Contradictions, Chapter 8

Claimed

by

Veronica Rich

BANG!

WHUMP!

THWANG!

Will Turner worked out every bit of frustration in a suitable pastiche of the jilted lover, whanging away at the dully-glowing metal saber diagonally thrown across the top of his scarred anvil. He ignored sweat rolling from his hairline, the dull, burning ache that had settled into his shoulders and especially his right tricep, the intense heat that would've made any other man faint of dehydration long before now.

Then again, Will was a blacksmith in the sultry Caribbean, a vocation that held a certain amount of danger even on the coolest days, and he'd been one enough years that the swelter barely registered for him anymore.

The past two weeks had been extremely good for any crew member with damaged or bent weaponry. Will had silently made it known, by almost-constant work, that he was willing to take on any repair the ship or her men—and woman—required. It gave him a good excuse to avoid his captain, who, so far, hadn't pressed the issue of Will falling behind on his fair share of actual topside ship chores.

Will really craved more difficult repairs than this—a sword broken in pieces would've made him absolutely giddy. Problems gave him something to puzzle over, to solve, whereas mindless straightening and strengthening like this merely gave him a physical outlet for the thoughts swirling through his thoroughly mixed-up, irredeemably lost mind.

He wanted Jack Sparrow.

He licked his lips up beneath his moustache to rid it of the sweat beading there, imagining once again the taste of Jack's mouth, and immediately pulled the tip of his tongue back inside behind his teeth. Dark and cinnamon, and sugared rum, and faint fresh tobacco lingered in the pirate's kiss, and Will wanted to drown in it, to taste it into his sleep and awaken to it on his own lips the very next morning.

"Goddammit!" The blade was far too long and malleable, and he'd been beating it into oblivion until it was damn near ready to separate from the hilt.

Will leaned back as he paused and frowned over his shoddy work. He reached up and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, turning the heel of his palm into it, breathing hard. He closed his eyes, lightheaded; he couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd eaten, at least several hours—not since breakfast early today. Still, his body thrummed with nervous passion, unspent energy, and he was chagrined to realize he was half-hard beneath his thick leather apron.

Without ceremony, he shoved the blade back into the coals and dropped the mallet to his anvil before crossing to his door to bolt it. He yanked the apron off over his head and consigned it to the hook on the back of the door, and was about to take himself off for a bit of a wash when he heard running feet and a couple of thumps in the corridor beyond the thick door. Curiosity got the best of Will; after settling for wiping his face and neck only, he was out the door following the noises.

Halfway up to deck, he paused, frowning—it was perhaps too quiet for the time of day, not to mention for a pirate ship. Instead of loping up on deck as normal, he sidled to the top step and kept out of sight, peeking around to assess the situation. The commodore, he reflected, would be proud of his control and forethought.

"Now," he heard Captain Sparrow—not Jack, but the Captain in full barking form—"which of you fine gen'lemen thought it would be a high idea t' not do this?"

Silence. Whatever it was, he was fairly sure he wasn't the one at fault, so Will stepped out of hiding and took a few quick steps as though he were entering a normal situation. He came up short when everyone glanced his way; it was no great feat to appear confused and behind the action. "Is something wrong?" he aimed at everyone.

"One of our rank decided 'pon the questionable venture of usin' down to th' last bit of rum and not—"

"Hardtack, too, Cap'n," Gibbs interjected.

Jack rolled his eyes; Will knew well enough what was important to the pirate. "And flour, and meal, and such, and not informin' either me fine self or th' First Mate or even our Quartermaster, here, of that fact." Jack's expression was sort of a neutral thunder, which Will knew from experience was just short of his most dangerous expression—complete and total apparent disinterest in the proceedings around him. "So I'm tryin' to figure out who needs keelhaulin'."

He seemed completely serious, enough to worry Will. "A keelhaul? Isn't that—harsh?"

When Jack turned a dirty look on him and Will didn't feel threatened by it, he resigned himself to the fact he was never going to be the subservient crew member that Jim, Jonathan, Shorty, Stumpy, Mart, and so many others who were not Anamaria or Gibbs were, that Jack wanted working for him.

"Mr. Turner," the captain explained slowly and loudly, as if addressing the very elderly, "we are on a ship. At sea. This is no ferry ride." Will held his gaze, resisting the highly inappropriate laugh that wanted to clear his throat, and either Jack could read his mind or his expression was so transparent that the pirate furrowed his brows darkly. "What do you suppose happens, Mr. Turner, when we find ourselves a week or two from th' nearest friendly port"—friendly, in his parlance, meant "unable to catch or hang us"—"and completely and utterly lacking in the necessities of liquid or solid nourishment?"

He was no fool, and he already knew there was no higher importance at sea than keeping track of foodstuffs, but he supposed he'd let Jack's overpowering worry about the rum—something he considered wholly unnecessary—trigger his humor reflex instead of actually hearing the larger problem. He glanced past Pearl's rail. "Water everywhere, but not a cup for drinking," he admitted, a little abashed.

He'd obviously surprised Jack by backing off of his acerbic tone. "That's right," he nodded, turning back to the crew, raising his voice again. "We starve. We die. All because one or more of ye couldn't be bothered t' do somethin' so simple as lettin' one of us know when we were down on supplies."

All were quiet for an uncomfortable moment, until Mart piped up. "Isn't that the quartermaster's job?" Because of his size, the midget could occasionally get away with more than others in the crew. Will wasn't at all sure this was one of those times, especially when Jack paced over to him and bent down, staring eye-to-eye at the man.

"Armaments and plunder," he answered evenly. "Not perishables."

"What about Maxi?" Will didn't know who called it out.

"He's got his own duties besides the galley," Anamaria countered. "Probably spends more time cooking, anyway, than counting."

"Cap'n, they make a good point," Gibbs said. "We could use an inventory officer."

"Well, obviously not one o' these blokes!" Jack straightened and swept his arm across the assemblage of pirates. "Hell, they can't even be bothered t' point out when there's no more rum, and I know there's people aboard this ship who show their rum more love than ever I 'ave."

"He's got t' be able to count, whoever he is—"

"Needs to be honest, too—"

"Well, that counts out the best part of us, I'd say—"

"Oh, hell, I'll do it!" Annoyed by the sudden uptick in grumbling and blaming, Will blurted out, not very loudly.

But Anamaria heard him. "You'll do it?" Before he could answer, she was repeating it to everyone gathered. Gibbs grinned, and a few crew members talked among themselves—for good or ill, Will couldn't tell. He felt like he was up for a seat on Parliament, and put up his hands, ready to recant. He never wanted politics.

Then Jack turned to him. "You?"

He wasn't sure it was a good idea, but the inquisitive glint in Jack's expression was hopeful—something Will hadn't seen on him in a long time. He sighed. "Yeah."

"Yes?" Jack actually smiled at that, and Will felt inexplicably, stupidly satisfied with it. And happy. What the hell?

"We'll have t' come up with a title for ye," he explained, turning back to the crew with a booming voice. "Mr. Turner will be handling perishables from now on. But that does not relieve any of you of th' responsibility of reportin' if ye think we're down to our last little bit o' bread or chicken... or for God's teeth, men, RUM!" He waved his hands dismissively. "Begone, th' lot of ye—and be sure to thank Mr. Turner for th' upturn in your fortunes. Else, one of ye'd certainly be kissin' Pearl's prow right about now."

