Sometimes, even Jack Sparrow's surprised—not to mention perversely impressed—with the sheer ferocity of his own survival instinct.

Other people, he suspects, have no inkling of just how wild and strong a thing it is. And being underestimated is always a mark in one's favour. Always.

Anyway, that instinct's taken over day-to-day functioning for some time now, and that's a great relief to Jack. The instinct can do things that Jack'd really struggle with. Such as selecting his crew members, one by one, and standing by with his eyes closed while they're given the ol' barbe-au-cul and turned, screaming and begging and cursing him to every level of hell, into supper.

Such as accepting, with a gracious smile and an appreciative lip-smack, the best charry tidbits.

Jacks suspects many fellows' survival instincts would, at this point, have quietly suggested that survival was not—in these circumstances—a worthwhile aim, and fallen upon their metaphorical swords. But Jack's?

Jack's has just been calculating, each time he's taken to the cages to select the next meal, who's still expendable.

The dwarf hasn't got long to go, that's for bloody certain. Nice chap and all that, but really. If a sudden chance for escape is going to present itself, Jack needs all the long strong limbs he can get.

And then, as if the words long strong limbs were a calling spell, a most utterly unexpected voice breaks into Jack's reflections. It's so very utterly unexpected that for a moment Jack can't bring himself to open his eyes; and when he does, he takes a moment to just stare like an imbecile.

Even upside down and trussed like a pig, William Turner Junior is one very, very handsome creature. It's no fucking wonder he's been causing such havoc with Jack's compass, quite frankly.

He's definitely not high on the expendability list.

This is really quite exceptionally unexpected. And such unexpected things are clearly Meant To Be, and Fated, and Meaningful. Ergo, whether anyone else realises it or not, Jack Sparrow knows that this is the opportunity for escape that he has been waiting for.

He's consequently feeling quite ridiculously optimistic as he pokes and prods young William, and expresses his severe disappointment in his own creative approximation of the local lingo. So cheered that he takes that final step that he's been considering (and that his survival instinct's been firmly vetoing) for all these weeks. So cheered that even as he's verbally signing his own execution order—suggesting that he's waited quite long enough, now, for corporeal release, and certainly shouldn't be behind this wretched exemplar in the queue—he throws in a little eunuch joke, just for William's entertainment. So cheered that when he mutters, 'oeSave me!' he doesn't even stop to wonder just how the hell William's supposed to manage what his entire crew have so far failed to achieve.

*

And he was right, wasn't he? Well, sort of. William didn't exactly rescue him. But he created enough of a diversion for Jack to rescue himself, and that's just as good. Jack's feeling mightily philanthropic towards that boy as he climbs back aboard the Pearl.

Aye, philanthropic, that's the word. He tries very hard to ignore the other elements of his reaction to Will Turner's presence. 'Specially when it turns out that Will didn't exactly come seeking Jack for his own reasons. He's on a mission again. For that girl of his, who's got herself in yet another scrape.

Jack says something rude about locking her up. He probably shouldn't, but there you go.

Will's mission, apparently, involves Jack giving him the compass. Will advises Jack of this fact quite straight-faced, as if there is even the tiniest smidgeon of a sliver of a flicker of a chance that Jack's just going to hand it on over.

Will doesn't seem to've brought a damned thing in trade. Well, if he's not going to offer anything, Jack'll just have to nominate something himself. Wouldn't be a proper deal, otherwise.

And what Jack would like, right now, is a bit more of William Turner Junior's handsome company to distract Jack from his logarithmically expanding collection of Problems. And maybe a bit of his help to solve one or two of 'em and all, since he's so motivated and not too incompetent with a sword. Not that William needs to see those problems laid out in all their horrible hairy glory, eh? So Jack requests a little aid, and plays down the more suicidal aspects of the situation.

'Sides, it makes sense, now that Jack knows the boy's pater's on that cursed ship. Surely a sudden sight of his long-lost offspring'd be enough to get Bill on side if necessary? Good bit of leverage, that.

