The air in Tia Dalma's tiny house is shimmery with the reflected light of candles on water, redolent of the swamp and of overripe fruit, of mud and despair.

—If there was anything that could be done to bring him back... Will mutters.

He doesn't know why he says it. It's a stupid thing to say. There is, quite obviously, nothing that could bring him back. Jack Sparrow was devoured by a leviathan, his body dragged down to the depths in the acid belly of a monster. He's as gone as gone can be.

He's never coming back, and no-one like him will ever walk this earth again.

No-one like him. Perhaps that's a good thing. No-one as wicked, no-one as vicious, no-one with such a terrible, beautiful power over Will's senses and his sense. Just thinking about him fills Will with a dark, cloudy, shameful heat.

And shameful it is. Not just because of what Will did, what he felt; but because of everything that happened since. How can Jack, the memory of Jack, still have that power? After all he did? After he... touched Will, and then sent him off to Davy Jones, leaving him ignorant of all that awaited him there? After he turned on Will on the island, setting Norrington against him, blaming Will for all that man's misfortunes?

After he kissed Elizabeth?

Kissed her, aye, and how much more? There's no telling. Not after what he did to Will himself. The kissing, and the licking, and the... the mouth.

Will's going to go mad. He stabs the table with his knife again. He's so angry with Jack, so angry with Elizabeth. But he's got no right to be angry with her, really. Having done the same damn thing himself. It makes his rage a strange and unfamiliar thing. William Turner's used to anger, but only, ever, the righteous sort.

He's never felt so alone in his life. And over there, holding her untouched mug and staring at nothing, Elizabeth looks the same. As well she might. She knows what she did, and thinks it her secret alone. But she doesn't know what Will did. She can't ever know, Will tells himself sternly. I will just forgive her, and... and we'll move forward, and reclaim our lives, and all this lunacy will never have been.

—Elizabeth, he starts to say. But the witch interrupts him.

—Would you do it? Hmmm?

For a moment, Will doesn't follow; then he realises she's responding to his (utterly rhetorical) question of a moment before.

—What... would you? Hmmm? she says, in that thick treacly voice of hers, fixing first Will, and then Elizabeth to the spot with her bloodshot eyes. Elizabeth looks guilty. Looks afraid.

Tia Dalma turns, surveys them all, slow and curious. —What would any of you be willin' to do? Hmmm? Would you sail to de ends of de eart', and beyond, to fetch back wicked Jack and 'im precious Pearl?

It's not a serious question, is it? Will's half afraid it might be. He finds himself thinking about it just as hard as if it were.

Would he want Jack back? Jack the betrayer, Jack the forbidden, Jack the temptation and the liar and the thief?

Wicked Jack, pretty Jack, fierce and funny, clever Jack? Jack of a thousand faces and secrets and possibilities? Jack whose touch ran though Will's bones like a lightning strike, and left him shuddery and dumb with pleasure? Jack who put his mouth to Will's, and breathed lust and truth and need into him? Jack who was brave enough to leap into the jaws of the beast, to save their lives at the price of his own?

—Aye, he whispers, when his turn comes. For every wrong reason in the world, aye.

Seems a safe enough answer, to the rhetorical question of a madwoman. Until Hector Barbossa walks into the room, and the rhetorical turns literal, head over heels and contrary to every law of nature.

*

—Wake up, Turner. Wake up, man.

Will, who's barely made it to sleep in the last grey hour before dawn, groans as he's dragged back into the waking world by Gibbs' voice; but the rush of memory slaps him, effective as a bucketful of cold water.

—Time t'go.

The men've slept in the boat, rocked by the river and tortured by mosquitoes. Elizabeth slept in the witch's house; but by the look of her, when she opens the door to Will and Gibbs, she found it no more restful.

—Are you alright? he asks her, stiffly.

—Why wouldn't I be?

There are so many answers to that one he really doesn't even want to start. Instead he asks whether they're ready to go.

—Go? says a dark voice behind him, and there's Tia Dalma behind him, running a nail down his spine. It stings, where it passes over the half-healed welts; he could swear she actually slows down, presses harder, as her nail crosses them.

—Yes, go, repeats Will. —As we discussed last night, our first order of business is to find ourselves a ship.

—I think you'll find that's my first order of business, says Barbossa, who's sitting at the table with one ankle on the other knee, eating yet another bloody apple. —Being the captain, and all.

An apple suddenly rolls off the table, and across the floor, and out the door, and off the verandah; a small plopping sound announces its permanent disappearance. Barbossa swears. Tia Dalma laughs her dirty, dirty laugh. —None o' dat! she cries, spinning round in a circle, wagging her finger at nothing. —None o' dat, my wicked dear.

She's a lunatick. But that's by-the-by.

—Yes, yes, you're the captain. But you'll still need our help to get a ship.

Tia Dalma's right in front of him then, too close. She puts a finger on Will's mouth and he smells cinnamon and charcoal and woman.

—Hush. Someone else need your help, William Turner.

—I told you, it shouldn't be him. It should be me, snaps Elizabeth. Tia Dalma turns on her, quick as a snake.

—It ain't you. Never was, never will be.

—You don't know half of it.

—You, girl, you don' know but a quarter.

They glare coldly at one another until it seems entirely possible that they'll come to blows. (In a fair fight, Will'd put money on Elizabeth. But he doubts Tia Dalma is even familiar with the concept of fighting fair. On the other hand, from what he's seen lately, Elizabeth's not too wedded to the idea either.)

—Perhaps someone could tell me exactly what in God's name you're all talking about? he says acidly.

—Sit down, says the witch, smiling too wide and patting a chair beside her own. Will does so. Elizabeth and Gibbs sit beneath the window.

—So. In de nigh', we done talk about what you would do to have Jack Sparrow back wit' you, hmmm?

—Yes. And you said, we had to go to the ends of the earth. For which we need a ship. A ship which we will doubtless have to steal.

—Commandeer's the proper term.

—Thank you, Captain, so I've been advised on a previous occasion.

—Dat's so, William. But at de ends of de eart', you won' fin' Jack Sparrow. Only de way t'rough, t'ween dis worl' and de nex'.