****

For the first time in two weeks, he'd voluntarily spoken with Jack, not in response to an order or emergency, but to discuss some of the finer points of Will's new additional duties (including his first go at the hold's boxes and barrels later tonight, with help from Gibbs and possibly Ana). Their conversation had been civil and amicable, and Jack had glanced up at him repeatedly, as if trying to figure out some puzzle.

It had been, for Will, an epiphany. He wanted more than that kiss back. He wanted more than any sort of sensation or sex could ever offer, with Jack, more than he'd ever wanted any of that from Elizabeth. Trouble was—none of that sort was likely to be forthcoming from Jack. Never from a pirate, who took what he could and never gave back. And Will wanted an afterwards, wanted heat and closeness and kisses and conversation, coal-dark eyes lost in his own, a Jack who was not nearly so controlled and supervisory, as desperate for Will's comforting touch as the smith was for his captain's. That was why he'd pulled away from Jack's embrace. He really didn't want to be caught by drunken sailors partaking of Jack's charms for the first time, but had that been the only issue, he'd have dragged Jack below with him, perhaps to his cabin or right here into the small smithy, and continued their mutual explorations.

He admitted his own stupidity. Up to now, he'd tried his damnedest not to meet Jack's eyes, and had given serious thought to bailing at the next semi-attractive shore just to get out of temptation's path. It had occurred to him at some point that perhaps he ought to give the pirate opportunity to explain himself, that Will himself ought to lay out his cards and explain what the hell was going on in his confused mind—to be a man about it, for Christ's sake—but he just hadn't.

Jack hadn't protested. In the two weeks they'd been back at sea, they hadn't exchanged words, not even to pass the time of day. Will wondered what the crew thought, if they noticed, and quickly decided he didn't care. For once, he was through caring about appearances and propriety. It had been a gradual journey to get here, to not worry about others' judgments and pronouncements upon his actions, but he was finally concentrating on what he wanted.

And what Will wanted was a mate, not a roll in the hay. He wanted someone he could count on to be in his bed every night possible, to spend time with him out of bed, talking and teasing and working together and caring about his troubles and his moods. Jack was far too mercurial to be any of that in the long run, and too guarded to allow anyone to care for him in the same fashion.

Jack. Will allowed his tired mind to drift in its brief, pleasant lassitude as he straightened and shook the water from his fingers. Beautiful, dangerous, clever, strong, slippery Jack. Why was it the very wildness Will knew would keep the man from being his ideal mate was the thing he found most irresistible in the pirate? He wanted to tame Jack... but he didn't. It was confusing and irritating and arousing all at the same time.

He supposed he ought to be ashamed for desiring a man, for sinning against how he'd been raised and properly taught and how God had created him, but the truth was that before today, he'd spent more time wondering how to make conversation with the pirate again than in beating his head against the wall for "unnatural" passions.

Besides, hell with Jack would surely be much more interesting than being in heaven alone.

****

As it happened, the bucket went to the well once too often, and his hand slipped off the sanding brick on a particularly vicious downward stroke, smacking into Pearl's black wood. Something seemed odd at first, numb, but he didn't register until a few seconds later, when pain throbbed through his hand. Turning it over, he blinked at a solid two-inch sliver protruding at a steep angle just above the center of his palm. Will frowned and poked at his damaged flesh experimentally with the index finger of his left hand, wincing; it was buried pretty deep. Tugging at the free end of the splinter was no better, since he was loathe to bring more pain on himself. "Dammit, Pearl," he muttered as a coolness settled across his left side that he realized was someone's shadow.

"What'd she do now?" He didn't know when Jack had even left the helm, as there'd been the crew's jogging footsteps up and down the steps, back and forth, the entire time he'd knelt here.

"It's just a splinter." His tone was nonchalant, and he pulled at the wood again. The fingers of the injured hand automatically curled in as if to protect its palm, and Will jerked said hand back from his left fingers.

He said nothing, made no noise, but the shadow shifted and Jack hunkered down next to him. Will bristled—he didn't want to admit the splinter was ridiculously painful. "'S in a bad spot," Jack explained, reaching for Will's right hand and pointing. "See, ye've got all these nerve endings in your hand an' fingers, makes them right sensitive, more than most of th' rest of your skin. If ye'd gotten that log stuck in your belly or arm, wouldn't hurt as bad."

Will said nothing, not wanting to admit to the discomfort. He kept his eyes trained on his palm as Jack turned it, examining, then held it still. That prompted him to finally ask, "What're you doing?"

"Gon' get this out. Hold still."

"No." Will yanked his hand away and frowned at Jack. "Don't touch it."

The captain rolled his dark eyes with what Will figured was amusement. "Don't be a child. Ye need someone else to pull it out; do it yourself, ye go too damn slow."

"I do not need you wiggling this thing around under the skin. It hurts enough already," he admitted in a mutter.

"Precisely why I need t' get it out now. Ye don't have to look." While he was yanking his hand back to avoid Jack grabbing it, Will lost balance on his knees and tumbled to his arse, sitting hard on the deck and thrusting his hand out to avoid smacking it into the wood as well. Jack took advantage of his surprise and pulled the hand between both of his, chuckling. "Stubborn lad."

"Don't laugh at me." Jack cocked his head and fixed Will with an expression that told the smith he wasn't going to be ordered about, but which still held a hint of humor. Will turned his head and concentrated on a bolt in the planking of the rail to distract himself as Jack prodded around the entry wound. He was surprisingly gentle, but his haste left no doubt he was working his way up to just yanking the damn thing out. Will inhaled-

A sharp pain, during which Will was proud of himself for staying silent.

-and exhaled, resisting the urge to yank his hand back and suck at the wound like an injured animal.

Jack was still poking around the center of Will's palm; when he looked, he saw blood welling out of the small hole, with Jack pushing the skin around it. "Need t' bleed it out a bit, make sure there's no more little planks or dirt stuck in there," the captain explained, glancing up, then back to his work as he used the cuff of his own shirt to dab at the blood.

Will watched as Jack moved his hand so only the thumb was smoothing and bunching skin toward the wound, his fingers between Will's, their tips underneath Will's hand supporting his knuckles. The brush of his rough thumb grew lighter, and Will's stomach fluttered. His skin prickled, too, and he wondered how Jack's moustache would feel brushing his palm, the tip of his nose butting the heel of his hand. He dragged his eyes to Jack's, which were still lowered. The man had the most beautiful eyelashes, black and thick and long, fanning his high cheekbones as he concentrated on his work; Will knew it was how Jack looked when asleep.

When Jack raised his eyes, Will blinked into them, entranced. There was the merest hint of dark brown, they were so very onyx. And huge—he estimated Jack's eyes took up a good third of his lower face, dewdrop and fox-like. The longer he stared, the more he noticed the change in them, from disinterested and businesslike to lambent and liquid. He realized with a start the man was allowing him to look deep, to see a flicker of something beyond captain and friend, and was startled to realize it was something Jack probably didn't allow very often.

The thumb had slowed to small, light circles, avoiding the wound, barely brushing the skin. Will felt hungry, wanted to pull Jack to him and kiss him, grab his hair and shirt, wrap his arms around the man and feel him breathe, feel his heartbeat into his own chest. Gone were uncharitable thoughts and memories of the thousand-and-one little things Jack normally did to set his nerves on annoyed edge.

