"Noon tide!" John cries down to the gig, and Turner shouts back, his voice bouncing and echoing off the black cliff of the hull: "I'll make sure they're all here, Cap'n!"

Booted feet come pounding up behind John, and a deep voice shouts, "Wait!" Hector Barbossa, wearing a very handsome coat, scrambles down the accommodation ladder. The gig rocks as he jumps the last two feet, and London Young curses, feathering his oar fiercely to steady them.

"Have a care, Mr Barbossa!" John calls. "T'would be a shame to sully such finery with brine and seaweed!"

Barbossa looks up at him, but has the grace to smile and bow self-mockingly. "The ladies would indeed be mighty disappointed," he agrees.

"So would I be," yells Jack Sparrow, materialising at John's elbow. "Since that's my coat you've borrowed." He's smiling, but it reaches only as high as his (ridiculously lovely) cheekbones.

"It'll be back in your trunk on the morrow," declares Barbossa. "Besides, 'tis too wide in the shoulder for you, Jack. Makes you look as though you've borrowed your daddy's finest."

Sparrow's smile is rigid. He grabs the painter, and tosses it unceremoniously down; a splash of seawater marks the coat with dark blood-red splatters. The gig, caught already by the tide, bobs away from the ship. Turner grumbles as he hauls in the line, and Barbossa scowls up at the First Mate.

"What'd you do that for? Ain't you coming?"

"Nope," says Sparrow. "You'll have to do without me tonight. See if you can get the girls' attention without my handsome phiz to do't for you."

"I don't envisage that bein' a problem," Barbossa calls, scowling as he takes a seat and the oarsmen pull away. "Not in this lovely coat o' yourn, Jack."

"Consider it yours!" Sparrow yells back. "It's always been too big around the belly for me!"

"Enough," says John, putting a hand to Sparrow's arm and trying not to laugh. "Leave him be." The constant back-and-forth between his First and Second veers dangerously between banter and bickering, and John's not keen to see it cross the line into all-out warfare. Sparrow turns away, making a rude gesture behind his back.

"Bastard went into my things, didn't he? Who knows what else he purloined?"

"Come, Mr Sparrow; there was me thinking you were making great ground with Mr Barbossa. The two of you've seemed so much more amicable, lately."

John says this blandly, strolling for'ard as he speaks so that Sparrow has to follow him; but the blandness disguises his true purpose. He's heard stories about just how well Sparrow and Barbossa might be getting along; and tonight, with his Second ashore and his First at his elbow, he means to get to the truth of them.

"A little friendlier," says Sparrow cagily. "He ain't all bad. Very competent fellow."

"Just like yourself, eh? No wonder you've been spending more time in his comp'ny."

Sparrow stops, and John turns to see him standing motionless, a copper statue in the late light. His smile is bright and wry, and the sight of him, as always, as ever, twists something up in John's gut.

"Have you a question for me, Captain Tobias? Is there something you'd like to know?"

John smiles. So much for his subtlety; Sparrow can see right through him. "Dinner," he says. "We'll not talk of it out here, eh, Jack?"

"Dinner," says Jack Sparrow agreeably.

*

It's not often that John Tobias gets the pleasure of Sparrow's company all to himself. He ensures that Davies has provided something reasonably palatable for once, and he spends a good half-hour down in the hold choosing some decent bottles of wine and rum.

Not because he's got any form of seduction in mind—oh no, that'd be a fool's game—but because Jack Sparrow works hard, and is a fine First Mate, and should be appreciated. Who's to say, else, that he won't take it into his head to claim some commandeered ship for his own, and embarque upon his own captaincy?

The Pearl'd never forgive John if he let that happen.

And he doesn't put on his best shirt and weskit, or shine the fat pearl bob that dangles from his ear, or twist grease into the ends of his moustache, for any particular reason, either. Just because... well, Sparrow's a fellow who appreciates a little flair, isn't he?

When Sparrow finally knocks upon the door to the Great Cabin and enters, smiling, John's glad he made the effort. Not that Sparrow's done anything in particular 'bout his own appearance; not that he's dressed up, for he wears the same grey breeches, the same dull blue weskit, that he'd worn earlier. But there's always something so delightfully inventive about the fellow, nonetheless. Those charms in his hair, the bright bandanna he wears; those boots. (John's always had a special fondness for a good pair of boots.) The strip of linen tied around his wrist that somehow comes across not as artful, but accidental; the black about his eyes that's been there so long now that John can scarcely imagine him without it.

