's men on a rocky islet within view of Fort Henry. Jack stays out of Will's way, spending most of the day with Will's father, and the evening with Will's father and a lot of rum. When Will sends for Jack to meet him up by the bow it is late, and Jack is definitely swaying more than usual.

—Cap'n, slurs Jack, and sotto-voce he adds, —Fancy another blowjob, do we? And hence I am summonsed?

Will glares stonily at him for such indiscretion, but there is no-one nearby. —I hardly forced you. And I repeatedly offered to return the favour. It was you, Jack, who turned me down.

—I did! says Jack, in a tone of regretful surprise. —'S true. I did.

—Let's not dwell upon it, says Will, although it is hard to wrench his attention out of his breeches, with Jack standing right there, his hair lifting in the wind and his hips swaying with the motion of the ship. —I called for you, Jack, because there is something I want you to do for me.

—Oh, here we go. You're asking a lot of favours, you are.

—This is not a favour. It is a bargain.

—Offer? Terms? Conditions?

—I will take you to the Black Pearl, and end your separation from her.

—I don't know where she is.

Will smiles. —This is the Flying Dutchman, Jack. I can find her. Trust me.

—Oh. Right. Gosh... Nice offer.

—You haven't heard the terms and conditions yet.

—Go on then.

—I want you to get my heart; bring it to me; and do as you said could be done. Replace it for me.

Jack winces, and then begins to shake his head. —Oh no. No no no. That's something you need to talk to your girl about. I'm not doing that.

A small silence.

—Think of the Pearl, Jack. I'd lay she's missing you.

A slightly larger silence.

—You, Captain Turner, are—if you'll excuse my Frog—a sneaky little fuck.

—From you, I think that might be a compliment.

—But... but why me? Jack asks. Whines, actually.

—It was your idea. And there's one other condition: Elizabeth must not know what we are doing. In case... in case it doesn't work.

—Oh, if it doesn't work we can just bung the thing back in the box, says Jack dismissively. —No harm done.

—Then we have an agreement? I can tell you exactly where to find the chest; and we will arrange a rendezvous.

—And then you'll take me back to my ship. And, how did you put it again—you'll end my separation from her. I should warn you, you'll need to enforce her separation from someone else first. Someone wearing a bloody big hat.

—This crew can achieve that, I assure you.

—Right. Super. Agreed.

Jack puts out a hand and they shake on it; Jack's fingers, dry and warm, linger a little too long on Will's palm, and stir his lust again.

—Jack... why did you leave last night? he asks, curious. —Why did you want to stop? Was it so very unpleasant, being with me?

—Being with you? Jack pauses. —Mate, I wasn't with you. You're in that fuckin' box.

He turns, and strides away; he doesn't seem nearly as drunk as before.

*

Hardest bit about getting the chest, it turns out, is getting hold of a nice fake one to put in its place just in case dear Mrs Turner goes to check on her husband's errant organ. Not that it seems terribly likely, given its hidden location at the back of a cave guarded by all manner of traps, confusions, and toothy livestock; but with that woman, one can never be too sure.

Jack's hands tremble a little, when he holds that casket again. Same casket, but very different contents.

—Hello, he says. —Missed you, you know. Missed your spark.

He can feel the dull thud of the heart within through the carved wood, through the skin of his palms.

—You'd never have let me do what we did, would you? Never would've let me near him. Here, listen to this: he wanted to fuck!

The heartbeat doesn't really speed and strengthen. That's just his imagination.

—That's right, Jack says smugly. —You heard me.

He tucks the casket under his arm, and picks his way gingerly through the cave, out into the moonlit night.

*

—If this doesn't work, says Will. If it doesn't, and you can't undo it, and I die... I think that would make you Captain. You do realise that, don't you?

—Don't be silly. I'm already a Captain. So I think it would make me a Commodore.

Will smiles, and lights yet another lantern; there are no shadows lurking in the cabin, now. The door is well barred, and the crew have been told in no uncertain terms that there are to be no interruptions.

A sheet has been spread over the captain's long chart table, and on the desk a selection of vicious knives are arrayed; also a needle threaded with a long length of catgut, and a bottle of rum. Jack reaches for the latter, but William stays his hand.