Jack dropped his eyes to Will's mouth, and the smith thrilled, unconsciously leaning forward. Do it he thought, surprised at his own passion. I am so sorry I pushed you away. Make it up to me, please, what I missed that night. He wanted to abandon the work that had become his reason for existing for so many years, and give in to the unproductive emotion of lust. For once, he wanted to do something that wasn't fixing or repairing or stacking or rolling or smelting or creating, and simply feel with his entire body and emotional awareness—wanted it enough that he was willing to abandon a short-term work goal to actually do it, if led properly along.

When Jack dropped his eyes to deck and released Will's hand, the smith actually leaned forward, ready to speak, to coax. "Cap'n, dark clouds be comin'," Gibbs's voice boomed from overhead at the helm. "Mus' be that storm ye felt early this mornin'."

Jerking to attention, Jack stood in a swift motion that belied his age and slightly arthritic knees. He turned to look off into the horizon Pearl was approaching, and Will used the opportunity to scramble to his feet, as well. He blinked into the sunlight—they'd been in the shadow of the stairwell, somewhat hidden from much of the crew—and realized the sunlight was no longer a problem. "Why's there a mist?" he asked aloud. "Too late in the day for fog."

"Eddies," Jack explained. "'S not a typical rain that's comin'. Bloody tropical storm, or maybe a hurricane."

"Isn't it the wrong time of year for that?" Will asked, worried. Jack was rarely wrong when it came to weather prediction, but he hadn't expressed much concern the night before when he'd announced a storm might be headed in their general direction.

"Aye, but least that explains why I didn' give it more room than I have." He looked and sounded angry, and proceeded to start giving orders. "Drop canvas! Store ever'thing below—if it's not tied, make sure 'tis in th' next half-hour!" He paused, turned back to Will. "Make sure your fire's out completely," he ordered.

He didn't know for how long everyone rushed and worked, tied, hauled ropes to the deck to tie crew members to the ship. Jack ordered as many to stay below as possible, both for safety and to bail and patch any rips in Pearl's hull from the oncoming storm. He was one of the few who stayed up on deck, and he and Will damn near came to blows when the captain tried to order the blacksmith below, until some urgent matter or other demanded Jack's attention. He threw Will a disapproving look, but the smith ignored him and worked on tying knots and checking tie-downs on equipment, narrowing his eyes against the tiny nail-like drops of rain already peppering the deck.

Several minutes later, the rainfall increased and it didn't take long to gain such volume and sluice across the deck as though waves were leaping to claim the ship—Will was already worried this was a literal inevitability, since the sea was so choppy that Pearl actually dove and rocked rather than her usual bobbing. He helped Jack make sure everyone was tied to the mast or hooks in the planking, as the sound of the storm increased, before wrapping his own rope around his midsection. Then, he found a rope and sat down to maintain his balance and become a more difficult target to blow overboard, as he tied a secure knot.

He was just in time. Not two minutes later, the ship started rocking more violently side to side. Will steadied himself, forcing himself not to vomit—his sea legs had taken a while to kick in, but they had eventually. He would not embarrass himself by throwing up after nearly a year doing this, he would not, Oh no he wouldn't.

Water pounded the deck, driven by high winds that whipped harder, sending the heavy ship nearly twirling. Jack hadn't dropped anchor because to do so might put them in a worse predicament—as long as the ship could drift, her planks had a better chance of staying neighbors with one another, instead of being ripped from her iron. Logically, Will understood, but his stomach argued violently with his common sense.

Old Benjamin hadn't made it below in time, and was wrapping his rope around his wrist. Wait, it was tied to his waist a few minutes ago! Will scrambled to his knees to crawl to the physic, pausing at every forward push to hunker closer to deck, actually falling back twice, wondering why the hell the man had uncoupled himself in the first place, and what he thought he would actually be protecting by only holding the rope. This wind was too violent to trust to anything less than a good sailor's knot; Will was having trouble even seeing, the rain driven into his eyelids by gusts that whipped his hair around into his eyes every time he opened them.

When next he looked up, he saw Benjamin trying to get to his feet. Will knew the man was a little old, but he seemed sane enough and practical, not given to stupid chances such as this. Well, not without a good reason. He looked around, blinking and squinting, wondering what was going on, and then he heard Jack's shouting between the wind gusts.

"Stand down... an order... the hell do you...? Not important! I... a direct order!"

Benjamin was moving toward something, now on his feet, stopping to hunker every step or two. Will kept crawling, resisting the urge to get up and run for him, tackle him to the deck for his own good. He hugged to the wood on all fours as he moved.

Behind him, the wind shifted momentarily and slammed the ship at starboard. Will fell to the palms of his hands, having already forgotten the splinter wound, but something more painful caught his attention anyway—Benjamin was thrown off-balance and backwards, skittering toward the rail. Will opened his mouth to shout in protest, as if that would help, the words dying when he saw Jack stumble into the man and push him toward deck. Will exhaled and pushed himself to his knees once more, relieved—then frowned. He noticed no rope leading to Jack's waist. "Jack!" he called, as the man climbed to his feet, presumably to go back to his own rope. "Jack, get down!"

He doubted he was ever heard, but his vision was crystal-clear for what happened next. As soon as the captain gained his feet, pulling himself up by the rail, a wave crashed into starboard, knocking his hold loose. He danced back with that eerie grace only Jack Sparrow could maintain in a terrific storm and as soon as the ship rocked back on her keel, he shook his head, throwing dark, choppy locks of hair behind his shoulders. Neptune could rattle, but Sparrow could flitter.

Another port wave hit. Hard, this time.

Will knew it was going to happen, but he still gasped when Jack was thrown forward and tumbled over the railing with no ceremony, no grasping, no hitches. Just hit and tossed like a piece of driftwood. The smith waited just long enough for the deck to roll back, to get to his feet and run to the rail, holding it dearly and looking over into the choppy water. "Jack!" he called, knowing nobody could hear down there. "JACK!"

Immediately, he turned and yanked on his rope, seeing how much give its length offered. He was gripping the railing, lifting his leg over when someone grabbed his arm. "It's not long enough!" Anamaria was shaking her head, holding her floppy hat on with her left hand to shield her eyes. "It'll only get you to the water!"

"Get me one that is!" Will snapped.

"Where?" It was not helpless flailing, but genuine curiosity, since they were already using all the rope.

But Will was already tearing at the knot, yanking it apart with large hands made strong from years of grappling with metal and tools. The water made it more difficult to handle, and he pulled a dagger from his belt after a few seconds, impatiently slicing through the thick hemp and letting it fall to Ana's hands. "Dump that barrel!" he ordered, pointing to one not far away.

"It's gunpowder!"

"I don't care if it's gold!" Will cut her off. "Help me!"

It took them a couple of minutes to pry off the lid and knock the barrel over, scattering powder into paste on the deck. Will and Benjamin hauled it over the rail after Will hastily tied the ruined end of his rope to a small knothole near its open end, and Will scanned the water for Jack to make sure they didn't hit him. He couldn't even see the pirate, and felt his stomach lurch, despite realizing the wind was not blowing nearly as hard now. They dropped the barrel, and Will hauled himself up, still scanning the water. "Watch for me!" he told Ana and Benjamin, finally spotting white that didn't look like foam. "Pull up the rope when you see both of us!"