Easy as pie, it is, to get Will to agree to a trade: key for compass. So easy that Jack might even feel bad about it, if his survival instinct weren't still all stiff and quivering and desperate.

*

Will's dizzied by it all, by the speed and confusion and glitter and darkness of only a day in Jack Sparrow's company. Only a day: and yet he's done and seen and been more, in that day, than he surely has in the past year. In all the time since he last laid eyes on Jack.

It's no wonder, is it, that he can't think straight. Traps and cannibals and death and this madwoman, this priestess of Jack's, who looks at him as if he's food, and knows things she can't possibly know. Who looks at him, and looks at Jack, and laughs wide and dirty, and wrinkles up her nose in some savage delight, as if she can see right down into the secret recesses of his heart. As if she can see...

Will grinds his teeth together and hardens his face and stands still and careful. Mustn't let it show, mustn't let anything show. It's a madness, a sickness, this thing inside him, and it can't be. Won't be.

He watches the witch throwing her charms, and chants silently to himself, a safe piece of magic of his own, a mantra to keep him safe. Elizabeth. Long and sibilant and warm and strong, her name is the name of what should be, and—God damn it—will be.

He curses Cutler Beckett for every vicious thing he's done: and not least, oh not least, for sending Will back into the wicked, enticing vortex of Jack Sparrow's presence.

*

—She liked you eh? Jack goads as he charts the heading Tia Dalma has provided.

—I don't think she's right in the head, Will responds tartly.

—'Course not, what use would that be? Jack shoves the rum bottle in Will's direction. God damn, that boy needs loosening up.

—Anyway, how did she know my name? Have you told her about me?

—Me? Why would I tell her about you? Haven't seen you for a year or more, mate. What makes you think I'm wandering the seas gossiping about you?

—I don't think any such thing. But how did she know it?

—Don't you b'lieve in the inexplicable yet? How many curses d'you have to lift, 'fore you'll countenance it?

—I suppose.

Will takes a long swig. The bottle trembles in his hand; clinks against his teeth. They sit in silence for a moment while Jack tracks his long pencil line across the seas, to a reefy shoal.

—There.

—Where's there?

—It's where we're going. It's where the key is.

—How far is it?

—Should be there just before dawn, if this wind keeps up its end of the bargain.

That means they've got a whole evening to fill in, eh? An evening and most of a night besides. And Jack doesn't feel like sleeping. Not while he's out here, with this mark on his palm. Not while that beastie's looking for him. Doesn't feel like anything much, 'cept for hiding and drinking and searching for distraction.

He looks sideways at William, distraction incarnate, who is sitting ramrod straight and holding himself unnaturally still, as if he's a child who cannot trust himself to behave. What is it with the boy? No, mustn't call him that anymore. He's a grown man. Well grown. Very well grown. Look at the shoulders on him! Oh, that's a distraction alright. But. As Tia Dalma (freakishly perspicacious creature that she is) noted, he is not a distraction that Jack is willing to claim for his own.

Because it's doomed, ain't it? William has eyes only for Elizabeth. Besides which, he's entirely righteous and proper and all those other irritating things that Jack's spent his lifetime trying to avoid. And tempting though it is to try and reverse that situation...

No, no, no. There's no point to't. Got to keep the fellow on side, not enrage him by revealing that you're itching to get your hands on his (lovely, proper, affianced, not interested) goods.

—I'll go on up, then, says Will into the silence that's fallen. See if I can help the men.

—What? Don't be ridiculous. They're a tight knit unit, they are. You'd only get in the way. I try it all the time, Jack exaggerates. —They usually tell me to fuck off.

—A very tight knit unit, Jack; there's no more than a handful of them.

—There's no call to remind me of that, William. Need I explain that I personally presided over the incinerations of most of the rest of my crew?

William looks stricken. —That was so thoughtless of me, Jack. I apologise. Good Lord, it must have been...

