3. Lose

One might have conclude it is a simple matter to decide which way a ship is heading—namely, which way the bow is pointed. Being neither untried nor stupid, Jack could easily have deduced this, had he been able to pick a direction for the vessel's bearing. As it was, it had been bobbing in the same spot for the past two hours. In a bay or at port, such economy of activity was necessary; out at open sea, though, any sailor worth his salt knew you didn't waste any more time than necessary out of reach of viable land in case of storm, even an island.

The pirate captain lowered his telescope for probably the twentieth time and frowned, trying to make sense of it. The crew wouldn't wait forever for a decision; he'd already put them off for the better part of the morning and noontime, trying to determine the best course of action.

"Aye." Jack didn't turn to acknowledge his first mate as he agreed. "Can't it, though, or won't it?"

"I would think 'can't,' since I know of no captain capable of being put in charge of such a sizable ship who would willingly drop anchor alone this far out to sea," Anamaria reasoned.

"Only if it's a trap of some sort." Jack knew they both thought it, even if only he spoke the words. "I'm hesitant to go after a ship when it's expectin' me; besides, where's th' thrill of th' chase?" he grinned, finally casting a glance back over his shoulder at Ana.

She crossed her arms, regarding him with a raised eyebrow, but said nothing. She often did this when she was confident he had more to say and wasn't finished; Jack wondered if he'd somehow gotten too predictable—equated with "going soft"—since having his own ship back. "The crew..." he sighed, confirming her silence.

"Yes, I know that," Jack rebutted. "But it won't do them any good if we're all killed or sunk."

"Sounds like the captain's made his decision." Ana's mouth quirked lightly, but her eyes were serious, still, awaiting confirmation.

"'Ere." He pushed himself away from the wheel. "Take th' helm; I'll go break th' glum news." Jack gave the worn, wooden wheel a fond pat as he headed for the lower deck, where various pirates worked or watched with interest. Though Jack stuck by the Articles as much as he could to allow everyone aboard a democratic vote in the pursuit of loot, the Black Pearl was his ship and as such, he made the final decisions on raids and defenses which could be hazardous for her.

"Everyone listen up!" he called in an amplified growl, stalking across the deck into their midst, hands up cupping his mouth slightly to amplify his voice. "There'll be no raid today, least of all on that tub." Jack inclined his head toward the distance, though not a one of his men were thick enough that they didn't know to what he referred. "Too damn suspicious."

A few grumbles of disapproval met his announcement—and one question. "Does she have more armaments, or maybe sailors, stopping us?" called one Will Turner, resident part-time blacksmith and pirate-in-training.

Jack looked around a bit to locate the lad, then craned his head, finding him several feet above in the rigging, seated on a crosstie where he was replacing some metal supports on the mast. He'd traded his impractical shoes for his own pair of calf-high leather boots months ago, and no longer wore a vest as much. Except for that and the longer hair leached somewhat of its former darkness, he looked much the same he had when he and Jack had hightailed it out of Port Royale and away from the Royal Navy six months ago.

"Mr. Turner," Jack calmly explained, well aware the eyes of the crew were upon him and how he would handle this, "I am not accustomed to explaining decisions which should be apparent. However, seeing as you're still one of th' resident whelps, I shall enlighten you." He was pleased to note the scowl he could see cross Will's expression, even from this distance, punctuated by a few titters of laughter from the rest of the crew. Serves him right; he knows better than to question my decision when there's already enough dissension from an unhappy crew. Then again, Jack amended mentally, maybe he simply doesn't realize what it does to my image; hard enough to override democratic vote even when you've got a fairly good reason. Oh well, at least David'll get an education out of it at the same time.

"Yonder vessel has not moved from its position in over two hours. For such a large ship, there's surprising little activity on th' deck for so relatively early in th' day. No sweeps up th' mast, either; no way of knowin' if military or pirate, and I daresay neither'd welcome us with a mother's lovin' arms. So either it's a plague ship—which I would have no desire to board, thankee—they're havin' troubles, or we've an ambush in th' works. Since we are neither doctors nor Samaritans, we must by needs assume th' worst and take the proper precautions by keeping our distance."

Will said nothing at first, seeming to hold a brief staring contest with Jack. He turned his head away, then, toward the direction of the other ship, and Jack could go so far as to picture his face as he considered a reply or even its necessity—it was odd how well he knew this person after only a few months. Certainly he had plenty of others in his crew who'd served longer and he didn't understand their thought processes at all. "Aye," Will finally assented, turning back to his cross-brace work. "Captain," he added almost as an afterthought.

Hmm. Teach 'em a few underhanded card tricks and suddenly they know everything about running a pirate ship, he thought of what sounded like Will's rare petulant tone.

He glanced over at the Pearl's newest crew member, a lad of fourteen that Jack had taken on over a month ago named David. The youth was short but quick—much as Jack remembered his own self—and watching the proceedings with intelligent blue eyes. Jack had made him cabin boy, ordering him to stay below during the one raid he'd conducted during his stay on board; he refused to throw children into battle, even going so far as to order children taken below deck on vessels he boarded. Whether adults were wise enough to yield to save their own lives was one thing; people under the age of sixteen didn't have enough sense to make up their minds about anything, he surmised, conveniently forgetting he'd been the same age as David when he'd taken up his own seafaring career.

"If they're plannin' somethin', Cap'n, we could drill some lead into 'em," offered Quinlip, a rather rough hand who'd joined the crew that had taken possession of the Pearl with Elizabeth Swann's help at the Isla de Muerta. "Disable 'em outta that notion."

Jack glanced back up at Will, who'd paused in going back to his work and was frowning openly down on the proceedings. Stifling his urge to snap at Quinlip the same way he'd corrected Turner, the captain correctly interpreted the blacksmith's actual cause of annoyance and addressed it indirectly. "We don't fire unless fired upon, lads," he reminded them. "Don't know there's not families aboard."

Grumbling set in, and Jack clearly heard in there "are we pirates or wet-nurses?" but could not identify the source. Setting his jaw, he gave a stamp of his booted foot to echo throughout the boards and growled loudly, "Scabrous dogs! Who the hell are you to question me?" The grumbling died down abruptly, and he fisted his hands on his hips, meeting every eye he could, slowly. "Did any of ye take and rebuild this ship?" He glared, daring answers. "Who among ye ran that whoreson Barbossa through t' get her back?" Again, silence. "Ye all read th' Articles when ye signed on; no killin' whelps. Now, if any of ye've a mind to pilot your own vessel and ye be thinkin' that's your opportunity—" he nodded sharply toward the one in the distance, "believe me, you're more 'n welcome t' leap in and swim over to stage a boarding party in your own name. Best o' luck."

Again, nobody spoke or moved. "No?" Jack echoed the silence, cocking his head and glaring at all in turn. "Then I'll be thankin' th' ungracious lot of ye to shut th' hell up an' let me steer the course in me own-acquired ship. Savvy?" A few nods, several defiant glares as men milled about, some going back to activity resembling work. Jack bristled, but let it pass; he knew better than anyone a man couldn't be punished for what went on in his head, so long as it stayed strictly in his own head. Besides, he really was pushing it by making the crew's decision, his ship or no. "Boy," he gruffed at David, motioning him over, "did ye get to the hold yet?"

"No, sir. I just finished helping in the mess." The lad was unfailingly polite, shaking his head. Clear speech, good skin and teeth—again, Jack wondered where he'd sprung from and if it had been wise to take him on. Still, he'd checked about Port Minuese, where the boy had approached Gibbs to barter passage, to see if any such child was reported missing or runaway, and had found nothing. Jack and Gibbs had eventually granted passage, realizing Will was the youngest crew member they had and was already engaged in his own share of work. With more than a little humor at the time, Jack had also considered that had he tried to order Turner to do the menial work of a cabin boy, the smith would've likely narrowed his eyes, lifted a brow, and smartly suggested the captain learn how to swing a forge hammer himself—preferably at himself.

"Well, now's as good a time as any," Jack cocked his head toward entrance to belowdecks. "Should be finished tidyin' up by th' time it's cooler this afternoon, if ye wan' come back up and help Will."

"Aye." David bobbed his head and strode off, but not before Jack caught a glimpse of the grin Will's name had brought to the boy's expression. He'd taken to the blacksmith immediately upon coming aboard, most likely recognizing Will was the one closest to his own age as well as having the same type of personality. Both were chivalrous and polite, though Jack was pleased to note Will had loosened up a bit in the past few months, no longer offended by the jokes or salty language that was a daily staple at sea, especially on a buccaneer crew. He would still occasionally frown if David were present during such commentary, and Jack couldn't help mentally factoring it into his own attraction toward the blacksmith.

Thinking of David's newest hero made him tilt his head back and direct his gaze once again at the mast. With one lower leg and foot wound securely around a crosstie, Will draped himself along its length sideways and was doing something to the center mast that involved some prying and, by the looks of things, a great deal of restraint on the language. His face was furrowed in concentration, his lips pursed, and when it came free, Will had to catch himself from falling by throwing an arm around the timber; Jack watched him shake his head and his lips move in what was undoubtedly at least a silent curse.

Bill, you're not making life easy down here. Jack silently conversed with his dead friend on occasion, as he had since discovering years ago the pirate had been sent to the depths by Barbossa's crew. The one-sided conversations had increased in frequency since Will came aboard, usually consisting of Jack asking forgiveness for his dirty thoughts about the younger man and help from The Beyond in resisting his baser impulses on that score. You'd beat me within an inch of my life, but God help me, I want him. He's not your little William anymore, and I know a lot more about him than I ever did from all the stories you used to tell about his antics. I know him a lot better than you ever did, he added with a slice of bitterness, immediately feeling guilty for thinking uncharitably about a dead man. Besides, what right did he, of all people, have to chastise a man for not paying better attention to his child than he did to the sea?

"Jack!" He realized Will was trying to get his attention. "I think you're going to need something more than a new brace on this one. Looks like the wood's eaten away, somewhat."

Instead of answering, Jack strode to the mast and hauled himself up into the rigging with the ease of a natural climber. He swung up the short distance onto the other side of the crosstie and threw a leg over to straddle it so he wouldn't be as likely to fall off, balancing on the back of his knee. "See," Will pointed, still stretched out, his head less than two feet from Jack, "right there. It's turning green. And rotting—maybe termites. You have any pitch on board?"

Will flicked his eyes over, looking at Jack from an essentially upside-down position. "I've not seen any down there," he referred to sharing his gradually-growing forge area with the ship's hold. "And I've looked, just in case."

"Guess we'll have to add it to th' list for—" The bow pitched a bit roughly and Will, who'd eased his grip to twist a bit to hold the conversation, was jarred backwards, his hand coming loose from the mast, cutting off Jack's rumination.

"Hold it!" the captain ordered, instinctively throwing his nearest arm around the mast and pitching forward past his own crosstie, grabbing a fistful of the front of Will's shirt with the other hand. Luckily, the man's ankle was still wound around the other crosstie, so Jack only had to provide a counterbalance instead of hanging on to Will's entire weight. He shifted, levering his forward boot beneath Will's shoulders as much as he could without falling backwards himself, pushing the suspended man back toward the mast at the same time he pulled at the shirt.

A brief look of panic had flashed through Will's dark eyes as he'd initially been thrown off, and when his fingers were in range of the mast again, he scrabbled, but they wouldn't make contact. The flicker appeared again as he struggled, falling back a few more inches, but Jack continued to balance him, ignoring the strain in his own muscles as they worked to bring him back within grasp of the wood. "It's alright, now," Jack reassured him in an oddly low, gentle voice. "We'll get you back up 'ere—just gimme a minute."

Instead of the mast, then, Will took the far more sensible approach and grabbed onto Jack's arm, hauling himself up until he could again throw one arm up around the mast. Briefly, he dropped his forehead to rest and it landed on Jack's knee as he panted, trying to catch his breath. "Thanks," he managed.

Jack released his grip on the material and reflexively rested his hand against Will's head, smoothing back a couple of stray locks that had escaped the leather thong clubbing it at the nape of his neck. "No problem, mate. What ol' Jack's here for." He was buffeted by a strong wave of protectiveness, a warm diffusion that dissolved his own panic from the moment he'd seen Will's head plunging for deck.