He plunged beneath the surface and immediately began tearing his way toward air, ignoring the shock of the churning water made colder by currents deep below pulling lower temperatures toward the top. The last time he'd fallen this far from a ship, he'd been only ten and had barely managed to crawl aboard some wreckage before passing out—the possibility of it happening twice had haunted his dreams for several months following. Remembering his terror vividly now that he couldn't even breathe, he grasped above him for air, not feeling it.

We'll both die he thought. Please, don't let Jack die—don't let me die before I can get to him, God. I'll... just help me.

He was close to bursting, passing out, when one hand felt wind. Tilting his face up, he broke the surface two seconds later, gasping oxygen hard and sharply. Rain still pelted him, but he blinked hard several times and forced himself to look around, locating the barrel a few feet away. He swam for it, grabbing its lip to float before he turned his attention back to looking for Jack. For good measure, he called the man's name, yelling as loudly as he could, kicking his legs to rise higher above water level each time a small wave hit him.

Every few passing seconds alarmed him, as he knew nobody could fight for long in these conditions, not even the immortal, stupidly lucky Captain Jack Sparrow. His own lungs were working double time, his limbs getting rubbery and losing control. He gritted his teeth as he nearly went under again, and when he bobbed up, he screamed out in frustration. "Where the hell ARE you? Jack! JACK!"

Impossibly, something caught the corner of his vision. He jerked his head around, seeing a familiar beringed hand paw at the air twice before dropping. He was still several feet away, but if he could raise his arm, he was at least alive.

Will released the barrel and put on a burst of speed, paddling toward the white, soaked, linen-wrapped arm. He breathed out heavily when his hand closed around the wrist, and he pulled the man toward him. Jack was conscious, but barely, and he was moving sluggishly even with Will's assistance. Getting an arm behind his captain's back, the smith tugged at the waterlogged body, paddling with one arm toward the ship. Jack apparently noticed and tried to help, leaning forward to swim alongside him.

Upon reaching the barrel, Will tried to upend it. Again, Jack noticed and helped, pushing as much as he could until the water ran out and the barrel was once again floating on the water. Only one of them could fit, and one glance at Jack's exhausted features told Will he couldn't hang on to a rope long enough to be pulled up. Getting one arm beneath Jack, he held the lip of the barrel with the other hand while he helped the man inside it. Grabbing the rope himself and keeping one arm around Jack, Will tugged hard to signal, hoping people were left to hoist—the wind was still howling and the ship was still rocking, leaning dangerously hard toward them.

For a couple of minutes, nothing happened. When someone finally started to pull and the barrel slapped the side of the ship, Will felt Jack go slack. He tightened his arm, holding him like that as they bumped up the side of Pearl, ascending slower than he would've liked.

Ana steadied the barrel as Benjamin helped Will over the rail, then both men pulled Jack up. He sagged to deck, still unconscious; Will dropped to a knee and checked Jack's pulse, making sure it wasn't as bad as the suddenly-pale man looked. "He's freezing," Will commented, shaking his head. "He'll catch a death of cold out here, he stays."

"Get him under some covers," Benjamin told Will. He was kneeling on Jack's other side.

"Storm's movin' off," Ana added. "Go light your forge, take him there."

"What the hell were you doing taking off your rope?" Will demanded suddenly, nearly yelling at Benjamin. He was angry, irrationally so, and his nerves were too raw to censor himself. "It nearly got him killed!"

While the man looked sheepish, it wasn't for what Will thought. "The captain didn't have a rope for himself," Benjamin answered, shaking his head. "He was holding on to the mast line. I was going to share mine—nobody misses an old man, but I think a captain gone to Davey Jones might cause some problems for the ship."

He looked so sincere and truthful, and leaving himself without a rope if there weren't enough was just the sort of unexpected, misguidedly noble thing Jack might actually do, that Will sighed, deflated. "I'm sorry," he said, hands still on Jack's chest.

"Let's get you both to the smithy," Benjamin waved it off. "Get him up, and let's be quick."

Getting his arms beneath Jack's still form, Will inhaled and forced a quick burst of energy. He climbed to his feet, nearly staggering from exhaustion and muscle ache, but curled his arms around Jack, surprised at how small the man felt. He was bedraggled and missing his newest red headscarf, soaked to the skin. The smith followed Benjamin quickly as he could, taking advantage of a rare calm half-minute to cross deck to the steps that led below.

****

Will nodded his thanks, for once not inclined to be the hero and go back up on deck. He could hear wind, feel the ship rock, and hear water still pounding the vessel, but his primary job right now was to make sure Jack recovered and woke up. It wasn't a sure thing, despite the fact he was still breathing.

He poked at the coals a few minutes after Benjamin left, not realizing he was shivering until he finally sneezed and sniffled some of the phlegm back up into his nose. Benjamin had left the tiny bureau drawers open, so Will hunted until he found a suitably old pair of breeches and a shirt worn thin by use. The old man had used his only towel for Jack, so Will shucked his clothes and used a rag to dry off, then dressed, leaving his shirttail outside the breeches. Picking up both his and Jack's castoffs, he set about hanging and draping each piece around the room to dry in the increasing warmth of the coals, few though they were—he hadn't made a large fire with much fuel, since they were still in the storm and he didn't want to tip so far the embers would leap out and set the place afire.

With nothing else to do, he pulled the room's bench near the pallet and sat, reaching over to feel Jack's forehead and cheeks as his mother had done for him as a small child when he was ill. The skin was still quite cool to the touch, as was his beard; Will lifted a few locks of hair and found it cold, too. Frowning, he reached for the damp towel and draped it over the side of Jack's head, reaching over to tuck the other end under the other side on the pillow, patting the material into the hair to soak up the salt water.

"Stupid, stubborn pirate," he muttered, wiping droplets of water from Jack's hairline and forehead. A couple of drops also clung to his lashes, and Will pressed the edge of the material to an eyelid, blotting it. He pulled the towel away and draped it over the bench next to him, not wanting to leave the soaked material on Jack to block air-drying.

Left with nothing to do, Will leaned forward with his elbows on the raised pallet's lumpy mattress, left hand gripping the back of his right. At least Jack was moving a little now, shifting on his side to burrow into the pallet and pillow. He kept doing it, twisting in tiny motions, not waking up. Will watched each movement beneath the blanket, wondering what was wrong for only a few minutes before it permeated his tired brain: Jack was still cold and uncomfortable. Coal heat was fine, but it took a while to soak into an entire room, even one as narrow as the smithy. Even he was chilled, except for his back, which was facing said fire.

Well, sitting between Jack and his heat source wasn't going to help, nor did it do much for Will himself. He got up carefully so as not to make noise, and briefly stoked the coals hotter before crossing to his jewelry wall to peruse it. For several moments he stared, picking over each piece carefully before extracting a couple of large stones he was forming to fit on brooches. He picked up a small wooden box filled with tools and bits and baubles, and carried all of it back to the bench, but didn't sit until he'd pulled it parallel to his pallet, to give both he and Jack maximum exposure to the fire.

He straddled the bench, setting everything down, and gathered up small pliers and the dolphin-shaped stone. Once he'd located the curve he wanted to indent further, he set to work, glancing up every so often when Jack exhaled loudly or shifted around, still asleep. It all felt very... homey, to him. Like a night by the hearth, just him working and Jack quiet and calm. He was surprised to consider the idea he could easily be happy with such as this for the rest of his life, interrupted by brief, dazzling bursts of adventure and Jack noise.