—It was. Pass the rum, will you?

Jack fills a mug, and gives the bottle back. Will drinks, and looks around the Great Cabin. Jack follows his eyes across the warm glimmer of wood, the lantern-light reflected in the mullioned stern window. The faded globe, dirty with handmarks and love. The curtained alcove to one side where Jack sleeps. When he sleeps, which ain't been much recently.

—It's lovely, isn't it, Jack? It must be very good to have it all back again.

Jack doesn't say anything; he's too busy trying not to stare or salivate overly much. All his firm self-instruction about Doom and Futility and so on isn't working terribly well, under the combined onslaught of rum, mortal terror, and William Turner's unreasonable handsomeness. Damn and blast it! He's tried so hard, the last year, to put this pretty creature—those two pretty creatures—well, alright, some days those three pretty creatures—out of his mind and to look forwards, only forwards; and in the last few months, what with the impending Deadline and all, he's almost managed it. On the surface, at least; according to his bastard compass, he hasn't been entirely successful. It's all very inconvenient.

—Isn't it? Jack?

—Eh?

—Isn't it good, to have it all back?

—What? Yes. Absolutely. Better than you can imagine, love.

—So: this key. Will pulls out the scrap and peers at it again. —How big is it?

—I don't bloody know. It's approximately key-sized.

—Because I could make it, you know. If we can't find it, or it's too dangerous. I just need to know how big it should be. Where's the lock?

—What? I haven't got the lock.

Will frowns. —What good is a key without the thing it unlocks?

—Buggery none, William, if we must couch matters in such dispiritingly practical terms.

—Then why don't we go looking for the thing it unlocks, and then I'm sure I can estimate the size of the key, and make one for you. If we can't just pick the lock, which I'm also sure that one or the both of us could manage.

—But I don't know where to find the thing it unlocks, and I do know where to find the key, so I'll start where I can, alright? Besides which, the important thing about the key is not necessarily that I have it, but that someone else doesn't have it, and doesn't know, till I want him to, that I have it.

Will looks at him blankly. Jack knows it doesn't make a lot of sense. Dammit, if he could get the fucking compass to point to the chest, he would. Wouldn't need the key at all. But he can't. It points to fifteen other things that take his fancy; but it won't point to the chest. And Jack suspects he knows why.

Problem with magick, particularly the blacker sort, is that it's repulsively pedantic. And though Jack does, in theory, want the chest, it's only because it would give him something to bargain with Davy Jones.

And bargaining with Davy Jones means encountering Davy Jones.

And encountering Davy Jones is the thing Jack wants least in the whole fucking world.

And the bloody compass knows that. So he's fucked. Can't go straight to end-game.

Has to start somewhere though. And the key's the next best first step, ain't it?

—Enough of this: you hungry? I confess I'm not feeling particularly carnivorous at the moment, but I doubt we've got any meat at any rate, so will some biscuit and pease do you?

*

Dinner is both sparse and repulsive, but what does it matter when you've got plenty of lubrication, and something so astoundingly pretty to look at? If this is going to be Jack's last evening as a living soul, it's not so very bad. Though he wishes to God, and to several other less benevolent Beings, that the boy would just relax. He's wound up tight as a drum, and near leaps out of his skin if Jack's hand so much as brushes against his arm in the course of conversation. Which it does, quite a lot, as it happens, because the flinching is so very entertaining, as is the flushing that accompanies it.

Watching this, and giving in to a wicked urge, Jack says, conversationally: So, you were cruelly robbed of the ol' wedding night, eh?

—Yes, manages Will, through gritted teeth and a prodigiously amusing rush of blood to his capillaries.

—And, knowing you as I do, may I presume that it was going to be... a novel experience on your part? Oh, and Elizabeth's. Of course. Goes without saying. Don't it.

Will just glares at him, then looks away.

—Oooh, commiserations, William. No wonder you're so tense. You need relief, you do.

Young William swallows hard and takes another swig of rum. He shakes his head, and his pretty mouth twists repressively.

