There's almost no light down here, so that each man is no more than an indistinct and mysterious collation of dark shapes, defined only by the paler whites of his eyes, or a sudden glimpse of teeth (more likely to be the result of a grimace than a smile). They're jammed in, a dozen or more to each of the brig's two small cells, so tight that not all can sit at a time, and when they do, they must do so in two inches of semi-foetid water. There's little talk. They stand, or sit, with their own thoughts and the incessant rhythmic thud of water against the hull for company. Voices drift down from above, still boldened by the thrill of victory, laughter sounding like a foreign substance in those harsh throats. Jack's men are subdued into silence. Even those among them who wished to be back on the Pearl, did not wish it to be this way.

Perhaps the lightest heart, oddly, is that of the young blacksmith. He's facing the most certain death of any of them; and yet, he does so with the comforting knowledge that what he has bought with his life is the most precious thing of all to him. He believes, unquestioningly, that he has secured the safety of his beloved, and of this strange company. So, despite what's coming to him, he knows it won't all have been in vain; and that eases the fear, and the regret, and the loss. It makes him feel, for once, like the hero he wants to be for her.

They will remember me, he thinks. Elizabeth will never forget me, now. I have saved her.

Jack Sparrow, standing close beside him, looks over as the young man tilts his head towards the dim light coming from the passageway, leaning against the hammered iron bars as though hoping miraculously for a glimpse of his love. He's taken aback at the peace on that young face, and it compels him, even as it pierces him. What a thing that must be, to be facing your own death with such calm, simply because you trust in the safety of another. He's afflicted with a twist of jealousy that takes him somewhat by surprise.

Jack's faced death three dozen times and more, and never with such acceptance as that. Always, his heart and soul and rapid mind have been struggling and howling and grasping for ways to hold on to precious life, whatever that may mean, whatever sacrifices must be made. Today is no different. He will fight with his last ounce of strength, his last waking thought, to remain alive. And certainly, he'll try to keep the others alive with him; but he knows full well that, in the final analysis, he'd trade their lives for his.

Which makes him, he fears, more or less the polar opposite of William Turner.

What light there was is fading fast. Jack watches as Will's shadowed face slips further into darkness.

*

An hour or more later, they're roused from their grim torpor by the appearance of two crew members, bearing lanterns, and bottles of tepid water. They pass the latter through the bars, where they're set upon with desperate gusto by the prisoners. The taller of the two, distinguished by his bull-like shoulders and scarred face, holds the lantern high and peers into the crowded brig.

"Captain's issued a dinner invitation," he says, joyful menace clear in his voice. "Turner, Sparrow, by the door. Rest of you, get back!" He illustrates the sincerity of this request by jabbing a dagger through the bars of the cell, into the dimness beyond, and there's a pained cry that's bitten off in a choke.

"You all right, mate?" says Jack, to he knows not whom.

"Aye," is the quiet rejoinder. "Nothin' as'll kill me."

"Too fuckin' bad," laughs the shorter of Barbossa's men. "Better luck next time, Blood."

"Aye, and the next time won't be far off, if you don't shift your filthy bones," spits Blood. "Turner and Sparrow, I said!"

Will catches a glint of gold in the lanternlight as Jack grins his lupine grin. "Delighted, I'm sure," he says, and pulls Will with him as the brig's small iron door is briefly unlocked and cracked open. Blood's eager dagger ensures that no others attempt to push through alongside the two summonsed men. His companion leads them away, the kindly lanternlight bobbing down the passage, leaving the company once again in the chill, foul-smelling darkness.

Jack has not released his hold on Will's arm.

Blood and Shorter lead them to the Great Cabin, knock on its door, and are bid entry.

Will's heart quickens with joy and relief as he sees Elizabeth, pale but determined, seated at Barbossa's left, and his smile is immediately mirrored on her face. He wants to drink her in, remember every tiny morsel of her, for however many hours it is he has left. So beautiful, so precious that it fills his heart to overflow. Oh, yes, he thinks, I am willing to die for you, Elizabeth Swann.

"Come in, gents, come in," cries the pirate captain, seated at the head of the table. "Do join me for this celebration. Although, you two," (with a nod to his men) "better stay by the door, for we all know what a slippery customer our friend Jack can be, and our young acquaintance Mr Turner's becoming known for his rashness besides."

Cautiously, Jack and Will make their way into the opulent cabin. Dark wood glistens in the light of many candles, and the table is laden with a gluttonous array. Platters and dishes of precious metals, richly baroque fabrics, and fine Venetian glass stand testament to this company's mastery of its trade.

"Please, take a seat, and do help yourselves. Wine? I b'lieve it's French, an' all," says their host, grinning rather unpleasantly.

Will looks hesitantly at Jack. He's no idea what to make of this. Jack looks consideringly at Barbossa for a moment, then pulls back a chair, takes the proffered bottle, and pours two large glasses, without asking Will's opinion. Will frowns briefly, but notes that Elizabeth appears to have a glass, after all. He sits, opposite his captor, and tries not to reach for her under the table. She might not take that terribly well.

"Well, cheers all," says Jack, raising his glass, "and I would say, to our host's good health, but it appears you really ain't in the best of it, old friend." There is a cutting edge to the joviality in his voice.

"You don't know the half of it," says Elizabeth, in a low voice, and Will looks at her in surprise, and not a little consternation. What's that supposed to mean?

"Oh, I think I do," insists Jack, slowly swirling the darkly bloody wine around his delicate glass. "I believe I've a fairly clear idea of it all."

Will looks from one to the other. Is he the only one here who doesn't understand?

"One of your charming company came upon me in the gaol, in Port Royal," supplies Jack, "and the moonlight was sufficient for a demonstration."

Elizabeth leans towards Will, and whispers, "The moonlight shows them for what they are... they cannot be killed, for they're no longer fully alive. The moonlight illuminates... their decay."

