2. Fight

Pairing: J/W
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Jack and Will, nor the details associated with Pirates of the Caribbean. I am simply borrowing them for a while for creative expression and writing practice (and because the boys are in my head and won't leave me alone).
Originally Posted: 2003-2006
Special Thanks: To the Crow and the Spoon for beta-reading and God knows what all else.
Summary: This is continuation of an AU fic, breaking off from the movie's events immediately after Barbossa's defeat and death in the caves of Isla de Muerta.

"Nay, me job's to be th' daft one," Jack Sparrow answered, a couple of shelves over. "Though I can't say they wouldn' think us both mad, spendin' our swag in this fashion."

Will chuckled to himself. He'd been aboard the Black Pearl for well more than a month when he'd discovered, quite to his pleasure, that Jack was indeed capable of reading and writing. He'd thought he would get the one-up on Jack by challenging him to literary debates, then, but the captain had been the one to continuously pinion his newest crew member with views that Will suspected must have gotten their start in some English classroom and ripened in the hot Caribbean sun.

His fingers came to rest on a slim volume of A Midsummer Night's Dream. "Shakespeare?" he asked aloud.

"Pirate." Will glanced up and could see Jack's beaten leather hat swishing from side to side as the head beneath presumably shook in disagreement.

"Hmph." Will disagreed; he and Elizabeth had grown up reading the Bard, and to criticize was akin to sacrilege for any self-respecting Englishman. Or woman. Then again, he was not at all sure Jack was an Englishman, and the man didn't seem to give a hang for convention, at any rate. He poked about a bit more, until finally he sighed. "Why?"

A low, throaty chuckle issued from his captain. "I knew ye wouldn' be able to take it for long." But nothing more was forthcoming.

"Keep your knickers dry, mate." Jack must have stood on his toes then, for Will saw a bit of the red scarf and bronzed forehead arch up a bit over the shelf. "Th' man stole most of his collected works. I'd say Chaucer was th' most likely wronged party; then again, he swiped from the Italians, so ye can't rightly say he was any better off." The chatterbox paused. "In fact, th' English as a whole have a fine reputation of takin' whate'er strikes their fancy and makin' it their own. Rather like th' Romans." An elegant hand, forefinger held aloft, lifted above the shelves. "Ah, now there was a race of marauders t' put th' entire of the Caribbean threat to shame, lad."

The blacksmith rolled his eyes, still looking over the volumes before him. If Jack ever gave a direct answer about anything having to do with his past, the pillars supporting hell would probably collapse, crushing the demons. Then again, it would leave the place ripe for occupation by one Captain Sparrow, which would likely fit right in with the man's intentions at the end of his unpredictable life. "Well, I would think an English literary 'pirate' would be right up your alley, then," he quipped, stressing the moniker in a way that clearly conveyed he still didn't believe the older man's assessment.

"Nay... swag's a fine thing t' relieve a rich man of, but ideas are free, mate. No call to be profiting off them when ye can get off your lazy arse an' come up wit' a few of your own."

Will puzzled this, recalling something Elizabeth had once told him from a book of philosophy. "Is there really anything new and original left, though?" he wondered aloud, going around the end of the shelf and skipping over to the row where he'd seen the hat bobbing. "I mean, there's only so many different ideas, right? I've read plenty of stories that had the same plot or idea, but it was told differently—isn't that the trick?"

Jack was stroking a page of open text, dragging his forefinger along the margin of a plate print as if tracing the drawing. When he got to the bottom and turned the page, he turned halfway and glanced back at Will. "I'm not sayin' ye can't make a good idea better—" he began.

"But that's exactly what you said!" Will looked about hastily, then lowered his voice. "I mean, you just said someone who can't come up with their own ideas is a lazy—"

Will stepped closer so he could lower his voice further; by this time it was probably too late, the proprietor of the shop behind her counter presumably going over accounts or inventory already undoubtedly having heard them. "Jack, you're a pirate. You profit from others' work all the time," he hissed. "Now how is Shakespeare any different from you, then?"

A slow smirk stole across the shorter pirate's face, and Will groaned, knowing he'd played into the man's verbal waltz like a gazelle before the lion. Dark eyes twinkling, Jack cocked his head, the slight motion making his beads clink hollowly. "Nay, din' say there's any dif'rence; pirate's a pirate."

A sudden, loud shot reported close enough to crack their eardrums, and Will barely had time to cut off his sentence before he was being knocked to the floorboards by nearly six feet of pirate captain. They both crouched, Will with his head reflexively half-bowed, Jack's hands on his shoulders as the older man hovered nearby. "Stay here," he commanded, straightening his legs as he bent at the waist, staying well below shelf level, turning away.

Will immediately began following, and Jack turned on him, hissing. "Did I not give ye a direct order, sailor?" he snapped.

The blacksmith ignored those hard-marbled eyes and scowled in return. "I'm not hiding out here while you wander out into... whatever!" he whispered furiously.

"Yes, but I'm better with a sword." Will couldn't resist, though it meant Jack's lips pursed and he sucked in his cheeks a bit gauntly, looking ready to spit fire, narrowing his eyes in a way that implied he'd deal with this mutiny later.

Keeping low, both men approached the end of the shelves and made their way the short distance to the doorway. Jack straightened and kept to the facing, inching around to peek out, while Will hung back and watched, waiting for a signal. He glanced at the shopkeeper, expecting fear and upset, but her face was calm, though she crouched behind her counter.