He pulled his fingers back, realizing what he was doing, then, and tamped down his reaction. Dammit, Bill, you're supposed to be keeping a better eye on him than that. And me. "If you'd sit up instead of hangin' like Barbossa's monkey up here, you'd have a better grip," he chastised in his normal gravelly voice.

"Well, it's hard to get to these things without a proper ladder," Will grumped, his voice straining a bit with the effort of pulling himself to an upright position. Soon, he was balanced across from Jack in much the same way the captain had adopted sitting on his own crosstie. "Unless you'd like to line up the crew to stand on each other's shoulders to provide one for me?"

Jack rolled his eyes at the asinine suggestion, but not before he'd caught a glimpse of Will's lips twitching in a suppressed grin. "Your mouth's too fresh," he complained.

"As though you have room to criticize." Jack arched an eyebrow, letting him silently know that had such a thing been uttered in the hearing of the crew, it would border on subversion. He was willing to let much pass when it didn't diminish his effectiveness among the crew, and more from Will, especially during their personal discussions about books and people and such—but he needed the blacksmith to remember the time and place for everything. "I know... I'll keep it to myself," Will added, catching the look on Jack's face.

"See ye do." Jack swung his leg back over the crosstie to climb back down. "I'll see if I can get someone t' find some pitch, or look for it meself," he informed the blacksmith. "But if there's not any, we're not likely to see port for a couple weeks; will a patch job hold?"

"Yes, I don't think the Pearl's going to fall apart before then." Will patted the mast as an accompaniment to his comment, directly his gaze up the height of the timber pole, and Jack thought he detected a fondness there. Turner was more sailor than his heart dare admit, and for some reason it restored Jack's good mood from before he'd had to call his crew upon the carpet.

"Oh, Jack... it must be terrible for you, to be stuck on this island..."

"What? Oh... um, yes, it is terrible, but the company is—" He pulled away a bit to say something different to Elizabeth, but she was no longer there. Seated next to him on the sand, next to the campfire, was Will. His vest was gone, as were his shoes and stockings, and his hair, unclubbed, fell around his shoulders.

Jack stumbled over his words, throat closing up at the glow of fire through the strands of Will's lightening hair. "Th' company's infinitely better than last time... and th' scenery..." He couldn't finish around the constriction below his Adam's apple, especially not with Will tilting his head and gazing at him like that. "Rum?" he offered his bottle lamely.

"I don't want your rum, Jack."

"Well, technically speakin', it's not really mine t' begin with." Jack turned his attention to the squat, wide bottle, rolling it between his hands. "How'd you get here, instead o' 'Lizbeth?"

"You tell me. Your dream."

"No, I was really here. This weren't a dream."

"Was I there?" Jack didn't speak. "How, then?"

"I couldn' stop thinking 'bout ye," Jack finally admitted. "Was worried t' death that monster's crew'd try something on ye while you's their prisoner."

"I'm here now."

"I know." Jack's brain thought it was reliving actual events and, as such, tried to intervene by having its owner rise to his feet to get away from the younger man, though a bit drunkenly. Mainly because he was—well, drunk, not to put too fine a point on it. He swayed, and Will, who'd magically climbed to his feet as well, caught him by hands on his shoulders. "Ye shouldn' be doin' that, mate," he mumbled, pulling back.

Innocently: "Why not, Jack?"

Remembering his silent vow to Bill that he'd honor his son's space, Jack protested. "Stop sayin' me name like that."

"Like what, Jack?" For some reason, Will's voice was right next to his ear, then. "Jack... oh, Jack..." he murmured, hands sliding down his shoulders; the captain felt a light quiver go through him. "Good God, Jack... yes, Jack .please, Jack..."

The object of that appellation twisted his head to the side abruptly, catching the speaker's mouth with his own. He rationalized it was to shut Will up, but such a distant façade was difficult, at best, to maintain with a delectable young blacksmith's tongue down one's throat. Jack's blood fired, his body moving of its own accord to wrestle his partner to the sugary sand, limbs and lips tangled. Every time the side of his nose brushed Will's, the younger man moaned into his throat, and Jack would groan in return, until they were both panting, lips barely brushing, Will's fingers wound into his dark, beaded locks, the heels of his hands cradling Jack's jaws just below his earlobes. "Jack," he whispered into his lover's mouth.

"Will..." He could feel the cry in his throat, the way he spoke the name different from every other time he addressed his friend. He opened his eyes to see the smith's, which were large and dark, only inches away, hotly roving his features as if searching for a focal point to ground them; certainly, at least Jack felt like he was falling.

And then Will tilted his chin up to meet Jack's lips again, and the captain let his eyes fall shut, drowsily laving kisses on that windburned, delicious mouth, which pushed back, parting and smiling for him—for him, alone—and spoke occasional whispered snippets of endearment—

A horrific booming noise shattered Jack's dream, snapping him from intense fantasy into clammy reality in the space of less than two seconds. He sat straight up, sheet twisted between his bare legs, right fist up with a wicked six-inch blade gripped tightly within. He suspended his breathing, listening.

He didn't have long to wait; less than a minute later, another deafening report rocked his cabin, and he ripped the sheet away with his free hand, feet on the floor to cross the short distance to the sideboard. Tossing the dagger point-first into a scarred wooden beam of the wall, he made short work of pulling on trousers, boots, shirt, and sash and loading up assorted weapons, accomplishing the feat in less than three minutes. Yanking his door open, he was met in the corridor by a few crew members who'd apparently not taken the same care in dressing, a couple not wearing anything at all.

"Dress and on deck," Jack growled at them, yanking a scarf into a hard knot at the back of his head. "Now!"

As the crowd hurriedly moved out, an exhausted-looking Will stepped forth, rubbing his face. "Where're we at?" he yawned. He was dressed, but his own billowing shirt was untucked, and the cuffs hung from slender forearms, unbuttoned.

"S what I intend t' find out." Normally, Jack might've appreciated the view; now, he barely noticed, not even having time or presence of mind to feel abashed at what had been on his mind regarding this man not five minutes earlier. "Round up a coupla the crew and check th' cannons," he ordered. "I wan' know who's firin' and why. Bring them on deck." With that, he spun and lightly sprinted for the steps leading to deck, taking them two at a time.

Halfway across the deck, Jack stopped. Stock-still. He tilted his head back, looking into the sky as he made a slow circle, ending by facing the bow. Those stars should be to port, he deduced. It didn't take a scientist to figure out what had happened, and Jack turned himself back toward the stern, ready to demand answers from Cotton at the helm.

Only it wasn't Cotton... "Where's th' helmsman?" Jack demanded, coming up the steps carefully to face Curly.

Jack didn't care at all for the tone, pausing at the top of the steps, hands at his sides. "No, I'm lookin' at me newest prisoner, I don't get th' answer I want," he replied with false calm. "Where is Mr. Cotton?"

A small, curious smile flitted across Curly's sunburned features. "Takin' a nap."

Somewhere in the red haze settling across his mind, Jack gave short pause to hope the mute—and his parrot—were still among the living. "I see," he continued, moving imperceptibly closer. "And who'd be helpin' ye in this?"

"You, in about ten minutes." He lifted a hand toward the bow. "We're comin' up on her, probably be close enough to board in less than a knot."

Despite himself, Jack craned his head toward the bow, and caught in his peripheral vision something being held out to him. "Go on," smirked Curly, nodding with more confidence, probably since he was still standing on the boat and not swimming through sharks. Jack took the telescope and extended it, hoping the moon would shed enough light to explain what the hell was going on, though he had a sinking feeling he already knew.

The ship he'd refused to approach and board earlier in the day—at least he was fairly sure it was one and the same—was plowing their direction, practically on a collision course, and Jack came to a sickening realization. "We fired on her," he murmured, lowering the telescope. He ignored the sailors pounding to deck from below, and turned to face the tall redhead at the helm again. "You fired on her," he amended, voice sobering as he felt his insides clench, chill.

"Well... technically speakin', Captain, you fired on her. Bein's the Pearl is your ship." Curly slapped the wheel sharply, jovially. "Shall I give the order to drop anchor, or would you like to?"

Jack had never been so drunk he couldn't remember what was happening at any given time, and he rarely imbibed even enough to be mildly tipsy, despite appearances to the contrary. It was in such a stupor many years before in some dive in Tortuga, though, that he'd concluded he possessed quite a long tether between the spark of someone making him angry, and snapping on following through with any action acknowledging it. Frankly, the snap had damn near come when cannon fire had jolted him out of a perfectly pleasant wet dream, and Curly had just provided the lovely shearing of said rope.

He only knew he moved; he had no real idea what he'd done until he was holding the redhead bent back over the rail by his stringy hair, the man screeching in pain as the fingers of his left hand wiggled, tried to claw away from their master, which had been pinioned palm-up to the wooden rail by the dagger Jack usually cradled in sleep more intimately than any lover. Instead of being shocked, Jack allowed the hot blood to course. "Now what I need from you," he calmly addressed the wailing mutineer, "are names."

"Glad to know your hearing isn't affected. Names," he repeated calmly, yanking on the hair in the opposite direction of the pinned hand. "Who's helping you?"

"Do you know the average shark can smell blood up to over a knot away?" Jack lectured. "Smart, hungry boys, they are. These waters are positively riddled with th' buggers, and I doubt they'd turn down a free meal, even one such as yourself, Curly."

Jack gave his hair a vicious yank. "Who else?" he snarled. "God damn it, TELL ME!"

"And that's supposed to make me believe ye?" Jack leaned in very close, the tip of his nose touching the man's quivering bottom lip. "As if your mother'd be anything great to swear 'pon, you son of a bitch."

Somewhere in Jack's mind, it recognized Will's voice not too far behind him. "Bring Connors up here."

"I said bring him forth." Jack closed his eyes, trying to find something calm where there was none—not even for Will Turner.

"Jack," the voice appealed rationally, "the other ship's almost on us, and we really need to be—"

"Are you incapable of following a simple order, Mr. Turner?" Jack wheeled, releasing Curly, and closed the distance between himself and Will so quickly the smith actually took a couple of steps back. "I said, bring him up here, NOW!"

Will's eyes widened and he swallowed, but he didn't have any other visible reaction. "Yes, sir," he answered a bit scratchily, turning on his heel and striding down the steps at a measured, stiff pace.

Eyes intently on the approaching vessel, Jack grabbed the front of Connors's tunic when he was near enough, dragging the man to the rail next to his buddy. Reaching forward, he plucked his dagger from the hand and wood, ignoring Curly's yelp of pain. Not taking his eyes from them, he called for Ana, who joined him on deck shortly. "Meet our diplomats," he told her in clipped tones, gesturing to the two frightened men.

"Why, this is our welcoming committee," he gestured with a wave of his wrist that had sacrificed its trademark grace for jerkiness from white-hot anger. "They'll be at the front of th' boardin' party."

Ana pulled at his shirt from behind and in a low voice, murmured in his ear, "So we're attacking, then?"

Jack looked at her very briefly, then raised his voice. "You don't have to whisper—crew deserves to know what's happening." Gesturing sharply toward the two men, he silently sent Ana over to guard them, then moved to the steps to speak to his crew.

"We have aboard two traitors who've taken it 'pon themselves to engage us in an attack on the ship we spotted earlier in the day," he let his command voice carry the words out across the deck. "Because we've already fired—and seeing as we're not exactly on Mother England's good side right now—" Here he paused, anticipating, and getting, guffaws at the understatement. "We are indeed going to fight and board."

He cut himself off as an equal mixture of rowdy cheers and exhausted groans went up from those assembled; it seemed some of the crew remembered well enough his hesitation earlier in the day. If he were proven right—as he suspected he would be soon enough—at least this would stand as an example against mutiny in the future. As if Barbossa weren't warning enough, he snorted inwardly. Curly and Connors had been part of the Interceptor crew and should've known better. They deserved whatever came their way; the rest of the crew didn't.

"Damn it all to hell," he muttered to himself, palms gripping the rail as he continued to face the bow and a likely foolish decision he had no control over. Some days, he really hated being the guy wearing the big hat.

