It was the seventeenth of December when Jack found out that Will hated Christmas.

"Are you mad?" he demanded as they patched a rough hole in the Pearl's hull. "I mean, we both know I am, but I never expected it from you."

"Disliking a particular holiday makes me insane, in your eyes?" said Will, smacking a broom down in his bucket of pitch.

Jack crouched beside him, shaking his head. "You said 'hate,' m'boy. Those are strong words coming from such a young buck."

Will lost his temper, which he frequently did when Jack had gotten hold of something and determined to worry it until all the fight was gone from it. He kicked the bucket over, ignoring Jack's scrambles to set it right, and crossed his arms tightly across his chest.

"Look," he shouted, "I don't like Christmas, I don't want to like Christmas. I'll get you a bloody present if that's what you're after, but I still plan to sleep in on the twenty-fifth. Accept it and move on." He turned on his heel and stalked away.

Cotton, coming down into the hold, gave Jack a quizzical look as Will strode past him.

Jack shrugged. "Apparently William's got some sort of problem with Christmas."

"Hard 'a port," said Cotton's parrot.

"Good sir, you're right!" Jack exclaimed, leaping to his feet in a sudden burst of inspiration. "If anyone is able to turn the lad's opinion on its arse, it'll be old Captain Jack." He went the way of Will, muttering the beginnings of plans under his breath. Cotton and the parrot glanced at each other before settling down to finish the abandoned patch job.

For the next day as they made their way to Isla Vaca, both the captain and his first mate were in abominable tempers. Jack was moody and frustrated because Will was avoiding him, while Will was grumpy and irritated because every time Jack managed to catch him, he burst into some jaunty holiday tune. The entire crew was more than fed up with the two of them by the time they pulled into port, so Jack promised them three days of boozing and spending before they had to set out again.

He promptly disappeared. Will wandered through the stalls and checked every single bar in town, even the reputable ones, but Jack was nowhere to be found. He didn't return to the ship at night, either. Will decided to forget the whole situation and wasted his time getting drunk, gambling with Anamaria, and first attracting then running away from pretty women (he got struck by bouts of shyness whenever he went drinking without Jack).

The next time Jack was seen was at dawn on the last day. As his crew trudged bleary-eyed to the docks, they found him perched on a mound of barrels and wooden crates.

Gibbs blinked at him. "That's a lot o' stuff," he said warily.

Will put a hand to the side of one of the crates. It was completely boarded up and it had no label. "What's all this?"

"Supplies," said Jack cryptically. He refused to elaborate, even when they began dragging the collection onboard. Once they had made way, Jack locked himself in his cabin, where he had ordered most of the new purchases be put. He didn't emerge until nightfall.

Will happened to be walking by for the umpteenth time that day—Jack had covered his window with paper and Will was mightily curious to see what he'd gotten up to in there—when Jack came staggering out the door. In his arms he hefted a great lump of green cloth and small, bright red spheres.

Catching him as he nearly stumbled under the weight of the load, Will said, "Jack, what are earth are you doing?"

"Decorations," Jack huffed. He deposited them on the deck and shouted out, "Oi! All hands, to me!" As the majority of the crew made their way in from the far corners of the ship, Will just stared at him.

Jack rolled his eyes. "You can't be that daft already. Takes years, it does." His waving hand indicated the red and green melee at their feet. "For Christmas, o' course."

Consternation began to register on Will's face. "Are you doing this just to spite me?"

"Lad," said Jack condescendingly, "I know it may be hard to believe, but not all my thoughts revolve around your wants and needs, savvy?"

Will blushed furiously and retreated to his own cabin, where he watched in a sulk as the crew strung garlands of green felt leaves and red cranberries. They seemed to be enjoying themselves. Jack had far more than he had set out on the deck, and they managed to cover the ship pretty well.

When the preparations were complete an hour later, Jack popped up in front of his window with an armful of extra decorations and a dashing grin.

Will muttered, "I hope it storms, hard."

Jack merely sighed as the door shut in his face. He would just have to try harder, that was all.