"Aw, hell." Jack withdrew his head a bit and pressed his forehead to the door facing, shaking it. Will noticed his eyes were shut and his brow was likely furrowed as his hand came up to curl around the edge of the facing. "Gibbs, ye dumb arse."

"What?" Will pitched his voice low, leaning closer. Surely the Scot hadn't gone finding trouble; he was usually pretty happy with his flask and his bed, wherever he happened to bunk on any given night.

Jack looked his way, and oddly, Will chose that moment to notice how, in the shadow of this brief column of wood hidden from the sun's rays, his captain's delicate features resembled a girl's regretful expression. "Twas his pistol, Will; the ox's apparently defendin' Anamaria. Probably some ill-conceived attempt t' avenge her dubious honor."

Following along, the first thing Will noticed when they were outside was how the older sailor stood in the middle of the cobbled road, pointing his gun toward the ground, though not in a direction away from a large African man about five meters from him. The fellow had a meaty hand clamped on one of Anamaria's wrists, and Will barely had time to wonder what the hell had transpired. "Jack?" he leaned down and murmured near the man's ear.

"The wench is a fit whore, and I intend my shilling's worth," the African spoke in an oddly pleasant, deep voice.

"She's not a whore, ye slack-jawed idiot!" Gibbs bellowed in return, waving his pistol as he gestured at the man. "'Sides, she gave ye your shillin' back! She's a sailor! Let 'er alone!"

"No such thing as wench sailors," came the booming voice again, still oddly even.

Anamaria, for her part, looked utterly poleaxed, probably the first time Will could remember seeing such a thing. Then again, the man who had a hold on her was extremely large and none too patient. His fingers looked to be digging into the young woman's flesh, and Will reflexively took a step in her direction. An arm of steel clothed in dark blue wool shot out in front of him, and Jack swiveled his head just enough to throw the younger man a warning glance. "Do not do anythin' stupid," he half-growled beneath his breath.

"Aye, and she is!" Gibbs insisted. Will frowned, knowing the Scot regarded the young woman akin to the daughter he hadn't seen in almost a decade. "Unhand 'er, ye blaggard!"

To everyone's surprise, including that of the small crowd gathering, no doubt, the man released the female pirate. "You would duel for her?" he smirked.

Will's eyebrows shot up, and he glanced to Jack; in profile, the captain's expression was as carefully blank as he'd ever seen.

Gibbs lowered his pistol and gathered himself in. "Aye, if that's what it takes, then," he answered.

"No!" Anamaria stubbornly sliced a fist through the air. "This stops now! Nobody's getting killed over this!"

But the men, as they were wont to do when killing and weapons are involved, ignored her bossy pleas. "Weapon?" the other man queried, nodding toward Gibbs's pistol.

A nod. "Aye." Even from the back at a distance of a few feet, Will could hear the older man's verbal wavering—not enough to refuse, just enough to know he'd gotten himself into some deep dung.

Gibbs glanced about, and Will felt his feet moving forward without conscious thought. "I'm his second," he announced. Immediately he felt fingers digging into his forearm and pulling him back, roughly.

"Nay, ignore th' boy." Jack was in front of him, and a fuming Will could tell by the arch of his head he was tilting his chin up at the African. "I'll be bein' Gibbs's second."

The large man favored Jack with an odd, almost knowing expression, but simply said, "Dusk. At the docks. Winner gets the wench." The man turned a lustfully amused eye on Anamaria, who'd backed a fair distance away by this point and paused only to spit at the ground before him, scowling. She proceeded to rattle off something in a tongue Will couldn't understand, but he was fairly proficient in judging Fluent Cursing in just about any language.

As the crowd dispersed, Will turned on his captain. "I'm neither a boy nor a simpleton, Jack!" he admonished, anger in his voice. "Don't presume to treat me as such."

Jack ignored him pointedly, paused to converse in low tones with Gibbs for a moment, then patted the older man on the shoulder and watched him head toward the Black Pearl at harbor. Once the man was safely out of hearing range, Jack whirled with a flare of his skirted coat and gripped Will's elbow, steering him painfully back toward the book shop. Leading him inside, he ignored the shopkeeper and shoved the younger man against the inside of the door facing, getting up in his face to deliver his lecture.

"Don't you ever dare to question me judgment." It was no scream or yell, just a quiet, graveled threat. "I'm the captain, and I didn't get there by bein' a fool or an idiot. Savvy?" The question was couched seriously, with none of the playful flair Jack usually used delivering it to some hapless debater or victim. "I'll not be takin' life-and-death advice from th' likes of you, Mr. Turner, so ye might just as well disavow yourself o' that notion now, or not bother comin' back aboard me ship." He released Will's arm, leaving the blacksmith shaken, but no less affronted.

"I see, then," Will nodded, hearing the escalating fury in his own voice. "Good for taking orders, but not having sense enough to act outside that, eh, Captain? I wonder, was my father so mindfully useless?"