It's cruel, what's being done to him. He don't deserve such things. A fellow with a more tractable survival instinct would be writhing with guilt over hatching plans to involve such a specimen in an almost certainly suicidal mission.

Jack, fortunately for some and less so for others, is no such fellow. And his Instinct is muttering at him, all the time, sotto voce: Come on, it makes sense, makes perfect sense. Can't go over meself, can I? Captain's got the key, she said. But him: well, he don't know it, but he's got an ally over there, ain't he? And he's competent, eh? And he's got the best reason in the world to want to succeed, don't he? If either one of us can do this, he's the one. Not me.

*

Despite these reassuring justifications, Jack has found it necessary to medicate his qualms with a truly heroic volume of Strong Drink. Such an heroic volume that, in the dark hours of the night, he finds himself unintentionally asleep on the table.

Well, more accurately, he finds himself unintentionally awake, which is only possible because he was, previously, unintentionally asleep. And in fact his waking is utterly intentional, on the part of the waker: one William Turner, who is standing over Jack and poking him irritably.

—Jack! Wake up, damn you!

Damn you? That's a change of tune. Perhaps William's over-imbibed too.

—What?

—This stupid thing doesn't even work. How can I take this back to Cutler Beckett if it doesn't work? Have you broken it?

—Oh, calm down. You don't even know how it works, mate, so how can you tell if it's broken?

—Yes I do. It's supposed to show you the way to the Isla de Muerta.

It's not worth the effort of correcting him, nor of reprimanding him for his sneak thievery. Besides which, the latter is rather cheering. Jack pours some more rum, to wake himself up.

—So how d'you know it's not pointing to the Isla? You don't know where the Isla is.

—Because it changes all the time.

—Really?

That's interesting. Jack would've bet a lot of money on its pointing, fiercely and unwaveringly, in the direction of a certain blonde chit. He lurches somewhat unsteadily upright and braces himself on Will's shoulder, the better to check the direction of the compass-arrow. Maybe the wretched thing is broken, and it's not Jack's fault after all that he can't get the answers he wants.

—See? You've broken it. It just points at you all the time. Are you carrying a lodestone?

Will scowls at him, fiercely. Something skittery and many-legged scuttles pleasurably down Jack's spine.

—Oh, is all that he can manage. —Oh. Pointing at me? Really?

He saunters over to the doorway. —What about now?

—Yup.

He wanders over to the cot. Poses, ankles crossed and one hand on the curtain, smiling widely. —Now?

—Yes, Jack, I've tested it quite thoroughly, I assure you.

—Bet I can make it point to something else, says Jack, revoltingly cheerful.

—Go on then. Will proffers the compass. Jack takes it. The arrow swerves, bounces, rights itself.

—See?

Will frowns down at the arrow, quivering as it points to his own chest. —So it just points to the nearest person? What use is that? How did that ever get you to the Isla? It is broken, isn't it? Dammit, Jack, Beckett will renege if it's broken. I know he will.

—Shut up about Beckett. The compass ain't broken. Here, have some more rum.

Is it worth trying to explain the mechanicks of this? Or is it enough just to know? Perhaps a more... oblique approach is called for here. Though it's bloody hard to be cunning and oblique with this much laughter and surprise and delight and sheer thumping desire running through your veins.

—So, William: you were saying before I fell asleep, that you and your darling haven't given in to your animal urges yet, and done the devilish deed?

—I was saying no such thing, and stop trying to change the subject.

—I'm not.

—Yes you are, you bloody liar. What about this damn'd compass?

Jack's so fizzy with lust and glee he thinks he might explode. Keys and chests and maniacal sea-monsters have temporarily quit his head altogether. He stands very close to William, the compass held between them.

—I'm not changing the subject. I'm merely exploring its outermost boundaries.

