Jack Sparrow didn't resist as they disarmed him.

"Take him below, Lieutenant."

Will's head snapped up, but Jack's glance stopped him.

"Move, you!" Gillette's hand pushed his shoulder.

They descended. The mutineers were on the third gun-deck, wrist-shackled, leg-irons secured by staples. They growled when he appeared.

Jack grinned. "Good evening, gentlemen!"

Bosun leapt forward, bellowing.

Jack jumped back. Into Gillette, who pushed him off, swearing. But not before Jack had noticed a certain—firmness.

That was interesting.

The brig was one deck down: two small, iron-barred cells. Gillette clanged the door shut behind him.

"Lieutenant." He moved forward, hands a-flutter. "There's just one little thing."

"Indeed?" Gillette hung the key out of reach, then turned back, full mouth drawn up in a contemptuous smirk.

Jack's hands shot out, grasping his lapels. A quick pull and he was against the bars—with Jack's mouth covering his.

Gillette gasped, lips parting. Jack slipped his tongue between them.

Gillette's hands gripped Jack's shoulders. His tongue darted forward, thrusting against Jack's, caressing. He groaned into the deepening kiss.

They heard it at the same moment: footsteps on the stairs.

Jack's hand moved as Gillette thrust him away.

Gillette glanced at the stairs, then back at the cell. Jack swung his wig gently to and fro, grinning.

Gillette snatched it back. He'd replaced it before the marines appeared.

"I look forward to watching you hang, pirate!" Gillette straightened his coat.

"Happy to oblige, mate." Jack winked.

Gillette huffed, turned on his heel, and left.