"Not late, am I?" asks Sparrow, seeing the food on the table. Noting John's glass, half-empty already.

"No, no; we've a cold supper tonight, so Davies laid it out 'fore he set off ashore."

"He's gone too? There ain't many left aboard, are there?"

"Not many. But it's a safe enough port. Besides..." John motions for Sparrow to sit down, and pours him a glass of wine. "I didn't expect to have your company this evening, either. Thought you were planning a night ashore, carousing."

Sparrow raises his wine in a wordless toast, and drinks. When he puts down the glass, he's smiling.

"Are you trying to ask whether I'druther be whoring with Barbossa?" he says, straight to the point and yet every bit as bland and innocent as John'd been earlier.

John remains impassive. "I suppose you could phrase it thusly."

"Heard tales, have you, from Nassau?"

John nods. Sparrow shrugs.

"T'was you as told me to make him love me, the night I 'came your First."

"True enough. But I'm fairly certain that I didn't have fucking in mind as the means to achieve it," says John, and it comes out nastier than he meant it to. There's a piquant moment of silence, and he fills it by piling slices of meat onto his plate.

Sparrow watches him. He's unperturbed; smiling a little, in fact.

"Only the chit got a fucking," he says, after a while. "Several, in fact."

John's ashamed of himself for how happy this avowal makes him—oh, not for the fact that Sparrow's got a taste for female flesh, not that at all, but at least he and Barbossa aren't...

Ah, it's pathetic, that he cares so much. "Don't tell me Barbossa ain't looking at you different, since Nassau," he says brusquely, to cover it. "And it's my business, before you ask it, to know what my First and Second are up to. Especially if what they're up to is each other; an' I can see, plain as daylight, what Hector's thinking."

"What I might encourage him to think," says Jack Sparrow, "ain't necessarily the same as what I might encourage him to do."

John swirls the dregs of his wine and empties, then refills, his glass. He offers the bottle to his companion, but Sparrow waves him away, raising an eyebrow at the rum; John sighs (such a barbarian) and passes it over.

"So it's a game, then, with you and him?" says John. "A dangerous one, perhaps."

"Not necessarily," says Sparrow, finally taking some food; and then pausing and fixing John with a black-eyed look. "It's useful, as you said, to have him think fondly of me."

"Useful, till he wants to do more'n think."

"Sometimes a man can have those thoughts about another for a long time, an' do nothing about it; and those two men can get along just fine, while they're busy doing nothing. They can be entirely cordial. Be good friends, even. As good as... as you and I."

Well. There's an interesting observation.

John swallows, and tries very hard to keep his face still; not to give in to the sudden hopeful rush of his blood. He's sworn to himself that he won't do that. "True enough. But... if the second man don't return those feelings, there's no point to the first man doing anything about it, is there?" he says evenly. "You, however, might be giving Mr Barbossa the impression—encouraging him to think, as you put it—that you do return those feelings."

"Just a little, p'rhaps," admits Jack Sparrow. His eyes are still all twinkly-sly. "But I explained to him that, unfortunately, my heart belongs to another."

"Another?" Lord, it's getting hard to stop the swell at his groin, the heat in his face, the hope in his chest.

"Aye," says Sparrow. His mouth lifts, subtle, at the corner; John's eye's drawn inexorably. "Another; who won't never be mine. 'Tis a terrible conundrum, I'm sure you can imagine."

"And why won't she ever be yours?" The pronoun's deliberate; John needs to double-, to triple-check. Because—oh, what would he not give to be that other?

For near three years, now, Jack Sparrow's sailed on the Pearl; and now, not one of her men could imagine the ship without him. Least of all her captain. Jack Sparrow's the best First he's ever had, odd and quick and fearless and funny, reckless and cunning, not to mention handsome beyond reason. John loves to have him at his side, when they take a ship; knows that, famous and feared as he and this company were before—well, now that Jack Sparrow's standing beside him, cutlass in one hand and pistol in the other, smile sharp as his blade and eyes dark as the deadly barrel of his gun, they're just more than they were without him.