Will feels a grimace upon his face. Poor Elizabeth, trapped on board with such creatures! Thank God he has engineered her safety.

"Well then," says Barbossa, "since you're all so well informed, I see no point in denyin' that I have, in fact, been in better health. Which is, of course, the point of this celebration, since tomorrow, I will be, once again, in my glorious prime. For which, in advance, I thank you, Mr Turner." And he raises his glass, with happy irony, to Will. No-one joins him in this toast.

"Please," he says, with grave courtesy, "help yourself to this fine repast. T'ain't poisonous, I assure ye. I wouldn't want to harm my gentleman saviour, now would I? Well... not prematurely, at any rate."

Jack acknowledges the logic of this with a tilt of his head and a twist of his lips, and helps himself to a wedge of cheese, and half a chicken carcass. Despite his discomfort, Will's undeniably hungry. And since it's likely his last meal... he tears off a hunk of bread, and fills his plate from the selection before him, his mouth watering.

Elizabeth stands so she can reach the centre of the table, leaning insolently across until her milky breasts threaten to tip from the bodice of the fine dress she's wearing. If Will didn't know her better, he'd swear she was doing it deliberately for Barbossa's eyes, which widen slightly at her display. From a gleaming golden bowl, she takes a large green apple. Sitting, she slices it cleanly on her plate, so that its fresh sugar-and-lemon tang fills the air. Takes up one half, and, staring at Barbossa pointedly, takes a singularly unladylike bite.

He stares at her, anger gathering in his hooded eyes, but then, suddenly, transmutes it into a barking laugh.

"Oh, missy, you're a fine one, ain't you! To taunt a man so! And when he's offering you such gracious hospitality an' all."

"I've yet to find any gracious aspect to you, sir." They're close to glaring at one another. Jack determines that now would be a fine time to interject.

"Tell us about this curse, then," he says, partly as a distraction, and partly out of pure curiosity. "Since I would doubtless have had a share in it, were it not for your timely mutiny. For which I now thank you."

"T'ain't an enjoyable one," says Barbossa smoothly, "as I've already explained to the young lady here. Aside from the obvious benefit, viz., unstoppable immortality, there are numerous drawbacks, and many things in life that we've missed most dreadfully. Such as the sweet joys of food, and drink, and of the flesh, which simply can't be relished, no matter how often we may attempt to avail ourselves of them."

Aah, thinks Will, with a small smirk. That's what Elizabeth was doing.

"Interesting," says Jack, cocking an eyebrow. "I can see why you'll be celebrating on the morrow." As if in agreement, a raucous howl echoes through the ship, the sound of the men in the galley cheering their approval of some foul jest. Will sees the tiniest of twitches at Elizabeth's lips, and frets over what she must have gone through last night.

"Oh, and tonight, Jack, and tonight," says Barbossa gaily. "There's ten years' worth of anticipation here on the lovely Pearl. It's a glorious evening."

"And how will you celebrate," says Will, wanting, like Elizabeth, to rub the loathsome man's incapacities in his face, "when you're still unable to feel a single thing?"

From the corner of his eye, he sees Jack's expression change, just marginally, a tiny flinch, as if Will's said something foolish again. Damnation! When will that insufferable man stop treating him like a halfwit!

But perhaps it wasn't such a wise comment, for he hears a stifled snicker from the men guarding the door, and Barbossa's face is overtaken with a sly pleasure.

"A fine question, Mr Turner," he says, nodding slowly as if in consideration. "But, you see... what we're lacking, is all a matter of bodily ability. Whereas in our heads... and in our black hearts... we're fully men, and fully alive, and able to enjoy many, many... ideas. And... visions. Besides which, ain't you never come across the word vicarious?"

The only betrayal on Jack's face that he understands the import of Barbossa's words is a closing of his eyes, held just a moment too long.

Comprehension dawns far more slowly on Will, in a delicate bloom of horrid possibilities. He lurches to his feet, and his chair crashes down behind him. "If you touch one hair on her head—" he cries, but is cut short as Blood grabs him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides, holding a knife sharp to his throat.

"Will!" cries Elizabeth, and then "Let him go, you monster!" But Shorter's beside her, knife in hand, and she can do no more than impotently crash her small fist on the table.

"Now, now," says Barbossa, soothingly. "Let's all calm down, shall we, boys and girls? And not go jumping to conclusions, and ruining dinner?" He stands, languidly, and with a glance indicates to Shorter that he's to guard Jack, which he does. Barbossa takes his place, standing behind Elizabeth. Will watches in helpless revulsion as the pirate captain reaches out a trembling hand and takes up one long lock of her shining hair, twining it round his grimy fingers.

"See, Mr Turner," he says, "Although I can, and will, touch as many hairs on her head as I damn well care to, there really ain't a lot of point in it, is there? Eh? Aside from the fact that I do enjoy those delicate shudders that run through you, my dear."

"Not a lot of point," he continues, "tonight. Tomorrow, however... well, that's going to be a whole different kettle of fish, ain't it?"

"But you said you'd let her go!" shouts Will, choleric and sickened. "You vile, lying—"

"No need to get all thersitical, Mr Turner. T'ain't my fault you was so vague in your negotiations. As it happens, I've every intention of letting her go, when I'm—oh, sorry gentlemen," (this to his crewmembers) "when we're finished with her." Elizabeth is frozen and white, and the look she shoots up at Will is one of pure terror.

Will has no idea where it comes from. Perhaps it's his determination to save her at all costs, perhaps it's because he's already accustomed himself to the idea that his life is the price of hers. But out of his mouth come the words, "Take me, instead."

