He tells Tia what he wants and she tells him her cost and Jack spends six months drinking through his thoughts on the matter. He wakes one over-bright morning on some spit of rock what's not Tortuga or Jamaica or Singapore or anywhere familiar, really, and he grips his head to still the throb while he ponders his next step.

He finds his crew sleeping off their own excesses, lackwits littering the beach, and upon his return to his Pearl, he hears her correction float down without laughter.

So not his Pearl, then.

He lays a hand on her mast and says, "So you've decided?" and the answer he gets is no answer at all. Which is answer enough.

He finds Anamaria with Gibbs at the wheel and makes his exchange, one ship for one transport, and Gibbs doesn't say a thing about luck, just swigs from his flask at royal high clip. Anamaria's words are calm and plain, as he's come to expect from her, but her poise is solemn and her eyes gleam adventure, which is how he knows he's right.

"Take care of her," he says, though he knows he doesn't need to, and Anamaria says she will but doesn't ask if he's sure.

He spends his last night in silent reflection on deck, alone with his thoughts and surprisingly little rum. The crew leaves him to it, which is fine by Jack.

***

He finds Elizabeth in some spot of a cottage, playing domestic with what's obviously Will's boy and what's less obviously Lizzie's determination. He prods at her from the start, he's considered this greeting and as there's no weaponry involved, he's less certain than he likes that he has, in fact, arrived in time.

The Whelp, he thinks, can hardly find this when he comes. Too much change too fast, s'bad for a man, and when Jack catches Lizzie gone snippish, he thinks it bad for wenches, too. What he knows of women is vague at best, but he treats her like he'd treat Anamaria, and there's no slapping, not even harsh words, really, and he considers the foreseeable future in light of his theories.

Aye, he can do this.

***

What he can't do, it seems, is stay aground too long. Sea legs, savvy?, and he's not meant for land any more than Lizzie's meant for such quiet, so he baits her with mysteries and corrupts her boy with tales drawn of adventures his mother's ignored.

No point living in the past, aye, he knows that, but there's no point in forgetting, either, and he thinks she's tried, to her own misery. When the baker at market overcharges for bread, he's gratified by the quick fire in Lizzie's eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw, and it's no surprise to him when she's granted a discount in perpetuity on the strength of her ferocity. Unsettling in a woman by this village's standards, but precisely the strumpet he's chased all these months. This, he thinks, is a woman who'll stare down a decade as though it's nothing, who'll keep to her own and get what she wants for sheer bloodymindedness.

All the same, he's glad when he's called to play the part he's assumed. One leering buccaneer, one ill-timed swagger, and Lizzie's trapped by the tavern doorway, child in her arms and little chance for escape. Jack swoops in, all rambling words and waving hands, and it's distracting, of course, as it's intended. The man squints through the flutter, rests scant-focused on Jack's face, and says, "Who're ye, then?" like his opinion matters.

Jack knows this answer; it feels like years ago, like he's back in that cave explaining the failure of mutiny to Barbossa by gold light. "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow," he says, light and low and mocking. The man's eyes dim confusion. Elizabeth hisses his mistake, which isn't so much a mistake as it is a misstep, which Jack can correct.

"Find yer own bit o' skirt," the buccaneer growls, and turns back to Elizabeth, whose eyes snap ill-will beyond Jack's remembrance. Jack's hand clamps on the man's shoulder.

"I wouldn't be doing that if I were you, mate," he says, amiable warning, and the buccaneer growls again as he turns.

"Got a death wish, gov?" he spits.

Jack beams. You have no idea, he thinks, then he's rambling about eunuchs and Lizzie and history, stringing cautionary tale couched as vague reminiscence, kissed and eaten by beastie, savvy? and Lizzie's eyes are wide but the buccaneer's are wider still, and when the man leaves, he moves fast and apologetic.

He apologizes, credibly, to Elizabeth, who turns raised brows on Jack and says, "You told him I'd do what?"

Jack shrugs. "S'best you can handle yourself, aye? Can't wait for someone t' save you forever, can you?"

By which she interprets—correctly, huzzah—his intention to leave, and to her credit, she asks little.

He answers even less.