Despite appearances to the contrary—tales of indolent pirates suddenly spying a ship, leaping up, and scuttling over and easily besting the innocents after firing a few suppressive cannon shots—executing a raid was rather hard work, and not to be undertaken with only five minutes' planning. Jack's crew, like any good one—"good" meaning "still alive"—not only kept their ship in shape but themselves as well; Jack insisted on drills and had recently put Will in charge to help those challenged by wielding swords.

Nevertheless, Jack faced the fact he only had minutes to prepare further attack and a boarding party to follow up. He directed that Connors and Curly be tied to the mizzenmast until further order, and the rest of the crew to their various stations—cannons, armory, ropes, and grapples. Though he normally would've been the first one at the bow, ready to board, Jack hauled himself up a bit into the rigging and extended his telescope, thankful for the full moon still overhead. What little light it cast showed the ship steadily plowing closer, no signs of surrender.

Jack squinted; he couldn't be sure, but he thought it sailed beneath a military flag. Glancing down around deck, he spotted the best pair of eyes on the Pearl. "David!" he bellowed, getting the boy's attention. "Front an' center!" He snapped his fingers, indicating the youth should join him on the mast.

Without question, David scrabbled up the mast, crablike, perching just below Jack's position. "Captain?" he asked, cocking his head in eager confusion; the pirate could imagine he liked feeling useful.

"Take a look at that an' tell me what you see." He offered his glass, and David accepted, turning to face the bow and extending the glass, balancing himself in rigging and craning forward to concentrate. Jack put out a hand on the boy's shoulder to steady him, almost holding his breath to hear the verdict.

It was a couple of minutes before David apparently felt confident enough to speak. "It looks as though they're sailing under a French flag, sir."

"What do ye see on deck?" Jack lifted his chin and stared over David's head, as though he could discern from this distance with naked eye.

"Hmm." Jack had seen the same thing and didn't want to think about what it meant. "That'll be all, boy. Get down an' out of sight."

"I gave you a direct order, whelp." Jack's tone was hard and unyielding. "Do ye mean to imply you know ship's business better 'n I do?"

David blinked, then silently shook his head. Jack noticed a set to his jaw and mused on how much it resembled one of Will's scowls. "Off with ye," he pushed down on the lad's shoulder, clearly dismissing him. "Hide, or I'll have yours."

Jack fairly slid down the ropes and landed on deck with a thump of booted heels. Looking about, he found Ana overseeing preparations at port to prepare small weapons and board. Pulling her back by an elbow, he leaned in and spoke near her ear. "Get below and oversee th' cannons," he ordered.

She turned, giving him an odd look of consternation and curiosity. "That's Mart's job."

"Well, then go help him. I'll get after this," he gestured toward the men readying to board. "I wan' a full volley on her 'til we get aboard, once I give th' order; then I want you at the helm, ready to make way on a moment's notice. I give th' signal, ye be ready to turn an' plow."

"Dammit, woman, does everyone think me daft this mornin'?" Jack ground out in exasperation. "'M the captain, and I oughtn't be questioned so much. I occasionally know what 'm doing." Pitching his voice lower, he didn't drop his tone. "Why in th' world would I come up with such a plan if I never intended t' need it, anyway?"

"Who knows why you do the things you do?" Ana sassed, but shook her head and turned to head off. Jack grabbed her elbow again. "Savvy?" he pressed through gritted teeth.

"Aye, Captain." She shook herself free. "I've never refused to follow your orders."

Jack said nothing as she walked off, unable to rebut that. He approached the crew sorting out ropes and hooks, and paused briefly to inspect each pirate's progress. "Listen up!" he called about him to get their attention for the second time in less than a day; all paused, and Jack looked them over, resting his eyes on Will briefly at each pass to anchor his thoughts. "I've real simple orders for you dogs: On deck, attack where ye can, scramble back o'er here."

"Leave it," Jack ordered gruffly, shaking his head, beads swinging slightly. "Don't have time for spoils; this'n's not a ship to be messin' with. Shouldn't've attacked in the first place," he scowled darkly, stiffening his shoulders. "But what's done is done, and our best bet is t' get th' crew and the Pearl out safe, avoid being chased if we can. Means you all come back when I give th' order to follow th' plan." He flicked his eyes beyond the rail and frowned anew at the ship bearing down; it would be within firing range in mere minutes. "Damn thing can't even be sunk properly."

Still, it had to be tried. Turning on his heel, Jack headed below to the cannons. He passed pirates in various stages of preparation along the way, mostly strapping on blades and checking pistols for shot and powder. As his boots clipped along the time-dampened thick wood, he wondered about heading back to his own cabin for coat and hat—wasn't quite proper for the captain to go boarding looking like a common crewman—but quickly pushed the notion aside as he reached the cannons.

Weaving through rushing men, Jack crouched across the largest gun from Mart, who was undoubtedly standing on a crate to see over the iron. "They all ready?" Jack queried.

The midget nodded, apprehension slightly coloring his expression. "It's a big ship, Captain."

"I don't 'spect we'll be sendin' her down t' see Ol' Hob," Jack assured him. "I just need her crew distracted by a bigger problem so we can get over an' hopefully, disable enough of the crew that we can get away intact." As he spoke, Jack patted the iron, as if encouraging it.

Jack reflected this was probably the longest conversation he'd held with Mart. "Too risky; half our people'd get maimed or killed in the process. Better to come back, live to raid, pillage, an' plunder some other day."

"Well, I can guarantee we'll keep them distracted for at least a while," Mart nodded. "But we'll not want to be using up all the ammunition."

"Someone needs to be at the helm." Ana's voice cut into their conference from behind the cannon, where she stood with hands on her hips.

"Aye, that'd be you," Jack nodded. He cut a glance sideways at Mart, but the smaller man said nothing.

She arched a dark brow at the ensuing silence. "No last-minute pearls of wisdom?"

"Jus' don' run me ship into a reef or an isle, or pick up any more curses," he half-growled. "Had to work like th' devil to get rid of the last one."

"Good luck, Jack." With that, Ana left, and Jack and Mart were left once again facing each other over the cannon. "How long?" the captain tilted his head toward the other ship, which the Pearl had turned hard to port to attack.

"Couple more minutes," the chief gunner replied, his faced tilted toward the sea, judging, measuring.

Sparrow was quiet a bit longer. "Ye know," he finally spoke, "maybe I've been hasty, not lettin' ye at the helm. With a crate, in calm seas, you could prob'ly fare well."

"And why not rough waters?" Mart pushed. "It's not like I've never helmed a vessel before, Captain. Just because I've not the long legs of a gazelle doesn't mean I can't hold my own." Jack lifted a curious brow at the tone. "After all, he's less experience being a seaman than I do."

"It is the height," the captain admitted. "But th' whelp's good—" Jack caught himself; to a man Mart's age, it probably wouldn't help being reminded someone a few years younger was being given responsibility he'd been denied thus far. "Turner's a good choice to steer th' helm. He's all that upper-body muscle from workin' the anvil for so many years. And he can see over it without any help, mate."

Mart said nothing, and Jack took his silence for acquiescence and let it stand for the next couple of moments, until the midget moved along the iron toward the fuse. He caught his captain's eye and nodded, and Jack's hand immediately went to his sash, feeling for the guns, daggers, and sword he'd buckled on so shortly before. He cast his eye once again on the approaching ship, still bow-first facing the Pearl; its guns were not aimed this way, and Jack was highly suspicious. Once again he was reminded why he didn't want to take on the French vessel.

Finally, he could take no more waiting; it was time, or else. "Or else, indeed," he muttered under his breath, then stood a bit taller in the confined vertical space of the gunnery. Glancing about at the prepared pirates manning the other cannons, Jack caught Mart's eye, nodded, and brought the flat of his hand down hard on the iron.

Jack turned his attention to his two mutineers as he waited for the ship to get close enough to board. Curly and Connors were being held near the rail by two of Jack's burliest men, and the captain squinted a saccharine smile at the miscreants. "Well... I've changed me mind, boys," Jack drawled, thrusting out his chin and cocking his head as he spoke. "Seein' as we're the ones have t' clean up your mess, I really don' think it fair ye should get any of th' spoils that mayhaps come into our possession from this little venture." He flicked his dark eyes to the two guards. "Gentlemen—help th' boys here greet their fate proper-like."

The burly men glanced at one another, shrugged, and hoisted the protesting mutineers over the rail. "Captain!" cried Connors, kicking at his handler. "Don' put me off! Was all 'is idea, ever' bit o' it!"

"MY idea?" the dangling Curly howled, somewhere in the midst of indignation, pain, and frustration. "You're the one who came up with how to take out th' ol' mute!"

As the two verbally harangued one another, Jack glanced sideways at Will, who was arching a brow at the pair, looking extremely doubtful of the veracity of their desperate statements. Then the blacksmith met his eyes and lifted both eyebrows, rolling his dark eyes—Jack could swear the lad's expression was checked amusement. He grinned in return and turned his attention back to the mutineers.

"Show these fine gentlemen their new home." Jack nodded at the burly men, Tanta and Moses, whose huge arms barely rippled as they gave Curly and Connors a toss into the briny drink. The captain leaned over a bit to watch them hit, then surface, clawing about, before he remembered an unusual fact about the usually-silent Connors. "Oh dear—don't think th' poor boy can swim," he mused aloud.

"You mean to leave them down there?" Will had joined him at the rail and was looking over, too.

The smith looked up at his captain. "Not much room for mistakes among thieves, eh?"

"Mistakes?" Jack nearly choked on the word, laughing as he was. "Twas no mistake—they accomplished 'zactly what they set out t' do, mate. Just not for themselves, is all." He straightened, sobering his speech. "This is a democracy, Will; as such, we all live an' die by each other's decisions. Mine was t' keep us out of harm's way, at least this day. People're gon' die today to pay for their decision; only proper an' fair they should be first, since nobody else had a vote."

He didn't have time to even issue a "savvy?" to the end of his explanation, catching sight of the ship from the corner of his eye; they were finally at an angle so the name of the vessel, the Versailles, was fully visible, the appellation painted in man-high letters. Jack pulled up his hook, weighted the hilt in his hand, and launched it toward the other ship's higher rail. "Board!" he ordered the approximately twenty men around him.

Because of his title, Sparrow was the first aboard, scrambling along the rope and pulling himself over the rail. He was greeted by two dark-eyed swashbucklers stabbing for him. Spinning, the captain fairly twirled out of their range and pulled his own sword free at the same time. When they figured out he'd pirouetted sideways, he already had the point of his blade at the side of one's neck. "Who are you?" Sparrow demanded in a growl.

The man scowled, and Jack realized it was in incomprehension. "Comment tu appellez tu?" he queried in French, ignoring the nicety of the formal "you" address under the circumstances. "Como te llamas?"

That banished the blank, angry look, replaced with mere anger now. "Conquerors for glorious Spain," the man replied in Spanish, before snarling, "And who might you be?"

Jack had no intention of answering before he had to. "Pirates?" he queried back in the man's language.

Sparrow glanced around as he was surrounded by his own men boarding; he could see others of the Spanish crew also hurrying forth. He noted the crass, lopsided dress of the crew and their dirty state in contrast with the sleek, clean wood of the ship—he'd come to expect more of government-sanctioned Spanish buccaneers, who generally had style, if nothing else. Many looked underfed and rangy, too. "If you're a privateer, I'm me own Aunt Fanny," he scoffed. "You're no more employed by th' Spanish Crown than I am."

"I'll take me chances, mate." Jack twisted the sword a bit, drawing a point of blood from the first pirate's neck, causing the man to grit his teeth. "Where's your captain?"

Jack grinned. "Hidin' out, is he? Hell of a foe, have I, this fine day." He withdrew his sword enough to allow the man to breathe, but just. "Well, summon him. Ye may tell your captain tha' he's gettin' th' rare pleasure and privilege of meetin'—"

"Captain, look out!" From the corner of his eye, Sparrow caught sight of Will lunging for him, and instinctively ducked. Turner's blade whistled overhead and a wet, sticky plop accompanied the singing, indicating a direct hit upon a body. Jack felt the flat of the wielded blade strike his shoulders as the standing corpse dropped it, obviously in mid-attack on Sparrow's back, then glanced up to see Will's arm retract, his tight fist gripping the hilt of a glistening red blade.