—So we'll go through this, this doorway, and get him.

—He not be dere. He be long, long gone.

God, it's as bad as talking to Jack Sparrow himself. All circularity and confusion and contradiction. Will just stares irritably at her. She smiles, and settles herself, curling her dirty bare feet up under her skirt.

—You t'ink de dead stay by de door? No no no. Dey go deep into dark places, an' we don' find 'em once dey gone. We want Jack? We got to keep Jack wit' us. Make him stay close, till we fin' dat passage-place.

—Keep him with us? Will says, thinking the same thing as Mr Gibbs, who (with a very doubtful expression on his face) is pointing out that Jack is, not to put too fine a point on it, currently deep in the digestive system of the Kraken. Presuming he hasn't already been shat out.

—Not his body, says Elizabeth impatiently. —His, his soul. His ghost. She's saying we have to keep his ghost nearby.

Oh, for the love of God. Will stifles a sigh. —Well, cast a spell then. Light a candle. Chant a chant and burn a frog. And meanwhile, we'll go and get a ship.

Tia Dalma mutters something under her breath, and Will gasps as something hot and sharp and unseen traces the whiplines on his back.

—Don' mock me. I shan't say twice, boy.

—Will? Elizabeth's on her feet. —Will, what did she do? Did she hurt you?

This, from the woman who's ripped Will's heart from his chest and stamped upon it, is almost laughable. He ignores her.

—Tell me then, he says. —Tell me how we keep his ghost nearby.

—Someone got to go keep him comp'ny. Jack like him comp'ny. If it be de right comp'ny. Her eyes are unreadable, but her smile is sly. Will's face burns. She can see it all, the bitch. All of it.

—How? he manages.

—I can sen' you over. Keep you here, an' there. You fin' Jack. You keep Jack comp'ny till we reach de way back.

Will doesn't know what to say to such a suggestion. There are a thousand whirly thoughts in his head. Many of them have every right to be there: such as, There's no such thing as ghosts (though what else, now, is Barbossa?) or There's no such thing as magic (though he's only half sure of that one).

But the thought that's right at the front of his head is just a foolish echo of the witch's words. You keep Jack comp'ny. You keep Jack comp'ny. You keep Jack comp'ny.

Which might be the best, or the worst, possible prospect. Or both.

—Why me?

—That's what I said, says Elizabeth. —It should be me. You're more help to... to the Captain. She almost spits the word. Barbossa chortles. Will's never seen the odious man so happy.

—An' I tell you, it mus' be William.

—Why? Will demands.

—Din't I tell you, when you firs' come to me, dere's a touch of destiny 'bout you?

—That's not a good enough reason.

Will's not sure why he's arguing so hard. But he can't be seen to be jumping at the chance to be Jack's... comp'ny. It wouldn't be seemly.

—You wan' de true reason?

—Of course.

—You sure? She shrugs; smiles slow and wicked. —Very well. De true reason is, de dead only stay for two t'ings. For hatred; or for love.

They're weighty words, and they fall slowly through the loamy air, leaving a silent emptiness behind them.

Will swallows. He can feel rosy heat creeping up his neck, and scowls to cover it.

—That's why it should be me, whispers Elizabeth, and he can't look at her.

Tia Dalma laughs, short and sharp. —Jack don' love you, girl.

—Of course he doesn't, Elizabeth throws back, though she's flushed as Will. —But he's every reason in the world to hate me. Don't you know what I did?

—I know, says the witch.

—I don't, says Barbossa merrily. —Enlighten me, girlie. Oh go on.

—I. Elizabeth bites her thumb. She can't look at Will. She blinks, and a tear spills. It leaves a track. Her face is dirtier than Will's ever seen it, and it tugs at his heart. The urge to protect her is still so strong, even now that he knows what he knows; he doesn't want to make her say it.

—It's alright, he says. —I know what you did, Elizabeth. I saw you... kiss him. Though I can't imagine he hates you for it.

Elizabeth's head flies up, and Mr Gibbs makes a hacking sound. Elizabeth's mortified, and yet... there's something else. She's shaking her head.

—Didn't you see...? That kiss isn't why he'll hate me, Will.

There's more. They did more. She gave herself to him, Will knows it. Didn't stop, the way he did. Let Jack... let him fuck her. She did it. Did what he didn't have the guts to do. Did what he walked away from.

Damned if he'd walk away from it now, given the chance.

—He'll hate me because I... I only kissed him to distract him. While I chained him.

What?

Will closes his eyes against the world, just for a minute, swallowing down a heave of vomit. Mr Gibbs is shouting, You did what, miss? Barbossa is laughing so hard he's about to choke. The monkey screeches and chitters.

Dear God. How could she?

And he might be asking, how could she use her body to trick a man; he might be asking, how could she betray her betrothed; he might be asking, how could she sacrifice someone, in cold blood. But he doesn't want the answers to any of those questions. The answers all seem too likely to contain words like slut and liar and murderess.

Elizabeth killed Jack.

Elizabeth killed Jack.

Ten years of adoration lie dead and heavy as clay in his chest.

—I had to! she cries. —We'd all have died, if I hadn't!

Mr Gibbs is on his feet. He spits, once, on the floor. —You think you had to chain Jack Sparrow like a dog, to make him pay that price? You din't know a damn thing about him.

He bangs out the door. Elizabeth doesn't make a sound, but there are two tracks running down her face now.

—It don' matter, says the witch. —Jack don' hate you for it. For anyt'ing.

—How in hell do you know what Jack feels? Will demands.

She looks at him, then, deep and sorrowful. —Jack tell me. Jack still here. Don' you feel 'im?

A shiver, imperfectly suppressed, passes through Will.

—So why do you think it should be Will? Why would he hate Will? says Elizabeth.

—Reasons don't matter, says Will shortly. —Look at the evidence. When we first met, he was ready to trade me for his ship. He as good as sold me to Davy Jones. And he turned on me, when he and Norrington and I were fighting. And he tried to... to make love to my fiance. Though apparently he didn't have to try very hard, he adds. Wanting to wound her. Wanting to make her angry, and distract her from the alternative: that it might not be hatred that Jack feels for him. He glares at Tia Dalma, daring her to disagree with him.