***

He can't stay gone long, not if he means to keep his promise, which he does because he loses too much if he can't, so he has no choice, savvy?

The Whelp floats up on that cursed ship of his when Jack's trip is scuppered, and when he sees Jack laid out on driftwood, he's startled into recognition.

The sound upsets Jack's balance, sends him splashing in, and when he crawls out, it's up that rope Will's extended with vague concern. He waits to make deck, then says, "You're not here for me," and points at the mess of rock and bodies just down the beach.

Will nods like that makes sense, which it does, so Jack says, "I wasn't captain; he wouldn't listen," which is more than detail enough for how Jack Sparrow's come to be shipwrecked on yet another godforsaken island. Of sorts. No point making land, not if Will's coming, which he must, as they're souls lost at sea.

This works well, despite the dying, as it gives Jack a chance to parlay, gives the Whelp a chance to ask what he needs, and conveniently, provides Jack transport back to his unfortunate situation with Elizabeth.

"Tia's told me your plan," Will says when it's over, souls collected and wreck at their backs, and for Jack's sake, there's no submerging. Small blessing, but well-meant.

"Aye." He waits.

"You're sure it will work?" Will's frowning confusion, which Jack understands as it's a mess of legend and myth, extrapolation gone wrong. For anyone else, he's not sure it would, but he's Captain Jack Sparrow, savvy?, so he nods. Will says, "I can't let you kill me," like there's some question of killing.

"Who says I plan to?"

Will gets that look, the one that's all good man's logic fighting the twists of honestly dishonest piracy. "You ask me to trust you with an awful lot," Will says, eyes narrowing. "I'm not certain I can."

No choice, mate, Jack thinks.

"Is he still in the Locker?" Will holds speechless, assimilates that, and when he's made the right conclusions, Jack nods grimly. Tia's bloody condition, Jack's least favourite part. "Then so am I."

And that, he supposes, is that.

They spend the rest of the trip, which is both too bloody long for its lack of rum and too bloody short for its lack of land, engaged in idle conversation about Jack's time in the village and Will's time at the helm. They are, Jack knows, living the wrong lives, and it's too bloody long before they can right things, so for now, he must bide.

***

He's known for his impulse, which he controls by not controlling it, so it's easily assumed he lacks patience. All part of the myth, aye? Recklessness is fine for what he wants; rum, salty tales, spray of the sea, but what he needs? That's a different story there, innit? Jack's not risking that until he's sure he'll get it, even if it is ex-Navy in a seaman's hell.

Will claps a hand on his back as they draw near home. "Eight more years, Jack. Will you last?"

Jack watches the horizon disappear into shoreline. "Took ten to get me Pearl."

He feels Will's gaze as he travels to shore, but when he turns, the Dutchman's gone.

***

Elizabeth is an utterly foreign creature and some days, Jack doesn't think he can do this. Lizzie he knows; sharp tongue, sharp mind, lit by adventure and bound for a challenge. The woman she's become, on the other hand, Jack doesn't savvy at all.

King of the pirates, scrubbing her wash in the kitchen when he's home from the trip. Dinner boils slow in its pot, and it smells better than galley food but worse than the tavern, which is when Jack remembers she's been brought up with servants. He wonders what her mother might make of this.

There's pie from the market—the baker's still apologizing for his misstep, which Jack finds laughable and Elizabeth doesn't see—and it occurs to him as she discusses her day that aye, in his absence, the butcher's taken note. Elizabeth's oblivious, Will-bound and blind in it, so Jack spends his meal considering his choices. While he's fond of the choice cuts she's looting from the man's courtship, he can't let it stand, so apparently, he'll be crossing blades with yet another Elizabeth-swain. That ended so well for him last time, he thinks, and promises himself that this time, he'll be on-guard for drink-addled masters, too.

Of all the Elizabeth-swains he's crossed in his day, he laments that it's this one, because at least he's fond of the rest.

This resolve reminds him of the details of the blade-crossings, the ferocity of Will, the sangfroid of Ja—Norrington, the easy leer of pirates, the sharp sneer of cursed men. Aye, she's a handful, this one, and he doesn't envy Will their foray into respectability.

For the best, that Will's good with a blade.