Jack stood, nodding a curt, silent thanks at the blacksmith, then narrowed his eyes in a scowl at the two pirates he'd been holding at bay. "So that's how it's t' be, then." His voice was gravelly, escalating. "Men! Help these fine sailors meet their Maker!"

With a roar and a charge, the Pearl's crew threw themselves into the fray, attacking with a frenzy borne of not having a prize to chase for the past three weeks. Jack himself exercised a bit more restraint, challenging and parrying long enough to see if his opponents would drop their swords; more often than not, they didn't, which is when he'd get bloodthirsty and lunge, pierce, and hack.

The only person scoring more hits on the rapidly-growing onslaught of Spanish pirates above deck was Will, who wielded both his sword and a shorter blade. His body lunged and spun almost effortlessly, and Jack was reminded of natural-born runners. Most people had to struggle to run, to attain any sort of speed or endurance—a lucky few, though, were able to defy gravity and seemed to coast along the ground, not so much running as paddling through space gracefully. While he was the former, Will Turner was definitely the latter type.

For several moments, the Pearl's crew attacked the swarm as best they could; Jack was heartened to see many were surviving and avoiding injury. When he caught sight of Chin going down with a blade through his chest, though, he growled, angry anew. The young Oriental pirate had joined up with the Interceptor as part of the original crew to rescue Elizabeth, and had been as loyal as he was quiet. He shouldn't have died, not today, Sparrow chastised his own lack of foresight for not picking out his mutineers before they acted, though he rationally knew there was no way he could've determined such a thing. Again.

As he withdrew his own blade from the chest of Chin's killer, he stepped back, hard, into an ungiving body. He tensed just as he heard, "It's me, Captain!"

"What're ye doin' back there?" Jack asked half-conversationally, not breaking the contact as he held his blade out, threatening.

"Aye, this is somewhat familiar," he chuckled. "Where's Norrington when ye need him, anyway? Bet he'd love a go at these boys."

"Too busy keeping the seedier bars of Port Royale safe from docking miscreants," Will replied, and Jack laughed aloud, recalling how the Commodore had forced them to flee the Red Snapper so many months ago.

"Stay with me and make way to the rail, Will." Jack turned his head over his shoulder briefly to give the subdued order in English, wagering that at least some of the pirates who could hear wouldn't know what he was saying. "Nice an' slow-like." Raising his voice, he barked a similar order to the rest of his men. "Follow the plan!" he yelled.

It took a couple of minutes, but the crew slowly followed their captain's words, edging to the rail, stepping across felled bodies on the way. Looking hesitant, each man hauled himself over and quickly slid back to the Pearl as Jack and Will edged to the rail in unison, their backs still pressed tightly together. "Now!" Jack ordered as they were against it, reaching for a rope.

He threw himself over, hands gripping the rope, after briefly pausing to sheathe his sword. Those who had already escaped were busily cutting their own ropes, beginning to release the Pearl from her oversized French barnacle. Halfway down, he looked over and realized he couldn't see Will. At the same time, he heard the man's voice call out a familiar name.

Blast, what the hell? Jack tightened his grip and let his head fall back to look back up; all he could see was Will moving away from the rail, closer into the center of deck. No, you fool, not that way! he thought, automatically beginning the climb back toward the Versailles. He'd be damned if he'd leave any crewman while he escaped, let alone Will Turner.

He clamored back up the railing a moment later, spotting Will holding off a stand of pirates with his sword, his other arm thrown around the front of the Pearl's cabin boy, just under his chin; David seemed frozen, eyes huge with fear. With a leap, Jack was over the rail, drawing his sword even as another group of pirates swarmed him, getting between him and his crewmen.

It was then he realized everyone else truly had left, and he slowly lowered his sword; even Jack Sparrow was outnumbered at fifteen-to-one odds. "Drop your weapon, Mr. Turner!" he ordered loudly enough to be heard by all. "Now!"

He waited until Will had obeyed before letting his own clang to the deck, keeping his eyes steadily going among a few hostile faces before him. "Parlez," he said quietly, fixing on one.

"Your captain?" Jack volleyed, ignoring the question. He hoped he was providing enough of a distraction for the Pearl to get away, much as he hated to keep Will and David here.

On cue, a tall, broad-shouldered pirate clomped across deck, pushing others aside and his way through the swarm. Jack saw him spot something over his shoulder, beyond the rail, and immediately, the dark-haired human mountain growled a sharp string of Spanish cursing the Pearl for daring to sail away and ordering his men to make ready for firing and pursuit. "Captain!" Jack raised his voice above the others. "A word?"

The man paused in turning to head back wherever he'd come from, and closed the space between himself and Jack in a few long steps. Jack studied him quickly, noting a slight limp in the fellow's left leg, deep lines etched into his inscrutably-aged face, the broad hat cocked on his head, and worn brown leather armguards laced around his forearms. "Who might you be?" he demanded of Jack, looking him up and down, clearly deeming him impudent for addressing a superior out of turn.

"I'd be th' captain of yonder vessel," Jack replied in his best voice of command. "And I can tell ye she's not worth your time—no swag aboard, no armaments worth stealin'."

"You? A captain?" The Spanish captain took in the much slighter man before him, and Jack cursed himself anew for not properly outfitting in anything more than boots, trousers, sash, and shirt. "What be your name, sailor?"

"Captain Jack Sparrow." He leveled his dark gaze up at the other man, watching with amused curiosity at the change that came over his features.

"Captain... my title, if you please. Jesus knows I've worked hard enough to earn it."

The larger man regarded him darkly. "My apologies," he answered in sarcastic Spanish. Then he grinned. "Well, I'll be—Captain Sparrow on me vessel, at me mercy. Hardly seems the time or place for such things."

"Hmm. Ye mind tellin' your men to take their shinies off me blacksmith and cabin boy?" Jack gestured toward the two in question.

It was a good question, but Jack hadn't the inclination to explain it away—not just yet, at any rate. "First things first," he changed topics. "Who am I addressing, sir?"

"Captain Elias Francois," the hulk replied, dipping his chin in a slight bow. "I must say, Captain Sparrow, I wasn't entirely sure you were a real personage, given the stories about ye."

"Stories?" Being the egotist he freely admitted he was, Jack was always up for hearing stories about himself. He flicked his eyes meaningfully toward Will and David. "Do tell."

Francois took the hint and turned to issue rapid orders to the pirates holding the pair captive; they relaxed their demeanors and lowered their swords. Back to Jack, he answered, "Well, th' curse of Cortes, o' course; that's th' most interest to us."

"Never implied such a thing, Francois." Jack rolled the name on his tongue, then grinned cheekily. "So, tryin' to get a ship that matches your name, eh, mate?"

"Forgive me for not bein' quite that clever," the man answered with just a hint of mirth. "But I make me decisions based on size and armament. 'Twas in th' market for a new ship and came 'cross these French dogs—seemed fitting."

"Well, I've no great love for th' French." Jack scratched at his chin, giving the Pearl more time to get away. "And seein' as you've already a fine vessel, what's to be gained by sinkin' mine? Tell you what—you put me an' the whelps here on a rowboat back to it, and we'll steer clear of each other, respect each other's space from here on out, eh?"

Francois regarded him with amusement. Finally, he laughed. "Barbossa was right; you do try to talk your way out o' everything."

Jack tried not to let on that the name raised bristling hackles in him. Shrugging his slender shoulders, he adopted a faintly bored air. "I find it better 'n tryin' to kill a man right off, is all."

"Aye, maybe you're right." The captain eyed Jack. "I'll not be sailin' after your ship for now, Captain—but I think you and your companions will stay on as my guests for awhile. Savvy?"

The turning of his own well-known expression on him ground at Jack's pride, but he only smiled, crinkling his eyes invitingly. "Why thankee, Captain," he murmured graciously. "We'd be e'er so delighted t' bunk here."

"Bullshite," Francois parried, and his crew laughed. "But I'll tender your acceptance, Sparrow, anyhow. Who knows—maybe I'll even find a way for you an' your crewmen to pay me back for th' damage to my ship an' crew." A collective guffaw went up from the pirates surrounding them as Francois gestured about at the damaged railings and that which couldn't be seen from deck—hull breaches—as well as to the dead bodies still littering the deck.

Jack fought his natural inclination to snarl at what the man was implying, especially in regards to the child. "You do that," he only smiled again, letting his eyes narrow to dangerous slits instead of merely squinting in good humor. A brief lift of Francois's eyebrow told him the captain "savvied" that unspoken warning well enough, at least.

He must've been resting or in a trance, for the next thing he knew, a hand was at his elbow and a voice in his ear. "Jack?" it queried in a proper young English accent. "You there?"

The captain let his head fall back a bit, the motion carrying his glance to Will, who stood uncertainly, watching him, inches away. "Whatcha need?" Jack asked, speech lazier than usual from the four tankards of rum—not grog, but pure, spiced dark cloudy distilled sugar—at supper.

Jack allowed himself to drift in those large, dark eyes, caressing worry and apprehension, seeking guidance from the older and wiser. He had the urge to tell Will it was all an act, that while he was eighteen years older he was really no more savvy than the blacksmith when it came to what to do in this particular hostage situation. Or any hostage situation, really; he simply kept true to his name and winged it when such things occurred. "Contemplative," Jack corrected.

Something inside Jack shifted. Melted. He swallowed, wanting to laze within the curves of those wide lips, wanting to turn and slide his fingers up into chestnut-gold hair, to nibble at the square chin just below the small goatee, feel Mr. Turner's proper throat muscles bob uncertainly and his voice hitch and pitch a little before surrendering to Jack's questing tongue. He dropped his eyes to half-mast, openly studying the blacksmith's slightly parted lips, but in the dark he was fairly sure it went unnoticed for all the time it took him to flick alert eyes back up to Will's. "An' how's David?"

"Out like a candle. You're right, that half-tankard of rum really put him under. May be the best thing for him, if he's scared."

"'Intrigued' is th' word I'd use, mate." Jack turned back to his study of the paper against the moonlight streaming into the open cabin window. "In fact, he's so wound up with wantin' to scurry around this ship an' see all what's goin' on tha' we may have a time an' a half makin' him concentrate proper on his duties to ye."

"Aye," Jack agreed with a nod. "'Cause you're his newest hero, an' it wouldn't be fittin' for him to dis'point ye, Mr. Piratey Blacksmith." Jack turned once more, grinning cheekily, the beads and metal in his hair clinking with the swing. "Ye've quite an influence goin' on that boy, Will."

"Makes it better, don't it?" He didn't wait for an answer, turning his attention finally back to the map he held unrolled. "This'd be a simple matter to redraw, given th' proper tools an' charcoals," he thought out loud.

"Why don't you just tell Francois you know how to draw maps?" the smith suggested, sotto voce. It was night and they were probably alone in the "guest" cabin, but one never knew what ears poked aboard a pirate ship, or where. "You could get your charcoals and things, you wouldn't have to hide... and I'm sure you could convince him of something to your advantage."

"Nay, you're wrong," Jack shook his head. "Far better he thinks me a mostly ignorant bedbug who only knows how t' drink an' sing at me helm. Why you think I've worked so hard to cultivate th' reputation?"

"For doin' this, I must be," Jack agreed. "See, what I do is lay another skin over this, skew it just so, an' trace the original map through." He felt Will lean in to examine what he was doing, his chest pressed into Jack's shoulder blade, nearly holding the captain upright from behind, the man's breath warm against his temple. He closed his eyes briefly, wanting to sway into that hold, turn into those arms and nuzzle at that sinfully long column of skin he called a throat. "Sends ever'thing a bit to th' southeast, is all. Hardly noticeable."

"That could be noticeable, I s'pose," Jack conceded. "Important thing is, we won't be th' ones endin' up in Guinea." He turned questioning eyes on Will, who smirked and volleyed back, "Savvy."

"Entirely too smart for me own good," Jack muttered, pleased the smith had picked up on his plan as he lay the map out on the nearby table. "Now we jus' got to figure a way off this tub, where we don' drown or turn into shark nibblies." A small noise from across the room drew both men's attention, and they turned in unison to regard the boy curled up on the only available bunk, knees tucked up into his midsection, arms curled around himself in slumber. "Or get him killed," Jack added quietly.