—So, we're agreed, then, says Barbossa. —Jack Sparrow's ghost detests young master Turner, for opaque and doubtless baroque reasons of its own; so you, madam, will send the boy to the very brink of death's abyss so's he can irritate the shade into hanging about while we search for the ends of the earth. A perfectly sensible plan, I'm sure.

—For a dead man, you a terrible cynical fellow, says the witch. —Ain't you happy wit' your crew?

Barbossa looks over at Elizabeth, sly and smug as a cat. —Oh, I'm most satisfied. This is an excellent arrangement all round, madam.

—We should do it, then, Will says brusquely. He can't look at Elizabeth. —Do it now.

*

In the tiny upstairs room, Will prepares himself as he's been told. Washes and pisses. Takes off his boots, and sits on the edge of the bed.

It seems entirely possible that this is going to kill him, but he finds himself remarkably blasé about that idea.

Footsteps. Elizabeth, not the witch. She's cleaned her face, composed herself. She looks beautiful, as always. But something's changed; something, not in her, but in Will himself. The ache of looking at her is not, now, the ache of wonder and love. It's something else.

—Are you sure? You don't have to do this, Will.

—You want him back, don't you?

—Yes, but...

Will shrugs, heartlessly, he knows. Elizabeth's composure cracks, and she flares.

—I only did it for you. For us. To save us! Can't you understand that?

—I saw you, Elizabeth. I didn't see you chain him. But I saw you kiss him. And I know... I know you weren't thinking of me, or of us, when you did it. I understand that. I understand a lot that I didn't understand before: that you're not the woman I thought you were.

—You can't understand it. Not you. You're so damnably... good! she cries, all passion and frustration, and Will wishes for just a moment that he could show her himself and Jack in Jack's cabin that night. She thinks, has always thought, that she knows him inside and out; he realises, suddenly, that she may never have known him at all.

—I'm not like you, Will. I'm...

—You're wrong, is all he can make himself say. He's relieved as hell to hear Tia Dalma coming up the creaking stairs.

—Goodbye, Elizabeth. Be careful around Barbossa. I'll see you afterwards.

—Tell him I'm sorry I had to do it.

—No you're not.

Her jaw sets, hard and square. —I'm not sorry that I did it. But I am sorry that I had to.

—I'm sure the distinction would mean a lot to him.

They stare at each other, long and hard. Will can't quite believe that it's come to this. That Jack Sparrow's brought the two of them to this point.

—De men waitin' for you, Elizabet' Swann.

—Goodbye, Will.

—Goodbye.

*

Firs' t'ing, all be dark. Don' worry; I be here, wit' you. Always. Watching.

It is dark. Dark, and warm, and silent, and the bitter taste of the draught is still in his mouth. It's hard not to panic when he realises he can't move his arms and legs, but she told him about that too. Soon you move again. Soon you eyes an' you limbs an' you heart all work as one, on de other side.

—And what will I see?

Dis worl', an' everyt'ing else.

He tries again, and his hand moves. Opens his eyes, and the light's... different, but he can see the room, and the woman perched on a three-legged stool beside the bed. She says nothing when he looks at her.

The colours have all changed. They're faded, as though the world's been in the sun too long; but when he looks down at himself, he's the same as always, like a sunlit spot on a cloudy day. The sounds of the forest are muted, muffled.

He sits up, carefully, and it feels as though he's pulling himself out of quicksand. Turns, and realises that the quicksand was his own body.

He's there, and he's here. He can see himself lying on the bed, pale and still. It's the oddest thing; hard not to just stare. He touches 'his' face, but there's no reaction. He stands, takes a step, another. Tia Dalma doesn't move.

—It worked. I'm here.

No response.

—Tia! Tia Dalma?

She looks at the ceiling, as if she's listening; and smiles, and strokes the hair of the still shell of William Turner.

So. He's a ghost. But he's a ghost with a purpose.

—Jack? Jack, are you here?

He goes downstairs, past the monkey, which bares its teeth and hisses, and jumps out the window.

From the verandah, he can see the grey river meandering into the jungle, and the boat, pulling away. Elizabeth's facing resolutely forward. As the boat turns into the current, she's obliterated by Barbossa's hat.

That was quick, he thinks, and then remembers the witch telling him, Time is no time, in dat place. Slow or quick as you please. Keep a hold on it tight or it be gone.

How on earth is one supposed to hold on to time? He watches the river, and she's right. Sometimes it flows faster, so fast it's a sparkling blur, and cloud shadows race over it. Sometimes it's all but still. Time is loose from its moorings; or perhaps it's Will who's not anchored by it any more.

—Funny ol' world, ain't it.

Will spins around, and Jack Sparrow's behind him, leaning against the door frame.

It's Jack. As he always was. Not chewed or broken or bloody, not death-coloured or reeking of his own decomposition. Jack with his rakish air and knowing grin, arms folded, ankles crossed, black-eyed and strange and beautiful. Jack bright as a new penny in a dull grey world, and isn't that the way it's always been, that the world's faded to insignificance whenever he walks upon its stage?

—For Christ's sake, William, you look like you've seen a ghost, says Dead Jack Sparrow, showing gold.

*

It's certainly not boring, being dead, or not so far. Not with the wonderful opportunities for eavesdropping it presents. Still: that'll probably get duller in time, Jack suspects, as people stop talking about him. What the afterlife's lacked so far is entertaining company, which has been in notably short supply. There was a cat, for a little while, but a) it didn't really qualify as entertaining, and b) it buggered off.

In addition to which, Jack (always prone to wanderlust at the best of times) has been feeling a strangely compelling pull to the south (of all directions; he's never been keen on south) that he's been very close to indulging. In the same way as time's been stretching and slipping, space—or Jack's connection to't—seems to be a lot more fluid, and there are new and interesting means at his disposal for moving through it. He hasn't tried it yet, but he's fairly sure he could go a long way, fast.