***

It starts as a good turn, one of his few without purpose. Now that it's over, Jack thinks they'll have to pick up the pieces and move on with their lives, so he asks who's dead, who's still alive. Half-heartedly thinks of Norrington, who's never fit easily with anything but his fort. If the man can't have his office, Jack'll take him back on the Pearl, where at least he's not no one, not all on his own. Jack's not sure why that matters, not letting the Commodore hang metaphorically as he's tried to hang Jack literally, but it seems that it does.

When Tia says, "Him gone, Jack, him die on Davy's ship," Jack's not surprised by his sense of loss.

What surprises him, what really surprises him, is how long that sense lasts.

***

She does what she can to worm his intentions from him. He lets her, because she does it with rum, but he's danced diversion far longer than she has, so she can't win.

He wonders, though, what she'd say if she did.

He's not that sort of man, he thinks, or perhaps, He was engaged to me, Jack, I hardly think him interested.

She tells him the story while she thinks he's drunk. Trying to egg him on, bleed out his pirate-y self before the neighbours catch news of it, and he hasn't heard this one in any depth yet, so he agrees.

"D'you know he apologized?" Lizzie says, a hint of that rich girl's guileless reproach in her tone, a hint of scandalized society.

"Piracy and good men?" Jack supplies, low and liquored.

"Choosing the wrong side." Her chin lifts, then her head lowers. "Not believing there were sides. Poor James. He was... coming with me, I think. He'd come to stop me, and I wouldn't stay, and he kept apologizing; he looked so sad, Jack, it was awful. Then Will's father was there, only I'm not sure I knew it was him at first, they look nothing alike, really; and he killed James to keep him, and James forced me to go, and... There was nothing I could have done, Jack. If I'd stayed, they'd have killed me, too, and then where would we be? Who'd have watched Will's heart, and who—"

Jack cuts her off, can't stomach the explanations excusing what's bothered him for months. If she wants absolution, she'll have to find it someplace else, savvy?

He died for you, Jack tells the Lizzie in his head, the one who doesn't hum through laundry or minding the kitchen. He died for you, and you're not even grateful.

But he can't say that, not without more questions he won't answer, so he makes petting sounds and staggers to bed.

Six more years, he thinks, and it feels like forever.

***

When he dreams, it's uncertain. Where he'll land, what he'll do, whether this time, bloody please, he'll be able to touch. It's half his own head and half James's hell and he's never sure what's what until he's woken. If then.

Tonight it's a cell in some familiar gaol, and Jack would ask but he thinks it might be Fort Royal, and he's not starting that. The twists of James's mind, the things he most fears, are illuminating and disturbing by turns.

"I'm not a good man, Sparrow," James says.

"One of the best men I know," Jack corrects, and he's rewarded with surprised green gaze lifting to meet his.

"Well acquainted with good men, are you?" and that's part invitation, part mockery, which makes it a challenge.

"Some. The ones what taste like rum."

James salutes that with his flask. Jack knows it's the Locker then, as James has a flask. Only in hell does James drink this much. "Was that an invitation?"

"It could be." They stare then, long and intense, and Jack flushes hard under the Commodore's cool speculation. "D'you taste like rum, Commodore?"

James leans back, legs spread. Touches his lip with his tongue in small sample, then says, "I might." And Jack holds his breath until there's a smirk, at which point Jack knows it's a good dream after all.

The Commodore's reserve lasts as long as it takes Jack to have at his breeches, at which point it's all wriggling James under his hands and isn't that a small bloody mercy? He tastes like salt and sweat and man-without-soap, which is familiar, and aye, rum, too, when Jack licks his mouth. His Commodore smiles.

Jack hears, "This can't be hell, you're here," when he licks James's throat, so licking becomes sucking becomes a warm pleasant spreading through him, James under his skin.

No softness to James, not here, and Jack's hands spread over stretched flesh and knobbed bone when he's under thin cloth. Stripping James is easy, much quicker than he likes, and he wonders if it's part of the craft of James's hell that he's so easily touched. A man like this is not one for vulnerability, Jack thinks, and there's no doubt when he sucks at James's chest that the man's far too open. Can't hide a thing here, can he?, and Jack feels stiff Locker-bound prick pressing upward as proof.