As soon as they're said, he flushes with the stupidity of them. What would they want with him, a man? It's clear they want to violate Elizabeth. He's hardly a substitute for that. But the fiend's lips twitch into a smile, and he says, "Funny you should say that, boy. For there's still the matter of tonight's celebratory diversions to be settled."

Jack fears he's been silent too long. He's let this foolhardy selflessness get right out of hand, and it's becoming clear to him where it's leading. He taps the side of his glass with his knife, getting their attention with its clear ring, waiting till they're all looking at him.

"Jack?" says Barbossa, with theatrical courtesy. "Did you have something to interject into these proceedings?"

"Well," says Jack, lazily, leaning back in his chair, "I must say, seems to me you're choosing some odd entertainment."

"Odd, is it? I don't recall you ever turning up your nose at sweet young flesh, Jack."

"Oh," says Jack, knowing how they will both hate him for it, but seeing it as tomorrow's problem, "I can see the appeal of the filly, she's worth savin'. But that boy don't know his arse from his elbow, mate. He ain't going to entertain you none. Besides which, I really do suspect he may be a eunuch."

Barbossa ponders this, a finger tapping thoughtfully on his cheek. Finally he says, "You may be right, Jack."

Three sets of lungs let out a little breath.

"That's why we're so lucky, see," he continues, with a lascivious smile full of yellowed teeth. "'Cos we've got you here, to help him along, Jack. And you, if I recall, most certainly do know your arse from your elbow. And there's plenty here as can testify that you're fully intact."

Will's growing comprehension is equalled only by his growing outrage. "For God's sake, Barbossa, what makes you think that I would—"

"Thisss," hisses the captain, as he pulls Elizabeth's head back by her hair, and there's a sudden flash of silver, and a blade is at her throat. Her eyes widen in terror, but she makes no sound. "Let's remember, Mr Turner, that I am—as you're only too happy to remind me—prone to the occasional falsehood. So I could let her go in a few days, or I could not. And I could let her go in one single piece. Or I could not."

Will stares in wild, horrified disbelief. This man will do anything. Anything. He has no compunction whatsoever.

"Alright, alright," says Jack, tiredly. "No need for theatrics, I'd say we're all coming to an understanding of the situation. What say we get rid of the girl, then, and get down to the necessaries?" Right now, he can't see any way out of this. And the last thing he wants is for William to have to go through it in front of his love.

"Loath as I am to agree with any word coming out of your mouth, Jack, I'll concur this once. This is men's business. Koehler!" Barbossa cries, and in moments, approaching footsteps herald the arrival of his henchman. "Be so kind as to escort the lady back to her lodgings, will you? And make sure she's well restrained. And, Koehler?"—as Elizabeth is being dragged away, biting her lip, looking beseechingly at Will— "No touching, mind." And then she's gone.

"Really," says Barbossa gaily, returning to his chair, "She hardly touched her food. She'll be skin and bone in no time, if she don't regain her appetite. Please, Mr Turner, do take a seat."

Will's still shaking from this strange and horrible turn of events. He knows there is something dark and nasty heading his way, but part of him suspects that he must have misinterpreted the earlier conversation, for surely, surely they couldn't mean what he thought they did. But Lord knows he's not going to ask. He sits, and takes a long draught of wine.

"Good point," says Jack, and does the same, then refills both their glasses.

"Well, now, gentlemen," says Barbossa. "Shall I give you an overview of our proposed agenda for this evening?"

"By all means," says Jack blandly.

"Firstly," the pirate captain says, "I'm going to give my loyal company the chance for some anticipation, and revelry. And secondly, when they're good and excitable..." He leans forwards on the table, looking from one to the other with glimmering malice. "I'm going to bring on you two as the entertainment."

"Oh, do spit it out," says Jack, with affected boredom. "Said entertainment consisting of...?"

"Whatever the boys fancy, so long as Mr Turner's still alive at the end of it," says the devil, with relish. "But I can tell you what it is they feel they're missing. They miss the feel of flesssh. And they want to know its pleasures. Vicariously, gents. Alternatively, I should warn you that they've developed a taste for the converse. Suffering's a very... touching emotion."

Will feels his stomach convulse. He won't be sick in front of this man, he won't. But his heart is hammering, and he's flushed hot with fear and shame. He cannot quite believe that human beings can sink this low.

*

Jack can see nothing, the blackness in the tiny lockup is utter. Overhead, he can hear stamping dances, the whistles of a hornpipe underlying a dim roar of singing. Oh yes, they're excitable alright. Beside him, he can hear Will's slow and deliberate breaths, as though the boy is struggling for control.

Jack knows that he can survive this. He's not so sure of William. He's seen strong men break for less. He knows Will was ready to die for Elizabeth. But dying's quick and easy if you're lucky, and you don't have to live with it afterwards.

"Will?" he says, quietly, and reaches out into the dark. His searching hand finds a forearm, which flinches at his touch, but he wraps his fingers around it nonetheless.

"You understand what they want, don't you?"

There's a small silence, and then a deep breath. "Yes," comes the boy's voice, its normally deep tones thin with fear. "They want us to... to..." He trails off, failing to find the words.

"To pleasure each other," says Jack, trying to make it sound like something quite ordinary.

"While they watch," mutters Will.

"Aye."

"Why... why would they want to see such a thing?"

"'Cause they can't do it themselves, darlin', haven't done for ten years. Probably barely able to imagine it anymore. Want you and I to put it back in their imaginations."

"I can't do it, Jack."

"Yes, you can. For your girl. And our lives. And if we do as they demand, there'll be less... aggravation," says Jack, understating the potential consequences somewhat. He sailed with this crew. He knows where they came from, and what they're capable of. Deep in his subconscious, brief and horrid flashes torment Jack. Screams, begging. Blood. It's disturbing how long a man can live without his skin.