So, what with one thing and another, it's very good to see William Turner, mysteriously discorporate. Though he's looking at Jack in a rather nervous, not to mention suspicious, manner.

—What's up with you? Is it because I'm dead? Or, no, wait, is it because you're still angry about the naked-kissing-wanting thing?

William blushes so delightfully. It's the scowl that makes it such a joy.

—Stop it, Jack, he says. —Let's try to get along.

—Try? William! I thought we got along famously, you and I!

—Really? I had thought so too, on occasion, but then you proved me wrong. Repeatedly.

Hmm. Yes. Well. He may have a point; Jack recalls making several rather ignoble decisions prior to his Final Sacrifice and Fatal Ingestion. Perhaps a change of subject is called for.

—So, tell me why you're here, exactly? I don't always seem to be entirely up with the play, since I died. One finds one's attention wandering.

—No change there, then, mutters Will. Jack decides to let it slide.

—Did notice you appearing, though. But you're not properly dead, are you? There's a certain... lack of commitment about you.

—Tia Dalma sent me to convince you to stay with us. Till we can reach a place... a place where we can get you back.

—Flattered, I'm sure, but why would you want to bring me back? And besides, who says I want to come back?

Will looks entirely nonplussed by this question. The possibility doesn't seem to've occurred to him at all.

—Follow me, says Jack; and he jumps onto the veranda railing, swings himself up easily onto its roof, and thence onto the roof of the house. Oh, it's sweet, the way this works; here, in this place, he's lighter and stronger than he's ever been, and the mere thought of movement seems as effective as muscular effort. Every hour it's easier. Jack suspects that pure flight is only a matter of time away, and the thought tugs at him. He's being freed, in every way.

He leans over the edge of the roof. —Come on, mate, it's easy. He reaches down and grips Will's wrist.

Will's flesh is warmer than anything he's touched since... since the throat of the beast. Realer, and better, than all those secret touches he's stolen since he realised he was a ghost. (Tia Dalma was the only one who noticed, and she wasn't impressed.) He can't hold back a smile as he heaves Will upwards.

—D'you feel it? The ease of it? The world's not holding us down any more, mate. We're not made of mud and blood, now. We can go anywhere. Do anything. And I have to tell you, I really want to go... that way, for some reason. He nods southwards. —Why would I want to go back to being earthbound?

—But you loved being alive, Jack. You know you did. This place is... so grey, and quiet, and, well, dead.

—Aye, but we're not, are we? Perhaps we just need to find the other people like us, in a place that's our place. I think it's that-a-way. I really do.

—But I'm not like you, Jack. I'm not really... gone. I don't think I can go very far.

—Right, right. You're just pretending. Why, again?

—I told you. (Will's looking quite exasperated, and it's a good look on him. Unfortunate, really, to reward Jack Sparrow for exasperating you; just asking for trouble, ain't it.) —To keep you here. To bring you back.

—Yes, I got that. To which my response was, and I repeat: why?

Will sits down on the mossy shingles, and Jack takes a seat beside him. They stare out over the muddy bayou. Well, Will does. Jack stares at Will.

—If you mean why would I want you back... it's a fine question, says Will eventually. —You did some cruel things, Jack. Things I didn't—don't—understand, not after... what happened between us.

Jack swallows the lurching memory of that moment, of looking up at Will's face, open-mouthed and shocked and delighted and horrified; of the taste of him under Jack's tongue.

—What happened between us? Do you mean, when you told me you didn't want me, and it was wrong and perverse and, let's see, I think sick was your adjective of choice?

—That hardly justifies what you did, Jack. You sent me over there, knowing—

—Knowing you were clever and resourceful? Knowing that your dear papa was there to look out for you? 'Sides, I tried to get you back. Honest.

Will gives him a look of disgust. —Jack, why can't you just accept that it was a foul thing to do? I risked everything to save you, back in Port Royal; and you repaid me by, by trying to seduce me, and then by trying to sacrifice me. And then, with Norrington, you—

Jack flaps his hands in placation. —Alright! Alright! I know, I know. What, d'you want me to say sorry? Sorry, William. I was rather at my wits' end. What with facing a choice between demise and a century of servitude. Though apparently demise isn't as bad as we're generally led to expect.

Frustrated again, Will smacks the side of his fist against the roof, and the bird that's been blissfully ignoring them suddenly flaps itself airborne, and—squawking loudly—flies straight through Jack's chest. Which does take him aback somewhat.

—Whoa.

Will's open-mouthed, and temporarily forgets that he was in the middle of a major berating.

—Did I make it do that? Why did it fly away?

—Sometimes you can break through. Didn't you notice that apple? That was bloody hard, that was.

—Oh! Yes, I did. That was you? Oh. Will's looking thoughtful. —But... if things can pass through us, why aren't we falling through the roof?

It's a good question, the answer to which hasn't yet become clear. —Because we don't want to, explains Jack, with lashings of utterly fraudulent confidence. And then, because thinking about this stuff hurts his head, and he was quite enjoying the previous conversation actually, he adds: —And anyway, I didn't try to seduce you. I did seduce you.

Ooh, that's so worthwhile. The reaction's instant: William's virtually incandescent with rage and embarrassment. He really is livening up the afterlife.

—Not to mention my future wife, says Will through gritted teeth.

Hmmm.

—Well. Not really. As such. Not with any major intentions.

—I saw you, Jack. I saw her kiss you.

—Oh, that! That was just Lizzie being tricksy, that was. She decided to sacrifice me for the greater good. Don't think you can take that as a serious sign of affection, love.

—But she thought it would work, Jack. You must've given her reason to think it'd work.

—Well. I was just checking. On your behalf. To see whether she was sufficiently devoted. I mean, after the devotion you showed her, turning me down.

This isn't too far from the truth. Which was basically that Jack was trying to plant seeds of doubt and confusion, in the vague and long-term hope that one of these days he'd get another crack at William. Or, who knows, flirting outrageously with Elizabeth might actually have worked. End result's the same, surely?

William shakes his head. —You're unbelievable, he says through gritted teeth. Jack grins, rather smugly. He takes that as a compliment.