And I'd be more, too, if I had him for mine. What a pair we'd be; what couldn't we do, together? Truly together?

John's fingers itch, his prick twitches. He swallows again. He knows what a mess that could make; knows that if it went awry, all that they've got here could lie shattered and broken and twisted in its wake. But if it went right... No. He mustn't. Can't.

"He, not she. He won't ever be mine... for he's too fine a man to take advantage," says Jack Sparrow, not looking away even for a moment, and that's it; the hope's ignited, it's flaring, and John can't douse it with any amount of telling himself to be sensible. Sparrow's staring at him, dark and yes, hungry; and John Tobias has never wanted anything, anyone, so badly in his entire life.

*

Why's he saying these things to Tobias? Why now?

Jack's not sure, he's really not. There ain't enough rum in him for that to be the reason. And it ain't as if Tobias has done anything special, today, to push Jack over that teetery precipice he's been holding back from for so long.

But, but, but...

Jack knows, has known for a long time, of Tobias's unspoken regard for him. And there's something so vile about the masquerade he's putting on for Hector Barbossa; it cries out to him for balance, for something true and right and fierce and good to come down on the other side of the scales and make it bearable. What could be fiercer, righter, than Jack giving in to the deep, carnal pull of John Tobias's deepset eyes, and his husking voice, and the warm width of his shoulders?

Long enough, Jack's drifted to sleep with the imaginary weight of Tobias atop him. Long enough, he's teased himself with wondering what the man tastes like, what it'd be like to twist his fingers into those dark curls, to suck that dangling pearl, flesh-warm and hard and smooth, into his mouth. Long enough, he's told himself nay.

He can have this, if he wants it. He knows it. It's his for the taking. So he won't drop his gaze, not till he's sure Tobias has read his meaning, and has given an answer.

And Tobias's answer is this, given in a quiet voice, a voice with a tremor at its heart: "Perhaps he's not such a fine man, Jack. Perhaps he's just a coward; afraid to take what he wants."

"No," says Jack. "No, he ain't ever been that."

Tobias smiles wryly. "You'd be surprised. Most men are, deep down."

"Not this one, I swear. Heart as big as the ocean." And Jack leans across the table; puts his palm over Tobias's heart.

Tobias doesn't move, apart from the thumping pulse that accelerates under Jack's hand. Heat soaks up into his palm, and the quiet presses down on them. Supper lies uneaten and unwanted. All they can see is one another; all they can see is something they shouldn't have, but want with every particle.

Jack snatches his hand back and jumps half out of his skin when the silence is broken by a sudden bellow from above, and a crashing thump of bodies, followed by shouted words of the sort that'd make a hardened tart blush beetroot.

"Ah, bollocks," Jack says, unromantically but most feelingly. He's First; it's his mess to sort out. He stands. "I... I'd best go."

But Tobias stands, too, and comes round towards him, ignoring the bedlam on deck. He puts a hand to the back of Jack's skull, tilting his head backwards.

Jack's heart leaps and capers in his chest. Slowly, slowly, Tobias leans in; and Jack's hands go automatically to his Captain's waist. Oh, the muscle there's hard, and he's glowingly warm. Jack, brazen, sways closer; close enough to know that, Christ afloat, Tobias's heart ain't the only thing about him with impressive dimensions. His breath catches in his throat, and his lips part of their own volition when Tobias's mouth, that wide, agile mouth, touches them.

Jack is rendered suddenly and utterly deaf to the clamour above.

Tobias's kiss is all that he'd imagined; strength and certainty, wine and heat, layered under the clearest, most honest affection. The way his other hand splays over Jack's spine, curving him closer, all possessive, makes Jack groan, deep in his throat. Tobias's tongue, ah, God: this is so dangerous, so risky and wrong and so, so, so good. Jack can't help canting against his captain, totally blatant in his invitation. His head's full of swirly glimpses of what they'll do, how they'll bare each other, explore each other, put their hands and their mouths—

Tobias pulls away as some man above lets out a blood-curdling scream.