Jack loves proof. Jack loves proof right through his breeches when he has to.

His Commodore's all hard decisions and conflicted morality, which Jack likes as it's suitably complex and prone to interesting conclusions; a lesser man would have ordered them shot, him and the whelp, mid daring escape from the hangman at Jack's last dawn appointment. A better man would have walked away long before, would have put Jack on his Pearl after some chase, perhaps, or left him in Tortuga to wait upon another buccaneer crew, and James would have married his Miss Swan and Will would have held his peace and none of them would have been happy for it.

So they're all somewhat miserable and trapped in hells of their own making, but there's hope yet, a chance it'll end well, and Jack's optimistic enough, when it suits him. Which it does.

Jack's had a lot of time to think in these past years and sometimes when he dreams, all he really wants is a chance to thank the man responsible for the chances they've had.

So he does. Uses his mouth and hands and heart for it—best use that while he's still got it, he imagines there'll be some conflict on that in his future, too, him keeping his heart—and James grips his hair and says things like, "God, Sparrow, you don't—" and "Oh, yes, like that, please—" without ever finishing the thoughts.

Like Jack's breaking them.

Like Jack's breaking him.

Jack grins through his tonguing and James, poor bugger, whimpers.

It's strange, fucking dream-like. Not sure they're in hell, not sure they're in dreams, not sure it's real, not sure it's false. Odd.

He's stripped James bare, he knows that, he's sure, but when he looks up from his sucking, there's shirt in the way and when he stops to say, "Off, luv, take it off for me," James nods and tries and can't. So maybe that's hell, then?

Some nights, they don't come. Jack rubs and squeezes and fucks as he can and nothing, mate, just two bodies against each other, hard as hell and feeling no contact. He thinks those nights are the Locker, but he's not sure. Other nights, it's all too easy. He sees James, who sees him back, and they're on each other like they mean not to stop, and Jack hasn't recovered this fast since boyhood, savvy, and that doesn't matter. Happens most when he's at sea, when he's far from Elizabeth, who always makes him think of James dying for absolution she forgot and big, slimy things coming to eat him. The nice nights, the ones all fucking and fun, he thinks those are dreams, but they taste real and when he pries himself up for his turn at watch, sometimes he feels what they've been up to. So maybe not dreams, then.

It's not that he minds corrupting the Commodore from that cell he stayed in before the man tried to hang him—didn't think of it at the time, but it's come up since—but if it's Jack's dream, why's James still dressed? No answers there, just none. It pushes in, that warm-and-wet what's got to be tongue—Commodore tongue, bloody god, yes—and Jack thinks his heart stops.

"Bloody hell," he manages when it disappears, and it's back before he can finish, prodding again, and it's better than fingers but less than cock and Jack's grasp of reality's bloody gone, aye, s'not coming back.

"Patience," James says with a touch of laughter, and Jack bloody squirms.

He's all right with patience, or, at least, he's trying to be. It's easier with come.

***

William's bright, a quick study and fearless in it. Jack's not sure what he expects of young master Turner, but he's pleased with what he finds when he comes home and it's almost enough to keep him there.

Lizzie's fading. Hugging her chest more and more, eyes dull and smile vanished, and when she speaks, it's nothing of value. Jack thinks time on land does that, strips the life from you, and he's seen nothing in this ridiculous attempt of Elizabeth's to say different.

Though he has enjoyed his set-tos with the butcher, who persists in eyeing his "wife" from afar and mollycoddles the boy something awful. Jack steps in because someone has to, there's no good that'll come of adding butchery to that blood, and anyway, he's not losing his accord for wont of a butcher. No matter how tasty the chops.

William asks about his father while Lizzie's doing matronly things in the house, which Jack leaves as often as he can because he feels it suppressing him, worse than irons, domesticity, and because Jack's fond of curious boys, Jack calls up every Bootstrap mishap and Will ill he remembers.

Elizabeth catches him at it and accuses him of trying to turn her boy pirate. When he's stopped laughing, he says, "Blood like his, Lizzie, he's got it coming, aye?"