Will paused after about half an hour, craning his neck this way and that to work out a crick, resting his eyes on Jack as he did so. Drying raven hair was beginning to fluff up around the side of his face, the majority of it still clumped in sodden locks behind Jack's head on the pillow. As for his face—well, nobody would mistake Jack Sparrow for twenty, but his expression softened and some of the lines smoothed out, giving him at least a less severe appearance. Or maybe it was just the past few weeks he'd looked so humorless. Even having been drinking, Will remembered very well how youthful those eyes had looked so close, so dark and exotic, tempting him even as he acquiesced to the pirate's kiss.

He flared his nostrils and breathed out on a sigh. What did it say, that he'd nearly leaped into the sea before a more rational part of his brain took over and demanded he figure out the rope and barrel? Was it a simple infatuation—something new and enticing he needed to get out of his system by experimenting with it? Did Jack represent something more permanent for Will, after all, a companionship he'd sought for so long with Elizabeth? It was foolishness, he thought, bending back to his work. Pearl had Jack's heart, and Will believed in monogamy.

Though his eyelids threatened mutiny a couple of times, he kept working, yawning every so often and rolling his shoulders as he bent and shaped and etched. So lost was he, in fact, he didn't notice the passage of time until he glanced up at one point and caught Jack's head tilted down slightly on the pillow, dark semi-glassy eyes fixed on Will's hands.

The smith paused, lowering the stone. "Jack?" he asked quietly.

"Mm-hmm?" Black eyes flicked up to Will's.

"Feeling better, are you?" The captain nodded, a small movement. "You remember anything?"

He sighed and spoke slowly, as if taking time to re-gather his wits and form words. "I remember bein' in the water," he answered. "And it hurt like hell t' hit it. And your splinter, and Gibbs throwin' such a hissy over th' flour..." He blinked, his expression clearing up somewhat. "And you sayin' you'd stay on and be th' inventory officer." He frowned. "When was that?"

"Yesterday, Jack."

"Such a loss of time, there." He seemed to look inward, frowning, the whiskers of his moustache twitching minutely. "So I s'pose this means you're not lookin' to shove off at th' next sizable village, after all."

"Well... no." Not anymore. "Besides, Pearl has charms enough to entrance even the mightiest of men."

Jack closed his eyes briefly and smiled at that. "She certainly does, even when th' weather turns her into a bitch," he sighed, nodding into his pillow.

Will put down his work and toolbox on the floor, and scooted closer to place the back of his hand on Jack's forehead. "How're you feeling?"

Jack followed the hand with large, unfocused eyes, then turned them back on Will himself. "Not as bad as I should, I 'spect." He cleared his throat, aborting a cough. "Seems I remember bein' in the water with you."

"I jumped in to pull you out." His frowned. "What on earth possessed you to go without a rope like that? Pearl doesn't have hands, you know."

"Wasn't any time t' find another." He swallowed and managed to croak out, "Somethin' to drink, if ye don't mind?"

Will got up and went over to a small supply bureau and pulled out his hoard of clean water. It was a decent use for the old rum bottles, once they'd been boiled to get rid of the taste, and it kept them handy for when he was in need of a quick gulp while working. He flicked the cork out of one and carried it to Jack. "Don't drink too fast, or you'll get sick."

The pirate sat up and took a tentative sip. He made a face and shook his head. "Water," he muttered, glancing sideways at Will; the smith couldn't help a grin, knowing it was the expected put-on from Jack Sparrow, lover of even the worst rum. He took another sip, then a drink, closing his eyes and tilting his head back, swallowing deeply.

"Yes, water; now, don't drink too fast. It'll hit your stomach like an anvil, and try to come back up." He clucked like a mother hen; it was easier than staring at that throat, the bobbing Adam's apple, the thin stream of water that dripped from the corner of Jack's mouth and down along the slope of his neck.

Despite his complaint, Jack reluctantly lowered the bottle, licking a few drops from his lips and corking it again. "Least it still has some flavoring to it," he murmured, handing it back to Will and reaching up to flick at the water on his chin. "Now—how did you jump in? Thought ye didn't like diving from that high up."

"Fear wasn't an option. It was go over or let you drown." He took a sip of the water and set it on the floor. "I took a rope and jumped after ordering Benjamin to tie himself back up." He reached back and picked up the stone he'd been crafting, going back to etching. When he was at a loss and had work close at hand, he'd realized long ago it was the best filler of silence.

Jack watched him for a few minutes, quiet, perhaps entranced by the movements of Will's fingers. "I s'pose I should thank you," he finally spoke, voice quiet and even. "When I was under th' waves—I figured Davey was finally comin' to pull me down, that I'd lived as full a life as I was likely t' get." He chuckled. "I remember thinkin' how full of piss Norrington was gon' be, bein' deprived of th' chance to fit me for a hemp collar after all."

"Oh, now, Jack," Will chuckled, not daring to look up into those dark eyes. "Any time that man tries to string you up, I'll be there to sever the noose before it severs your neck."

"Was a time I think you'd have happily strung it up your own self," Jack pointed out, not incorrectly.

"There was a time. But given our positions now, I can hardly say I would." His rebuttal was firm without being harsh, and he did look up.

Jack yawned, then blinked. "'Tis counterproductive to th' gathering of plunder to execute the planner of said ventures," he reasoned.

"It's also counterproductive to one's conscience to execute one's best friend."

As with the rest of his reactions, Jack's response seemed a bit delayed. He eventually tilted his head, his eyes widening a fraction. "I have a hard time believin' I'm that, to you," he answered. "'Specially since I've met 'Lizbeth, watched you two together."

"You two are a lot alike, actually. Many of the traits I admire in her I admire in you. That doesn't mean you're a substitute for her."

Jack let the moment of silence drag on, as he seemed to be thinking. "Will," he finally ventured, "just how much damage did I do to bein' your best friend, with that kiss?"

Will set his work down behind him and leaned forward, hands on the tops of his thighs. "Oh, you pretty much smashed the simple notion of 'best friends' all to hell," he admitted. Searching Jack's eyes, he wondered when this man had gone from being an oddity, a long-ago friend and comrade of his long-lost father, and a collection of layers of material and baubles to... well, being the most important person in Will's daily life.

"That's why you've been avoiding me." To his credit, Jack's gaze didn't waver or flinch, though Will could see the beginnings of a frown at the corners of his eyes.

"It is. Something else, too, though."

Do this...

Shifting his weight from the bench to sit on the edge of the bed, Will leaned into Jack's personal space. Before he could lose his gumption, he tilted his head and brushed his lips to the other man's. A year ago, he would've never considered seriously acting on this sort of deeply hidden desire; today, he kissed the corner of Jack's mouth, waiting for a response... and wondering how long it should take. I don't think I misjudged—oh Jesus in heaven, what if I'm wrong-

But now he felt Jack's mouth move, and his moustache tickled the underside of Will's nostrils, and that nearly sent the smith backwards out of reflex. He'd never steeled himself for the intrusive reminder of another man's whiskers on his, and he worried he hadn't given sufficient thought to all this—that there would be someone else shaving in the mirror, and the body across from his would be as full of hard angles as his own, lacking in the feminine softness and malleability he'd found in the exactly two women he'd shared bodily fluids and a bed with so briefly.