Jack's scowl deepened, and for a moment, Will thought he'd pushed the boundary line. Then, to his surprise, the expression grew less hard, the pirate's lips twitching. "Your Da had enough sense to know what's what and when's when," he shot back. "Th' diff'rence 'tween a seasoned pirate and a whelp still learnin'." Will crossed his arms defiantly. Jack owed him more of an explanation than that lame excuse, and he seemed to realize it. "Look, I know for a fact William Turner would o' had me head for takin' ye to th' sea, bonny lass or no, and he's prob'ly watchin' from where'er of the Great Beyond as we speak and plottin' me fiery punishment." Ah, so you didn't have plans for Beezelebub's quarters, then, Will mused. "I've already enough for a speedy carriage t' hell; I don't need to add 'getting another Turner killed' to the litany."

Will was mildly mollified, but far from the insult being gone. "Then I'll be your second."

"A second can't have a second," Jack shook his head. "That's th' whole point of a second; somethin' happens t' him, and duel's over." Before Will could correct him, he paused and regarded the younger man, something close to understanding lighting those chocolate eyes. "Unless..."

"Aye," Will nodded with a triumphant grin; it was he, not Jack, who'd tackled the problem of a harebrained scheme this time, but just barely ahead of the wily pirate. It was a dubious honor, he belatedly realized. "Unless the second isn't really the second in the first place."

"At least you don't have to smell the liquor on his breath," Will answered, hefting his load from behind, as bearer of Gibbs's shoulders and torso.

"Now see, this is what we're talkin' 'bout earlier—never presume t' tell your captain what he can and cannot do. A man's gotta know that sort o' thing for himself."

Will only answered in a noncommittal grunt, helping Jack trundle poor old Gibbs into his hammock a few minutes later. Jack paused to lift his lids and check his eyes, then straightened, nodding in satisfaction. He gestured at the door and pushed Will toward it, then pulled it shut behind him and released a breath. "He'll be out for awhile... and not a moment too soon," the pirate frowned.

They made a short detour by Jack's cabin, and Will followed inside slowly, looking around; it was only his second time being in here, and it was nearly as unfettered as Jack's person was layered in paraphernalia. A long sideboard was just inside the door, to the left along the wall, and a narrow, tall bureau with different grain was pushed against the next wall. A porthole glass was tipped open diagonal from the door's placement, and a long bed made up the bunk. It was mahogany and fairly new, and though he'd never seen Barbossa's version of this room, Will suspected Jack had replaced the bed first thing, to rid himself of the memory and stench of the mutinous first mate. Another porthole was directly across from the door, over the bunk, and two small mismatched, battered tables framed the head of the bed. The obligatory foot locker at the foot of the bed was placed very close to a small round table on the other side of the bureau, near the porthole, at which Jack was currently standing. Each piece was bolted or otherwise fitted into its spot, to account for the swaying and heaving of the ship.

Presently, his captain had a bureau drawer open, withdrawing pistols and giving each the once-over, inspecting the hammers and triggers. "How many of those you planning to take along?" Will couldn't help asking.

"Three. Lucky number," he answered absently, putting one aside in favor of an earlier one he'd been caressing.

"Lad, that's up to Lady Luck and th' Almighty," he answered in a slurred drawl. "Let's hope they're back on speakin' terms this evening."

"But I mean, we could put something under your shirt, maybe—just in case." Will stepped in a little further, looking around, trying to find something.

"Something less noticeable, then. Smaller." He spotted a book on the locker chest, which he figured probably contained a good number more. "Do you have any more of these?" he crossed and picked it up, waving it a foot or so from Jack's face. "Smaller one, maybe?"

Jack did look up at the book, then amusedly at Will himself. "You'd tuck it into the inside of your coat," the younger man explained, demonstrating by pressing it over his own heart. "Protects the vital organ, at least, the main one."

Jack rolled his eyes. "Pirates," he pointed out yet again, much to Will's annoyance.

The captain eyed the object specutively. "Nay. Book wouldn't stop a bullet." He shook his head. "'Sides, that'd be noticeable, too."

"What do you mean? It'd be rather small." Will held the book up and examined it, frowning.

"Ye'll see." Jack tucked a second pistol into his sash, and handed another to Will. "Here, check that one out. See what ye think."

The blacksmith regarded the gun dumbly. He'd not held many in his life, learning only upon coming aboard how to properly load and shoot one. "I have to use a pistol?"

"But if I'm the second, don't I get to choose something different?" Like blades, he mentally prayed.

"Will, if 'e can knock me off with a pistol, I guarantee he won't be wantin' to settle his differences with ye with letter openers."

The idea of Jack laid out on the beach, a hole in his forehead or his belly, shifted something loose in Will's stomach. He found he didn't care much for the idea; not that he figured he would've, but he also hadn't figured he'd have such a reaction to it. Pirates lived infamously and pirates usually died notoriously. Maybe it was because Jack seemed so alive, so invincible, it was difficult to picture a day when he'd be stone cold and a bit of that color and flutter would be gone from the mortal world. "Then we'll just have to do something to make it hard for him to knock you off," Will murmured, his mind trying to find a way to work like Jack's, to come up with an off-the-wall idea that would work like a charm. Even the captain's bad luck usually ended up working in his favor sooner or later.

"Lad." Jack was facing him, holding out another pistol with one hand, the other resting lightly on Will's elbow. His expression was as serious as Will had ever seen, save the moment when Jack saw Barbossa realize his own demise was upon him. "Life is. I accept it as it comes. Death's kind of th' same way, but I assure ye, today is not the day I go to meet Lucifer. It'll take a better man 'n Negre to put me under th' waves."