Will was on watch the next day around two o'clock, thinking that he was safe for a few hours. Jack took the sailing of his ship far too seriously to risk distracting a man at the helm.

As he leaned on the wheel, gazing contentedly out at sea, an earsplitting whistle erupted from behind him. He whirled.

Jack had the crew assembled in a formation that was obviously inspired by a choir. However, the average choir did not consist of a motley collection of men ranging from three to six-and-a-half feet in height, plus a single dark-skinned woman, dressed in rags and armed to the teeth.

The captain stood in front of them with his back to Will, clad in an eyesore of a red velvet coat and wielding a conductor's baton that had clearly evolved from a large wooden spoon. The crew, as a unit, refused to look at Will; their eyes shifted around in embarrassment or rested on Jack. Clearing his throat, Jack raised his baton and brought it down again with a flourish.

A ragged chorus started up. Most of the voices were lifted in a spectactularly off-key rendition of "We Three Kings," but a few people were just muttering obscenities in various languages. One, a young Scotsman named Danny whom they'd picked up only a month before, had mangled the lyrics into a bawdy verse fit for the bars of Tortuga and a chorus that would make a French whore blush.

Jack continued swishing his wand about, clearly enjoying his own sense of importance. Will caught it in midair between a finger and a thumb. The makeshift choir hesitated, but Jack impatiently waved them on with his other hand.

"What is this?" asked Will without moving his lips more than was strictly necessary.

"A special presentation for your benefit!" said Jack gallantly. His grin faltered somewhat as he caught sight of Will's expression.

Will felt as though his face was going to crack. He didn't know it, but to Jack it looked frozen in a mask of mandatory pleasantness. His teeth were bared in an overly patient grimace that was only a vague cousin to the smile it was imitating, and his eyes stormed with the possibility of losing temper at any given moment.

Leaning close until his breath stirred against Jack's ear, Will whispered, "I'm going to bed now, Jack." His grip shifted on the wooden baton until his knuckles were whitened by the force with which he was holding it.

"It's only half past two in the afternoon," said Jack feebly. He attempted to shake his baton out of Will's hand, but it was like prying it from the jaws of a shark. The voices of his choir had petered out to just Gibbs' brassy baritone. The man was clearly enjoying himself and oblivious to the confrontation between captain and first mate.

"I know that," Will replied, so evenly that it lent his words a cutting edge. "But you have tired me so, Jack, that I have no other choice. I will see you in the morning." Before he left, he snapped the baton neatly with one hand.

A bit after sunset, Jack came knocking at his door. As soon as Will opened it, he held up both hands in supplication.

"I bring no weapons nor offensive cheer, mate. I only came to dig out the splinters you must've put in your hand from when you demolished my conducting tool."

"I've already gotten them," said Will, but Jack took his hand anyway. Turning it this way and that, he inspected it with a lowered head and a critical eye.

Will knew he should have been suspicious from the first, but it still took a moment to dawn on him that Jack was stalling. He snatched his hand away just as a few drunken carolers broke into "Here We Come A-Wassailing" outside.

He didn't even have words for Jack this time, merely a frown that deepened slowly until it pulled his entire face down.

"It's not really wassail," Jack offered with half a hopeful smile. "'S rum. You like rum, don't you? Will, don't you like rum?" This last was shouted out in a rush as Will shoved him out the door.

Feeling that he had made his opinion clear enough, Will was somewhat gratified to be left alone, holiday-wise, for the next couple of days. It probably didn't hurt that he went around in a constant dark fury and left any vicinity that Jack happened to come sauntering into, be it fore, aft, or anywhere inbetween. Rumors went around that even Captain Jack Sparrow, who abhorred harsh punishments for his men, could not ignore such blatant insubordination from his first mate. But Jack did nothing, only nodded in resignation whenever Will abandoned a post just because he had approached.

By Christmas Eve, Will figured that the danger was well past. He was coming in from a windy couple of hours in the shrouds, looking forward to a nice warm bed and perhaps a bite to eat.