Will nodded, hands on his hips, brow furrowed in what the captain suspected was his usual serious thought. The man seemed incapable of having a flighty idea—which was probably good, given how many times the Pearl's commander tended to fly off at most anything shiny or even halfway appealing. Gods above knew someone needed to balance out Jack Sparrow. "Oh well... I s'pose takin' over the helm's out o' the question," he sighed.

"Come on, mate. It'd be fun, we didn't have t' worry about small fry, there. Admit it, jus' you an' me upendin' those Spanish bastards over the side? Don't say it doesn't appeal to ye somewhere in there."

"Well..." The smith hedged and turned to lift an eyebrow. Jack would've cackled if he knew it wouldn't awaken David.

"Now that's th' son William Turner produced." He grinned briefly, then shook his head. "I'll come up with somethin'; you two jus' keep them occupied, find out what ye can roamin' the ship to make repairs, an' bring it back to me."

Will shook his head ruefully, apparently amused. "I just can't picture it. Jack Sparrow—excuse me, Jonathan Sparrow—confined in some back room—"

"Me name. It's Jackson. Hasn't been a John in th' family for goin' on five gen'rations, now."

"Uh-huh," Will nodded. "I figured as much." Then the younger man paused, grinning; even in the semi-dark, Jack could see the light flicker behind those brown eyes. "What's your nickname?"

That drew Jack up short. "Are you implying, sir, that I'm not famous enough for a nickname?"

"Not at all—and you're stalling." When Jack hedged and dissembled, Will nodded. "You don't have one."

"And if you don't shut up, I'll give you a nickname! How ye like that?" By this point, they were facing one another, Will's arms crossed at his chest, Jack gesturing wildly, tilting forward into the other man's personal space, nearly growling out his whispers as a counterpoint to Will's hint of a smirk.

As the smith was about to reply, a rustling stopped them both. They looked at one another guiltily, then over to the bunk, where David was sitting up, head down on his knees. "Aw, shite," Jack muttered. "Look wha' we did." Will started to move toward him, but Jack's hand went out, settling on his arm. "Let him be for a moment; might just be sleepwalkin' or somethin'."

David's head bobbed a bit, and he raised it to look around, but didn't seem to be comprehending what he saw, though his eyes were wide and seemingly alert. Finally, he muttered something and fell back against the pillow, shifted a bit, and turned onto his side, curling up once again. "What was that?" Will whispered in the darkness, glancing at Jack.

Will spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "Mum didn't move around like that; neither'd my father, what few times I saw him home. Nobody on the Pearl does... that I know of."

"So what you're sayin' is you've not slept with enough people to quite find that out yet, eh?" Even in the dim conditions Jack knew Will was blushing, by the set of his jaw and the narrowing of his eyes. "Well, that's sleepwalking—only with Davey, seems there's not a lot of walkin' to it. Some people walk, some of them just get up an' move 'round."

"Technically speakin', he never woke up, really. Reflex his body has, is all. Just means we need t' keep an eye on him, since this is a strange place. Don' want th' boy to fall over into th' drink or down some steps."

Will studied him a bit as comprehension dawned in the dark eyes—Jack could tell by the way they shifted under the reflective moonlight streaming into the open window, in whose path the smith stood. "You're a sleepwalker, too," he murmured.

He shook his head. "Th' rum usually does me in 'nough to quell down such few urges I have. Unless ye jus' like watchin' me sleep." Before Will could retort, he removed his hand from the man's arm and nodded toward the bunk, which was at least wide enough to be mostly empty even with the boy in it. "I'm on first watch. Get some rest so you'll wake when I need ye to, Mr. Turner."

Jack turned back to the small table by the window and glanced down at the wash of moonlight illuminating the map of the Atlantic. He ran calloused fingertips over its surface and pulled out the regular compass he kept tucked in his vest to check the ship's bearing once again, mentally gauging where they might be headed and how long it would take to arrive at present velocity. He didn't flash the small silver instrument around, preferring instead to let people think he was guided solely by the strange little black box that hung from his sash; in reality, it was good to lead them to only one place, an island Jack no longer had any need to frequent.

Something about the way the moonlight struck the paper made the captain scratch his chin in thought. The map was drawn on onionskin; it would have to be traced on onionskin. He'd been trying all evening to think of a way to get his hands on a large enough piece of glass to prop against his open window so he could lay one over the other and draw from the natural illumination of sunlight, since there was really no other way to do it. But perhaps if the onionskin were thin enough .

Jack glanced back behind him, noting the moon was in a phase only to get more full, not wane. Should provide plenty of light, given no cloud cover, for several more nights—and I bet I could see through onionskin well enough to trace this on the table, instead. He grinned in sudden comprehension; it was far preferable to risking discovery in the daytime. Since they were supposedly Francois's guests, they would be left alone at night so he could work. Perfect.

Having solved that small problem, Jack turned and dropped into a chair, his back to the window, and brought his bare feet up on the table, crossing them at the ankles. From this angle, he could survey the cabin, the door, and the bed; he noticed Will was stretched out on his back on one side of the bunk, head pillowed on his hands, nose tilted toward the ceiling, clearly not yet asleep. Probably contemplating, as Jack was at present—but what, the captain couldn't guess. He'd bet anything it was escape; and again, Jack couldn't disagree that he wondered about the same possibility.

Francois had explained earlier, over a fattening meal of succulent fowl and pork, that Jack, Will, and David should consider themselves his guests, to roam the ship at will, but he'd let the undercurrent settle there, that something more might be expected of them at some point. Noting the way more than one pirate had eyed Will and David both throughout the day, Jack had been quick to offer their services as master blacksmith and apprentice—from watching Will keep himself busy on the Pearl for so many months, he had no doubt the lad could find plenty to do even on a ship as fine as this. And David needed an excuse not to be commandeered as cabin boy, especially since Jack knew what Spanish pirates were wont to do with such young, pretty males—unfortunately for his own national pride, it wasn't much different than what any other given crew of pirates might do to a young, pretty male on board. He was trusting that Will could keep David occupied with training and, from that morning's display out on deck, also protect him should the immediate need arise.

The object of the jovial demand swiveled his head just enough to glance back over one shoulder. "Francois!" he called back in similar tone.

"Well, tha' seems a bit overwrought, now, mate, seein' as I've been standin' right here th' whole time," Jack pointed out reasonably, turning to face the taller pirate. "Ain't I, Lappers?"

The young pirate manning the helm swallowed and nodded quickly, sparing a nervous glance toward his own captain and a more friendly look at Sparrow. Jack grinned, silently blessing his ability to make friends anywhere—at least until they got to the point of slapping him, that was. Harder to kill or aid in the killing of a man you liked, was his philosophy, and since the underlings ended up doing most of the work for just about any villain, it paid to be nice to those bottom-dwellers.

Francois frowned momentarily—Jack could've sworn it was in consternation—but it cleared and he threw a companionable arm around the shorter man's shoulders. "Some lunch, Sparrow; come on, 'fore it gets cold. Cook's got a nasty 'nough temper wit'out me asking 'im to reheat it all."

Jack continued grinning, though it was tighter now. Elias was not-so-subtly giving him the message he could squash Jack like a grape whenever he chose, if the iron grip of his forearm was any indication. "If ye crush me throat, I won' be able t' sample your culinary delights," he pointed out in reasonable tone. "And it'll leave quite th' mess for Cook t' have to scrape up."

Elias only laughed. Jack imagined he might've loosened his grip somewhat, but couldn't confirm it as he followed along toward the captain's war room. "You're an awfully friendly chap," he noted, trying to squirm away without it seeming so obvious. "What brings ye out toward th' Caribee anyway, mate? Never said." Jack knew very well they weren't headed on toward Jamaica, but instead, back toward the Continent. He'd eventually formulated the hypothesis that, despite his ragged dress, Francois was indeed probably a privateer, albeit one who operated quite far outside the law on the seas where nobody could check his activity, and was heading back to his ruler with the French prize under the guise of some legal respectability.

Which meant Jack and his entourage, not being Spanish, would likely be turned over as international prisoners with no mercy. The one thing anyone could say about Captain Jack Sparrow was that he was at least egalitarian in angering organized authority wherever he found it.

"Why, same as you, I s'pose." Elias removed his arm, giving Jack's back a hearty smack before gesturing into the room, already laid out with a modest repast. "Opportunity, riches, treasure, trade ships—all th' good things in this life."

"Nay, I'd never forget rum, Captain. Be unseemly." To prove his point, Elias shoved at him an entire slender bottle of rum, rather than simply a goblet. The larger man hefted his own bulbous bottle with a cheeky grin. "Sit, eat. Not often I have guests worthy of me own title and table."

The good thing about being a prisoner is it rather removes the worry about being poisoned en route, Sparrow reflected as he reclined into a chair. Comfortable; he liked the way the French outfitted themselves. "One thing I'm not too clear on's why'd ye sit in th' bloody ocean and wait to be attacked, anyway?" he asked, uncorking his bottle slowly, chin dipped, eyes slyly on Francois.

"First, you tell me why you attacked." Elias jabbed an accusing finger in his direction. "Th' Jack Sparrow I heard 'bout is certainly no fool, an' yet it was stupid."

"Perhaps you think so; I saw a calculated risk. Or do ye think you're th' only one with a claim t' lay on Gallic treasure?" No way was he going to admit he'd faced another mutiny, no matter how small—the only thing worse at sea than a captain who occasionally resorted to foolish strategy was one who'd lost control of his crew and ship.

"Seems from what I heard that ye'd be a mite sick o' treasure for awhile, given th' last time I hear your vessel struck out for gold."

"Tha's a bit like sayin' ye quit th' rum because of one hangover." Jack leaned forward on the edge of his seat, inspecting the food briefly, then reached for a leg of fowl and a hunk of bread. "Pirate who doesn't go after booty's kind of th' image of counterproductivity, isn't he?"

Elias was quiet a bit. Then: "Word is ye shot Barbossa an' got all his pirates hanged."

Jack glanced up from tearing a bite away from the bird. Chewing contemplatively, he swallowed, chased it with a long swallow of rum, then cleared his throat. "Old word, indeed. If you're tryin' to make small talk, I'm sure we can find more pleasant topics an' newer news, mate."

But the other captain would not be put off. Dark eyes glittering, his lips curved up into a positively wicked smile. "So how slow'd you make the ol' bastard die?"

Sparrow refrained from frowning at the unseemly question, recalling something Francois had said three days earlier about knowing of his verbosity firsthand from Hector Barbossa. "Not a nice way t' talk about a friend," he tested.

"Oh, I don' know—enemies don't usually sit 'round chewin' th' fat 'bout other pirates. Leastways I don't, when I have one at th' end of me sword."

"Uh-huh. I once crossed paths with th' king of England, but we didn't gossip over tea. Unless ye count a quick benediction," Jack put in, eyes lighting with the clerical memory as he resisted a chuckle. "Just how close were you an' Hector, anyway?"

The smaller man shrugged through another succulent bite of fowl. "Was a kid," he spoke through the mouthful, then concentrated on getting rid of it expediently. "He didn't like bein' so much older and havin' to take orders, so he took advantage of me stupidity and mutinied. I knew th' man all of six days. He helped me an' William gather a crew... which, in retrospect, wasn't th' best use of his talents on me behalf," Jack reflected.

"Nay. 'Twas his da." Jack tore off a bite of bread and popped it into his mouth, unconcerned about spilling his life story before a stranger, especially since this part of it was pretty much all public legend anyway.

"I see. Speakin' of th' blacksmith—what's his story? Raised 'im for his father, did ye?"

Again, Jack nonchalantly shook his head, though he was mindful of treading into a murkier quagmire now; the less a potential enemy knew about you, the better. "Just joined me crew few months back. Said he'd heard o' me from his mum." Let Elias be the one to contradict him, if he'd heard more about Barbossa's defeat than Jack's role in it.

Elias nodded, stroking his chin. Jack noted he still hadn't eaten. "So he's no ties t' anyone, is that it, then?"

Something in the other captain's tone put Jack even more on guard. "Wouldn't say that," he answered carefully. He allowed a small upward curve to one corner of his lips and lifted his eyebrows meaningfully.