"Few characters in th' Carib I don't know, mate." With that, Jack gave his elbow a hearty pat and adjusted the three pistols in his sash. "Now, we jus' have one final bit o' business, and it'll put us gettin' there just 'bout on time to see Negre pushin' up clams."

Will tried to think what it might be. "Making sure your affairs are in order with the Pearl?" he guessed, though Jack had just said he had nothing to worry about.

"Nay." Jack scratched his chin. "Seein' who on board has th' biggest grudge against me."

Not surprisingly, Mart had no qualms about hurrying out from under a lockbox, where he'd been presumably completing repairs. "I'll do it!" he waved his hand about. "Just put me in range..."

Will watched Jack eye the midget, then glance down at himself in a little alarm, undoubtedly gauging the height range for Mart's fist. "I said clock, not castrate," Jack warned him off.

"Mate, you're gon' have t' find some way of gettin' over th' Interceptor," Jack shook his head, recalling as they all did the short man's bitterness over the fine ship's demise. Will had learned since then that Anamaria had been set on giving Mart a regular daytime helmsman position, and it was well known Jack's favorite job was steering—when not drinking, climbing the mast, or carousing, that was.

Jack glanced around deck and his eyes widened at Anamaria. "Ah! Will ye be wantin' to get even with me for your fine pile of rubble, then?" he asked with more than a trace of lighted mischief in his eye. Will occasionally wondered at their past together—if they had one to speak of, or if Jack just delighted in giving his only female crew member a decidedly tough row to hoe.

The woman folded her arms and gave him a half-disgusted look that also held a measure of guilt. "I ought to knock you cold and leave you here to go fight my own battles," she enunciated, a sure sign to Will she was angry.

"Love, we can't have ye doin' that," Jack soothed. "First of all, he won't fight ye, not when he wants t' bed ye. Second, pistols are not your strength. Third, I get shot, I wan' make sure there's someone here t' keep this shifty-eyed scoundrel from sailin' off with me Pearl." He gestured at Mart, who scowled, even when Jack flashed him a couple of gold teeth in jest.

"Jus' one of your many mistakes," the captain countered, "but I let ye stay on anyway." He looked at the rest of his crew, then turned to Will. "Well, boy, looks like ye've your work cut out for ye."

"Huh?" Will admitted at times he wasn't the brightest lamp in the tavern, but he truly had no idea what was even going on. "What, you want me to hit you?"

"Nay, I want ye t' put all ye got behind a good clock to me eye." Jack jabbed a finger toward said facial feature. "Hard."

Jack shut his eyes briefly, and Will could tell it was simply a fancier version of rolling them. "If a second shows up t' duel without th' first in tow, there's a lot said about th' first man's cowardice an' mettle. We'd not be wantin' Gibbs to suffer for your impudence, now would we?" he directed at Will.

It took a minute for him to sort out what the pirate was telling him, and he began sputtering out a retort. "I'm not the one who put laudanum in his—"

Jack raised a hand, fingers elegantly splayed, and dipped his head a bit, shaking it, glancing up through long eyelashes. "Point is, if I tell Negre I knocked him out, I've got t' look like I just came through a hell of a fight, savvy? So, a black eye'll go a long way to provin' jus' that."

"One black eye?" Will noised skeptically. "I can get that elbowing my way through a tavern crowd."

"I said I wanted to look challenged, not beat like some wet bitch," Jack dryly retorted. "I am still Captain Jack Sparrow. 'Sides, drunk as Gibbs was, he only got in one good punch 'fore I put him away with this." Jack held up a hand and flexed the ring-clad fingers. "So, you gon' punch me, or do I need to go find a lil' girl who can do th' job better?"

Will narrowed his eyes reflexively, slitting them nastily, but Jack only grinned, showing teeth surprisingly well-kept for an old seadog. He's not that old, I suppose, Will reconsidered. Wonder how young he looks under all that hair and jewelry? "If you insist..." the blacksmith felt his right fingers clenching into a fist. "But you can't assign me extra repair duty in retribution; you asked for this," he warned, then paused as he thought. "Or barnacle-scraping, or deck-swabbing, or any other unpleasant, tedious, dirty little chores around this ship," he added, his experience with Barbossa making him a bit savvier about how to strike bargains.

Jack was about to answer when he was cut off by a shrill, "Wind in the sails! Wind in the sails!" They all glanced about at the fluttering, and Cotton's parrot circled briefly overhead before landing on his master's shoulder. The mute man came to a stop about three feet from Will and Jack, eyeing Jack intently.

With no small humor, Will could tell Jack was uncomfortable, trying to think of the best way to address someone who couldn't speak back. Finally, the pirate captain cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and faced his crewman. "Mr. Cotton... and parrot?" he barked in an acknowledging growl.

Cotton balled up his fist and gesticulated that he wouldn't mind filling in for Will. Jack frowned, looking almost affronted. "What'd I ever do to you?" he asked in genuine puzzlement, something Will heard so rarely as to command his attention. Nearly the rest of the assembled crew looked nearly as confounded, both by Cotton and their captain's expression.

"Yo ho ho! Yo ho ho!" squawked the parrot, flapping his wings in some agitation, craning his neck toward Jack and dipping his head in small nods. Without Gibbs to translate, everyone looked around at one another blankly, and Will wondered if they were simply puzzled over the meaning of what was happening, or if this was just another entry in their shared ongoing thought process that usually included the phrase How the blazes did we end up on this merry freighter, anyway?