—That's for afterwards, Jack. To cleanse the wound.

Bollocks.

Will pulls his shirt over his head, and Jack salivates and shivers just a little; this reaction doesn't escape Will's attention. He gives Jack a stony look.

—Oh, so now you want to?

—I do not, fibs Jack stoutly. —I'm just a bit nervous about the, er, medical matter at hand. Come on, up on the table.

Will lies down, calm as you please, and places a roll of leather between his teeth. A stray curl of deepest chestnut lies against the sheet like a single bird's wing. He's so strong, so placid, so sure; so beautiful.

—Ready, he says, or at least that's what Jack thinks the mumble means.

—Right. Okey-dokey then.

Jack turns the key and opens the chest. William's heart is larger, more beautifully scarlet and purple than... than the last one Jack saw. It glistens; it quivers.

Perhaps this is a really, really stupid idea.

But perhaps this is the best gift Jack has ever given anyone. He tells himself again: if things are looking dodgy, just stick it back in the box. No harm.

Well. Either no harm, or a dead man on the table, and Jack's condemned to be Ferryman for the foreseeable future.

He chooses the sharpest looking knife.

—Did I mention that this might hurt?

William does not look amused.

—I'll be quick, says Jack, surreptitiously wiping his damp palms on the back of his breeches. —Ready? Here I go.

He puts the tip of the blade to the end of the scar. There are beads of sweat on Will's forehead, but he stares resolutely upwards.

Jack cuts, swift and deep, and a low howl escapes Will; he screws up his face, and two sudden tears cascade down his temples. Jack cuts again, incising a fat red crescent, and pulls the skin and flesh back. Just like skinning a goat. Only goats don't make that noise.

Ribs. Oh fuck fuck fuck ribs. Oh fuck. There's ribs, and there's blood, how can there be this much blood when the man hasn't got a heart to pump it?

—Will, I've got to get in, I've got to, to, to—

Jack grabs a small hammer from the desk, chooses a rib, and—

Will makes a truly terrible sound. His body tenses to iron, arches violently up from the table, and then collapses back down. He's either dead or unconscious, but there's not really a lot of point in checking his pulse. The rib is cracked, and Jack yanks it aside, revealing a dark and bloody cavern.

He takes up the heart and plunges it into the tight, wet space. Nothing seems to happen. The heart keeps pulsing, but it's not... not joining up, not—

—Oh, fuck, sorry, upside down.

Jack spots the end of a fat, quivery valve and twists the heart around until its twin protuberance touches, and before his eyes the flesh melds together. A tremor runs through Will's limbs, and there's movement in the cavity of his chest, quick and subtle, impossible but real. Jack retrieves his bloodied hand, and watches in fascinated horror as the organ finds its place again; as veins and muscle wind their wet red way around it, encircling and protecting. He prods the rib back into place and with a sucking creak the break is mended. He presses the flesh back over the wound and there's no need for his needle and thread; the charm seals the cut, tight and pink, as sweet a scar as he's ever seen in his life.

Clearly the rum is not required for antiseptic purposes. Jack, on the other hand, requires it quite badly. His own heart feels as though it's quite likely to launch itself from his ribcage. A few quick swigs are very therapeutic.

He puts his gory fingertips to Will's throat, and there's a pulse there, quick and strong. Carefully, he removes the roll of leather from between Will's teeth.

—Will? William? Are you...?

—Mmm. Uh. Juh... Jack?

The young man opens his eyes, and in that instant Jack knows that it's worked. William's bleary gaze is full of delight, brimming with emotions that he hasn't shown since that black day on the lip of the whirlpool.

—Jack, you did it! You gave it back to me!

He struggles to sit up, and splays his fingers over his chest, over the tight pink line.

—It's there, isn't it? It's mine again? It's... it's all right?

—I'd say so, says Jack, shrugging as if he does heart surgery every other day. Will's grin is so wide and bright—Lord, that's a wonderful smile—and then he laughs out loud, and throws his arms around Jack, pulling him close, clutching him tight.

—Thank you, Jack. Thank you. Thank you.