"Aggravation? What do I care for that, Jack? It's a question of honour, of integrity." Jack hears the boy shifting, agitatedly. He feels almost sorry for him, so trapped in this upright system of rules, and right, and wrong. But then jealous of him, of his nave ignorance.

"Oh, please," says Jack, "honour's your own possession. It can't be taken from you on the whim of another. The loss is theirs for asking, and not yours for complying, for ain't you doing it for an honourable reason?"

Silence.

"What we need to do," he elaborates, "is get ourselves through tonight. And tomorrow, new things will happen, and chances may present themselves. We ain't dead yet."

"Perhaps I should be," says Will, flatly, dully. "If I were dead, they couldn't use my blood to free themselves. Could they?"

"I don't know, mate," says Jack. "Could be your blood's just as good to them cold and thick as warm and flowing. But I can guarantee it ain't half so much use to you that way. Come on, Will, it ain't so bad." He feels his way up the boy's arm to his shoulder, gives him a friendly squeeze. Thinking he should get him used to his touch. "Neither one of us is too hid'jus, I'm sure we can manage it."

Will covers his face in his hands, muffling his words. "Jack, I'm a man, you're a man; I haven't any idea, and I don't want to have any idea, what 'managing it' means."

Jack's heart is speared. Someone's had a fucking sheltered life. But poor boy, what a way to learn.

"Listen," he says, "How much d'you want them to enjoy this little diversion?"

"Not in the slightest, of course, but they're doubtless going to."

"True, but it'll be the less if you don't give them what they want. And what they want is your fear, and shame, and pain. So I say, don't let's give it to them."

"Just... pretend not to care?"

"I s'pose that. But—and don't take this the wrong way, mind—I'druther truly not care. I'druther be there, with you, and not see, or hear, or feel any of the rest of it. And I don't think you do that by hating and dreading every moment of it. I think you do that by immersing yourself in it and finding the good and the true at the heart of it."

There's a silence. Jack wonders if he's pushed the boy too far, if this concept is simply too alien to him to accept.

"Where is the good and true?" asks Will, quietly.

"It's in the fact that I mean you no harm, and you mean me none either. In the fact that we're two souls, two bodies, that wish each other only well, and are only tryin' to do the most honourable thing by those we care for."

A silence, but the breathing is a little calmer.

"Will?"

"Yes, Jack?"

"Are y'alright? Can you face it?"

Will searches his heart. It's still swollen with fear and disgust, but no longer roiling, spilling over with it. "Perhaps," he says, low. "But... Jack? It would be easier if I knew more... of what, and how."

He thinks, as he says this, that he means for Jack to tell him of it. But as he hears Jack draw closer, and feels the warmth of his proximity, he realises that Jack means to show him.

Jack stands, and reaches down, drawing Will to his feet also. He stands close, in the blackness, so close that Will can smell the wine on his breath, the salt of his skin.

He's suddenly and completely aware of Jack as a human soul, and not just as a flamboyant and precocious stranger, and the warmth of that soul takes him unawares. He realises in a hot instant that Jack could probably do all this with his eyes closed, and simply shuck it off on the morrow like a lizard shedding its skin. He, Will, is the one with the problem. And Jack knows that, and is doing everything he can to solve it for him. The kindness of it, in the midst of all this cruelty, takes his breath.

As does the touch of a hot dry hand at his throat, sliding down inside his shirt, to sit over his thumping heart. And Jack's other hand grasps Will's, and brings it to his own skin, till they stand, each with a hand on a heart, and Will is touched by the simple loveliness of the satin skin beneath his fingers. It comes clear to him that underneath these extravagant clothes, and this dangerous persona, and these elaborate wits—underneath all that, is just a warm, breathing body. Like his. Like him. And although he expects to be repulsed by the touch, he is not. He is unaccountably grateful for it. It is suddenly the only piece of comfort in a world gone mad. And he draws closer to it, spreads his fingers wide over Jack's chest. Stops abruptly as his smallest finger encounters the small firm peak of Jack's nipple.

"Oh," he says. Feels a need to apologise, and realises just in time how foolish that would sound.

"Here," says Jack, and Will can hear the smile in his voice. "Get used to me, and it won't be such a trial for ye." He brings his other hand up, cups it around the side of Will's face, comes closer, closer, so that Will can feel his breath in the scant inches that separate them. He feels his breath come faster. He feels utterly confused. This is nothing that he wants. But he cannot quite bring himself to dread it as he should.

Jack comes to him like a wine-dark sea, and strangeness, and warmth. He doesn't smell, or feel, or sound... like a wrongness.

Jack's voice is very low, and slow, and calm, as though he's talking to a skittish horse. Which is rather how Will feels. "I'm going to kiss you, now, alright Will? Just show you..."

Will doesn't move, doesn't breathe, stands like a statue with his hand on Jack's chest, feeling Jack's heart beating, and then Jack's lips, dry and warm and soft, meet his. Jack's moustache tickles faintly under his nose, Jack's nose touches gently on his cheek.

To Will's utmost surprise, Jack's kiss feels ...safe. A tiny ember of hope flares in him. Perhaps he can do this, survive this. Perhaps it is not so impossible. Tentatively, he purses his lips, and kisses back.

"Mmm," says Jack, encouraging, approving. Wriggling closer, so their hands are wedged between their bodies. Jack's thighs touch Will's. Solid. Muscular.

To Will's consternation, he finds he is almost... enjoying kissing Jack. Which is surely not possible? And if he is surprised when he feels Jack's lips parting, and Jack's tongue touching Will's own lips—well, then he is nothing less than shocked when his mouth opens without argument, because the tongue brings with it heat, and...

... pleasure. Lovely treacly warmth that tentacles through him. That makes his heart speed up. That makes him tilt his head, and open his mouth wider, and admit Jack's seeking tongue. That melts and liquefies the solid lump of fear that has been pressing on his chest, replacing it with an expansion of hot delight. That forces a small mmmph of sound from him, and—

Hearing that sound coming from himself breaks the spell.