"Um... Captain?" One of the twins, James, stepped forth and extended a slender arm, pointing at the side of his head. "Maybe that...?"

Everyone's heads swiveled, and small noises of understanding went up as they all saw what James had noticed. Jack tried to look, too, but his eyes didn't reach the side of his head. "What?" he murmured, then growled louder. "Answer me!"

Nobody spoke, so Will reached forth and wordlessly tucked his fingertips beneath the two brightly-colored feathers the captain had incorporated into his last bead-weaving, swinging from a lock of dark hair. He held them at an angle that Jack could see when he glanced sideways, and immediately, the older man's brow furrowed deeply and he grunted, glancing at Will, then at the bird. "They fell out," he accused lamely. "Fair game."

Jack sighed as the crew looked on him accusingly. "Oh, fine!" he finally admitted. "So I nabbed a couple o' tail feathers. Not like he'll miss them; bloody bird's got plenty." Jack and the parrot regarded each other accusingly. "I am the captain here," the human finally spoke, holding aloft a forefinger in warning. "You could just as easily become Davey Jones's mascot, ye know."

The bird quieted, but Cotton didn't look any less agitated. "Captain," Will began, keeping his eyes on the mute, then flicking them to Jack, "maybe you should just let him hit you. You did ask for volunteers, and... well, you wouldn't like anyone collecting Sparrow tail feathers, now would you?" The look Jack shot him was almost glacial and laced with menace, but it didn't keep the silly grin off the blacksmith's face, nor snickers from resounding from the rest of the crew.

Finally, Jack turned toward Cotton. "Make it quick, man," he sighed, planting his feet apart and bracing himself. "Maybe when I come to, I'll have a crew o' pirates instead of a comedy troupe."

"Keep quiet an' stay alert," Jack replied tersely. They weren't racing along, but Jack was heading along at a clip more brisk than his normal drunken pace. "Never take your eyes off th' bastard."

Passingly familiar with regular duels, he wondered if because this involved pirates that meant there would be no rules. He figured it wiser not to ask, since doing so would probably reveal his ignorance, enough of which already leaked out in daily life aboard the Pearl. Instead, he settled on, "What does it say in the Code about this sort of thing?" feeling rather proud of finding a relevant way to learn what was necessary.

Jack snorted at that. "Don't duel." A little more distance, and Jack slowed a bit, putting his arms and hands into action, gesticulating and pinwheeling a bit as he spoke. "Look, son, it's like this: Dueling's supposed t' be an honorable thing, somethin' honorable men engage in to settle their differences. So right off, ye got problems, seein' as pirates ain't even proper shite risin' to the top of a bucket of 'honorable.'"

Will wrinkled his nose at the disgusting analogy. "You have honor," he pointed out.

"Aye, when it suits me purposes," Jack nodded, his beads tinkling with the motions as much as from bouncing off his shoulders as he strode. "But there's a set of rules when duelin', a thin veneer giving th' participants th' illusion it's all fair and above-board. Since pirate fightin' isn't exactly about bein' fair in the first place, mate, it holds that no pirate ought t' be mixin' hisself in with any system of fightin' that don't allow for unfairness, savvy?" Will nodded. "That's why I say to keep an eye on th' bloody bugger; Negre ain't to be trusted under any account. He's just as likely to shoot me second before th' duel starts, as not."

The younger man was still mulling all this as they came within range of a relatively flat stretch of sandy beach, peppered with onlookers surrounding Jack's opponent. "We're late," Will pointed out.

Will paused as a fearful chill went through him, but he quickly shook it off and put his long legs in motion, catching back up with his captain. "You know, Jack, what I said back there about honor—I meant it. I mean, what you're doing now, for Gibbs, is honorable." He wasn't sure what possessed him to speak, other than the desire to inform Sparrow he had his number.

"Nay, what it is is stupid, somethin' I believe I've warned ye against more times than I recall." Jack shook his head, smiling grimly. "This should never have happened; how th' blazes did Negre think Anamaria was a whore, anyhow?" This last was muttered more to Jack's own self than for anyone else's benefit, and Will realized the wisdom of letting the rhetorical musing stand unanswered. It wasn't until later he would ponder the statement further, realizing Jack had not cursed Gibbs as stupid for agreeing to the duel.

Negre strolled out a bit, meeting his opponent. He eyed Will dismissively and lifted his eyes to scan the beach behind them. Returning flinty eyes to Jack, he ground his teeth. "Where is that drunken cur that challenged me?"

"First off, mate, believe it was you who challenged him," the captain lifted a forefinger as in pause. "And I don't give me crew leave to go an' get themselves in scrapes with th' likes of you." He shrugged loosely. "So I had a 'talk' with th' old Scot."

Will watched as Negre inspected the black eye, lips thinning as if about to refute everything Sparrow had told him. "So he's one of yours, is that it?" Again with the careful enunciation, tinged with an exotic accent the blacksmith couldn't quite place. He wondered if it was the man's native Africa.

Negre slid another disapproving look to Will, and he felt himself rankling in response. "And this boy is your second?" he sneered.

"This 'boy' happens to be the son of Bootstrap Turner," Jack carefully enunciated in return, twisting his lips up in a smirk and narrowing his kohl-lined eyes in a parody of a saccharine grin at the taller African. "I seem t' recall something 'bout your own captain and he having a disagreement at some point?" Jack put his finger to the corner of his mouth, and this time, the grin was real enough.

