Seeing Elizabeth in that crimson dress made Jack shiver, though the sun was warm on his skin. That was how Barbossa dressed his prey, and Jack knew how it fitted, how it smelled, the rip under one arm where he'd struggled into it.

He couldn't see the stains, but he knew where they were. Sweat at the armpits, wine on the sleeve, semen on the skirt. If he understood the curse, Elizabeth should have been spared that last horror. If he understood.

Everything tastes of ashes, Barbossa had told him. Every touch is like a touch on your hand when you've been in the cold for too long.

You're cold? Jack had said, leaning forward slightly.

I feel no cold. I feel—Barbossa's hand had clenched—no heat. Can you imagine that, Jack? No heat. No fire.

He'd looked straight at Jack, almost the way he'd looked at him that long-ago night.

No wanting, he'd whispered.

Maybe Elizabeth had smelt him on the dress. Maybe she'd recognised some unique scent, something that had been constant from that last night on the Black Pearl to the hot noon when he'd pulled her from the sea at Port Royal. Something that stayed the same whether he was fearful or brave, captive or free, seduced or—

I'll be havin' that dress back afore ye go, Barbossa called to Elizabeth.

Jack smiled, swift and insincere, when Barbossa glanced over at him. Barbossa might leer at Elizabeth, but all he'd have of her was second-hand warmth, warmth he couldn't even feel. That glance, though, told Jack that Barbossa remembered everything that had happened between them.

The dress had been skin-warm when Jack wore it. It was a joke at first, a shared jest that became hot-eyed looks and touches in the dark.

As pretty as a girl, Barbossa had said: his finger had traced the black on Jack's eyes, next smearing it along the double curve of his lips. Back then Jack had gone clean-shaven, more or less: shaving was a chore, but some girl in Tortuga had told him he looked young and corruptible. That made it a disguise, and Jack loved disguises.

Tell me what you'd do if I were truly a girl, he'd said. (Remembering made him smile, despite everything that had happened afterwards.) Perhaps he'd narrowed his eyes at Barbossa. Perhaps he'd pouted, leaned closer, laid his hand on Barbossa's sleeve. The detail didn't matter. He'd invited more.

Even then, Jack had been difficult to shock. But Barbossa had leaned closer, and whispered in his captain's ear exactly what he'd do if Jack were truly a girl.

It had taken a while, and by the time Barbossa stopped speaking Jack was breathing shallowly. He was at once as definitely, arousedly male as it was possible to be, and desperate to be taken, used, manned in all the ways Barbossa wanted him.

Will you play, Jack?

I play to win.

So do I, Jack. So do I.

The dress had been a trophy from the first prize they took together. A chest from the captain's cabin, broken open on the deck, and all this crimson silk spilling out. There was brocade, too, and velvet, and garments so delicate that they'd floated free on the westerly breeze as Barbossa tossed them aside. A confectionery of embroidered lace snagged briefly on the capstan before a grinning sailor tore it free. For Maria, he'd cried; and then they were all at it, chasing some fine lady's lingerie along the deck as though the Pearl were a May Day fair.

Jack and Barbossa had paid them no heed. Barbossa had lifted up the red dress as though that fine lady still wore it, and he had looked at Jack.

Neither of them had spoken. But when Jack took the dress, it had been as binding as a handclasp, as any oath the two of them had toasted together.

Pretty, Barbossa had told him again late that night, when the watch had changed and the Black Pearl had set a course north for the open sea. Barbossa had poured wine for them both, almost the colour of the rustling silk. He'd looked surprised when Jack came up close to kiss him. For a long moment he hadn't responded, and Jack had drawn back, thinking that after all he'd misread Barbossa. It had been a joke, a game, a trap—

But then Barbossa had taken hold of him and kissed him back, hard and demanding and as much a threat as a promise. He'd taken Jack's hand and pressed it against himself, and Jack had stopped doubting.

Even now, ten years on, he remembered that night as vividly as the morning that followed it. He could hear the silk rustling as the sailors, leering, passed the dress from hand to rough, nerveless hand, and the sound brought every other sensation back in full detail. The silk had blackened with sweat, binding his limbs, holding him more gently than Barbossa's strong hands as, one by one, each promise was redeemed. Jack had revelled in the sheer freedom of it, letting Barbossa take him, master him, send him...

And then, like a plunge into icy water, waking at dawn to find Barbossa's knife at his throat.

Crew's with me, now, Jack, he'd said, smiling. We'll be partin' ways soon enough.

You can't—

I can, Barbossa had said, smiling. Now, will you be keepin' the finery?

He'd torn the silk off, furious and ashamed at being tricked. The heat in Barbossa's eyes, watching as he pulled on his own tattered clothes, was no compliment.

Now Barbossa's arm was heavy and cold across Jack's shoulders, and there was nothing in his eyes at all.

Marooned on this same small island after the mutiny, he'd lain on the sand and watched the sun come up, still feeling the ghost-sensations of Barbossa's hands on his body.

This time, there'd be Elizabeth instead.

-end-


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