Will pulls away, pushing at Jack's chest. Breathing hard, but not taking his hand away. He can't accept that. If he must do this for Elizabeth's safety, then he must do it. But he can't enjoy it.

Jack only laughs, softly. He felt the quickening of Will's heartbeat beneath his hand. He knows exactly what's going through that mind.

"That's the beauty of it, William," he murmurs into the dark. "Your heart and soul can think what they like, but your body is its own master, and it can do this, even if you think you can't."

"It shouldn't be so," whispers Will, distraught.

"But it is," says the low growl, and Jack presses up against the boy, demonstrating his own reaction. "See? We're all the same. It just is so. Which is lucky for us tonight, ain't it?"

Will is startled at the sensation of Jack's hardness pressing against him, and gasps. He had not really thought of... of Jack, reacting to kissing him. It makes him realise that the heat of the kiss has made him half hard himself, and he's ashamed at the thought that Jack can doubtless tell. But Jack, relentless, grinds gently against him, and then begins to kiss him again, along his jawline and down his throat, and Jack's hand inside Will's shirt starts to move, sliding tenderly over his own nipple. And it feels good. Despite everything.

Just because you feel it, he tells himself, doesn't mean it's there.

"You don't mind, then, Jack?" he mutters. "This doesn't... bother you?"

He feels the warm exhalation of the pirate's breathy laugh. "Bein' forced to be their entertainment? Baring myself to the likes o' that lot? 'Bother' ain't really the term for it, William, though I can't say what is, only that I'd rather chew off a digit and spit it to the sharks. But, if you mean, does it bother me to be touchin' you...?"

There's a pause, which seems to Will to be an inordinately long one.

"Not one whit," says Jack with some relish, "In fact, in other circumstances, I'd be quite delighted."

"Oh," says Will.

In for a penny, in for a pound, thinks Jack. Might as well make him feel good about himself. And it ain't as if it's a lie, after all—it's just something that Jack hasn't bothered to pursue in his head, since it seemed so utterly pointless. The sudden surge in the heartbeat beneath his hand, as he tasted his way into that lovely young mouth, might however imply that a point is, conceivably, in the offing. As it were.

"Because," says Jack—letting his voice go down to a guttural murmur, placing his mouth close to William's ear (so that he knows the boy can feel the heat of his breath, and so that his own throat touches Will's, sharing the stimulation of this low growl's vibrations)—"Because, Will, whether you wish it or no, there's no-one as can look at you and not see the loveliness of your face, the strength of your form. I can see it, plain as day. An' I'm not the slightest bit averse to touchin' it."

Will doesn't know what to say. He's bemused. Jack Sparrow had thought these things of him all along? How did he not realise?

Why is he not... disgusted?

A sudden clatter of approaching footsteps makes Will clutch Jack hard. "They're coming," he hisses, all his fear returning. "Jack, I still don't know—"

But the footsteps continue down the passageway. "Not yet," says Jack, consideringly. The sounds of singing, dancing, carousing are still too loud and rapid. They've a little while to go. He feels Will relax under his hands. "Still don't know what?"

"I don't know... what their demands are likely to be, I suppose."

Jack sighs into the dark. He's really beginning to wish this wasn't happening this way, as it's becoming plainer to him that there were actually opportunities to be had with this lad. But this is really going to put him off for good.

"Well," he says slowly, lightly, holding the boy close to him, "not to put too fine a point on it, but one or the both of us is going to be thoroughly fucked this evening, William."

"By...?" comes a low query out of the dark.

"By the other, darling, by the other," says Jack, glad of the blackness as he can't help but roll his eyes.

"And how does one do that, Jack?"

"Carefully, mate, so don't worry."

"No, I mean, d'you mean, in the...?"

"Arse," says Jack, honestly. "Or mouth. Or both. Depends what they feel like I s'pose. Although we can always steer them in the right direction, so what would you prefer?"

This is so absurd Will has to swallow a laugh. "You want me to state a preference, Jack?"

"Aye, and d'you want to do, or be done to?"

"For God's sake, Jack, I don't know!"

"Well then," says Jack, wickedly, "p'rhaps I'd better help you to make a more informed choice, eh?" And he pushes Will back, against the bulkhead, and the next thing Will knows, the pirate is on his knees before him, and quick fingers have insinuated their way under his vest, and loosed his trousers, and Will is still gasping out, "Jack, stop it, what on earth do you—" when an incandescent heat envelops his semi-rigid organ and he realises that he is in Jack Sparrow's mouth.

Oh. God. Oh. God.

His head wants to push Jack away. His body has no intention of complying. He's frozen in an impossible churn of emotion, and sensation, and thoughts.

I'm in Jack's mouth, I'm a prisoner, they're going to kill me tomorrow, "Oh, Christ, Jack—" Elizabeth might die, but I can save her, but I have to be sodomised by a pirate, or do it to him, but I don't know how, but he wants to anyway, but I don't want to, I'm not, I'm not, oh god, his tongue is, they want to watch me, and they are not even human, they might kill her anyway, I can't do this, ahh, that feels so, so, so—

Will's braced against the rough wood behind him, his palms flat against it, trying to stop the tremble in his thighs, but it's no use, for Jack's hands are warm on him and he knows the pirate can feel every quiver that runs through him. He thanks god for the pitchy blackness, hiding his face, hiding his bitten lip and furrowed brow and tilted head and the hot blood he can feel in his cheeks. Wishes the pirate could not hear his ragged breaths and gasps as that heavenly tongue curls round him, and the warm wet insides of Jack's cheeks hollow against him as the pirate sucks and slides his way along, abandoning Will's aching shaft to the cool air and playing teasingly around its head before determinedly and comprehensively taking him back, back, till Will's hard and trembling flesh touches the back of his throat, and Jack hums his appreciation in deep vibrating frequencies.