William smells delicious. He does not move away; is doing that still thing again, that motionless pose of a wild animal that's hoping you can't see it. The only movement is the muscle in his jaw, and the bounce of a vein in his neck; but those are sufficient to tell Jack that Will's starting to crack. Oh yes.

—See, I'm having a suspicion, says Jack. —A very strong suspicion. That you've been having animal urges in a different direction. A very different direction. A diametrically opposed direction, you might even say.

—I don't know what you mean.

—I'm not saying you don't fancy your Elizabeth. She's very fanciable. But she ain't the only one as takes your eye, now, is she?

—How dare you? I've never looked at another woman. Never.

—Did I say you had?

—You're impossible. You're contradicting yourself every time you open your mouth!

The oblique approach is not really working. Fuck it. The night is short: time for something more direct.

—Alright then. Watch this. See me holding this compass? See where it's pointing?

—Oh, we're back on that, are we?

—We've been here all along, I told you I wasn't changing the subject. Here, take it.

Will frowns; but does. The moment Jack's fingers leave its worn wood casing, it swings.

Jack leans close. So close that he can feel the heat of Will's face on his own, and the compass is pressed between them.

—The compass, he whispers, —points to the thing you want, William. The thing you want, but don't have. Which once, for me, was the Pearl; and she was, handily enough, at the Isla; but now... now I've got her. An' now I want something else.

Will's eyes widen, and for a split second Jack gets a glimpse of something wild and hopeful; and then he lets go of the compass, as though it's burned him. The lid snaps shut as it hits the deck, and it rolls under the table.

—Who was that, before, going on about breaking the damn thing? grumbles Jack, mostly under his breath.

—That is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard. And besides: I don't, says Will, folding his arms and stepping back.

—Don't what? Don't break things?

—I don't want you. How could I want you? Don't be absurd. I'm about to marry Elizabeth. And you're... you're...

—I'm what? A pirate? Come on, you love pirates. A scoundrel? Pfft, not such a scoundrel that you didn't think my life worth saving.

Will says nothing, just swallows and blushes and scowls and fidgets, but (hearteningly) does not run away. Jack (heartened) (not to mention somewhat drunk) (and only hours away from probable death) takes matters into his own hands; he runs a fingertip along the hard ridge of Will's collarbone, where his shirt opens wide. Warm; satin. Gorgeous. Will stops breathing.

—I'm... a man?

Will doesn't even nod, but somehow manages with his stare to convey that this is indeed the primary issue at hand.

—Oh, don't worry about that; that's the good bit, says Jack brightly, and steps just a little closer. —I am indeed a man. So there ain't any way you can be 'ccused of messing about with another woman, is there? An' I ain't about to want a ring from you; and there ain't even the slightest chance that, nine months from now, I'll turn up with a squalling bundle and ruin your nice shiny new marriage, is there? It's easy.

—But—but it's...

—Yes, yes, terribly naughty and frowned upon, I know. But what can we do, darlin'? The compass has the right of it. I want you. You want me. Here we are, in the dead of night, in this lovely cosy private cabin, wanting each other.

—What—Jack, I don't even understand what it is that I want. No, I do: I want Elizabeth. I can't want you. That's just... damn it! Will snaps. —That's perverse, it's wrong, it's sick, it's—

—Aye, aye. And shall I show you what else it is?

And Jack puts a hand to Will Turner's trembling shoulder, and gently, carefully, surely, kisses him on the mouth.

*

It must be because he's had too much of the man's damned rum. Or perhaps it's because he's so crazed with exhaustion after all those weeks of searching and now this wild, endless day of finding; or because he's so horribly, madly frustrated by having his wedding night stolen away from under him. But whatever the reason, whatever it is, the outcome's the same.

Jack Sparrow's mouth touches Will's. Jack Sparrow's warmth beats against Will's skin. Jack Sparrow's rich warm smell envelops him, and Jack Sparrow's chest presses against Will as he leans forward. And Will?