—It was nothing, says Jack. —We had a bargain. He disengages himself, gently.

—We did. We do. I'll get your Pearl back for you, I promise. Because you've given me—oh, everything, Jack.

To Jack's dismay, there are more tears gathering in Will's eyes, but they are not tears of pain this time. He is smiling, laughing, crying.

—You gave me back my heart. You gave me back my... my Elizabeth. My son. My son, Jack.

—Um, hang about. Curse still applies, remember? Can't go back to them just yet.

—But they're with me, now, says William, and he smiles a wild, shining, tear-stained smile and thumps his fist on his chest. —They're here. With me.

—Perfect, says Jack, and drains the rest of the rum.


3


A certain degree of paranoia is only natural, or indeed wise, after one's crew have been convinced to sail away without one. And not for the first time neither.

The fact that they were unanimously and abjectly apologetic upon his return, and did very little to defend their latest captain when the Dutchman's crew suggested that he might want to abdicate, is helping the situation; as is the passage of time, it now being nearly two months since Jack was reinstated to his rightful position. It is also helpful to muse on the fact that nearly a dozen of the buggers spent Hector's most recent captaincy locked in the brig on account of their standing up for Jack's rights, but still. He is paranoid, and there is nothing he can do about it.

All of which is surely sufficient to account for the somewhat feminine shriek he lets out when—just as he is disrobing at the end of a long and mostly satisfying day and muttering his usual report of the day's events to his ship (who has never been conclusively proven to not be listening)—there is an unnatural sucking sound and someone strides into his cabin. Not via the door, mind you, but right through the perfectly solid bulkhead. And without knocking. It's enough to make any man jump, never mind a recently mutinied-upon one.

—I'm sorry, Jack, did I startle you? asks William politely.

—Marginally, Jack says, lowering the shirt which, he is ashamed to find, he is clutching to his chest. —That is a very clever trick though.

—I thought you would be a little more used to it, after we repossessed the Pearl.

—I wasn't surprised by the trick, I was surprised by you. But, anyway. To what do I owe the pleasure?

Will blushes just like his old self as Jack throws the shirt on the end of the bed and reveals the full state of his dishabille. These drawers really are past their best. But what can a visitor expect, when he walks in unannounced in the middle of the night? Jack is unrepentant. Besides which, the two of them have History. It is clearly far too late for maidenly modesty.

—Well, I. Um.

—Pull up a pew. Drink?

—No, no, I'm fine.

—Orange?

—Um. Well, that might be nice. Thank you.

William sits, and peels, and the pretty tang of oranges fills the air. He gazes around the cabin, his eyes sliding politely past Jack's bare skin, just like any old acquaintance popping by.

But he is not just any old acquaintance, damn him. He is the lithe golden spectre who haunts Jack's imagination and trousers. That night, that strange night when he propositioned, begged, Jack; he was so ludicrously lovely. And yet, at its core, their conjunction was soulless. Heartless. Mechanical. And what's the point of that? Jack can get that anywhere. What he wanted—wants—from William is far more, and far harder to come by, than fucking.

Now, of course, the reconstituted William is again capable of delivering that more; but the very thing that makes him capable means that he will not do it. The irony of Jack having been the one to bring this change about is perfectly eye-rolling.

—Are you settling back in, Jack? Is everything satisfactory?

—Yes indeedy. My thanks, again. Where did you deposit dear Hector?

—It's a very small South Sea island. I don't believe the natives are anthropophagous.

—Boo. Still, terrible liars in those parts, so one never knows. How's the heart?

—Good. Very good. That's... I mean, that's... part of the reason for my visit.

Oh, so there is a reason then. That makes it more interesting. —Not having second thoughts? Not suffering the pangs of familial separation too badly, and regretting our little game of chirurgeons?

—I miss them, certainly, far more than before. But no: no regrets. Will smiles that brilliant smile again, so brilliant and beautiful that it hurts; it's a terrible thing, to watch a man smile more gloriously over a sad thought than he did when he had just spilt down your throat.

Jack holds out his hand for a segment of orange, and Will's fingertips are like feathers on his palm. For a brief moment the cabin seems to sway, gimballed and unchecked.