When he opened the door to his cabin, he had to close his eyes against the glare of light on white. After blinking the spots away from the insides of his lids, he opened them again to take in the scene spread before him.

There were candles everywhere—hanging in lanterns, propped on every surface in both expensive and cheap candlesticks. The white on which they shone came from white sheets draped over furniture, spread across the floorboads, tacked to the walls, and fastened to the ceiling, so that everywhere his eyes landed was wreathed in that total lack of color. Even the many candles were all white.

It was, a corner of Will's mind admitted, incredibly beautiful. But Jack was standing in front of him, and his presence kept that corner of Will's mind effectively muzzled.

Jack grinned his most charming grin as he reached up to tug on a piece of twine that was apparently attached to the ceiling. Will had no time to ascertain its mooring, because whatever Jack had pulled released a heap of white powder down on him.

He shook his head violently, sending his hair loose of its tie. His new coating clung to his skin, which was still slightly damp from the efforts of his day's work.

"It's sugar," said Jack helpfully as Will lifted a hand to stare down at the tiny grains.

He looked up at Jack. Then he punched him in the face.

Jack stumbled but didn't fall. Will said, "I'm sorry," before he slumped against the door at his back and brought his hands to his face.

Never one to leave well enough alone—as if the previous week had not been evidence enough—Jack was at his side in an instant, one hand pressed over his own stricken cheek and the other coming to rest lightly on Will's shoulder.

"Tell me why," he said. "You owe me that at least."

"Why what? Why I hit you?"

"No," said Jack. "I know why you hit me; because I'm an incorrigible wanker and I've been nagging you for days. I want to know why you get so bitter and lonely around the holidays."

"I don't want to tell you."

"I don't care," was the quiet reply. "Talk. Now."

"Or what?" Will snapped, finding some vestige of his earlier tempers. "Or you'll flog me?"

"I've the right. But I want you to tell me because I would be your friend—I thought I was, though apparently I was mistaken."

Will bowed his head, ashamed at the hurt in Jack's voice. "You weren't mistaken," he said, meaning it. "Christmas..." He paused, searching for the words and unable to meet Jack's eyes.

"Christmas has... always been hard for me, as far back as I can remember," he began uncertainly. "I never told you, or anyone for that matter, but my mother wasn't—wasn't well, those last few years. Most of the time she was perfectly normal, the best mother any little boy could want, but there were... spells she had. Moods, kind of. And then she was like a stranger; nothing I said would bring her back to me, not until she was ready. Our landlord found out once and tried to put her in a hospital."

He shivered slightly with the memory of his mother's blank face as Mr. Tarlington questioned her about the rent, before she grew frightened and waved an iron skillet at him. He had been eight.

Jack said nothing. His hand on Will's shoulder was still, and seemed to be growing heavier by the second.

"But then she got better again, like she always did. We found another flat to live in after that. Anyway, Christmas," he said, trying to find the track of his recollections. "Christmas was especially difficult for her. I used to love the whole month of December. She'd get very excited, buying little treats with what money we could spare, spending hours cutting up paper decorations. She was convinced my father would be coming home on Christmas Day. When he never did, she shrugged it off and said that he'd be there for next year. After we got word of his death, though..." He swallowed hard before continuing. "She kept it up that year. I had no heart to remind her otherwise, and I don't think she would have believed me anyway. Throughout December, she grew more and more agitated as Christmas neared. It was worse than any of her other spells, because it lasted so long. On Christmas morning, she woke up at dawn and sat down in front of the window. She stayed there all day long, not eating, not sleeping or talking, just staring out at the docks. I tried to pick her up and take her to her bed, but I wasn't strong enough. A week later she caught pneumonia from the neighbors' children, and it killed her within the month.

"And that... that's why I don't like Christmas," he finished as he raised his head to look at Jack. The depth of compassion in those dark eyes surprised him, as did the breaking in Jack's voice when he spoke.