By the way Negre's brow deepened in scowl and the perverse delight Jack seemed to be getting out of the exchange, Will's curiosity was piqued. As if by divining, Jack turned toward him. "Would ye like t' know the outcome of that little tete-a-tete, lad?"

He could tell Negre was about to explode, but Will simply glanced at him, then back to Jack, playing along. "I'd be very interested to know, Captain."

"Are you trying to stall the inevitable?" growled the object of Jack's conversation.

The pirate turned back to his opponent. "What, eager to die?" he asked, eyes widened in mock affrontry, putting a fluttery hand to his chest. "Far be it for me to deny ye th' pleasure of perishin' at th' hand of th' legendary Captain Jack Sparrow."

Negre only growled and turned to stalk back to the group, and Jack smirked, watching him leave. Over time, Will noticed while Jack usually seemed pretty content, most of his mirthful expressions were put on to fool enemies or reassure those under his command that he knew what he was doing. Rare were the times when he expressed delight in another's suffering—such as this—and rarer still were genuine smiles for whatever reason.

Will was brought back to the present by Jack handing him his coat and sword, then shrugging out of his chemise. "What're you doing?" he frowned, eyebrow lifting in askance.

"Pirate duel." Jack's words were slightly muffled as he drew the shirt over his head, then tossed it on top of the coat he'd draped over Will's outstretched arm.

"I... see." Will eyed the older man, noting the various tattoos mapping the olive-bronzed skin, including one that looked suspiciously like a miniature of the Pearl over his heart. He made a mental note to ask at some point what the ship's name meant to the man, exactly. "And this involves dueling with a little more than swords or pistols?"

Jack regarded him with an odd expression, moustache twitching, and answered a bit more dryly than usual, "Don't worry, Will, your virtue's not gon' be threatened. 'Tis a way of assurin' your opponent you're not trying to duck punishment."

"Losing. What else?" Jack adjusted his sash, lining up the three pistols in a certain manner. "One of us has t' die. Ye think your lil' book stunt hasn't been tried before?" Suddenly, Will realized the meaning of Jack's cryptic "you'll see" in his cabin back on the ship earlier. Jack gestured toward some rocks. "Put me stuff down over there an' I'll show ye where ye'll be standin'."

He turned and headed off toward Negre, who'd also stripped his torso and stood tall, as if ready to get his slaughtering over with. Will absently performed his chore, stealing glances back toward the two pirates, and wandered over. He didn't like the odds, especially not since hearing about that no-shirts rule, and the size difference between the two men made things more daunting. Jack was perhaps two inches shorter than himself, but he was positively diminutive next to Negre, who seemed as broad as Jack was slender. It didn't help that with his long black locks and twin trails of the red scarf trailing down his bare back, the captain very much resembled but a woman at this distance, pitted against a brute. Will knew it was a simplistic comparison, given Jack's prowess, but his hand nevertheless crept toward the weapon lodged in his belt.

A few minutes later, Will and Negre's second, a nondescript pirate whose name he didn't even learn, faced one another across an expanse of about thirty feet of sand—the sidelines, as it were, of the dueling strip. As in a traditional duel, Jack and Negre were to walk off ten paces with their backs to one another, the steps counted off by a local padre. Will suspected the man was neither clergy nor particularly religious, but then again, of the small crowd of perhaps twenty onlookers who'd gathered, he was forced to wonder how many were pirates loyal to Negre and how many were actual citizens of this fair isle morbidly interested in the fate of two pirates.

He spared only a quick glance at their surroundings as the padre oversaw the preparation; only a few trees in sight, and a couple of scrubby bushes, none in close proximity. Nervously, he recalled how Jack had given the crew instructions to stay aboard and make ready to sail once they had news of the duel's outcome; why hadn't he brought some of them along as Negre probably had? The water was nearly black with the oncoming night, and Will briefly wondered if Jack would get to sail upon it again as captain of the Pearl, or as a white-wrapped corpse to be delivered to its shimmering depths.

Will's hands, which hung limply at his sides, were now alive with fingers that fairly itched to grab a weapon. When he'd worked as a blacksmith's apprentice, he'd fenced three hours a day simply as a way to leach off excess frustration and to exercise his muscles, but he'd never given much thought to the occasionally raw fury the activity touched deep inside. Since learning about his father's true nature and meeting Jack Sparrow, that fury had been doing its damnedest to creep closer to the fore, niggling him more often than in the past, demanding, really, to be exorcised. Its potential intensity frightened him more than he'd admit, and he tamped it down often.

"Ready?" The padre's bark brought Will's attention back to the duel itself. He tensed, concentrating, as the man started counting in Spanish. "Uno, dos..."

Will had been so busy keeping an eye on Negre that he'd almost failed to notice his second rummaging in his sash; it was only when the man withdrew a small pistol that he realized something was going very wrong.

By instinct, instead of the pistol, Will's hand went for his dagger. Before conscious thought could kick in, the fury had grabbed the weapon and just like that, it was lodged in the other pirate's neck, the blacksmith's aim better than any archer's. The man never had a chance; he looked terribly shocked, grunted, then was in the sand within seconds.

The grunt caught the duelers' attention, and Will was suddenly aware he had only a pistol left and nowhere to go. He heard a gun being cocked somewhere behind him, then another... and another, and another. And then Negre joined the fray, pulling his weapon and aiming for Will. If he went for his own pistol, he'd be a dead man—it was certain he'd die anyway, but perhaps slightly earlier with quick movement.