Will says, —That's not true, actually. I do have a regret.

Jack arches an inquisitive eyebrow, his mouth full of tart sweetness.

—I regret... the way I was with you. I regret how demanding I was, and how...

Will is scarlet, and can't tear his eyes away from the orange peel which he is shredding into smaller and smaller pieces. —How unappreciative. I can't believe you did that for me, when I was... when I was so strange. It was very good of you, Jack.

It's hard to believe that Jack is being thanked for taking advantage, but apparently he is. Never look a gift horse, et cetera; Jack shrugs. —De nada.

—No, but really. The thing is. Before you put my heart back... I was a bit angry with you. I didn't understand why you wouldn't... do all the other things I was asking you to do.

The blush is travelling down his throat now, as he talks his way around in circles without ever daring to say the words. Jack is almost missing the shameless, single-minded hussy of their earlier encounter.

—You mean, why I wouldn't drop my drawers, bend over, and let you fuck me rigid?

That makes Will hide his face in his hands. —Oh, God, Jack, don't. I'm trying to say sorry. And to say that, now that I'm myself again... well, it looks different. It looks as if you might have... maybe... stopped for my own good. Because I was... you know.

—A bit mental, supplies Jack helpfully, and is relieved to see a smile hovering around William's mouth.

—Yes, I suppose I was. Non compos mentis.

—Non compos cardias, haha, says Jack, whose Latin (and indeed, in this case, Greek; although he is oblivious) is somewhat wobbly but nonetheless inventive. —And I probably shouldn't even have let you talk me into as much as you did talk me into, eh? But. Water under the bridge, mate. No hard feelings, he avers, forbearing to point out that personally, he has a delightfully hard feeling. It's all this discussion, bringing back the memory of that perfect, silky skin under his tongue... the clutch of Will's fingers as he held Jack tightly, as he gasped and shuddered and spent.

—But, says Will. And stops, and then says again, —But.

—But?

—But. The thing is, Jack. All the reasons I gave you, when I was trying to convince you... well. The thing is.

The orange peel is being reduced to atomies.

—They're all still true, says Will in a barely audible mutter, and then lifts his eyes, at last, to Jack. They're so dark, so deep; Jack shivers, his blood pounding.

—I still need, so much... and it's still ten years.

Jack decides not to point out that it's only eight and a bit, now.

—Only now it feels like twice that. Now it's worse. Because now I know. What you... what we...

Now that's a regret for you. Oh yes.

Jack is a-whirl with delight, with surprise, with lust. Heart thudding, blood seething. He stands, slowly, and takes two steps to William's side; takes a handful of his shirt-front, and tugs him gently to his feet. Face to face; eye to eye. Challenging. Breathing one another in. He says nothing. This is for Will to declare, to ask; and oh, if he asks, he will most definitely receive.

—Now I know what you can make me feel, Will mutters. —How your mouth tastes. How your skin smells. I want it, Jack, I want you, so badly. So much. Please, oh God please, and I swear it'll be so different this time.

And he lays his palm against Jack's face. But doesn't do anything, doesn't take anything; just waits, and pleads with every fibre of his body.

Jack puts his hands to William's hard, lean waist and pulls him close, and Will lets out a sudden breath, warm against Jack's mouth. Will is every bit as hard as Jack, and they move together, aligning, pressing.

—Jack...?

—Yeah.

Will leans in. His mouth touches Jack's, and that trembling, needy kiss is more arousing than all his blatant, shameless requests had been. It sends a shudder down Jack's spine. He licks, carefully, and Will's mouth opens. Obedient, greedy. A sweet taste of oranges and a sweeter gasp.

Will's hands are plucking restlessly at Jack's drawers.

—I think you're wearing too much.

—I'm wearing too much?

—Far too much.

This situation is rapidly remedied, and the expression on Will's face as he holds Jack at arms' length and inspects him is decidedly flattering.

—And you?

The look Will shoots him is pure harlotry. Jack has to swallow a sudden rush of saliva; he's dizzy with anticipation and desire, and Christ that's a beautiful man emerging, so slowly and teasingly now, from the cocoon of weskit and shirt. Boots. Breeches.