Will's blood seethes and boils, he sucks in a frantic breath and his heart expands till it's a great thumping beast in his chest; his yard fills and hardens with obscene speed. He can't hold back an animal sound, a keening groan, a sob and a laugh and a growl, a protest and a welcome all in one. He drops the mask, or Jack's touch rips it from him. His arms clutch Jack Sparrow to him; his mouth, oh God, his mouth opens, and so does Jack's.

So much. So much, pressed against him. Jack's hands on his waist, burning through cloth. Jack's heartbeat. Jack's, oh fuckfuckfuck, Jack's hard yard, there, against Will's hip. And most of all, Jack's mouth, the wet forbidden heat of his mouth, the taste of metal and liquor and Jack Sparrow. It's so impossible, that Jack wants this too. That Jack can offer this, and Will can take it. How can this be? How can it be, that Will Turner is kissing a man, this man?

But he is. He is, and the pleasure it's bringing him is fierce and sharp and hotter than the sun.

Jack moves against him. Slides his hips, grinds his cock into alignment with Will's, though he doesn't stop kissing him. Will's kissing him back, without any thought, without any design, without (he fears) any skill, but he can't stop himself to save his life. More sounds are breaking free, greedy whimpering sounds that should shame him, but the low humming growl of Jack's response leaves him shaky with delight.

Jack's tongue withdraws. Jack, in more of a devilish drawl than ever, mutters: —Christ Almighty, William, you—

—Shut up! Will begs, demands. He cannot speak, cannot possibly discuss this. Cannot trade quips and teases with Jack, not now. That would require thought; and thought is a luxury he cannot afford, not if he's to get what he wants, what he so desperately, desperately needs. If he thinks about it he will stop. He mustn't think. He must only do. He must only feast on the ridiculously magnetic glory that is Jack, must only feel the press of his warm sinewy body, must only revel in the deliciousness of his touch.

Jack will not say no. Jack will not make him wait, and wait. The way that Will has said no to Elizabeth, the way that Will has made them both wait.

Jack's talking again. —I'll shut up just as soon as you've told me what you want. Then I'll shut my gob and do it. Or open my gob and do it, as the case may be. He's grinning, and curving himself up against Will; one of his hands is caressing the back of Will's neck, the other sidling down to his buttocks. Will trembles. Mustn't think.

—I don't know, he blurts. —Don't make me... I mean, just, oh God, just do something, Jack, help me. Help me.

—Shhh. Shhh.

Jack's kissing him again. Warm, treacly, treacherously good. Then whispering, as he unbuttons Will's waistcoat, pushes it off his shoulders. —Won't make you do anything, mate. Just do as you please. We can do as we please.

He tugs Will's shirt free of his trowsers, and then his hand is on the skin of Will's belly, and Will realises in a rush that skin is what he wants, too. He pulls his shirt over his head, clumsy but quick; starts working at the knot of Jack's sash, the buckle of his wide belt, and Jack helps him, grinning, muttering, —I'd say slow down and take your time, but fuck knows we don't have a lot of that, so you go for it, darlin'.

And then Jack Sparrow's as bare-chested as Will himself, and when he kisses Will again, pulls him roughly close again, oh Christ, it's ten times what it was before, it's skin on his skin, a body against his body, and Will's hands are roaming and clutching and greedy and mad with want.

Jack tilts his head away suddenly, looks at Will as if for permission: and as he does it, he runs his fingers up the long hard fabric-covered line of Will's yard. Will's mouth drops open, he squeezes his eyes shut. Oh dear God. Dear God.

—May I, William? Even though I'm a pirate, scoundrel, man, et cetera?

—Shut up.

—I shall take that as a yes.

Will's breath is coming short and irregular, his whole body is quivering, and then Jack's unbuttoned him, and slipped his hand inside. The heel of his hand rubs down the length of Will's yard; his fingers curl round, between Will's thighs, fondling him. Will grabs at the table, staggers back against it, blasted by Jack's touch.

—Well, you are enthused, aren't you?

—Please shut up.