"Damn them! I'll be right back," Jack gabbles. "I'll just sort it, and I'll be right back here, I'll—"

"Don't come back. Not tonight," says Tobias, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and leaning back against the table as if he needs support. Jack's arrested on his way to the door, gaping like an imbecile.

"What—what d'you mean? Did I—what?"

"I need you to think," Tobias tells him, his face taut, his lips redder than Jack's ever seen them. "To be sure, Jack. Very sure. Because I'll accept no half-measures, not from you. If you're mine... then you're mine. An' that might not be simple; it might cost. D'you understand?"

Jack just nods, though it's a lie.

"Tomorrow," says Tobias. "Come to me tomorrow."

*

God damn Andrew Gill and his ready knife; Jack's volcanic with irritation and none too gentle as he hauls the miscreant down to the brig. He shoves Gill inside and snaps the padlock shut.

"Jack! Jack, you ain't even lis'nin'! Fuckin' Partridge started it, he were the first to pull a blade, he—"

"He's the one with barely enough blood left to keep him pink, an' it's Mr Sparrow," snaps Jack, head elsewhere, as he takes up the lanthorn. "Captain'll see you in the morning."

"Why not now? Tobias'll listen to the truth, he's a fair man, take me to him now!"

Jack leans close to the bars, light raised, baring his teeth. He's got no intention whatsoever of knocking on the captain's door tonight. "You ain't attempting to imply that I'm not a fair man, are you, mate?"

Gill lifts one corner of his lip in an unbecoming sneer. "You're Tobias's man, ain't you. 'Til Tobias tells you what's what, you ain't got no idea at all, Jack Sparrow." And he hawks a gob of spit into the half-inch of smelly water at his feet.

Jack's still for a moment.

He'd thought that the blazing joy of what'd happened ten minutes since, of Tobias's admission and touch and Christ, his kiss, would be armour 'gainst anything and everything that could come his way. But somehow, Gill's words've pierced it, straight through, fast and sharp and—damn and blast and fuck it—true.

He can't say anything to Gill. Just snorts and turns away. But the man's words follow him along the passageway, and up the stairs. "One an' the same, you two are! You ain't nothing but his lapdog, Jack Sparrow!"

*

Jack takes a bottle of rum to his cabin. Pulls off his boots and throws himself down on his cot.

It's a simple enough decision to make, a clear enough deadline. Yay or nay. Is he Tobias's, or is he not?

And in some ways, he knows he already is. Has been since the day they met, the day that John Tobias looked at a skinny, filthy stowaway and saw straight through into his heart; liked what he saw there enough to take a chance on him.

Jack's reasonably sure, deep down, that he's no man's lapdog. It just so happens that he and John Tobias think alike; and when they don't, Jack's got enough respect for the man's judgement to support his decisions. And he's never come to regret that. Yet.

Could he come to regret this? If he goes to Tobias tomorrow and says, I'm yours, an you'll be mine; what'll that lead to?

Parts of Jack's anatomy know exactly what that'll lead to, and are leapingly eager for it. Too long, it's been, since he got a good fucking; and he's sure, painfully sure, that with Tobias, it would indeed be good. Tobias, who's so darkly handsome and sure and the most gentlemanly rogue Jack's ever encountered; who'd take his time, and be entirely focussed on Jack's own pleasures. That's one thing Jack's certain of. Jack revels in, yet curses, the vividness of his own imagination as a vision of John Tobias presents itself, bared and bronzed and smiling wolfishly. The soft black hair on his chest. Those long, strong legs, Christ, and where they lead to. Jack imagines the sound Tobias'd make, as Jack gave him what he wanted, took Tobias's yard in his hand and then, yes, his mouth; and he groans, can't help sliding his palm down to where his own prick's thickening and stretching. He's sick of fucking girls, with damned Barbossa in attendance; can't risk playing the same game with boys, not without giving Hector too much confidence in his own chances. It's too delicate a balance for that. He wants a man, Christ he wants a man. He wants that man, the strongest, finest, cleverest man on this ship.

Yes, he mutters, low, for the practice of it. Yes, I'm yours.

It feels good in his mouth. He rolls onto his side, insinuating his hand down into his breeches, and presses his hot forehead against the cool dark wood of the bulkhead. He always does that, when he's pleasuring himself; likes to touch the ship just as he touches himself. Feels less alone, somehow.