And then that kiss. Jack knew how to kiss, how to apply just the right pressure to raise Will's pulse, slipping his tongue between Will's lips and lapping at the roof of his mouth with the tip of that tongue. He groaned, his skin and scalp hot and anxious, and slid his tongue beneath Jack's. The kiss grew intense, heated, and Will moved with it, no longer any doubt in his body even if a little still lingered in his mind. He moved to his knees at Jack's silent urging, until they faced one another in the middle of the pallet, chest to chest.

Jack drew out of a kiss and glanced up through thick, dark eyelashes. It was coy and sexy, and at the moment Will blanked on any other set of eyes he'd ever looked into this closely. He reached up, nearly touching the hair framing Will's face with both hands, fingers hovering on the wisps an inch from his skin. "You are lovely," Jack said simply. "Such... eyes."

"They work fairly well most of the time, yes." Uncomfortable with the compliment, he uttered the first thing he could think. I've been spending too much time around Jack. I've contracted whatever's made his brain strange.

The pirate grinned. "I hope so." They both chuckled, and Will felt strangely warm and comforted. The nervousness and butterflies he'd expected to feel in the pit of his stomach were there, of course, but calmer and less distracting than he expected.

He didn't have the heart to break the silence Jack imposed, punctuated only by their rapid breathing. Jack reached back, stroking Will's hair, threading his fingers through the mostly-dry waves and drawing back toward his face to cup his jaw on either side. Will waited as Jack reached up and brushed some hair off his temple, running his thumb over the eyebrow and down over his closed eyelid.

Those hands disappeared, and Will blinked his eyes open, dropping them to watch the fingers working at the buttons of his thin shirt. Jack was already half-naked, tattoos and scars on full display with subtly muscled arms and a tight, flat abdomen. His shoulders were a little narrower than Will's—everything about Jack's frame was a little smaller than his own—and he suddenly felt possessive of the pirate. He swooped in to kiss Jack, hard and insistent, and felt those hands curl into his shirt, yanking him forward.

"You sure this 's what you want?" Jack was growling into his lips. "I'm a bit bossy, and I like me own way 'tween th' sheets."

"Think I can handle you." Pushing him off-balance, Will rolled Jack into the pillow, balanced above him. "You're not the only one who likes to be in charge, you know."

He sat back on his heels, shrugging the shirt off his shoulders and working at the bottom buttons Jack had missed. Jack pushed himself to his elbows, eyes black and focused, watching hungrily—now that made Will nervous. He fumbled on the last couple of buttons, trying a few times before getting them pushed through the holes, and hurriedly shook the shirt back off his arms. Before he could get the material past his hands, however, Jack was sitting up, arms around him and fingers gripping his tangled wrists.

"Here." Deep, dark brown eyes lured him closer, allowing Jack to tug the shirt from his wrists and pull him to the bed. Will automatically reached for him and balanced himself as Jack guided both of them to the single pillow, on their sides facing each other. "Better," he judged with a nod, not taking his eyes from Will's.

Their kiss was slow and exploratory, and Jack took his time, licking inside the circumference of Will's lips and along his teeth until the smith writhed in frustration. His body twitched, warm and painfully aroused—eyes closed, he groaned around Jack's tongue when he felt a hand press between his thighs. When, two minutes later, the bare hand curled around his hard, neglected prick, Will's eyes opened wide in shock.

"It's all right," Jack hummed, fist dragging from tip to root and back up. "Will..."

He held Jack's gaze, feeling his hips begin to move, rock awkwardly against those rough, beringed fingers. He reached down and covered the back of the hand with his own. "Your rings." His whisper broke, and he licked his lips, trying again. "Take them off."

"Why?"

"Jack." He delivered the word in a soft plea, curling his fingers around Jack's hand, dragging it back up between them. Without permission, he began working the one from Jack's pinky up over the knuckle. That was the milky pearl quartz; he moved next to the forefinger, adorned with a deep ruby. He was surprised he'd stared enough at those hands to memorize them, but more taken aback by Jack's acquiescence—he let Will strip his fingers without protest, without complaint, and without taking his eyes from Will's face.

He reached behind him, turning away for a few seconds to spill the rings on the end of the bench. When he rolled back to face Jack, the man caught him between the legs and started stroking again, this time with only a bare, calloused palm. Will nearly cried with sensation—he'd been doing this too much by himself, and the realization of someone else willing to touch him like this nearly crossed his eyes, even closed. Jack eased him to his back, and Will lifted his hips when the man scooted to shove his breeches down long legs and past his ankles.

He did hesitate when Jack pushed at his knees, propping himself on his elbows. Jack wasn't rough, but he was insistent, and Will finally let his legs be pushed open, exposing him terribly, like... like a woman. "This feels—" he began, voice shaky and uncertain.

"I'm not gon' hurt you, love." It was amazing what one word could do; Will's head fell back and he closed his eyes, surrendering his body. I can't watch... I'll simply feel, just feel, his hands on me...

"Never hurt you." Jack was still murmuring encouragement, thumbs beneath Will's bollocks, nearly driving him mad. His breathing hitched. "Will, me love—you are perfect like this."

Something wet and sudden enveloped his cock, and at the first suck, he figured out what it was. The butterflies in his stomach shot straight deep into the pit of his abdomen, fluttering harder. "Jack! Wh-what?" But he kept his eyes shut.

Apparently Jack didn't like that. After only a moment, he withdrew his mouth and assumed a tone of quiet command. "William, look at me." Head spinning, elbows quivering, Will kept his head back. "Look at me, Will. Look."

When nothing happened, he obeyed, lifting his head and managing to open his eyes. Jack was balanced on the heels of his hands on the pallet, bracketing Will's waist. Long, uneven ebony hair fell over his shoulders, some of the ends brushing Will's abdomen and the stretch of skin from his navel to his rod. Its alert, lopsided bouncy presence got his attention in a way it never had before—thick and swollen and flushed... and wet. Glistening in the lamplight with Jack's saliva. He felt what little blood remained north of his stomach rush to his cheeks, and blinked, meeting Jack's eyes with difficulty.

"You noticed." A wicked, dirty grin, and Jack lowered his head. Will watched as the upper lip dressed in thick moustache curved over the top of his cock and eased down, swallowing, swallowing almost to the very root. Jack's eyes were still on his, searching and coaxing, as Will felt fingers slide beneath his balls and dip down along the smooth, tender curve of skin behind them. Jack drew off, leaving his tongue out, swirling it around the tip of Will's prick like sucking on a candy.

My God, I never fantasized this... did I? Stunned, Will pushed higher, weight on the heels of his hands, voluntarily opening his knees wider as he watched voraciously. A sudden need to touch, to dig in, made him reach forward and plunge fingers into Jack's hair. For a moment, he let them rest on the back of his head, following the motion of Jack's mouth and body, and he felt his own hips trying to respond, to thrust and plunge into that damp heat. Then, he grasped a handful of Jack's hair, pulling the head back. "Please—up here, closer," he begged, fixing the man with his most intense stare.

When Jack straightened on his knees, Will could finally see he'd shucked his own breeches, as well. He dropped his eyes to the tight little navel and slightly-flared hips, surprised by the few white hairs he noticed amid bristly black curls framing the taut, sweet curve of Jack's penis. He had no time to look his fill before the man was on him, pushing him back, in his arms at last.