Jack just laughs, and presses closer, licking at Will's ear. He wraps his fingers around and pulls, two, three long strokes.

—Oh, f—f—fuck!

—An excellent suggestion, darlin', but let's not gorge ourselves straight away. I think someone as delightful as yourself deserves a bit of... savouring, don't you?

Will, entirely incapable of a sensible response to this frankly brain-melting comment, manages only a rather feeble whimpering sound.

—'Cause I want to savour this, murmurs Jack, licking at Will's neck. —And this, oh yes, def'nitely this. (Collarbone, the folds of skin at his armpit.) —This goes, of course, without saying. (Will's nipple: and then—)

—Jack, what...?

For Jack's kneeling before him; his tongue is circling Will's navel, his hand is still moving on Will's cock, and his beard scrapes gently over the shiny, stretched skin of Will's cockhead. He looks up at Will, his black eyes glinting with dirty pleasure, as he turns his tongue's attentions to Will's yard.

Will's knees are close to buckling. One of Jack's bare, muscled arms is around his hips, holding him steady (taking the opportunity to fondle his arse, while it's at it); the other hand's playing with Will's balls, and Jack's opening his mouth, his impossibly beautiful mouth, his forbidden and outlawed and illicit mouth, and taking Will's cock inside, into close slippery heat that feels like nothing, nothing Will's ever felt before, but it's so ferociously good that he lets out a shout. Jack glances up at him, a glance full of lust and laughter and fevery excitement, and winks.

Someone hammers on the door, and Will gasps, freezes. Oh God no, no—

Jack, with a slow wet sucking sound that Will is sure is deliberate, releases him. The air's chill on wet skin.

—Whoever you are and whatever it is, shouts Jack, —I'd really really really appreciate it if you could deal with it without me, for just a tick. Really. Really.

Mr Gibbs shuffles and sighs outside the door. —Thought you might like to know, Jack, that we're coming up on the reef. Can see a ship on it.

Something black and cold falls over Jack's face. —Right, he says. —Be up in a minute.

He turns back to Will with a rueful smile. —Nuisance, that. Sure we've got time to finish... helping you, though, mate. And his cunning hand starts to move again.

But the spell's been broken. Will's thinking again. Realising what a piece of insanity this was. Dear Lord, he was nearly discovered, half naked, with his cock in Jack Sparrow's mouth! He reclaims his errant body part, and angrily does up his buttons.

—Get up, he tells Jack though gritted teeth. —Get up.

Jack does, and Will's gut lurches again, at the sight of him standing there, the gleaming curves of his lithe torso, the way his half-smile narrows his eyes, the way his wild hair lies (what does it feel like?) over his shoulders; the way his yard presses still against his trowsers' confinement.

—'S'alright, mate, he won't be back for a bit. An' he don't ever come in without an invitation. He's learned that lesson the hard way. Oh go on... let me. You know you want me to. An' then p'rhaps you could—

—No. Absolutely not. I don't know what came over me.

Will bends to get his shirt; Jack crouches down beside him, reaches past him, under the table, and picks up the compass.

—Truth came over you, Will. You can't just pretend it didn't.

—What, you want me to trust in that compass, in some stupid broken voudoun trickery, instead of what's obvious to the rest of the civilised world—that I'm the incredibly lucky man who's won Elizabeth Swann's hand, and that I'll do anything for her? Because that, Jack, is what I want. Elizabeth. She's the only reason I'm here. This was just... a mistake. An accident.

Jack just stares at him, a long, pitchy, knowing stare. Will sets his jaw and stares right back. His blood's still thrumming, but he can make it feel more like anger than lust. He's getting good at that, now.

—I apologise for what I did. It was wrong, and not part of my plan. I shan't trouble you again, he tells Jack as he puts on his clothes.

Jack, for once, doesn't say much. He dresses, and very pointedly pockets the compass; opens the cabin door, and waves Will through it with great courtesy.