It's nearly dark. Time's run away on them. Slippery thing.

—So come on, tell me. Tell me why you want to bring me back.

—Everyone wants you back, says Will awkwardly.

—Lovely. But not what I asked, I fear. Why do you want to bring me back?

Will looks at him, eyes glinting in the gloom. Jack wills him to say it, to confess it. Why else would he let himself be poisoned to the edge of death?

Lord knows Jack's willing to confess it. William, he'd say, I find you utterly delicious. The brief taste you gave me of your glorious corpus was entirely insufficient, and I suspect I could spend the rest of forever happily sampling it in its entirety. While you are most frustratingly upstanding and noble, you're also very inventive and an excellent fellow to have at one's side in a tight spot, and as long as you'll let me subvert you just a little, we could get along most famously. It's quite obvious that your Lizzie's no more suited to you than I am, but at least I recognise our points of difference. Besides which, you're unspeakably gorgeous, and you taste divine. And I bloody know you fancy me.

But William makes no such declaration. He looks down, and picks lichen off the shingles with a nail. He looks across at the river. He waves away mosquitoes which are incapable of biting him. He eventually says, with an uncommonly sullen undertone in his voice, that it's what anyone would do.

—Well fuck that, says Jack, and—in a fit of ghostly experimentation—lets himself fall through the roof.

*

—Jack? Where are you, where have you—

One second he's on the roof, shouting, and the next he's on Tia Dalma's bed, and she's holding some foul-smelling, burning root under his nose. He coughs, sneezes, pushes her away.

—What are you doing?

—I t'ink I should ask dat of you. Where Jack gone?

—I don't know, he just disappeared.

—Why?

—How should I know? I've never known why Jack Sparrow did anything, not in all the time I've known him. And how do you know he's gone?

She rolls her eyes at him; she's possibly the most impressive eye-roller he's ever encountered. It may indeed have been a foolish question. He tries to sit up; all the blood rushes from his face, leaving it cool and tingling, and he falls back down again.

—Stop it. Now go back, find Jack; an' no more nonsense.

As if this isn't all nonsensical anyway. Will doesn't know how he's going to answer Jack's question. He stalls.

—Wait! What will happen? At the ends of the earth? At the doorway?

—I don' know.

—What? But you've been there, surely. You brought Barbossa back.

—Dat one come by a diff'ren' path.

—So you don't even know if this is going to work?

—I know dis much: if you don' give Jack some honesty, we wastin' our time.

—What do you mean? Be plain with me. I can't—I don't work this way. Just tell me what needs to be done, and I'll do it, but don't leave me guessing.

She looks at him pityingly. —Don' try dat, William Turner. Don' try to make it someone else's t'ought and fault. You know what you wan'. You know what Jack wan'.

And then, with no pity, and an ungentle slap to his cheek: —Now off wit' you an' do it. Here.

He drinks from her cup, and falls back into that still, dark place.

*

Tia Dalma sits at the side of Will Turner's body for three days and three nights, and she does not know where Jack Sparrow's shade has gone.

She can feel William, with that prickly sense that isn't sight or hearing or touch, but lives, curled and snakey, deep in her spine and gut. He comes and goes, runs past and through; sometimes he's still. He spends the second day on her verandah, dawn to dusk. For half the third day he's gone, and then he's back; back, but alone.

She wonders how long she can leave him out there. She has never left a soul to wander for this amount of time. But the body is young and strong, and the heart is true; it will be alright, she tells herself. It will be alright. Jack will find him.

*

Night has fallen again in the real world. Will sits in a shallow coracle, tied to the rickety jetty outside Tia Dalma's home. Here and there in the jungle, along the river banks, lights wink and glow; the cry of a big cat, hunting, shivers through the trees. Head in his hands, Will's talking to the dark; to the great void, that might—or might not—contain Jack Sparrow.

—I don't know what you want me to do, Jack. I can't find you, I don't know where you are. And anyway, I can't come and look for you. I went as far as I could, but I'm still... tied. What am I supposed to do? You've gone, and I can't follow you, and everyone's expecting me to somehow keep you at my side, and I can't wake up, can't live, till that woman decides I can. Oh, for Christ's sake, Jack, where are you?

He lurches to his feet, so fast that the little boat should rock; it doesn't, because it doesn't know he's there.

He bellows into the night. —Where are you? Where are you, you bastard? Come back!

Nothing.

—Please, Jack. Please.

Nothing.

—I don't know what you want me to do!

He's never been more alone. Alone, and frustrated, and all he has to think about, all day and all night (there's no sleep here) is Jack Sparrow. He's thought about him every possible way. He's hated him. Admired him. Despised him. Envied him.

Wanted him.

Oh, God, he wants him. That's the core of it. None of the rest of it matters, all the rest of it can change and mutate and turn itself inside out and back to front, but that core will remain, will gnaw away at him till he's nothing but a lying husk of a man. It can't be eradicated. It's there. It's madness. But it's there; it's true.

He makes a sound that's half laugh, half sob.

—That's a lie, Jack. I do know what you want me to do. I know what you want. I know because I want it too.

Fingers trembling, he unbuckles his sword belt, and lets it drop. Unbuttons his weskit. Shrugs it off his shoulders.

—I want what I had before, he tells the warm night air and the croaking, invisible frogs. —I want you, Jack. I want your skin and your mouth.

He pulls his shirt over his head and the slow, heavy movement of air against his flayed back is like a kiss. Alone, he runs his fingertips over his skin.

—You touched me here. Here... here. It felt good, Jack. It felt right, even though it was wrong. And I know I said... I know I said I didn't want it. But I did. And back then, oh, everything was different; Elizabeth was perfect, and you were just a, a madness. But now it's all changed. Elizabeth is no more perfect than I am; and she's done things as wicked as anything I've done. Wickeder. Wickeder than I could ever understand.

He pulls the tie from his hair, and the ends of curls whisper against his shoulders. He closes his eyes, lost in a reverie of touch. Slides his palm down over the line of his hardening yard, and remembers Jack Sparrow's fingers there; groans.