"Ah... so it is like that." Elias chuckled. "Should've known ye wouldn' be able t' resist such a comely lad, then."

Jack gave a lazy shrug of his shoulder and stroked his moustache with his forefingers. Far better this crew think he had a claim on Will than for any of them to try to establish one of their own through more forceful means. "He suits me purposes."

Shaking his head, Jack put up a hand, waving it a bit at the wrist. "Look, mate, I like 'em strappin', but not young enough for th' strap. I'd presume th' same of you an' your crew." He tilted his chin down a bit to level a more intense stare into Francois's dark eyes as he leaned back again in his chair. "Savvy?"

"Tastes... vary, Captain. I certainly can't be held responsible for th' proclivities of me crew."

"Then I'd say you're not much of a captain then, now are ye?" He spoke quietly, but summoned up his best tone of command. "'S one thing to have your ship swiped out from under ye in the dead of night, Francie; quite another t' oversee th' systematic rape of little boys."

Francois's face tightened. "You'd do well, Sparrow, to remember you are my guest aboard this vessel, y' see?"

"Aye. Guest." Jack's eyes hardened but never altered expression, his fingers steepled together at chest level.

"I'm certainly not holdin' ye here, Captain. You and your faithful crew are free to leave anytime ye'd like... so long as it's wit'out th' benefit o' rowboats." Francois grinned unpleasantly. "Mebbe ye can rope together a couple sharks an' ride 'em to shore somewhere."

A well-timed commotion out on deck saved Jack from having to deliver a rather nasty comeback, and several seconds later, someone rattled at the door. "Sir! There's been a killin'!" the crewman called, finally pushing it open to burst in. He swept large eyes over Jack before settling on his captain. "It's th' blacksmith!"

It took no time whatsoever for Jack to go from reclining in his chair several feet away to backing the young messenger up into a wall, knobby fingers clutched at his throat just beneath his chin. Jack absently noted the man's Adam's apple bobbing nervously as he growled, "What about the blacksmith?"

With a final narrowing of his dark eyes, Jack jerked his hand away and glanced over at Francois, then pushed past the crewman out of the war room. He stopped a few steps beyond the doorway, looking about, and then stalked toward the knot of men gathered around the mast, wondering what the hell Will had gotten himself into this time while alternately sighing inwardly with relief he was not the one deceased. Scares like that weren't good at Jack's age.

"But he was protecting me!" came a familiar, squeaky tenor somewhere in the midst of pirates. "Don't kill him, please! It was me!"

That damn fucking nobility. Every goddamn time. Jack shook his head, a lot of Will's immediate peril suddenly explained by David's pleas before Jack himself even knew the finer details. "Out of my way!" the captain demanded, shoving someone in his way aside. "Move aside! MOVE!"

One apparently didn't like Jack's tone and turned on him. "Wot th' hell you—" His eyes bugged out, his bravado apparently shriveling as Jack's hand was at his throat, the sharp point of a recently-hidden dagger near to piercing the tender flesh.

"Son, you're testing me patience," Jack gritted at the crewman, leaning into his face, his moustache nearly brushing the fellow's chin. "Unless you'd like to be wearin' this, step aside an' tell your buddies to move, too."

"There's no need for threats, Captain Sparrow." Francois's voice, loud and calm, was right behind him. "We'll find out what's going on soon enough. AVAST!" he raised his voice on the end command. "Where be th' smith?"

"'Ere, Cap'n." Jack withdrew his blade and shoved his crewman away, turning toward it. He'd penetrated the crowd far enough that when the people immediately surrounding Will moved away at Francois's order, Jack could see Turner at the mast, his arms behind him—presumably tied around the column of wood—and David in front of him, shaking his head wildly and blinking, still pleading for nearby pirates to leave Will alone. The reason Will himself wasn't speaking became evident as soon as Jack spotted the gag between his lips. Boy, is this familiar, he reflected, namely to balance out the mixture of fear and the first stirrings of rage somewhere inside.

"He killed Knuckler!" a rather fat pirate charged, coming to a furious stop before Francois. "Run 'im through with his sword!"

"That's not true!" David piped up, the fear in his eyes momentarily replaced by a glaring fury. "He was trying to hurt Will!"

Jack cocked his head and met Will's eyes over the gag—they were neither as frightened nor as angry as they should have been, merely darting here and there trying to take in everything. He rolled them, and Jack blinked in surprise; Will was being dismissive of this witch hunt?

"What, exactly, was he doing?" Francois directed this question at David, and everyone's eyes turned on the boy, who seemed suddenly smaller than his actual spare frame.

"He—h-he was in the f-forge, and he—" David paused and swallowed, shutting his eyes tightly and shaking his head.

Jack had an idea. "Here, boy, tell me, then." He crossed the few steps between himself and David and lowered himself to one knee, gesturing at his own ear. When David shook his head still, his large blue eyes blinking with unshed tears, Jack reached up and put a hand on his back. "Jus' whisper it t' me, savvy? Nobody else'll hear it, and I'll tell them for ye." He flicked his eyes meaningfully toward Will, then back to David, widening his eyes as he spoke again, slowly, trying to convey the order to acquiesce without saying as much. "You want them to let your brother go, don't you?"

David's eyes widened, then softened in comprehension. Quick lad. He leaned in and whispered, then. "That m-man came in the forge while we were working and... and he said things about me that made Mr. Turner angry, and said if Mr. Turner didn't listen t-to him, he'd do things to me. Then he got behind—he moved behind h-him, and he..." The boy trailed off, and Jack pulled away, seeing the confusion in the blue eyes. Suddenly, the pirate understood what David's mind was still too inexperienced to grasp, and he stood, abruptly wheeling on Francois.

"Seems your crewman wasn' quite satisfied with whatever he's gettin' elsewhere, and decided to attack my men," Jack pronounced deliberately, eyes narrowing. "Your guests, Captain."

"He's lying!" Jack caught the fat pirate's movement in his peripheral vision, lunging at David; instead, he met with Jack's unmoving form as the captain took two swift steps back and wedged himself firmly between the enraged man and the scared boy. "He didn' do no such thing!"

"What, exactly, did Mr. Turner do?" Francois directed to the crew at large, before nodding at the man standing nearest Will, who'd answered when the captain had asked where the smith was. "Zeke?"

"Near as we can figger, through th' gut from in fron'. Knuckler was standin' behind 'im, an' he—" Here, Zeke paused to raise a skinny finger toward Will, "he stabbed behind 'im, ran Knuckler clean through."

Jack had to suppress his laugh at the mental image put together from Zeke's and David's accounts. Trust Will to be able to do his work and dispatch an enemy sneaking up behind him, at the same time. He sobered quickly enough when he realized what it must've taken to rouse Will to that point—the smith was a relatively peaceful man, not given to indiscriminate injury or killing. "Sounds like defense," he told the other captain. "You should untie him."

Francois sighed. "As I was tellin' ye earlier, you're hardly in a position to be givin' me orders aboard me own ship, Sparrow." The crew nodded in agreement, scowling in Jack's general direction.

Realizing that a bit of diplomacy was in order, Jack briefly closed his eyes and nodded toward the other captain, placing his palms together briefly, beseechingly. "Apologies, Elias... but he was tryin' to protect his brother. Surely the Spanish Crown doesn't endorse th' buggerin' of little boys on their vessels, do they, now?"

Jack's lips quirked just slightly at the position he'd deliberately put Francois into. It didn't matter if every pirate on board secretly got off on raping children—to admit to doing or fostering such a thing aloud, even in such uncouth company, was worse than the insinuation of fucking one's own mother. Sorry, Mum, he winced inwardly, imagining how his dam might've taken such a comment had she still been alive.

"As I was saying," Francois finally continued, glaring at Jack, then around at his crew, "this is my ship, and I give the orders. And my orders apparently weren't clear enough: Our guests are not to be harmed in any fashion. Nor is my crew to be used for target practice," he aimed at the gagged Will Turner. "You have a problem, it comes t' me or Zeke."

"Or me," Jack quietly put in, maintaining his stationary position, one hand crossed in front of his other arm, gripping its wrist. He flicked his dark-rimmed eyes neutrally at Francois, who only growled.

"Release him, and back to work. Enough of this foolishness!" Elias pointed at Will. "You—go below an' get rid o' that body. Throw it o'er." With that, he wheeled and headed back to his war room, presumably to grab a bite of his own lunch. Jack safely assumed his own meal was over.

Within two minutes, Will was unbound and licking at his dry lips in an effort to regain some of the moisture leeched out by the dirty gag, as the crew dispersed to their individual stations. "Pah," the smith spat a couple of times, while rubbing at the rope marks on his wrists. "Wonder where that thing's been."

David practically threw himself against the smith and snaked his arms around the man's midsection. "I'm sorry," he shook his head against Will's sternum, where his head burrowed.

"David." Jack interrupted the proceedings. "Not your fault, boy. Mr. Turner doesn' always think things through before he acts." Jack expected the glare Will leveled at him over the boy's head, but continued. "Honest men do some stupid things, sometimes."

"Which means I'm not given t' doin' stupid things." He sighed, frustrated he couldn't put into words his relief that this little drama was over with—or his increasing worry that this wasn't the end of it, after all. He couldn't watch after the two of them every moment. Still... today was one day. "C'mon, I'll head back to th' forge with you two." He dropped his voice. "We may as well take an inventory, see what we'll need t' secure for when we get off this boat."

"We hardly need a caretaker, Jack." This from Will, who was still looking adorably defiant.

"Maybe not," the captain nodded in agreement, deliberately borrowing from a comment of Will's three days ago. "But sometimes watchin' your back is me job, comprendé?"

The brow furrow disappeared, and the dark eyes widened a fraction, much of the challenge dissipating. "All right," Will nodded, one arm still around David's back. "This way."

"'S a pirate ship," Jack mumbled, keeping his voice low though he hadn't found anyone lurking about the entrance to this small, mostly dank section of the hold. "Worse smells competing for attention. 'Sides, it's way down here; far as I can tell, nobody's come down, nor even knows it exists." He made his way around the blacksmith in the narrow confines, holding aloft his small lantern to see in the shadows. "Jus' be glad we're not keepin' the tack with it."

The two had left David at the door to guard so they could check the supplies they'd spent the better part of nearly two weeks putting aside. Jack knelt and motioned for Will; the two of them lifted the side of the inverted rowboat, and the stench notched up sharply in intensity. Both reflexively turned their heads away and blinked rapidly. "Steady," Jack counseled. "We still got t' get this topside and past th' guards, somehow."

"Let's see—two sets of uniforms, two pairs of boots—Jack, are you sure you want to leave yours?"

"Not much choice, mate. Got t' make it look convincin' as we can, least from a distance."

The two of them swiftly went through the rest of the drill, which wasn't much—the rowboat wasn't that large, and they definitely couldn't load it down if they wanted to get very far. They set about righting the boat and loading items into it, including the corpse of the late, not-so-much lamented Knuckler who, after a week of death, probably didn't smell much more rank than he had in life—Will had explained that was how he knew to stab, when the man was behind him, because of the stench of body odor that hit him. But the smell now was plenty bad enough, if Will's expression was any indication; truth be told, Jack could stomach a lot, and it was about to take the wind out of his sails, as well.

"All right, we'll come by later tonight an' get it," he finally stood, straightening his shoulders and moving his head to work out the kinks. "Just a couple more things need t' be done before then. This should be safe 'til tonight, I'd think." He gave the side of the small boat a light kick and caught sight of his foot, frowning over Will's recent observation. "I do hate t' give up me boots," he sighed. "And me hair."

"It'll grow back," Will countered. "And you can buy new boots. Just like those."

"And me beads." He reached up and touched his decorated tresses reverently, as though he hadn't heard Will.

The older man shrugged, momentarily depressed. Then, as was his custom once he'd decided on a course of action, he shrugged and turned back for the door. "Can't be helped," he agreed. "We'd better get goin' before we're missed—besides, I got me a throat t' cut."

"Aye, sir." David nodded and knelt on the small seat before the window, beginning at the corner of Francois's old Atlantic map, shredding off a small piece of onionskin. The replacement Jack had labored to skew to the exact detail lay on the desk, edges slightly curled from much handling, as it had been the one Francois had been consulting for the past several days on his course, the real one stashed away until just now. That's the one Jack had studied at length, committing the important points and bearings to memory—as well as to a small, pilfered bit of parchment he kept folded and tucked into his compass.