She flushes. "We are respectable people." So clearly, he's left her too long in her village, then. Whatever she sees in his face gives away his amusement and starts her up again, indignation flush and all. "Will is a blacksmith, I am his wife. We are... respectable."

"Say it all you like, luv, you can't make it true."

"It is true. Damn you, Jack, it is."

"Your boy, the Whelplet, he's part Bootstrap, part Pirate King—" and here he directs a sceptical glare in her direction as reminder. "With a bit of Dutchman running in him for good measure. Say what you'd like about where you'll go when it's done, I won't be here so it's none of mine, but you'll have to square with that someday. As will he."

That's as right as he cares to be for any given stretch, but when he tries to pass her, she grabs his arm. "You're right. Of course you're right," and there's a hint of Wicked Lizzie in her then, repentant and plotting. Peas in a pod, luv, he thinks, because he's plotting, too. "It's just, that's not who we are here, and we can't leave, so it's best if William learns what he must now and squares with all that later." Once his father's been, she says without speech.

Jack nods. She doesn't know how right she is and he has no plans to tell her.

***

The butcher is thick. No taller than Jack, not by any stretch that might matter, but he's broad and he's brawny, and far too quick with his cleaver for Jack's taste. He looks up when Jack enters his shop, blinks instant animosity to bland geniality, and lifts his blade for a wave.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Turner?"

"Leave Mrs. Turner alone."

"I can't say I know what you're about here, sir. Was there some problem with the chops?" Guarded and ruddy, that face; Jack doesn’t envy Will his return if this awaits. Jack's tried to ignore this, certain it'll pass on its own, but the less Elizabeth mentions, the more Jack hears, and he understands impatience, even if he can't afford it.

"The chops were lovely. Perfect, in fact." Jack thunks gold down on the counter to settle the debt. "But I'm thinking—and perhaps I'm wrong, aye, so by all means, correct me—that your account with my missus has been misaccounted, savvy? In keeping with the other accounts from the village, I mean, and those accounts lead me to believe that her accounting of our account has been somewhat dishonest—honestly, on your account, I'm sure—and as we're both honest men with dishonest accounts of our honesty, it seems a reaccounting is in order. An honest one, savvy?"

By the time he's done, he feels like himself, the uncatchable Captain Jack Sparrow, and the butcher scowls and nods and says, "She don't look happy," like that explains everything. Jack thinks maybe it does.

"She's disinclined to waiting," he says. Truth of a sailor's wife, the waiting, because the wives of men who take the seas aren't wives at all, merely mistresses, and every man in port knows it.

"Then maybe she shouldn't." The butcher eyes Jack more than he eyes Jack's gold, which says a lot about the honesty of the men who swain Elizabeth.

"It's not me she's waiting for," Jack murmurs. "It's not you, either."

They lock gazes, one a glare melting confusion to weary acceptance, the other intractable like Commodore, steady as James. There's no parlaying with land men.

When Jack dreams that night, he purrs thanks into James's ear as he curls lust around James's waist.

***

So he puts in his decade and he waits for the end, and he's nearly made it when the sea calls again. He sits in the long grass on the hill by her cottage and stares out at nothing, a clear horizon and endless blue.

Elizabeth's become convinced he's plotting something—"Of course I am, I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, mate,"—and has resumed zealously guarding the heart, even from Jack. Especially from Jack, actually, which entertains and insults in equal measure.

"I can't let you kill him," she says while he packs, or words to that effect, and Jack scoffs. If he'd been after the heart, he's had an excess of opportune moments, which he's hoped she'll have noted. Apparently not.

He doesn't tell her his plans, though, because he's not certain they'll work if he does. He's plotted with her ignorance in mind, predictions of how she'll react if it unfolds as he means. He has no plot for her awareness and in this, as it's need, he won't chance it.

She guesses, and she's half-right, mostly right if he's fair, but she knows no details and he won't provide them. Take what you can. He changes the subject, turns her thoughts to Will's return, which is embarrassingly easy, they're both of them obsessed, Will's just as bad when he finds Jack at sea.

She slaps him for his honesty, which is all the memory he'll need of his Lizzie when he goes.

***

It's a bit of work, handing back Will's heart, so Jack shoves it out in a loose palm and says, "Could you hurry? The wind's good."

