"Here, boy." Joshamee Gibbs dumped a swath of burlap wrapped around gems and coins on the deck before Will's feet. "Your share o' the spoils. What we could find beyond th' rum and salted meats, leastways."

Will nodded absently, leaning over to gather the loose ends of the heavy cloth and lift. One last look around to see everyone else divvying up the remainder of the day's take, and he headed below, hoisting the makeshift bag, the flat of his sword slapping rhythmically against his outer thigh as he moved.

The sword had not been nearly enough when they took the privateer's ship a few hours ago. Will's hair had been clubbed back, but the scorching heat of the day had produced sweat nonetheless, a droplet stinging his eye as the other captain lunged for his belly; all that had saved Will was a sword he'd crafted, unerringly wielded by the helpful Captain Sparrow. Jack had sprung quite literally from nowhere—Will certainly hadn't noticed him in the melee up on deck just prior to his distraction—and blocked the captain's thrust, then fought the man back and planted his Turner Special into his Spanish gut. Stepping back, Jack had saluted the fallen man by touching the edge of his sword to his forehead, then gave up a bellow that everyone could surrender politely, seeing as their captain was dead and their lives and prize property of the crew of the Black Pearl.

Prisoners were in the brig until they could be turned out somewhere harmlessly, the crew was splitting the spoils, Anamaria was going over her new ship with a fine-tooth comb—after all, Jack had promised, and she hardly counted the Interceptor as payment in full, considering it was the Pearl that'd buried the smaller ship. All was as it should be, Will reflected as he let himself into the makeshift smithy and dropped his treasure on a bench. As was custom each afternoon, he withdrew the sword from his belt and returned it to the wall, though he didn't polish it this time—he was far too distracted.

Jack had saved his life.

Oh, it wasn't the first time and, to be fair, Will had kept his captain alive more times than he could recall to count. But today . after Jack had killed the privateer captain, he and Will had corralled the few crewmen unwilling to join their brothers in tossing aside arms and surrendering to the Pearl. They'd done so without direction from one another, perhaps only a couple of swift glances and nods, efficient. Which, in itself, was not unusual, until Will considered they hadn't worked that in concert for some weeks now.

Ever since Jack kissed him.

Will sighed, feeling incredible guilt once again. He'd been perhaps correct to believe Jack capable of trying to end an argument with sex in some fashion, but he'd been too cynical, too quick, and all too ready to condemn him, even when Jack backed off, hands up, trying to explain his impulsive kiss away as a distraction to win their disagreement at the time. Until Anamaria explained later what a rotting fool Will had been to ignore Jack and pile insult on injury, he'd truly believed his own fury. Yet he'd kept quiet after the revelation, relaxing his accusatory expressions and avoiding Jack when possible, too disturbed by his own confusing desires to have it out with or apologize to Jack.

Working side by side earlier loosened something inside Will. He'd seen with what vengeance Jack had attacked the other captain, going so far as to kill the man for the offense of protecting his own ship and nearly stabbing Will in the process. Jack only killed if his own life were under immediate threat; his own skin mattered a great deal to him, he'd once explained to Will, and he wasn't fond of any ideas someone else might get of depriving him of it. It'd been a lecture that each man must look out for himself lest he be distracted from self-preservation. Since Will had met the man, Jack had killed only three people—two in self-defense and one in vengeance. Well, four now, he corrected himself. And two in vengeance . it would seem, anyway.

They had to talk.