"Now, for you." Jack pulled a straight-backed chair to the center of the room and gestured for Will to sit.

The smith sighed and straddled it, facing its back, hands on his thighs, his eyes on the two corpses laid out face-down on the floor before him. They were now dressed in Will's and Jack's clothes, the two live men clad in the extra breeches, simple shirts, and uniform coats of the French Navy they'd found stashed on board. "We don't have much time," he reminded his captain. "You have the pitch?"

Jack only hummed in the affirmative, moving behind the blacksmith. He regarded the younger man's loose fall of chestnut waves and pulled a moue with his lips—while he now had an excuse to run his fingers through that beautiful hair, it would be a short-lived pleasure and it gave him no pleasure at all to do what had to be done. Steeling himself, he picked up the first soft, fine lock, got the straight razor beneath it near the scalp, and shut his eyes as he lopped it off, feeling as though he'd sliced off a piece of his own skin in the process.

Several minutes later, he was kneeling over the taller of the two corpses, his fingers sticky with a tar-like substance, gluing strips of Will's hair to the back of the body's head. In the interest of expediency, he'd quickly switched places in the chair with Will after doing his own rushed barber job, still clutching the man's light brown hair in both fists, and shut his eyes as the smith's talented hands had quickly sheared Jack's dark locks and beads from his head. He finished before Will was done arranging Jack's hair on the back of Knuckler's head, so he changed positions to help the smith. "Where'd you get him, anyway?" Will lifted his chin toward the newest corpse, dispatched just before supper that very day. "Haven't noticed him before."

"Good—means he prob'ly won't be missed much here, either. Had me eye on him for a couple of days," Jack explained. "Lousy whoreson tried t' bugger me, jus' because he's bigger. Don' like being boarded without givin' me permission," he added as clarification, though by the double-take Will gave him, he suspected he'd actually just muddled things more in the smith's mind. Oh well—if the lad hadn't figured out before now which way his captain's mast tilted, it wasn't Jack's problem. That's what adulthood was all about, having one's illusions destroyed. Raising his voice a bit, he called, "David, how ye doin'?"

"Almost done, sir." Bits and pieces of thin paper were rapidly sent flying by the boy's small fingers as he spoke.

When the two men finished pasting Jack's hair, they straightened, and Jack remembered something else. Reaching over and plucking the folded razor from Will's breast pocket, he reached up and with two short snips, held his beard braids in sticky fingers. He reached down and hastily glued them to the corpse's chin, which was visible as it the head had been left turned sideways to accommodate the gluing of a hair braid. "We don' wan' forget th' scarf," he reminded Will.

"Well, ye don't look so great yourself, so there." Will was momentarily puzzled, then his brow relaxed into a chuckle. "Get th' scarf, now."

Several minutes later, they all stood around the dressed, bedecked corpses, David holding a medium-sized bag of stale food and skins of grog they'd all sacrificed decent-sized meals for since being aboard, eating only the bare minimum and acting full for their hosts' benefit. David had swiped a mill of salt shortly into their stay and they'd dried the meat into jerky; some of the fruit was going soft, but would hold out a little longer. "We're gon' lower you in the boat we have first," Jack pointed to David, "along with some oars and our friends, here," he gestured at the corpses. "I know it ain't pleasant company, but just stay hidden close to th' ship an' we'll be down before long."

The boy regarded the bodies dubiously, but to his credit, didn't make any faces. "How long should I wait?"

"If ye see dawn approachin' an' we've still not made it, stay hidden near th' shadows of th' ship, out of sight 'til nightfall tomorrow, then dump these two an' row like mad to th' northeast; we'll distract th' crew," Jack ordered. "We won' be that long, trust me."

After David slipped out for a recon and made sure their cabin wasn't guarded, the three of them approached a set of pulleys mounted over the water, coming up behind the pirate keeping watch and knocking him unconscious. Again, David hid nearby and kept an eye out, waiting to voice alarm if need be, while Jack and Will quickly mounted their secret rowboat to the pulleys and made trips back to the cabin for the corpses.

As David was climbing aboard the boat a few minutes later, he turned and gave Will a quick hug, suddenly looking much younger than his fourteen years. "Don't get killed," he entreated.

"I'll be fine," the smith reassured him. "You get down there, now, and keep an eye on things, all right? We'll be sending the second boat down in a few minutes; grab it and tie it on this one, like we talked about." David nodded and took a seat, his fingers going to the sides and gripping tightly as his captain and mentor slowly dropped the boat to the ocean far below. The slack rope eventually told them, in the dark, they were finished, and they waited a couple of minutes for David to unhitch the boat so they could recoil the rope.

With the same economy of noise, the two made their way to another cockboat, already hoisted—again, the two men between them and their object ended up unconscious, though Will and Jack had to hunch down near some coiled rope for several quiet, tense minutes before the opportune moment presented itself. They were getting closer to voices, to activity in the center of the deck now, and with a quick glance and nod, Jack informed Will he should climb into the boat to be lowered. "I'll swing on down in a few minutes," he whispered. "Means one less of us th' boy's got to wait on."

"And leave you here by yourself?" Will's expression was dubious. "Not in the plan, Jack."

"Only if you climb down the rope once the boat hits the water," Will bargained. "And none of this 'Pirate' shite, either—if you don't come down, I can easily climb back aboard."

At the moment, given the opportunity to follow his heart's desire, Jack would have easily foregone his usual wish to kiss the man to land a good right hook on his jaw instead. "I'm not that old!" he hissed.

"You're the one who always talks like you're such the wise elder," Will pointed out. "We're wasting time, here; you promise to climb down, and I'll go now." He stuck out his left hand for an accord, and Jack guiltily noticed the jagged white scar that bisected the palm, knowing the smith had offered the wrong hand for just that reason—to remind Jack of another time when their cooperation had meant the difference between life and death. With a silent roll of his eyes, Jack shook it, his own matching scar touching the other man's briefly.

Jack had an exciting moment when the boat was about halfway down, hearing Francois's voice somewhere behind him. He paused only long enough to make the decision to hastily finish lowering Will and the boat, then ducked down and crawled back to the coiled ropes, shrinking into shadows and holding his breath. When nobody came near enough to inspect, he took a couple of preparatory breaths and sprang up, slinking over to the pulleys and hauling himself over the side, rappelling against the hull and swinging out a bit at the bottom to aim for the boat.

Hands grabbed his legs, pulling, and Jack let go of the rope before he could follow its arc back toward the ship. The arms were around his thighs; when they abruptly released him, he stumbled and ended up hard on his knees, knocking over and straddling the slender waist of a rather scandalized Will Turner. "Aren't you supposed to have better sea legs than that?" the smith asked, leaning on his elbows, trying to back away.

Jack flexed his fingers, which had ended up on Will's shoulders. It wouldn't take much to close the distance and visit his lips upon his beloved's, to dip his chest and line his heartbeat up with the other man's—but it was a chasm he couldn't yet cross, and he couldn't say that Will would ever be ready for it. "Well, quit grabbin' me arse, and maybe I can stay on me feet," he retorted, pushing himself back to sit as Will scrambled into a seated position himself.

"It must be the hair." Will searched around for the second oar and, finding it, set about to rowing around the ship toward David.

"Like Samson. You get your hair cut off, and suddenly you've got the grace of a twelve-year-old cabin boy—which is to say, none," Will explained, stroking. "Maybe that's the source of your mysterious sea powers, eh?" Thoughtful stroke. "Or is it just the beard?"

Forever a master of the comeback and doublespeak, Jack scowled briefly at having nothing clever to rebut. "We'll just see how easily you swing a hammer without your curls," he snapped back. Will chuckled softly at that, and Jack was surprised to feel a lessening of annoyance at the welcome sound. Before he could examine it much more deeply, he sighted the other boat, David waving his arms until they pulled alongside.

"Finally!" It was the first time Jack had heard the boy express irritation with anything. He clamored out between Jack and Will, pulling the bag of tack along. "I don't want to see dead people anymore. Yuck."

Jack shot Will an amused glance over the boy's shoulder, and he could tell Will was having to bite back laughter at the comment, David's first indication of being anything other than a proper young gentleman willing to complete any job for his masters. "An' what would you've done if we hadn't shown up so quick?" he asked, reaching over to tie the rope lashing the other cockboat behind their own.

"Probably puked over the side," the boy answered bluntly. "I mean it; they smell bad."

Will made his unpleasant face again as he gathered up his oars. "No roses here," he agreed.

"And them having your hair's just creepy, Captain. Why'd you have to do that, anyway?"

Jack put a finger to his lips to silence the boy and indicated with his hands Will should row harder. They were all silent except for Will's slightly labored breathing, for the next several minutes as they put surprising distance between themselves and the Versailles. "Come on, Samson," Jack prodded in a stage whisper once they were far enough out for the sound not to carry across the water back to the pirates.

"Shut up, Captain," he grunted, responsible for rowing five bodies out to wherever. "You know, there's another set of oars in that boat."

"Is there, now? Well, thanks for enlightenin' me." But he turned and pulled the other boat closer by its rope, leaning over to fish around for the oars. "You know which way we're headed, right?"

"Aye, and so I do." Pulling the oars over, Jack turned to take his seat once again, and paused to dig for the good compass, studying it. "Bit more to your right, mate... that's it. Now you can straighten out." He snapped it closed, put it away, and took up his own oars.

A few minutes later, David posed the question again: "Captain, why'd you and Mr. Turner put your hair on those dead bodies?"

"We're gon' get far enough out, an' then cut that boat loose, dump th' bodies in the water face-down—make it look like it was us there, that we got attacked by sharks or some such thing."

Jack shook his head as he leaned forward, rowing in complement to Will's backward pulls. "We'll just hope they think you're already chum when they come 'pon it," he explained. "Weren't no one on board small as you, an' even if there'd been, I don't make a habit of murderin' whelps."

Jack paused in his rowing, lifting a brow, then resumed. "I swear it on me own mother's grave," he insisted.

"I don't believe you any more than I did the first seven times you told it, you know."

"I ain' told ye tha' story bef—" Jack stopped and thought it over. They'd been escaped from the Versailles for four days, and he was rather ashamed to admit he'd probably been keeping up a running chatter the whole time—at least while he was awake. "Well, maybe I 'ave. Sorry, mate."

"Just keep better track of your repertoire." Will rubbed at his eyes. "It's still a long trip."

Jack threw him an annoyed expression; Will's quirks could be entertaining, but he was getting tired of the uptight, morally superior attitude the blacksmith loftily waved about. "Y'know, you're lucky you're still 'round to hear me stories multiple times at all," he reminded the younger man. "I seem t' remember someone gettin' his neck stretched out over a chest o' gold because he wouldn't listen t' me."

"Yeah, and you'd be hanging from a noose outside Port Royale as your namesakes pecked at your bones if not for me. You know, if you'd just told me what the damned treasure was and why you needed me, it wouldn't have been so bad, because I would have known what the hell you were up to and wouldn't have needed to fight you on it."

Jack rolled his eyes. "Not enough that I took ye to your bonny lass; no, ye've gotta bitch about how I did it." He stroked a couple of more times, then pitched his voice to deliberately mock Will's. "'I'd die for her .'"

Will glared at the pirate. "Oh, uh-huh, right. Yes, you're Jack the Great, nobody can touch you, you make everything come true just by wiggling your magic fingers..." He huffed. "Tell me another one, dammit. I'm not your little lapdog any more than I am hers."

"Well, you both wear makeup, you both make sure you have the prettiest clothes to prance around in, and the delicate hand gestures, mincing little walk ...."

"Whoa!" Jack stopped it, staring. "Makeup?" He scrunched his eyes to display the kohl, then widened them again—then narrowed the dark eyes themselves. "It's not makeup, lad; how many times do I have to tell people that? It's t' keep th' sun out o' me eyes!"

"It's makeup," Will asserted. "You just look oh-so-pretty to the wenches in town, and some of the men, possibly too; don't know." The smith chuckled to himself for a moment. "That's it—I've figured it out: The women all slap you because you've stolen business from them, isn't it? You show them up and trot off with their fares."