"I'm so sorry, lad," Jack whispered. He crushed Will in his arms, the sugar sticking between them. For a moment Will entertained the urge to pull away, before he let himself relax against the warmth of Jack's body, the most effective comfort or apology Jack might have offered.

He didn't cry, but he had to breathe deeply for a few minutes, as Jack hugged him tight and fierce.

When Will had calmed enough, Jack took him by the shoulders. "He didn't know," he said, earnestness making his voice harsh. "Your father—he didn't know about your mum, I swear it."

"I figured," said Will. "I was still angry with him, though."

Jack squeezed his shoulders. "And you had reasons to be—good ones, no less. Just know that wasn't one of them."

Will nodded, pursing his lips in an attempt at a smile. Some of the worry left Jack's eyes, and he smiled in return.

"I wouldn't have gone to all this trouble if you had told me earlier." He glanced appreciatively around the small cabin. "Or perhaps I would have. It's pretty, isn't it?"

His immediate return to good humor was catching. "It is," Will agreed. "But you still shouldn't have bothered. Christmas is just lost on me, and I fear it will be forever."

Jack did an exaggerated double-take. "Forever? Now what's that mean?"

Will shrugged. "I associate unpleasant memories with the holiday. Just because I talked about it doesn't mean those associations will go away."

"And what if, say, you had a brand-new pleasant memory to associate with Christmas?"

He raised one eyebrow. "None seems to be forthcoming. The snow imitation is remarkable, but—"

"For argument's sake," said Jack, talking over him as he was wont to do, "would a truly spectacular event—I mean something you'd remember for the rest of your life, something that'll not be repeated—be enough to at least balance all the negativity?"

Will paused to consider this, Jack awaiting him with hands brought together as if he were cuffed. "I suppose. Though I can't think of what sort of event you'd have in mind."

One hand twisted lackadaisically on its wrist."Oh, how about forever losing your tender virtue?"

"What are you talking about?" Will demanded skeptically. The look of scheming was back in Jack's face.

Jack grinned, ferally this time. "Your closely guarded virginity, lad." He spared a quick up-and-down glance along the length of Will's body. Will reddened.

"I am not..." he started to protest, but off of Jack's disbelieving snort, he stopped. "Fine. Depending on the circumstances and the other party, I guess that would count," he conceded grudgingly.

"Who's to say it won't happen this Christmas?" Jack inquired.

"Ha," said Will shortly. "That's terribly amusing, Jack. Just rub salt in the wound, why don't you?" He spread his arms, meaning to indicate the entire ship as well as his cabin. "Do you see anyone here I might be compelled to share that memory with?"

"Look around," Jack said.

"I have!"

Jack shook his head impatiently, the ornaments in his hair clicking—and was that a new gold bead, with red and green lacquer? "Look around again," he insisted.

Before Will could form another sentence, Jack kissed him.

The surprise he'd felt at witnessing Jack's emotions laid bare was nothing compared to the world of shock facing him now. The first thing he registered was the sweetness of it; before he could remember that it was the sugar from his own lips, his tongue had begun to search it out inside Jack's mouth. He found no sugar there, but an entirely different sweetness, as well as a taste that was entirely unique—entirely Jack.

Jack's arms went around his waist and he responded in kind, drawing Jack closer to him until he could feel a heartbeat other than his own thudding rapidly against his chest. He had just resigned himself to living without air to breathe when Jack broke the kiss. Will's lips unconsciously followed his as he pulled them away, and he chuckled softly. His tongue darted out to catch a combination of salt and sugar above Will's upper lip.

He jerked his chin upwards and Will looked again at the ceiling. A cluster of pale berries and waxy green leaves dangled over their heads, a bit of color he had not noticed upon entering.

"Here's one humble pirate who'll promise to keep making your Christmases merry and bright," said Jack, the sincerity in his low voice a perfect accompaniment to the open desire in his eyes.

Will, instead of answering, chose to kiss him again and gently push him back towards the bed. Jack was right; he could let old wounds heal, and he could bring a new, most unexpected light into his life.

As long as the two of them managed to not set the ship on fire first.