Will frowns amusement—Jack thinks he'll always laugh reproach, which is fine, Jack feels much the same, they understand each other just enough to know they don't understand why they do—and for the first time in a decade, Will holds his own heart.

"You're certain this is allowed? You giving it to me, I mean? Wasn't Elizabeth... ?"

Jack snorts. "Does no one listen to the bloody fine print? She had to watch it, which she has. You had to give it, which you have. I had to wait, which I have, and he's had to keep to the Locker, which he has. Now we're all of us square, with each other and ourselves and that bloody curse, so there's no point asking anything else because it. is. over. Savvy?"

Will's torn, like any good captain should be, and Jack likes that the Whelp's grown so well in his time. Much as the shore's calling—and Jack knows the siren song of being where a man's meant—Will's spent a decade at the Dutchman's helm, leading the Dutchman's crew, and Jack would be disappointed in the boy—man, now, really—if he could leave so easily as all that. So Will looks to the horizon, which is squarely shoreline and Elizabeth waiting, young William pressed and dressed in hand, then turns back to his crew.

It's a touching fare-thee-well, Jack supposes, but he spends his time in Will's quarters—his quarters now, aye, though they're less grim than his Pearl, which is odd, given the Dutchman's purpose—sniffing for the Locker.

Which is, surprise surprise, a locker. He lifts the lid, sing-songs, "Oh, Commodore," because he feels a need to siren-song for his own. It's nice, being on that end of things. Very interesting, aye?

Will steps back inside. "They'll take your heart," he says, reaching for the sword at his hip. "You know the drill, Jack. Captaining the Dutchman means your heart in a chest."

Jack drops the lid on the Locker and hopes like hell he hasn't startled James.

"And where would I leave it?" he asks. "No pretty strumpet waiting for me in some cottage, savvy? Think I'll keep it until I find someone worth giving it to, aye?"

"Do you want me to take it? It'll sting a bit, most likely, but at least there'll be no mobbing." Will's expression shadows. "And Maccus can be slightly... overeager... in his bladework."

Oh, that's encouraging.

"Good to know," Jack says. Then he laughs, because he's so close, he's bloody done it, and Will looks at him like he's laughing madness, and that makes him laugh more, and James is in that bloody Locker—which he now owns—and Beckett's in there, too, and Beckett can rot in hell but James will be rocking the bunk and fuck, this is why he's Captain Jack Sparrow. Miracles and happy endings and utter madness on the way.

Drinks all 'round, he thinks, and says, "Go find your wife before her butcher does," and shoos Will off his ship—he has a ship again, he's actually captain again, there is no end to his glee—so he can get on with more pressing matters.

***

He calls up Beckett first, because he's done all this, aye, but he's not ready to trust in all Tia's said without proof. Calling a man from the depths of the Locker without travelling to World's End seems risky, Jack thinks, and if he's testing it on someone, he's not testing it on James.

So he tests it on Beckett, who burns fury when he sees Jack's smirk like he once burned Jack's arm, which only makes Jack smugger.

It works, which is all he needs to know, so while Beckett assembles a sneer, Jack says, "Just thought I'd tell you, I'm captaining the Dutchman now, so that—" he points helpfully. "—is my Locker, savvy? Were you having fun under Captain Whelp? No? You're still alive and unscarred, clearly it's not been Locker enough for you. Let me fix that." And Jack grins maliciously as he sends the man back down.

Beckett's screams ring so pretty, Jack props his feet up to enjoy them.

Maccus—he thinks it's Maccus, but he's not sure, it's one of his new crew—knocks then. There's chanting, something about a heart, a heart, and Jack rolls his eyes and groans before he allows entry.

"Cap'n, we'll need th' heart," he says with a nod at Jack's chest.

Jack holds up a hand. "Curse is broken and I like it where it is, savvy? But by all means, let's discuss our course, aye?"

So Maccus sits, gaze locked on Jack's chest, and Jack settles in to his latest adventure.

The immortal Captain Jack Sparrow, pirate for the ages. Sounds just as lovely as he's expected.