Naked, William stands with hands on hips. Watching Jack's reaction; which puts a small, victorious grin on his flushed face.

—Fuck, says Jack, and cannot wait one more solitary second. He puts a hand to Will's chest and pushes him back against the bulkhead through which he so recently appeared. Skin. Heat. Biting kisses, grabbing hands, panting, groaning. Will is strong and sure and unafraid; he spreads his hands over Jack's arse, and makes a questioning sound into Jack's mouth.

—Oh all right, says Jack, pulling back by an eighth of an inch. —You can fuck me first.

—Mmm, mmm, God, Jack, I want to so much.

He's writhing against Jack, hands everywhere, gasping. —Jack, oh you're so, you're so. Give me. I need. Mmm. You know.

—This?

—Yes. Mmm. I. I haven't. I don't know... show me.

—Here. Here.

Jack smears those long fingers with grease, turns to face the wall, and spreads his legs. He can feel the desperate pound of William's heartbeat, pressed against his spine; Will's making a sound that might be a whimper as he bites and sucks on Jack's shoulder, wriggling his fingers into the valley of Jack's arse.

—There?

Jack tilts his hips, hisses through his teeth. It's harsh. Dirty. Fabulous.

—More.

—Oh Jack, Jesus, Jack. It's so. You're so.

—More. I want your cock. Do it.

The hand leaves him, there's breath roaring in his ear, a scent of smoke and fruit. Pressing flesh, pushing, thrusting, distending. Jack groans low and Will shudders against him.

—Can I can I can I ah fuck so tight can I?

For answer Jack reaches behind himself, digs his fingers into hard, muscled buttocks and pulls. Will howls, stumbles, is buried deep.

—Oh Christ, I'm, I'm—

—Shh. Shh. Move. Give me your hand, I want your hand.

Will sucks in a huge breath and buries his face in Jack's hair as he reaches round and takes hold of Jack's aching cock. He pulls out, careful and gentle, and then twists his hips with a glorious ferocity as he rams back in.

—Ah! That's it, oh that's so it. Do that again.

—I'm going to, I'm going to do it again and again and again and again, it's all I want, it's all...

And then the babble of words fails him and he's fucking Jack like he was made for it, like it was the point and purpose of his whole goddamn life, till the worn black bulkhead's slick with Jack's sweat. He braces his palms flat against it, arching his spine, wants more and more and more even though it's near splitting him in two. Will's hand is untutored but determined, his grip firm and callused. Heaven.

—God, I want to do this to you, Jack pants. —I'm going to fuck your perfect arse till you wail.

—Yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah, oh fuck Jack!

He shudders and sobs and comes, his fingers slack on Jack's yard. Breathes hard as he rests all his weight against Jack. Jack's so close to spending, so close; he wraps his own hand around Will's and shoves into their joint fist.

—No. No, wait, I—I want—I owe you.

And William's turning Jack around and kneeling down before him, his strong angel's face glowing and joyful. He licks his way along the line of muscle below Jack's hip. His tongue is very pointed. At Jack's groin he pauses, looks up solemnly.

—This is nice, he informs Jack, po-faced. —You'll like it.

He winks, and Jack starts to laugh, but it turns into a happy moan as he's taken deep into Will's hot, moist mouth. There's a heavy throb in his newly-fucked arse that twinges in sympathy with each firm, delicious swirl of Will's tongue; with each long and fervent suck. And to watch it, to watch it...

Ecstasy is pooling rapidly in his belly, squirming in his balls.

—Will. Will I'm coming. I'm—

—Mmmm.

Jack's head bangs back against wood, his knees buckle, he makes an animal noise. It's perfect. Heartfelt. Perfect.


*

Will shrugs his coat up onto his shoulders, and kneels by the bed. Gives Jack a last, long, lazy kiss.

—I have to go. But I'll come back soon.

—You'd bloody well better. You still owe me one.

Will grins. —I promise.

—Promise?

Standing, Will splays both hands over his chest. Looks at Jack for a long, grateful, lovely moment.

—Promise. With all my heart.