Will can feel the gathering sparks of release tearing through his blood, boiling in his belly, and he's caught in a place of complete immobility, half of him screaming at himself to stop, to push the pirate away from him, and half of him begging, desperately, for fulfilment, and what's he to do, oh, what's he to do?

Suddenly, Jack solves the problem for him, by releasing him from the delicious confines of his mouth, planting a reassuring kiss on the end of his twitching shaft, and standing. A strangled noise comes unbidden from Will.

"See," says Jack, "that ain't so bad, is it?" Knowing that now, in all probability, he can bring the boy to completion even with an audience. "So don't worry, mate, I'll do all the doing."

Will cannot reply. It was the worst thing imaginable, and yet the best, and every extreme he can think of. To pretend it was merely acceptable is quite impossible.

"So," continues Jack, who fears that their time is running short, "my plan is, to get them in a good mood. To play along, to entertain them, alright? And I'll do most of that, you don't have to do much, bar letting me do what needs to be done, and be strong about it, savvy? And it ain't so much a question of morality as mortality, remember that, for I've no wish for them to get a taste for anything wickeder." He puts his hands on Will's shoulders, gripping him fiercely, wanting to give him strength.

"There's wickeder?" mumbles Will, still only partly sensible.

Overhead, the hornpipe's silent. There's a cheer, muffled words, and footsteps. Here we go, thinks Jack.

"Aye. Much wickeder, trust me. An' if you feel you can't do it, look in my eyes, and you'll see that I know you can. An' we'll all be quick still when dawn comes."

*

The hatch on the main deck has been cleared of ropes and barrels, and turned into an impromptu stage lit by numerous lanterns hanging from the mizzen yard. The entire company is gathered around, their captain in pride of place crosslegged atop a barrel, and they're hooting and baiting and as promised, good and excitable. Will's head spins as he looks from one to another to another, an endless pressing circle of glittering cruel eyes and lascivious grins, licking lips, crude gestures, howling laughter; barely human to his eyes. Racing cloud cover is the only mercy.

Jack, disconcertingly, is grinning along with the rest of them.

"Good evenin' gentlemen!" he cries, and bows low. "I trust you're all having a fine time?"

"Aye," growls Koehler, "but we're expecting finer."

"So I hear, from your good captain," says Jack, agreeably. "Who tells me that for some time now, you've all been sadly unable to partake of some of life's sweetest pleasures... till tomorrow, o'course."

A howling cheer rises from the hideous throng.

"Unable," he continues, and as he speaks, slowly reaches out to Will, "to feel the silky, pulsing warmth of another's flesh..." And Jack, standing before the boy, runs his warm dry fingers down the side of Will's face, and throat, and down the centre of his chest, into his shirt. Looking into his eyes, all the while.

Will, stiller than a carved figurehead, frozen with shame, closes his eyes against the demanding reassurance in Jack's gaze. Hears the laugh and murmur of this crew as Jack shows them, through his mobile and expressive face, just how it feels to touch another's skin.

He cannot believe that Jack can just... do this. With such apparent relish.

But then, didn't Jack say, I'm not averse to touching you?

Perhaps Jack... is not doing this for any honourable reason. Perhaps Jack is simply part of this violation. Will feels revulsion pulling at the corners of his mouth. Monsters, all of them. All of them.

"On the other hand," says Jack jovially, "I'd say you can probably still appreciate the sight of it, eh?"

The din increases, and Will can pick out cries of Show us skin! and Take it off him! Feels Jack's nimble fingers working at the buttons of his vest. The roiling shame and anger build in him. Damn Jack and his lies and his manipulations! Damn them all! He won't stand here and be manhandled like some animal!

Jack's taken aback as Will, who had been standing so placid and strong, suddenly pushes him away, his eyes flaming with indignation. Hellfire and damnation! thinks Jack. For once in your life, be sensible, William!

Will's jaw is set, his nostrils flaring. And, miraculously, he is undoing his own buttons. Throwing off his vest, pulling his shirt over his head. Standing there, flushed, staring challenge at all of them, and not least at Jack himself.

And oh, lord, he's beautiful. Blushing red suffuses the skin below his throat, blending to a pale warm gold of lanternlit skin. Rosy nipples standing to attention, shadows on his torso delineating muscle and ribs, all waxing and waning with his breathing. Long, muscular arms a beautiful collection of curves and shade, intimating strength, lovely to behold.

Shouts of approbation from the crowd. "Oh, Jack," crows Barbossa from his perch, "you're a fine teacher, alright!"

Jack tries to paint a grin back on his face. But it wants to turn into something different, into a true smile. It seems that Will has found something inside himself that will let him stand up and dare them to do their worst. Jack knows, from sad experience, that this is the thing that will save Will later. This is the thing that will stop him being consumed by the past, and let him walk on through his life (presuming, of course, that his life can be counted in more than hours) with scars that heal, instead of wounds that fester.

Jack slowly removes his own clothing, till he's shirtless also. Lets them watch. Watches Will watching.

And Will is, most definitely, watching. Watching with a face full of challenge and anger, but watching.

And what Will sees is the unexpected, the unwished for. He sees something that is beautiful to his traitor eyes. Despite everything, despite his vile situation and his deep mistrust of Jack, his bones and flesh respond to this narrow whipcord body, its sculpted planes and curves of muscle, its exotic illustrations and sun-dark warmth. It's... lovely. He wants to touch it.

He takes this shocking thought, and buries it deep, beneath his anger and hatred.

He's going to get his hidden wish anyway. Jack comes up close to him. Will closes his eyes, imagining himself back in the lockup, in the dark, in solitude. It could be done then. It can be done now.