***

James looks dreadful. Thin and pale and haunted, which Jack supposes makes sense. Mistrustful, too, wary in new ways. Like he trusts Jack, which hasn't happened outside Jack's own mind in quite possibly ever, but doesn't trust their surroundings. Maybe the Dutchman's not the Pearl, but she's no shambled raft, either.

"Welcome back, Commodore," Jack says.

"Jack?" James clears his throat. "Captain Sparrow. On... the Dutchman? This must be one of yours, then, I have no reason to fear this ship."

Jack lifts a brow. "You died here, didn't you?"

"Death has hardly been my greatest misfortune of late."

Ten years in the Locker aren't easily shed, Jack supposes. "You're free, James. No more Locker, I swear."

James frowns. "Is this meant to give me hope? Jones is getting soft, then, or I've outthought him, because it won't work. I know this is false."

"True," Jack corrects. "I'm captain of the Dutchman now, you're out of there."

"You are?" Ah, that blatant scepticism. Jack's missed that. "And which unfortunate, no doubt scandalous lady—and I use the term loosely—of ill-repute has been charged with your heart? The one who's slapped you least, perhaps? Or the one who's slapped you most?"

"You."

James stops dead. Undead? Jack's not sure about that, he'll have to check his terminology. James stops. "I'm sorry, Sparrow, I'm afraid I've missed yo—"

"You, I said. It's yours, if you want it."

"Your heart?"

"Aye."

"You expect me to spend ten years ashore pining for you over a vital organ in a box? You trust me not to stab it to ribbons as soon as you've left me? Why?"

Which is when Jack remembers it's the dishonest ones you can trust, because you can't know when the honest ones will do something stupid. Like questioning their release from hell or obliquely threatening the one who's saved them.

Bloody honesty. Overrated, that.

Before Jack can answer, James sighs his frustration and says, "Don't lie to me, not about this, I know it's meant to be hell and it is, but I can't... Jack... It's been so long and I couldn't feel you last time, and I know you're not bloody real now any more than you bloody ever are but can't you leave me something? Is that not allowed?" And while Jack works through that, James says, "I'll break anyway, I swear," and Jack breaks first.

He's up out of his chair, fisting James's shirt, mouth hovering so close—just kiss him—he feels James's breath on his chin, and Jack says, "James, it's real," and kisses him quiet.

James melts. Sags is more the word, maybe, but Jack likes thinking he's made James melt with his mouth; says good things about his future, aye?

"What will it take to prove this to you?" Jack asks, words marked by kisses, and James's breath hitches as James's fingers claw his neck to hold him steady. "I'm here now, you're staying, no Locker, I promise. Say something, Commodore, it's been ten bloody years, was I waiting for nothing?"

Before James can answer, Maccus thumps on Jack's door and says, "We've got a new course, cap'n, we'll need t' go under," and James stiffens. Blinks. Grips Jack even tighter, which is fine by him, aye?

"Real?" James says, mild Commodore question. Jack nods. Keeps his eyes on the sweet curve of James's mouth, which only get sweeter when James breaks into a smile.

"If you'd like, aye." Jack asks without asking. James answers in kind. Practicality sets in. "You'll have to join m' crew, savvy? No playing on the Dutchman unless you're working there, too."

"I'm aware." Jack's patience stretches too thin.

"Bloody tease."

"Bloody pirate." It's all affectionate growl, which Jack loves. "Your heart?"

"Yours. I'd rather keep it out of the Locker, if that's all right, but wherever you put it, keep it safe and we're square."

James considers this. "It would seem, captain, that the object in question is quite suitably housed in its present location, and barring any untoward or miscreant behaviour—perhaps of a piratical, tavern-brawling nature?—appears best left in place. At present."

The smile's visible, the smirk's not, and Jack bites for answers until James yelps, "All right, all right, you impossible bastard, I'll join your crew and if you so much as think the word 'pillage', I'll throw you overboard myself. Am I clear?"

"As m'compass," Jack says before his mouth's smothered in laughing, kissing Commodore.

Maccus thumps again and Jack waves helplessly, manages some garbled answer his crew takes for command, and he knows this is temporary, this easy affection, because they've ten years of patient sufferance and hostility beyond that, but it's all right for now and it will be in time.

They've lots of that ahead, aye?