"Aye, tha's me—High Whore o' the Seven Bloody Seas." The good news was that Will had apparently figured out on which side his captain's bread was buttered. The bad news was that apparently, Jack wouldn't be hearing the end of it any too soon.

But not why it's so empty. "S'pose so," Jack mumbled noncommittally. He decided to turn the conversation to other things. "So how's th' whelp doing?" he nodded toward David, slumped against Will's chest, asleep.

Will's hand gentled over the boy's back, and his expression softened as the boy lightly coughed into his chest. "He's fine. Needs his sleep—I'm amazed we haven't woken him already."

"Twas too tired by half when we 'scaped," Jack agreed. "He'll be out for awhile, methinks." He rowed grimly, still bothered by David's inadvertent revelation yesterday that he'd lied about his age to get aboard the Pearl—the boy was only eleven, instead of fourteen. Explained why Jack had thought him so small.

Will nodded. "I hope so ... It'll make the time pass faster for him if he's asleep. Won't have to be so frightened." The smith looked up from where he was smiling down at the boy and cast his gaze outward, though by the glassy cast his eyes took on, he didn't really see anything. "I know what it's like, and it's something no child should have to go through."

Watching him a couple of minutes, Jack finally sighed, recalling the story of how Will had come to Port Royale. "'S why you don' like not knowing what's goin' on." He released an oar briefly to reach up and rub at one temple, squinting. "'M sorry, Will. Didn't know then about your bein' attacked by Barbossa an' his crew. Would've told ye what was goin' on, let ye in on it, had I known."

"Well, it's not like you could have—I thought, when Gibbs was telling me about you being captain of the Pearl, for a moment ..." Will paused, head tilting. "And if he hadn't gone on explaining things, I might have let myself believe it."

"That you were the one who ordered the ship I was on attacked and blown up," the smith admitted quietly.

Jack frowned, started to protest, then shrugged. "Natural response, I guess. Fair enough."

"I didn't know you very well then," Will conceded. "I wouldn't think that about you now—you don't kill, maim, or blow things up just for the hell of it." His fingers were absently stroking the boy's hair; Jack watched the fingers move, then jerked his head away when he noticed Will watching the direction of his gaze. "Of course, I still think you're mad."

"Be disappointed, I would, if ye didn't, seein' as I try rather hard t' keep meself as menacing as possible." Jack grinned slyly, rowing. "An' I have to admit, that was some fancy footwork, savin' me neck from Francois's stabber."

"My footwork was always impeccable. I've often been told that I had the basis for advanced techniques bred into me, but according to Mum, my father was never that good."

"Not like you, no," Jack nodded. "I s'pect it's 'cause ye've more grace than he ever did. Ye look like him, but he was bigger, stouter; you're more willowy."

"Nay, ye look nothin' like me. Much more fetchin'; my credit with th' ladies is me status as a scalawag. 'S all 'bout the danger, mate."

"I've managed to raid an' pilfer enough places based on me reputation that I'd beg otherwise," Jack shot back, offended.

"I didn't say your reputation, as you'd know if you'd listened. I said you look no more dangerous than a powder puff."

He's most likely right, Jack reflected, at least at present. Once far enough out to sea and turned northeast toward land, they'd each taken turns trimming the other's choppy hair as best they could, and each man had shaved in an effort to disguise should they run into any other vessels. Will didn't look much younger than usual, but by his and David's shocked reactions, Jack knew he had to look about half his age with a smooth face. "Which is what most people choose t' believe. How ye think I got me reputation?"

"Kiss me arse; I was cleanin' out ships when ye were sucking at your mum's tit." Turning his head to check on his progress, Jack turned back only partway, still rowing, then tilted his head back, gazing up into the sky. He didn't want to think about the age difference—it was yet another reason this man would never consider him any closer than a captain, perhaps a comrade or friend. Something caught his eye, and he lifted his chin quickly. "Shootin' star!" he noted with enthusiasm, trying to catch Will's attention to look. "Don't see those much this late a' night. And in a full moon."

Will flicked his eyes up to see the streak of the burning stardust. "We'll have to make our wishes now," he noised, before closing his eyes and tipping his head back, seemingly offering his prayer to the stars.

"Aye. Pray for land," Jack grunted, working at one oar more than the other, making a slight course correction to carry them more northerly. At least they were making better time now, having dumped off the bodies three days ago and damaged the extra rowboat enough to look like something had attacked.

"Something like that," Will agreed, bringing his head back down and opening his eyes.

They were quietly companionable for the next several minutes, letting the bobbing waves do all the conversing. "I had no idea what I was gon' do once we found Barbossa," Jack finally confessed, his strokes slow and even now. "I knew ye figured into it ... but not how, rightly."

"Except that nothing really does ever work out, you know. It never ends. There can never be a complete 'out' to work ... unless that person dies."

"Life's a series o' struggles, young William," Jack reminded the other man. "'S all a matter of if ye can keep up or ahead of them." Jack considered the troubled features of his young friend and cocked his head, trying to discern what exactly might be going on in that recently-shorn head. Jack found many a blacksmith simple and plodding; this one was not. He didn't speak nearly as much as his captain, but enough that Jack had learned long ago not to think him actually stupid—perhaps "impetuous" was the better description. The hurry of youth. "'Course, life has its good points too," he added. "Can't always be thinkin' someone's out to get ye."

"No, not always," Will replied, pulling David closer. "Well, I suppose I can't really say that now—I'm a pirate. I wouldn't bring in the same kind of bounty you would, but I'm a traitor to the Crown nonetheless, I suppose."

Noting the tremble of the boy and how Will's hands moved over his chest and arms to keep him warm in the slightly chilly night air, Jack paused momentarily to shrug off the uniform coat he'd pilfered from the Versailles and tossed it the short distance to the smith. "Aye, far as th' Crown's concerned, anyone who doesn't bend down an' kiss his arse is a traitor."

Will caught the coat and wrapped it around the young man, who woke up slightly. "Hmm? Wha-?"

"Shh, go back to sleep ... Jack's just letting you borrow his coat so you can keep warm." Will's voice was gentle, rolling over the boat like soft silk, apparently soothing the young man back to unconsciousness.

A small, soft smile graced the blacksmith's lips, and the paternal gesture pulled at Jack's heart. Not for the first time, he felt guilty for his part in keeping the elder Turner from his wife and son all those years ago, even though to be fair, Bill had been a grown man and it was his decision to stay at sea for such long stretches of time. "No, Jack's as hot as a forge fire on his own, so he'll be warm enough," Will reassured the boy. "Go on back to sleep, now." Strong fingers slid comfortingly over the coat where it stretched over the boy, gentling him back into place.

David dipped his head, inhaling, then gave a little smile. "Smells like both of you, now," he murmured. Jack noticed he didn't quite shut his eyes, and his breathing was still too rapid to be asleep. It would probably take a few minutes for him to drift off again.

Again the quirk of Will's lips—almost reminiscent of Norrington's, and probably picked up from observing the military officer as he'd grown up in the small port town. "I don't know if that's a good thing or not," Will chuckled, looking up.

"What, unwashed pirate an' woodsy lye?" Jack rolled his eyes at both his passengers and shook his head, but didn't fail to add a grin. "Lethal combination, there; be a wonder if th' boy wakes up from it—after he gets back to sleep," he added pointedly, looking at David. The lad merely smiled.

Will shrugged. "You don't smell bad once you've had a bath, though. Spicy. Kind of like cinnamon."

"I remember once when I was really little, a friend of mine who had dark skin asked me if I tasted like vanilla—I shot back that if I did, he must taste like chocolate," Will remarked, seemingly out of nowhere. "So, we ended up licking the backs of each other's hands." He shook his head at the memory, chuckling. "He said I tasted like apples, and I told him he tasted like honey. We decided we should try it again after we'd washed our hands from the sweet snacks, but we never did."

"Just guessin', mate." The captain shrugged. "You don't seem like vanilla or apples—too bland, th' one, and too common, the other. I figger nutmeg, 's all. Put swag down on it, in fact; more than me an' that cinnamon, anyway." He creased his brow and rowed, concentrating on the motions.

Will tipped his head. "You've got a wager. Now, give me your hand. Don't look at me like that; you can stop rowing for a minute and Poseidon isn't going to topple us into the sea." At that, David giggled, muffling it into Will's shirt.

Cursing himself for flushing inwardly at the request, Jack couldn't decide if the prospect of what he suspected was about to happen was the best thing, or the worst. It was difficult enough being around Will without acting on his attraction; he certainly didn't need something far worse than simply gazing to fuel his fantasies. On the other hand ... "What're you going to do?" he asked, slowly, lifting an eyebrow.

"Oh, I'm not going to bite; no teeth, I promise. Come here. You can taste me afterwards," he offered as an exchange.

Not at all a good idea. Jack wondered if Eros and Ares were laughing over another set of drinks at their mortals' expense. "I haven' had a proper bath in a couple weeks or so." He continued rowing. "And I hardly think seawater's good for ye, either."

"Curse it, Jack, give me your hand. I'd come over there, but I'm pinned." Will's face drew up in a frown. "Never known you to back off from a bet."

Jack sighed; it was only a wager, after all. And David was here—what could possibly go awry with a simple bet, with a child present? Jack released an oar, making sure it would stay put across his knees, and thrust his hand forward, palm turned down. "Go on."

Will took the proffered hand in his, smiling mysteriously. His lips quirked wider before he bent down, the flat of his tongue sweeping over the thin flesh of the back of Jack's wrist before his lips came to close over the hand itself. He applied slight suction as if trying to pull the man's essence straight from the delicate, thrumming blue veins into his mouth. He let up, with one final lap to make sure he didn't leave the man's wrist too damp, then released the hand, nodding. "Cinnamon, spiced rum, and the sea," he opined, looking frankly up at Jack. "Had to get a good taste to make sure."

For a moment, the captain let his curtain slip, his eyes latching onto Will's, blinking under the intense gaze, the sound of the younger man's voice, the thrum to his speech. He wanted to taste him in return—his wrist, his skin, his lips, his hair, the instep of his foot, the top of his thigh, the curve of his clavicle—but didn't dare propose any such thing. "Rum's worked its way through me system for so many years," he offered by way of explanation, glancing down to pick up the oar once again and get back to work. "Not s'prised."

Will looked slightly annoyed, and held his hand out to Jack, tilted to the side, allowing the older man to choose his own method. "Our wager," he reminded him.

His stubbornness on this score surprised Jack; Will wasn't a tactile person. He usually held himself separate from everyone else, at least physically. Jack had even done his best to curb his natural inclination to invade the lad's personal space as he did with everyone else, not wanting to put him off. But he was trying so hard now, it would be a shame to put that to waste. Besides, Jack had to admit he was curious.

Bringing his hand back up, Jack cupped the back of the one proffered, momentarily letting Will decide whether to pull away. When he didn't, he dipped his head and brought the hand forth to meet, extending his tongue to sweep into Will's lower palm, across the heel of his calloused hand. The underside of his tongue registered texture, and he rolled it to get the salt and flavor on top of the pink tip.

"Sweat, woodspice, and th' bloody nutmeg—as I suspected," Jack reported, his smug expression quickly schooling into a broadly uncharacteristic shy grin at Will's confused expression.

Will frowned, bringing his hand back up to his own mouth, his tongue innocently tracing where Jack's had been. After a moment, he looked up. "Maybe I'm too used to myself; I don't taste it. I'll have to taste pure nutmeg sometime to see how it compares."

"You should do that." Jack found himself hoarse, unable to speak properly, seeing Will lap where his own tongue had been scant seconds before. And then taste me again, will you? I've been utterly dying to feel that for a good long while, mate. He noticed David was asleep, at least.

"Looks like you lose," the smith broke into his thoughts. "Of course, we never did specify terms, really."

Jack paused in his rowing. "How about I buy ye some proper boots and we call it even, savvy?"

"I want nice ones," Will held up a finger in warning. "Nice as yours. No skimping."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Jack took up his rowing again and licked his lips, the taste of young blacksmith still against his tongue. So much for "losing," he grinned fondly.

Contradictions, Chapter 3

Lose