—Please. Come back, Jack. Come back, and I won't pretend anymore. Come back, let me touch you. Touch me.

Somebody has to touch him. He can't stand it. Has to. Has to. He pulls off his boots, and slowly, trembling, unbuttons his breeches. He can't help looking around, peering over the black, silvered surface of the river. There's no-one there, and they couldn't see you if they were, he tells himself firmly. But there's still a delicious, heart-hammering sinfulness about it, about standing out here in the open and shucking his clothes.

Naked, he smiles, chews his bottom lip. Runs his palms down his belly, pushes his fingertips into wiry curls of hair.

—Jack? Jack, I'm going to touch myself, and I'm going to be thinking about you, when I do it, he whispers. —Are you sure you don't want to come back and watch?

His cock's jutting, proud and dark, obscene and beautiful, and just looking at it puts a great hot weight in his belly. He runs a trembling thumb around its head, and his eyes fall closed again at the sensation.

—Your tongue did that, Jack, he murmurs. —Your tongue. What does that taste like? Do I taste good?

—'Good'? says Jack Sparrow, low and gravelly and sudden, and Will's eyes fly open, and he lets out a little formless shout.

Jack's right in front of him. Right in front of him, as he stands here, bare and brazen, his cock in his hand, saying these things. Blood rushing and crashing everywhere. Unable to breathe.

—'Good' is really not sufficiently descriptive. 'Superb' comes a little closer, I think, Jack says.

—You... you came back.

—William, you're standing here naked and touching yourself and begging me to perform lewd and lascivious acts upon your person. You could call the Devil himself and he'd come running.

It worked. It worked. It worked! Jack's here, shiny-bright with mischief and want; Jack's here, and his fingers are tracing Will's collarbone, and down his ribs, and down, and down... sliding and curling and finally, finally holding.

Will's alight with power. Standing naked in front of Jack—fully-clothed Jack—is astonishingly arousing. Because Jack sees him, and Jack wants him. Beautiful, strange, skirly Jack Sparrow—a man whose awful death Will had to watch, and it felt like his own—is not gone, but here, and touching him. Will stares into those black, black eyes and runs a fingertip over Jack's lip.

—Give me this, he whispers. —Give me this again, Jack.

—It's not wrong any more? Not perverse? Not absurd? Not sick?

—It's all of those and more. Give it to me. Put your mouth to me, Jack. I need it. I need you.

Jack leans close; his hand slides slowly up and down Will's cock. Mouth inches from Will's ear, hair tickling Will's cheek. His tongue-tip darts out, and Will trembles at its touch.

—Is this why you want me back, William?

—Yes.

—Is this what's waiting for me, back in the fleshly world, along with that annoying multitude of people who want me dead? Again?

—Yes.

—Will it be there if I come back? Or will it run away, just as before?

—There's nowhere to run to, Jack. I can't escape it. Please. Will pushes into Jack's hand, puts his hands on Jack's hips, pulls him forward so sharply that they both stagger a little. He feels Jack smile against his face.

—Sit down before you fall down, mate.

Jack pushes him down, steps back; Will sprawls against the curved transom of the coracle, wanton and spirally with lust and delight. It's all so impossible, so insane; no point in fighting it, no point in trying to wrestle with what should be or what the world expects. He's far, far beyond that now. There are layers and mysteries and complexities and wonders in the world that he never could've imagined, and this is one of them: the fact that he's spread-eagled at the feet of a (dead) pirate, his whole self throbbing at the thought of that man's touch. The fact that he's saying, over and over again, Come here, come here, give it to me!

The fact that Jack Sparrow's crouching down, and running his hands up Will's thighs, where the muscles leap and tense.

Jack's smiling, wider and wickeder than ever; Jack's bending, and his hair's trailing and tickling up Will's body, and his breath's hot on Will's skin, and Will's gasping, laughing, reaching, needing, mad.

*

He tastes of strength, of sweat and metal, of meat, and when Jack's teeth scrape gently it's hard not to picture the boy back with the cannibals, trussed and helpless; hard not to imagine what this flesh really tastes like. Hard not to bite.

Jack's cheeks hollow around Will's cock, and Will falls backwards, cries out, arches up.

—Oh Christ Jack, oh fuck.

He's trembling beneath Jack's hands and mouth, the muscles of his stomach quiver and convulse. Jack doesn't know where to look, where to touch, first. There's so much glory spread out here, and it's his. It's all his.

And then it's not.

—Stop, Jack, stop.

—I beg your pardon? I'm sorry, I thought for one ridiculous minute that you told me to stop.

Will's up on his elbows, wild-eyed; he struggles to sit, and reaches for Jack, tugging and pulling at his coat.

—Give me all your skin, Jack. Like before. No. More than before. I want it all.

—You want a lot, don't you, teases Jack, standing.

—Yes.

Lord, he's so bold now! Part of Jack's amazed; part of Jack's saying, Pfft, have you ever known this one to do anything by halves, once he's made up his mind? Any rate, such harlotry should obviously be rewarded. Piece by piece, slow and sure, Jack bares himself; Will watches him, biting his lip and stroking his cockstand. He reaches up the moment Jack's done, tugs Jack down, and grants Jack the heady glory of the whole length of his body, skin and sweat and muscle and clutching arms.

Being dead really isn't that bad at all; it's apparently the ultimate version of absence making the heart grow fonder. Jack's feeling quite retrospectively fond of the Beastie responsible.

He props himself up on his elbows, and wriggles a little atop William, aligning their bodies just so, and Will sighs and hums and pushes the fingers of one strong hand up under Jack's hair, bringing him down and kissing him with all the fervour and sweetness that Jack remembers from that night that seems a lifetime ago. (Seems? Is, actually, if you want to be pedantic about it.) Here's Will's tongue, greedy and slick; there, his perfect teeth, nipping at Jack's lip. There, his hand, his broad rough palm sliding over the rise of Jack's buttocks. Oh yes.

Will's muttering Jack's name into their joined mouths, licking and writhing and pushing his hips up, desperate and glorious. Jack lifts himself a little and reaches down between them, till he can wrap a hand around their cocks, pressing them close; he hums as the motion of Will's tilting hips rubs the sweet flared ridge of his cockhead up and down Jack's length.