Skin to skin, Will barely noticed the nuances of the body nestled against his as Jack nipped at his lower lip and down his chin into his throat. Jack mouthed his Adam's apple, and Will gripped his shoulders, arching off the bed. "So very... fucking gorgeous," Jack growled, leaning forward on his elbows again, looking Will straight in the eye and butting the tip of his nose with his own. "Your eyes..."

This time, Will didn't have the energy or inclination to joke. "What?" he asked softly. He really wanted to know why they kept catching Sparrow's attention.

"Your eyes are beautiful."

He wrapped his arms around Jack, curled his ankles around the back of his calves, desperate to hold the man. "You... think that?" Jack nodded, shifting his hips side to side a few times, until he moved them in a circle and Will felt their stiff rods rubbing together. "Since when?"

"I'll tell you later." Jack shook his head when Will started to protest, silencing him with a forceful kiss. "Said I'd tell ye, didn't I?" he whispered into those parted lips. "Will, right now, all I wan' do is feel you, fuck you. That all right with you, pet?" He shifted again, a slow drag of his hips, and Will's eyes were blown wide. "Ah, there 'tis."

They moved awkwardly at first, and Jack finally paused, rolling to his side and pulling Will along. Hand on his smith's hip, and Will's leg thrown over his, the pirate dug his fingers into the flesh and pulled, helping Will along until the younger man quickly caught on and took over the thrusting. He thrilled at the way Jack's eyes rolled back on one particular stroke, the way his lashes fluttered, gasping when Jack pressed closer, bringing their chests in contact. "Steady," he whispered, eyes half-closed. "'S like sailin' a ship, Will... got t' move with it, let your rudder take the lead sometimes."

"That doesn't even make sense..." Will felt the waves of blood and heat roiling, cresting along his limbs to pool low in the center of his body. "Jaaaaack." He kept repeating the name, low and fevered, and he felt Jack hold him closer, rocking with him as he rapidly sought relief, stemming the flow of words with lips and moustache and tongue.

Will's entire body twitched and seized as he felt every bit of tension spurt from his cock, lubricating the rub with Jack's. He rocked, still moving, when Jack began to climax. Not too surprisingly, Jack groaned loudly, filling Will's ears and senses with the most delicious naughty urges, and the younger man held him firmly. "Fuck me, Jack," he gasped into his captain's mouth. "Do me rotten."

Jack's hand slid around to cup a buttock, and Will arched, accommodating him, watching the man's expressions as he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, then gasped and cried out, pronouncing his lovely cheekbones and brow. He swallowed the rest of Jack's noises with a kiss, open-mouthed and wet. "Come, Jack," he whispered.

But the pirate, it seemed, was already there. His only noise was a raw, heavy panting, much like Will's, as he sighed repeatedly, rapidly, slumping into the younger man's hold. Will wasn't much more stable, his leg muscles strained and his chest pounding like waves from the storm earlier that day. Jack's forehead slid forward to rest on the bridge of Will's nose; his hand, higher to find the small of Will's back and press there. "I can't believe I jus' did that," he breathed, low enough that had anyone else been around, only Will would've heard him.

"Which part?" His physical needs quenched, Will was hesitant to expect much beyond sex. His brain, logical and always looking for the next problem to solve, was scrambling to explain away what had just happened and to look Jack in the eye as if it never had—if necessary.

When Jack pulled back enough to roll his face up, meeting Will's eyes, the smith's heart skipped. That was not the expression of a man prepared to tell someone to go lose themselves on an island somewhere, or trying to cook up some sort of defense. Jack's dark, thick eyes were weighty and liquid with a mixture of worry and satisfaction, and Will's senses drowned.

And then he said the oddest thing, strange even for Jack: "Bill's gon' kill me."

"Bill's not around to worry about such things," Will automatically replied, wondering if Jack's special logic had somehow transmuted between them during sex. He smoothed dark, damp strands of thick hair back off Jack's face and studied his expression. "I'm a grown man... as I'm sure you're all too aware," he added with a smirk that didn't feel entirely foreign.

"With long, lovely legs," Jack replied. It was such an unexpected compliment that Will didn't have time to blush or protest, or do much more than try to stammer out his thanks. Before he could, however, Jack palmed his hip and added, "Bit heavy, but lovely nonetheless."

Will took the hint and lifted his knee from Jack's, rolling his hips away. "Grab your shirt, eh?" the pirate suggested, propping up on his elbow.

"Why?" he made the mistake of asking, reaching over the side of the pallet and fishing blindly until he snagged the linen in his fingertips.

"We've got t' clean off with something."

He stopped just short of handing Jack the shirt. "Uh... no, you don't." He pulled it back out of the man's reach.

"It'll wash," Jack coaxed, leaning forward, arm up over Will's side.

"No, let me go get—" He was cut off by a sudden, hard kiss, Jack's tongue pressing between his lips. Befuddled and interested, Will relaxed into it, forgetting what was happening until he felt Jack snatch the cloth from his hand. "Hey!" he protested, breaking the kiss.

"Sorry, love. All's fair, and all that rot." Jack offered a lopsided smile, running the edge of the soft, thin material beneath Will's bollocks, cupping and wiping. "Get you first, though."

"You're so generous." Sarcasm, Will discovered, wasn't all that difficult, even after sex. He'd expected to feel... profound? High? Perplexed? Instead, his belly was warm and his head was clear but light, and Jack's smile was the most beautiful thing on the entire ocean.

"'S a gift." Now he was cleaning himself. "So," he began, balling up the shirt and tossing it off the side of the bed again, glancing into Will's eyes, "how are we, then?"

"By 'we' do you mean me?" When Jack didn't answer, he continued in a lower voice. "Or do you mean us? You and me?" The pirate nodded, expression solemn. "I don't know," he confessed. "How are we supposed to be, Jack?"

The older man licked his lips and rested on his stomach, draping part of his weight on Will's torso and left leg. "Are you angry with me? You feel taken advantage of?"

"What am I, some maiden guarding her virtue?" The words were humorous, but his tone wasn't. "I'm not some easily swayed man-child impressed by a ship and a title; I would think you'd know that by now."

"That isn't what I meant, and you know it."

In answer, Will caught Jack around the waist and rolled until the man was pressed beneath him into the single pillow. They stared at each other; the smith sensed a contest of wills (or of Will and Jack, at any rate, and he nearly snorted with it) as neither broke gaze. "We're in this bed," he finally said, "because we want to be, right? I mean, you do want me like this—I see you watching me when you think I'm caught up in something else." Jack kept staring, not answering. "I remember the way you kissed me a few weeks ago," Will whispered. "And how I walked out on it."

"That is sort of a cause for concern," Jack pointed out. He made no effort to move or throw Will off, kept his hands on the man's shoulders.

Lowering his head, Will kissed Jack deeply, tenderly. His stomach leapt when Jack returned it, pushing up into him, then veered off his lips and moved along his jaw toward his neck, tickling with his moustache as he went. Will grinned stupidly, eyes closed and head tilted to give Jack access, and it was Jack's turn to wrap a limber leg around the back of Will's thighs.

When he finally pulled up and away a few minutes later, Will wasn't coherent. He couldn't recall ever feeling so heated, so deliciously naked and pliable, even when alone and jerking off. He was about to speak when a rapid knock at the door startled them both; he pushed himself up to get off the pallet and pull on his breeches as he called, "Wait! Coming!"