He closes his eyes and murmurs garbled nonsense as he strokes himself hard, giddy with anticipation over what the next day'll bring. Mmm, you like that, John? he asks the vision. You like it when I touch you there? He imagines running his fingertips along Tobias's collarbone, dipping into the satin hollow beneath it. Down, over the swell of muscle; and the shade of Tobias leans forward, rubs his face against Jack's, lets out a long warm breath. He turns Jack, puts his mouth to the nape of Jack's neck, and the mere thought of it's enough to set off shudders in Jack's corpus. Ah, Christ, you feel... do that again... again... He arches, shameless in his solitude as John Tobias' imaginary tongue circles its way down his spine. Put your fingers... more, more, oh yes... come on, do it, do it hard, mmm, like that, give it all to me... He pushes his breeches lower, rubs his other hand over the warm swell of his backside. Oh, God, Tobias is going to like that so much. He'll not be able to keep his hands off it, his tongue, his...

Fuck me, Jack pleads, and just the pressure of his own fingertip against puckered flesh, the thought of John Tobias there, unleashes him. Messy and beautiful and blood-hot, spurting between his fingers, splattering the bulkhead.

Breathless, Jack grins into the dark. Damnation, but it's going to be so good. And then, after that, why, they'll be unstoppable, the pair of them; an' Barbossa can get fucked, Jack'll never be his, the Pearl'll never be his, for if the worst should happen, and Tobias be killed or deposed, why—

And Jack stops grinning. His sticky fingers go slack on his softening flesh.

If he's Tobias's man, in every way, and the worst should happen: who'd get the Pearl?

Not Jack Sparrow. Who's already thought of as Tobias's lapdog, and who'll be worse than that, in the company's mind, if he's fucking John Tobias. If Tobias is killed, why, Jack'll just be the grieving widow, and who wants that as their leader? And if, for some unimaginable reason, Tobias is voted out of Captaincy... goes without saying, don't it.

And without the measure of control Jack's gained over Hector Barbossa, with his delicate game of glances and lies and bridled lust—well, without that, there's nothing to say Hector won't be driven to make his own bid for the ship.

It's a bleak picture.

But Jack can't quite quell the bright, victorious little voice inside. Tobias wants me. He wants me. Surely, that'd be worth anything?

*

John knows the answer, the moment Jack Sparrow walks through his door and John sees his face; and he knows it's the right answer, for numerous and painfully sensible reasons.

None of which will salve the bloody-edged rip in his heart.

They regard one another for a long moment. Sparrow turns as if he's about to close the door, then doesn't. As if it's safer this way; and he's right about that, too.

John doesn't want to hear it, but he must. It must be done clear and clean, and they must never, ever come back here again. It must be a closed book.

He forces out the words: "What's your decision?"

Sparrow smiles, a small, tight smile. "I think you know my decision."

"How should I know it, Mr Sparrow?"

Those black eyes; Lord, they'll kill him. He can't take his eyes from the curve of Sparrow's mouth as a pink tongue moistens it. As it forms the words: "You know the answer, John; because my mouth's not on your mouth at this moment, no matter how much I might wish it were."

There. It's as clean as could be hoped for; as painless as it was ever going to be, once it was started. John nods.

"I'm glad you thought it through. I agree. It's... for the best."

He's trying to hide it, truly, but something must be seeping through in his voice; for Jack Sparrow takes a step forward, another, puts a hand to his arm. Blurts, "It ain't what I want, John. Know that. What I want is, oh, damn, everything: but the price..."

"Too high," says John, gently removing Jack Sparrow's hand.

"Too high," echoes Sparrow, blankly, as his fingers slip from John's; and he doesn't turn as he closes the door behind him.

*

They'll catch themselves, sometimes, looking at each other a mite too long, a touch too hotly; perhaps in their cups, perhaps in the charged and vivid minutes after battle, when the blood's running fast and wild and the body's shaky with fear and need. It'll all come rushing back, everything that John's tried to put out of his mind.

He'll summon up strength, force himself to speak. "Price is still extortionate, ain't it," he'll say.

"Usurious," Jack Sparrow will agree, with a hitch in his voice. And he'll look away.