Jack's so close that Will's skin prickles with the electricity of his proximity. He leans in to Will's ear, and runs his tongue around its rim. "No pain, no shame," he whispers, far too low for any to hear but Will. "Find the good and the true."

Oh, fuck the good and the true, thinks Will, wildly, I don't believe you. But I'm damned if they, or you, or anyone, can have my pain and shame. And when Jack kisses him, he kisses him back, savagely. Grabs Jack's hair with both hands, shoves his tongue in Jack's mouth, bites at Jack's lips. As if to say, no matter what you want, I can do more. I am better than any one of you, in every, every way.

Jack's taken aback for only a moment, then filled up by Will's wild energy, and responds in kind. He puts his arms round Will, pulls him close. They're both half-hard already, and the shivery contact of skin, of panting chests pressed together, swells them against each another. One of them appalled that this can happen with such ease. One relieved.

Will does not release Jack from his feral kiss. Blood pods bursting against his closed eyelids. Anger transmuting into passion, reverting again, circling in hot confusion in his brain. Tasting the wine and heat of Jack, shuddering as the soft skin of Jack's arms curves him forward into the beating warmth of Jack's embrace. As if he can climb inside Jack, and be safe, lose himself and his shame in that strange strength and embarrassing beauty. And then as anger takes control again, as if he can devour Jack, remove him from this earth, removing all the confusion and shame with him. Not knowing which of these drives him. But driven nonetheless.

"Oh, yes, lads!" cries Barbossa, his voice coming dimly to Will from far, far away. "That's the spirit!" Doing nothing but sparking Will's anger, and defiance. He pushes and grinds against Jack, driving himself towards wilful insensibility.

Jack has to put up a hand, to push Will away before he drowns in it.

"And that, gents," he growls, "is what a kiss feels like, as you may now recollect."

Will wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, bruised and throbbing.

"Aye, and what does the rest of it feel like?" shouts someone. "Show us the goods!"

A chorus of aye!s and a stamping of feet.

Jack cocks an eyebrow at Will. "Shall I do the honours, mate, or are you still feeling mighty independent?"

Fuck them. Fuck them. Will pulls off his shoes, undoes his breeches, steps out of them.

If there was a pause in the cacophony when he removed his shirt, this time there's a most definite silence. Jack takes a breath which turns into a sigh, and he's sure he's not the only one. Here, in the midst of this nest of vipers, in the midst of these tattered souls turned ugly with cruelty, the boy stands like one of God's most perfect creations. Sweet Jesus, he's lovely. Not a mark on him. Pale, taut, strong, idealised. Jack's only seen a body like that before in marble, in a piazza in Firenze.

But the marble one, to the best of his recall, didn't have a perfectly lovely cockstand, and wasn't looking at him with an expression that promised death, or ecstasy, or possibly both.

"'Member that, eh boys?" murmurs Jack. "Recall what that feels like, do ye? What d'ye think that deserves, then, a little attention?"

Egged on, he kneels in front of Will once more, looking up at him, as if through the power of his gaze alone he can keep the boy safe. With the greatest of care, he licks, delicately, teasingly, around the head of Will's cock, which jumps and twitches in response.

The pirates cheer, jeer, scream their unfulfillable desires to the uncaring night.

Will closes his eyes against the intensity of Jack's pitchy stare, not trusting himself to know what it truly means. He feels the tremble return to his thighs as Jack's clever and insistent tongue forces shivering pleasure upon him.

I am not part of this. I am here only to save Elizabeth from greater harm. I am not like these savages. I am not like Jack...

But Will's thoughts trail away, overtaken by the crimson blur of sensation as he's enveloped, once more, in Jack's mouth. So deep that Jack's nose grazes his belly, and Jack's hair, lifted in the breeze, skitters teasingly over his skin. As one of Jack's hands curves definitively over his clenched buttock, forcing him closer, the other slides between his legs, fondling him. An acid combination of shame and pleasure rises in Will's throat, but slowly, slowly, the pleasure is beginning to hold sway. He cares less, and less, and less with each swirl of Jack's tongue, with each repetition of the sucking rhythm, and begins, unwittingly at first, to move his hips, to join with the pirate's cadence. It feels good. He opens his eyes, gasping, and Jack's still staring up at him, ready to catch him.

Jack hasn't looked away for a moment. Can't. Will's face is the saddest, most tormented, sexiest thing he has ever seen. With all his heart, Jack wishes he wasn't doing this to Will, here. With all his heart, Jack wishes he was doing this to Will, somewhere else.

Will, who tastes like fear and smoke and molten metal. Will, who trembles under his hands. Will, who is under promise of death anyway, and is only doing this out of the possibility of saving others.

Unlike Jack. Who is doing this to save his own quivering skin.

"Come on, girls!" shouts Barbossa, over the caterwauling din. "Let's see some plunder!"

Jack and Will exchange one last glance, and then Jack releases him, with one last lick, and stands, and divests himself of the rest of his clothing. Will's heart skips a beat at the sight of Jack's flushed, curving cock. Dear Lord, that's going to hurt. Surely.

"Why, Jack, you've hardly changed a bit," says Barbossa gaily. Jack grins wolfishly. Will prefers not to think on this implications of this statement.

"Righto, lads," says Jack, "who's got some condiments for me, eh?"

"Do it without," snarls Blood. "This ain't yer fuckin' wedding night."

"Oh, please," says Jack, "Ain't this demonstration all about the fine art of doin' it right? Don't you want to see that sweet arse, all slicked up and ready for me?"

A thin, sallow sailor, dirtier than should be possible when surrounded by water, pushes his way through the crowd. He holds a stoppered phial, and his red eyes glitter wetly. "I've got somethin' for ye," he croons. "But it ain't for his arse."