Now is not the time for rash action, Mr. Turner. Odd time for James Norrington's voice to make an appearance in his mind.

And then another voice: "I'd be much obliged if the lot of you'd take your guns off me blacksmith!" Jack had a pistol in each hand, one aimed at Negre and the other somewhere just left of Will.

"Aye!" Will glanced around to pin the voice, and saw Anamaria emerging from behind one of the trees over on the other side of Negre. She, too, was holding a pistol on the black man. "And for the record, I'm worth much more than a shilling!"

A few more Pearl crewmen revealed themselves as well, bearing pistols, and Will wondered how they'd managed to get down here without him seeing any following he and Jack this way.

"As you can see, good sir," Jack's tone mocked the honorific, "you're quite surrounded. Order your crew to drop their guns."

"You think I did not anticipate this, Jack Sparrow?" Negre laughed, and it put Will in mind of Barbossa's mirthless guffaw. "Simple I may be, but certainly not stupid."

"Relative intelligence's got nothing to do with it, mate," Jack answered calmly, his arms not wavering in either direction. "Until you take into account that I am, in fact, Captain Jack Sparrow. You can be shot or you can drop your weapons."

One thing puzzled Will above all else: Why was he the focus of all these guns? It certainly wasn't his duel, and Jack had made it very public and very clear he was taking Gibbs's place when Will had earlier volunteered in town to be the Scotsman's second. He failed to see how putting weapons on him would affect the outcome of all this.

His thoughts were interrupted by Negre. "I have your crew outnumbered, it would seem, Sparrow," he boomed across the beach. "So it would be better if you were to lay down your arms first. I might even spare some of you."

"Why, that's ever so polite of you," Jack mocked in singsong. "But of the two of us, I'm the one who's engineered mutiny, so I think it's my fearsome reputation we'll be paying heed to, eh?"

"Or maybe you'd like young Will to hear how you and your illustrious captain nearly killed his father for refus—"

"ENOUGH!" Negre looked truly agitated now, and his pistol fairly shook as an extension of that rage. "Do you constantly prattle?"

"Well, mate, I mean it's not me fault you two just weren' Bootstrap's type, now is it?" Jack's eyes narrowed to allow for a too-sweet smile that wasn't meant to be pleasant. "When a boy likes girls, you just got to accept he's not about t' go down on you."

Will's brain was so busy being shocked he barely registered the lunge Negre's gun made, though his hand went reflexively to his belt, but he certainly heard the twin reports of Jack's and Anamaria's pistols. Jack's hit Negre straight in the chest, and Ana's bullet lodged in the man's brain, so he was dead before hitting the sand, gun still clutched in his meaty hand.

Figuring he had nothing to lose, Will pulled his own gun and whirled, finding a few still trained on him, but their owners a bit rattled. "Put it down or I'll shoot!" he threatened the nearest, lifting his arm and thrusting the pistol forward, aiming. He'd never shot another human being, but he suddenly felt as if he could.

"You all heard the man—down with 'em!" Jack's voice barked from behind. "Or you'll all end up with an extra breathin' hole or two!"

Ever so slowly, Will watched the people in his sight lowering their weapons, tossing them upon the sand. He held so still he could feel the trickle of sweat fall from his hair onto the bare nape of his neck, and run down beneath his collar onto his spine, making him shiver. He didn't dare look around to see if everyone was obeying, trusting the rest of the Pearl crew and Jack to keep an eye on his back.

"Now, that's a right proper bunch o' scalawags." A bit of his usual musical canter returned to Jack's tone. "Let's just all come nice 'n close where I can see th' lot of you, and keep your hands in th' air or I might just let Anamaria have practice again, savvy? She don't like bein' low-bid!"

Will waited until the last man had drifted over from his field of vision before turning to watch whatever Jack had in mind. It was brilliant in its simplicity, actually; he put them to work tying each other up with rope and irons the Pearl crew had brought along, and satisfied himself with quickly searching each one's person for weapons, which he would withdraw, look over, and either toss to one of his sailors or stuff in his own sash and belt. Once enough were tied up, Jack and the twins checked each man's knots and tightened as necessary, only having to subdue a couple with the butts of their pistols.

Jack seemed to relish tying the last man himself, lingering over the knots and grinning unpleasantly into the pirate's snarling visage, ignoring the epithets the man was hurling. Deftly, the captain unknotted and withdrew the rag he kept around his wrist and shoved it into the open mouth, gagging the prisoner on the dirt and sweat that no doubt had been soaked into the filthy cloth over time. "Sticks 'n stones, mate," Will could hear him murmur, standing only a few feet away now. "Be a pleasure makin' ye walk th' plank. Or maybe ye'd prefer a good keelhaulin'?" The prisoner's face drained of color, and Jack chuckled softly, dangerously. "You an' your mates'll learn in short order t' not fuck with me or a member of me crew. That be, if ye live long enough t' put it to any use."

"Glad to see events of th' day aren't wearin' ye down, mate." The familiar voice joined Will at his left shoulder as he watched how stars skipped off the gently-rolling currents. They were a couple of hours out to sea, stocked and headed for the Atlantic, namely to put as much distance between themselves and Negre's ship as possible. "Where ye think we should head to?"