—Kiss me more, gasps Will, pulling Jack down, and oh, Jack can't argue with that. He kisses for all he's worth (which, in some quarters, is quite a lot) and Will certainly seems to appreciate the effort. He's making the most divine sounds imaginable as he thrusts up against Jack's hand, hooking a long muscled leg over Jack's thigh to give himself purchase, and he's close, he's close, Jack's sure of it.

—Will... Will... d'you want my mouth on you again, d'you want to spend in my mouth?

The noise that this suggestion elicits nearly makes Jack spend himself. He pulls back, and stares for one grinning, adoring second at the loveliest face he's ever seen, and then—

With a swift suck of air, Will's gone; and Jack, quite utterly unprepared for this eventuality, falls suddenly down onto, and subsequently through, the bottom of the boat.

*

—What—where—Jack! —what? cries Will, struggling against the weight of a body that, while it's his own, seems very disobedient.

One second he was in heaven and the next—back on that damn'd bed, and the witch is leaning over him, candle in hand, eyes wide.

—William? What happen to you?

—Send me back! Send me back!

—Somet'ing strange happenin' to you. You makin' sounds.

He grabs her wrist, and molten wax splatters onto his chest. —Shit! Damn it, will you send me back, this instant!

Realisation lights up her eyes, and she throws back her head and crows with delighted laughter.

—Oh Jack Sparrow! How will you evah forgive me, hmmm?

Will squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to laugh with her. The way he's feeling now is really not funny at all. —Please. Please.

—Alrigh'. An' now I know what dat soun' means. Good. But you mus' come back soon, eh? Tell me what's goin' on.

—Yes. Soon. Later. Not right now.

—Shh. Take a sip.

He does, and then lies back. She puts her hand over his eyes. —Him comin', Jack, she whispers.

*

He stumbles into Jack at the bottom of the stairs, while he's still tearing his clothes off again; seems he acquired a new set, when he pulled himself back out of his body. Jack looks oddly bedraggled.

—Jack? Are you wet?

—Theoretically, I don't think I can be, but somehow I seem to've managed it. Where did you go?

—Tia Dalma thought I might be... suffering, or something. I don't know.

Jack actually giggles, and suddenly Will's busy hands still on his buttons. He feels shy all over again for a second; and then Jack notices that he's stopped, and finishes the job for him, pushing Will's breeches down, running his hands over Will's arse and down his thighs, crouching and holding Will's boots still while he pulls his feet free, and then he's bare again, and back in Jack's arms.

Jack frowns as he splays his fingers out over Will's back, feeling the welts.

—What in the name of—?

—Can we discuss it later? Just... be careful.

Jack scowls. —Davy Jones, weren't it? I'd swear an oath to kill him, but the bastard's nigh unkillable.

—Please don't get distracted, Jack.

That works, Jack's grinning again. —Here, he says. —Come with me.

Jack leads him round into the tiny lean-to out back. It's dark and shadowy and filled with things that Will can't name, and doesn't want to be able to either; but there's a narrow, rusty bedstead in the corner, piled high with pillows, and Jack throws himself down upon it, reclining like a glittery rajah.

—Come here, you gorgeous creature, and let us return to the point from which you were so cruelly snatched.

But Will's obscurely grateful, now, for that interruption. It's brought him back from the brink (although he's still extremely enthusiastic about the whole endeavour) and now he can take his time.

—You mentioned savouring, that night, he says. —I have, to date, failed utterly to savour you, Jack; and that is a wrong which I intend to rectify.

—I would not even attempt to stand in your way, William. In fact I b'lieve I shall just lie here, and facilitate your rectification.

Which he does. Lies there, legs outstretched, arms behind his head; and Will feels dizzy to see it all presented thus to him. Good lord, he's so... no, beautiful is too poor and meagre a word to cover it. Will's never seen such a body. Supple and bare and muscled and as for that yard, all dark and demanding... it stops him breathing for a moment. He hasn't quite thought his way through to the end of this. To where it might be heading. He decides not to. Better to enjoy the journey than worry about what's at its end.

He crouches beside the bed, leans over and kisses Jack, more gently this time. He runs his hand along the petal-soft skin of the inside of Jack's bent arm, and the damp hair of his armpit. Jack's ribs form hard-edged ridges; there's little hair on his chest, but it solidifies into a dark, arrowing line beneath his navel, and then... oh, then, there's...

Will takes Jack's cock in his hand. Makes a ring of his finger and thumb, and slides up. Down. Jack's grin will split his face if it gets much wider, and he arches into Will's grip. Will does it again, and can feel the thump of his own heart.

—Did Elizabeth do this? he says suddenly, surprising them both.

—What? What on earth are you talking about? Of course not. Whatever do you take me for?

—Oh. Alright. In that case...

He bends quickly, before he can think about it too much and lose his courage. Bends, and licks.

It's the softest skin on the hardest flesh he's ever imagined. Jack tastes of salt and musk, and he hisses through his teeth as his cock twitches against Will's tongue. Carefully, slowly, he takes Jack in his mouth; swirls his tongue over the head and tastes a delicate bitterness.

He reaches down to his own yard and tugs at it, as desperate for touch as he is for the taste of Jack Sparrow and this delectable wickedness they're indulging. Jack sees what he's doing.

—Will. William. Stop.

Will looks up, mortified. —What? Did I do something wrong? Don't you like—

—Nothing's wrong, nothing; it's too good if anything. Just... come here, William, come here and lie with me.

*

Jack's done some bloody selfless things recently (viz., choosing to be barbecue'd, and hurling himself into the noisome orifice of the Kraken) but this one's right up there with offering oneself as a comestible. Coaxing William Turner's gorgeous wet mouth away from Jack's privities: is he quite mad?

And yet, it wouldn't do to forget that Will, for all that he's a grown man, and a fine fighter, is also rather innocent of many of the ways of the world, not to mention of the body; and though he's certainly got every intention of amending that situation, Jack doesn't want to do anything precipitate. Anything that might change the boy's mind. And for this first time... well, some things are best done slow.