*

It's still dark. In the distance, white lines of breaking waves mark out the reef; a broken skeleton of a ship sags painfully on the rocks.

—So what's your plan? says Jack. His gut's churning with the acid sweetness of unrequited lust, with frustration, with irritation, with a huge ugly welter of regret and guilt and fear. He keeps his face blank. William Turner's given him a good lesson in the fine art of bottling up all that emotional crap, tonight. Crap. Truth. Call it what you will. Might as well be either, if the truth don't matter.

Will, who has clearly not given this a moment's thought, outlines something nave and suicidal about just going on over there and doing the job.

He's got no bloody idea. Of course. Since Jack didn't give him one.

They lower a boat into the black sea. Will doesn't meet Jack's gaze. He's going to do this, he's really going to do it. To go and face Davy Jones and his undead crew, alone.

And if he's caught—no, when he's caught, for that's a necessary part of the plan, ain't it?—Jack knows, now, what'll happen.

Davy Jones will ask that half-dead, terrified lad whether he chooses to go down into the great unknown, the eternal cold nothingness of death; or whether he chooses to live on as part of the Dutchman's crew. And William Turner, the most ludicrously dutiful and noble and righteous fellow that Jack knows—so dutiful, noble, etc, that he will turn away from his own true deep desires, to do what he thinks is right and proper—will choose death.

Which a) will mean that Will's gone forever, which is obviously a Bad Thing, but also b) will mean that Jack's not going to get the fucking key, is he? Which is possibly even worse.

So how can he make sure that Will's taken on the Dutchman?

God rot it, this is complicated.

Luckily, Jack's good at complicated. He leans down, as Will's climbing over the gunwale.

—If you should happen to meet Davy Jones, he says (neutrally, seriously, sensibly, and not while giving that delicious mouth one last deep and greedy kiss); —You could try telling him you're there to settle Jack Sparrow's debt.

Will gives him a suspicious and quizzical look. The moonlight silvers the planes of his rain-wet face. Jack sees him, again, open-mouthed and shocked and trembling at the glory of the first touch of someone else's mouth on his body. His gorgeous body. He swallows.

—Might just save your life, says Jack: and turns away, before he throttles his survival instinct with his own bare hands.

Read Survival: Post Mortem

Author's Notes:

This story came about because, after viewing Dead Man's Chest, I was... hmmm. How can I put this succinctly and yet kindly? Underwhelmed. Yeah.

Actually I was pissed; and poor darling viva_gloria had to put up with vast amounts of self-indulgent harping and complaining. Which she did, with her usual grace. And chief amongst my complaints was the lack of plot integrity. What is the POINT of the KEY? I demanded, in shouty capitals. And, even if we assume there's a POINT to the KEY, which there's NOT (I am missing out all the rude words and rage-driven-misapostrophising that viva_gloria was subjected to, aren't you grateful?) what is the POINT of a PICTURE OF THE KEY? And WHY is Jack so UTTERLY VICIOUSLY VILE to Will? And WHAT is supposed to be wrong with the COMPASS? And—

Yeah, yeah, yada yada yada, you get the idea. What a carry-on.

Anyway, my dear long-suffering friend listened to all this, corrected my more heinous misinterpretations, agreed politely with some of my complaints, and then patiently pointed me in the direction of various things that she thought might reinstate my sense of perspective.

And lo, she pointed me here to where veronica_rich was being enormously cunning in terms of her interpretation of several things. And a little light went on in my head. A little voice muttered If you don't like it, babygirl, you don't have to take it on face value, do you? Go fix it your way; isn't that what fanfiction is for?

So, this piece doesn't answer all my queries or patch all the holes. (Does my head even contain that much polyfilla?) But it makes me feel better about the stupid key. And why Will and Jack are acting like such asses.

Thank you, dearest viva_gloria, for the much-needed beta, and the tea and sympathy when I was being pathetic. And thank you, veronica_rich, even though you don't know you did it, for restoring my will to live. Or at least my will to write J/W smut.

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