Jack looks at him in disdain. "Well I ain't about to do you, Mr Fowler." There's a howl of laughter. Fowler bares his teeth.

"Get fucked, Jack," he hisses, and throws the phial to Will, who catches it more from reflex than intention. "Go on, boy. Do 'im for us."

Will looks wildly around. They can't want him to—

But the cheering and gestures say that they most definitely do.

Jack, naked and nonchalant, walks over. "Me it is, then," he says, and gives Will a wink. "Don't worry, mate," he says. "It's easy, honest."

"I don't know what to—"

"Shhh," says Jack, and takes the phial from him.

*

Back in the lockup, Will shivers as if he has the ague, as grey dawn light begins to filter through the cracks in the decking above. He can just make out the outline of Jack, sleeping beside him. He's not cold, so much as simply in shock. The horror of the night just passed is leaching out through his shaking limbs.

It's over, he tells himself. We did it.

But he doesn't believe it's over. They told him as much. Gave him his "reward"; being, Barbossa's decision that Elizabeth will be let go, and Will himself kept instead. Just as you so kindly offered, Mr Turner.

Who knows what further horrors are coming his way.

He closes his eyes, hugs himself hard against the memories that crowd insistently into his tired head. Contorted faces, churning laughter. Crude gestures. The foul grin on Barbossa's face as he watched Jack, on his knees in front of Will.

The knife at Jack's throat when Will shouted his refusal to Fowler's demand. The thin line of blood that ran down Jack's neck, pooling above his collarbone, spilling delicately down his chest.

The company's screams of desperate encouragement as Jack pulled him down between his raised knees, covered him with slick oil, and told him what to do. Jack's wince of pain as he did it, fast.

The brutal and unwanted pleasure that gripped him when he did. So tight, such heat.

Jack's hands, turning Will's face to his own, making him look at him. Murmuring at him, that's fine, Will, that's good, I'm good, we're good. Holding him safe in his quarantining gaze.

The strangest closeness to another human being that Will has ever known.

Jack's hands on Will's hips, guiding him, helping him. Jack's legs wrapping tight and strong around him as he thrust forward. Jack whispering, take me in your hand, let's finish it. Silky hardness under his trembling fingers.

The warm body beneath his. The soft skin of Jack's thighs on his flanks. Jack's eyes a black lifeline that won't let him go... except for the moment when they half close, and roll back, and Will's hand is covered in warm wetness. Then they're back, swimmy and vague, and Jack grins at him triumphantly, wraps his legs around Will, and pulls the boy inside him, deep and hard, once, twice, three times, till red pleasure takes him and he shudders his release into Jack's accepting body.

Beside him, Jack heaves a deep breath, and Will looks over, thinking he's waking. Looking at that sleeping face, so relaxed and untroubled, Will can't believe Jack's capacity to go through such things in life, and emerge unmarked. He's filled with jealous admiration for such a skill. He doesn't know if he will ever be able to forget.

Jack yawns, and opens his eyes to see Will watching him. There are dark circles under the boy's eyes, and his lovely mouth is set in a line of misery.

"Did you not sleep?" asks Jack. Will shakes his head.

"Are you alright?"

Will shrugs. Jack sighs, and sits up, putting an arm around the boy's shoulders, feeling the tired body sag against him. Well, that's a blessing anyhow, the boy doesn't appear to hate him.

"Come on, mate," says Jack. "No-one's dead, not much blood spilt. It was only fucking."

Silence.

"And you did an amazing job. Astonishing. You've got aptitude, you have."

"Public buggery," mutters Will, "was never something I was hoping to excel at." Jack laughs, and Will can feel his own mouth twitch at the corners to hear it.

"Never know what you're going to be good at till you do it, mate," says Jack. "'S good to have something else up your sleeve, if you ever get sick of bein' a smith."

Will laughs a short laugh. "Elizabeth would be so proud of me."

"She will be," says Jack, "When we all get out of here alive."

"You must admit that's not looking particularly likely, Jack."

"Oh, and what's been so likely about the last couple of days, eh? Not a lot, by my reckoning."

"No," admits Will, and looks up at Jack in the halflight, with eyes that can see so much more than they could last night. Now, they can see how beautiful Jack is. Can see the kind, brave Jack behind the theatrical faade. Can see the Jack who led him through hell, and out the other side, and stayed true to him, even when Will was hating him for it.

"Jack," says Will, and stops short, surprised at an urge that comes to him.

"Aye?"

"Thank you," says Will. And stops himself from kissing Jack's mouth. Because that would be the most unlikely thing of all.

"No worries, mate," says Jack, and squeezes Will's shoulder. "All over and done with."

"Did... did I hurt you very badly?"

"Nah, not so much," lies Jack. He can still feel the burn. Young William didn't exactly take his time. Still, once he'd got going... Jack's not sure whether he should let the boy know that, frankly, it wasn't entirely torturous. He remembers how Will had responded to him, when they were alone. Sighs. Lost opportunities are a terrible thing.

"Listen, Will," he says, serious for once. "Don't you ever feel bad about what we did, you hear? Sometimes... people just have to do things that go against their natures. But that don't mean your nature changes."

"No," says Will slowly. Thinking, that's the frightening part, Jack. Some of it was... not against my nature. Thinking of the moments that were nothing more or less than red indulgence. Feeling very aware of Jack's arm around him.

"Anyway," says Jack, "If I had to be buggered in front of a gang of undead pirates, I'm glad it was by you, William." Bringing a smile to Will's face.

Footsteps approach the door, and the two men spring to their feet.

"'Nother day," Jack says optimistically. "New chances. May we both be alive at the end of it, eh?"

"Aye," says Will, and pulls the pirate into a quick, fierce embrace. "May we both." They hold each other, hard, arms saying all that words can't, till the door cracks open, letting in the new day.