It took a moment to register, and Will turned slowly, by degrees, taking it in. "You're asking me?"

"I'd ask Anamaria, but she'd jus' tell me 'to hell' or some such," Jack shrugged. His coat was gone, as it was a balmy night; so were his boots, something Will noticed happened a lot. When he could get away with it, the captain liked being barefoot on deck, and the blacksmith reasoned this must be because it was cooler and he could move with more agility. Gone too was the head scarf, the dark dreadlocks and beads shifting only slightly with the distinctly mild breeze. "Well?"

Will was shaken out of his observations and drew his eyes back up to Jack's, which seemed both merry and intense at once. "Why did you say that about my father?" he blurted before thinking. "You know—about the captain, and girls... and..." He trailed off uncomfortably.

"I remember what I said." Jack came closer and settled his arms, crossed, on the rail, taking up sea-staring where Will had left off a moment before, as the younger man watched his profile, awaiting an answer. "How much of the way of the world do I need to tell ye, young Will?" he asked, sounding much older than usual.

"Let's jus' say many a pirate's fancies don't always belong to the fairer sex. Negre and his captain are among them. Were." Will said nothing, lifting one arm to the deck to lean, his brows drawing up into a curious arch. "Your Da and I sailed with them many a year ago, when that African bastard was jus' a whelp younger 'n yourself. Captain Miles," he pronounced with a hint of mockery, "fancied himself a connoisseur of male flesh, most notably young boys." Will felt his stomach fill with a sticky, ugly heat that wanted to come up, but he managed to chase it away and listen.

"But, when there was none t' be had, 'specially a long time at sea, he'd settle for what was available. Took quite a likin' to ol' William, he did, an' figured 'cause he was so pretty, he'd easily get him inta his bunk." For some reason, Will recalled all the pirates who'd made a to-do over the fact he looked just like his father when they'd known him; in fact, Jack himself had been the first to make the observation nearly a year ago. "But there wasn' nothin' in this world William liked better 'n his wife an' his whelp—" Jack afforded him a quick sidelong glance, "so needless to say, he was not amenable to warmin' another man's bed. 'Specially not that jackass Miles... nor 'is prize playpretty Negre."

Things were clearer now. "He was angry at me for my father turning him down." It wasn't a question. "He wanted to kill me."

Jack turned at that, fixing Will with a hard stare that the blacksmith imagined he used to freeze people into compliance when boarding their vessels; certainly there was no tease, no warmth in it. "He wanted to kill me and take you to finish what he and th' dear, departed captain tried t' start with your Da fifteen years ago," the pirate corrected him. "I'd imagine he was still eaten up o'er what we did then, a fair bit, too."

"Only thing we could, given he was gon' throw William's bonny backside off th' plank for refusin' him: Declared him unfit for command and relieved him of it, as well as his life." Jack spat over the railing. "Sorry bastard."

Jack affectionately patted the railing, a slow, feral grin stealing across his features. "She's done all right, given th' number o' bastards had their grimy hands on her. 'Course, she weren't called th' Pearl back then; t'was th' Pluc—"

"The Plucky Marlin!" Will snapped his fingers and smacked the railing with an open palm. "Why do I know that name?"

"Prob'ly 'cause your Da told ye on his knee." Jack fussed with his unbuttoned cuffs a bit as he spoke. "Took her not too far off the coast of Africa an' sailed on up t' England, stopping for repairs along the way. Was right eager t' get off and see ye as I recall, bein' your birthday and all."

Will closed his eyes in concentration as fuzzy images flickered behind his brain. "He was there," he nodded, recalling in fragments. "I was five. I remember he told me about his new ship, and brought me some coins... and a wooden toy sword." Opening his eyes, he smiled at the memory. "First one I ever had. And showed me how to use it, too."

"Glad t' see twas put to good use," Jack nodded, and he wore a different grin this time, more nostalgic, knowing.

"Pirate lad needs his own sword, mate. Not just born with one o' those things in your hand, ye know."

"You didn't like it?" Will's mouth gaped as he tried to find words to convey his horror—and it closed, his eyes narrowing, as Jack threw his head back and laughed heartily, bringing his palms together in delight. "Ah, to see th' look on your face!" he choked through the peals of laughter.

He waited until his captain had calmed down, and crossed his arms, fighting an upward quirk at the corner of his lips. "Seriously, now, Jack..."

"Ah, Will." He continued chuckling. "You're too literal. Actually, th' two of us stopped over in a market in Portugal an' saw it with some other toys, and we both thought it'd be fine for a boy."

He lowered his eyes and thought that over for a couple of minutes, letting silence establish itself between him and his captain—his father's captain. "So he thought of me when he was gone," he murmured, wondering if he ought to be surprised.

"He thought of ye all th' time," Jack affirmed, throwing a companionable arm around his shoulder and leading him toward the helm with a bit of a stagger. "Now... do ye remember a tortoiseshell set o' drums he got ye when ye were about six, mate?"

"Well, I'll tell ye." The captain's free hand drew lazy circles in the air as they strolled along, opposite the direction the Pearl was drifting in the late-night breeze, his voice picking up its usual music as he delved into his next wild story. "There were these sea turtles—"

"Sea turtles," Will dryly noted, rolling his eyes to himself, feeling the hand on his shoulder clap it soundly as Jack nodded.

Contradictions, Chapter 2

Fight