He encourages Will to lie down alongside him on the bed, whose cushions smell of mildew and spice. He insinuates a leg between Will's thighs, and pulls him close—careful of those lash-marks, now—and takes Will's cock in hand.

—Like this, Will. Just...like this.

—Mmm. But—but—is that really all you want, Jack?

—Hell no.

—I didn't think so. You can have, I mean, we can have, um. More.

—Oh, I don't doubt it for a moment. But later, mate.

Will looks rather put out. Jack traces a spiral on the soft skin of his hip, and smiles one of his very dirtiest smiles.

—This is the first time I'm going to watch you come, Will. I want to see your face. Let me see it.

—Oh! Mmm. Oh.

He's not put out any more.

Jack's hand moves sure and cunning, and Will reaches down, and does the same in return. Their knuckles smack together. Jack lavishes tongue and kisses on Will's neck, and up around his ear, where warm damp skin smells sweet and smokey; Will's hissing and gasping in no time, curving up, clutching at Jack, trembling closer and closer to the edge. When Jack thinks William's crisis point is imminent, he lifts his head. Some memories must be made, consciously, must be seared into the brain so they're never lost, and oh, this is one that he wants to keep forever.

Will's head is thrown back, his hand on Jack has stilled and loosened. Hips twitching and thrusting and lip bitten, small high sounds coming from his throat, and then his eyes fly open, his lips part and suck in air, and he stares at Jack, all unfocussed and dazed and amazed as he gushes hotly against Jack's belly. The sight of it, oh the sight of it, is enough and more than enough, and Jack puts his free hand over Will's and two, three short sharp thrusts suffice to have him spilling before Will's last twitches have subsided; the sudden laval heat of Jack's seed has Will crying out, Oh Jack, Jack, oh Jack!

Jack's own cry is wordless, a low groaning howl of purest pleasure.

Dear God, that was good. He falls back on the pillows, his whole body glimmering with it.

It's unbelievable, ain't it? He's dead. He shouldn't be able to feel life thumping through him like this. Shouldn't be able to hear the crash of his own blood and the rasp of his own breath. But he can. He lies there panting, eyes closed, just wallowing in it for a moment. He really didn't think, as he leapt into the beast's maw, that this was something he'd feel ever again.

Life! Full of—no, hang on. Death! Full of surprises!

—And? says Will, low and quiet. Jack opens his eyes, and smiles, lazy and stupid with sated lust.

—And...?

—Did you see what you wanted to see?

—I did. And it was... you are... perfect.

Will gives a snort of laughter. —Perfect? I don't think so. If this was perfect you wouldn't be dead, and this wouldn't be a hanging offence.

—Nah, I don't think they hang you till you're really truly fucking.

He says this, mostly, to get a rise out of Will, to make him blush and squirm and frown; but is utterly disappointed in his expectations.

—Oh well, says William, with a sly grin. —Only a matter of time.

Jack snorts with laughter. —Less time than I feared, by the sounds of it. Din't think you'd be quite so amenable as this.

Will rolls over on top of Jack, and their wet bellies slide stickily together. He looks down at Jack, half closing his eyes, and licks his lips.

—Jack, Jack, Jack. I'm not going to be amenable at all.

—You're not?

—Nope. I'm going to be quite terrifyingly demanding.

—You are?

—I've waited a long time. I have vast, vast reservoirs of pent up... urges. I need, Jack Sparrow, to do a lot of fucking.

And then he dissolves again. Which is quite good timing really. Because Jack has been rendered entirely speechless.

Really, if he'd known death was anything like this, he might not've gone to such excessive lengths to avoid it all those years.

*

—Again? Must you keep doing this to me?

—You been gone two more days, says the witch, rubbing her eyes. She looks exhausted.

—Two days? But—

—I tol' you, time gets away on dead men. But you been usin' it well, hmmm? She smiles, slow and lewd, and Will feels the heat rising on his neck. —You been honest wi' Jack?

—I have been honest with Jack, he concurs.

She watches him with a lopsided and oddly maternal smile. —You make Jack happy, she murmurs. —Real happy. Does Jack make you happy?

Will doesn't know what to say. He's silent for a moment, fighting down all the mad romantic declarations that want to burst from him.

—Yes. More than anything.

—Truly? You certain: here? she asks, thumping a fist over her heart.

Will nods. Such a thing to admit! But Tia Dalma nods silently back at him, and her face is nothing but warm, nothing but happy. That may even be a tear in the corner of her eye. Will doubts that Elizabeth will feel the same way, however.

—How much longer do you think it'll be? Before they come back, with a ship?

—Not long, me mirror say. Don' worry 'bout it.

—Don't tell them. Why Jack's staying.

She puts her head to one side, like Jack does. —Don't you got to tell dem, some day?

—It won't go easy. No-one will want to hear it. No-one will be happy for us. Honestly? I don't know how people are going to react, and I'm in no hurry to find out.

—Still.

—I wouldn't want to tell them until he's back. Until he's safe.

She cackles. —Jack Sparrow never been safe in him whole life.

—He'll be safe with me.

Tia Dalma smiles, and sighs, and tells him that that's true. He reaches for the wooden cup, to drink down her magic and die again for Jack.

—Wait, William; wait.

She takes it from him, and sways over to the table, where she spoons a dark powder into the cup, stirring it briskly. —Seem to me you need some more.

—So that I can stay longer?

—Ain't dat what you wantin'? Smiling, she proffers the draught, and kneels beside the bed, her skirts rustling. She strokes his hair. He drinks, and it tastes very bitter.

—Long as you wan'. Go to your Jack. Go be him comp'ny, darlin'.

*

Jack will be angry, she knows that much. She shrouds the body and closes her doors and windows, lights candles, battens down for days of spectral rage. But those days will pass, and he will come to understand how much she loved him, to give him such a gift.

He was never satisfied in this world. Never would be, never could be: the horizon was never at his fingertips, freedom was never as absolute as he yearned for it to be; love never as simple.

If she has regrets, they are only small, black, selfish things.