"Already did that, mate."

"Captain Obvious," Will smarted off. He forgot about Jack's leg and, as such, ended up launching himself off the side of the pallet—onto his face and stomach on the boards, barely keeping from biting his tongue in half.

"Serves you right." He heard Jack hanging over the edge, above him. "You all right, there?"

"I'll live."

Another knock came at the door. "What is it?" Jack asked Will.

"Late lunch, dinner, whatever. I told Maxi to bring some down after mess."

"Ah." Sitting up on the pallet, Jack adopted his best order-bark tone. "LEAVE IT AND GO AWAY!" he bellowed.

"Rats, sir!" came the muffled protest.

"They won't eat much!" called out Jack.

For some reason, Will found that the funniest thing in the world. He dropped his face into the cloth that had padded his fall and started to laugh, before he realized it was his discarded, soiled shirt. Making a startled sound, he pushed himself to his knees in record time, reaching up with the heel of his hand to rub at his still-clean face.

"Listen, mate, you think that's unpleasant, maybe we shouldn't be goin' any further with this." Jack was up out of bed behind him, sinuous and light-footed, a clear laugh in his voice. Before Will could retort, he felt the man bend over and drop a kiss into his hair. "I'll get it," he murmured. "Get back in bed."

"Shouldn't I be saying that?" Will scrambled to his feet. "You're the one with all the bruises."

He looked up just in time to see Jack approaching the barred door, hips swaying and backside bobbing pleasantly. Slender legs knelt after he'd stuck his head out the door to check for people, and he dragged the tray inside before locking the entrance again. He picked up the tray and turned, carrying it to the bed, inhaling noticeably. "Smells like some good soup for a change," he rumbled. "Here."

Jack handed the tray to Will and climbed past him onto the pallet, turning to sit with his legs crossed before him. "Put it down and have a sit, love." His eyes, younger and unfettered by smudged kohl, watched as Will obeyed, legs stretched out before him. The eyes traced Will's torso and glanced to his back, Jack frowning. "Seems ye've your own share o' bruises, too. Th' sea is a harsh mistress who exacts her pound of flesh from ever'one."

"Actually," Will informed him, uncovering the tray and using the edge of the cloth to pick up a biscuit, wondering just how dirty his hands were, "yours look worse, the way you hit the water on your back and all."

"Aye, but I don't have your pale skin t' show them off so well." He pressed a forefinger gently to a spot on the back of Will's hip, and the smith winced. "See? Plenty more like that." He lightly stroked around the spot, and Will paused, mid-bite, letting the warmth of the contact of Jack's skin seep in and comfort him.

They finished the mostly liquid meal, weak of meat to settle easier on their digestive systems. Each took a turn dressing just enough to head out and relieve himself; Jack went first, so when Will returned after managing to successfully avoid any crewmen, he found the pirate tucked into the newly-straightened covers on his pallet. He was propped on one arm, eyes following the smith around the small room as Will banked the fire and put a few things away.

Finally, he stopped by the bed. "Could move to me cabin now," Jack suggested.

Will shook his head. "I'm not taking a chance of you catching ill from some lingering cold. We'll stay here where it's warmer." He undid his breeches, feeling shy again, but fascinated by the latent hunger in Jack's expression as he pushed the material away and stepped out of it. Jack lifted the cover in silent invitation.

When Will climbed in, Jack dropped the blanket over him and used the arm to draw him close. They were on their sides, almost nose to nose, and Jack dropped his eyelids to half-mast, his fingers trailing along Will's spine, his lips curved into what resembled contentment. "Cat that ate the cream," Will whispered.

"Not yet." Jack's smile widened into a full grin.

"Such promises."

"Nothin' I don't plan to deliver." The knowledge rippled along Will's skin, delicious frission. He wasn't sure what to say; then again, he wasn't sure speech was necessary.

They held each other silently, studying one another's eyes and faces, until Will felt quite outside himself with warmth and pleasure. "Jack... you're beautiful..." he finally ventured, hesitant, not sure how the words would sound until they spilled forth. "I mean, you know, as a man can be—"

"Shh." Jack pressed two fingers to Will's parted lips. "Ye don't have t' qualify yourself."

"I don't want you to think you're a substitute for someone," he rushed into his explanation. "Like... Elizabeth."

"Generally, 's not a good idea to bring talk of one's old lovers into th' bed of a new one."

Will nearly apologized, nearly explained she'd never been his lover, but caught the glint in Jack's sleepy eyes. "Sorry," he said anyway, not sounding as contrite as he could.

Jack chuckled softly at that. "I'm not lookin' for false declarations of amnesia," he explained, shaking his head.

Something occurred to Will. "How is this going to affect everything else?" He lifted his eyes toward the ceiling and the deck above. "Up there—out there?"

"What do ye mean?"

"Jack, you and I don't agree all the time. My God, look at the silent treatment we've given each other all these weeks; I don't want the person I'm—" He fumbled for the right word, still blushing, "I'm with, telling me to pipe down and not take me seriously."

Jack studied him for half a moment, then nodded solemnly. "I understand."

"Now I know you're the captain, and you run things, and I have to take your orders the rest of the time. I just don't want to in bed."

"Some of my nocturnal demands could be quite pleasant," the pirate teased.

"You know what I mean. I want to be your equal, here."

"Think you've already proven ye are, mate."

"Would you take me seriously?" Annoyance began to creep past Will's feel-good haze.

"Look, love." Jack shifted and sighed, pressing closer. "You ask anyone who's ever sailed under Jack Sparrow's colors, they'll tell ye I've never taken anyone from th' crew. Not 'til now." He shushed Will's interruption. "My reason is, could be damn hard for me t' give orders to someone I'm swivin', who isn't a whore. So why would I break that tradition just for someone I don't trust to keep actin' like a capable sailor?" He shook his head, raising his eyebrows. "I did not get me reputation on abusin' boys; ask anyone, they'll tell ye I much prefer to 'abuse' grown folk."

But Will was fixed on an earlier comment. "You've never slept with anyone from a crew of yours?"

He yawned and shook his head. "Will, I don't even bring me dalliances back aboard Pearl. I've kept them firmly on land or taken it to another vessel." He leaned in and blew a hot, sultry breath across Will's lips, black eyes fixed on the smith's. "I plan to keep treatin' ye just as ye deserve to be treated—same as any other crew members has t' earn and keep, savvy?"

Will closed the gap and kissed him. "I savvy," he whispered against those full lips.

"Bloody good." Jack yawned into the second kiss. "Think we may be needin' some shuteye. Least I do. Old men do not keep goin' without quality rest." That said, Jack shifted to his back and turned on his other side, sticking close. When Will angled his arm around Jack's waist, the man wriggled back into him, sliding his hand over the back of Will's on his stomach. A few minutes later, a tired, deliciously aching Will giddily drifted off to the sounds of Jack's light snores and the captain's knobby fingers squeezing between his own knuckles to hold on.

****

It was small and nicely shaped, stapled with metal posts halfway up the shell. A thick lock of black hair was apparently caught, looped around the front of a post; Will reached up and gently tugged it free, pulling it back to place against the graceful curve of Jack's neck into his shoulder.

Bare shoulder. Will's eyes followed the line down his arm until it blended visually into hip and thigh from his vantage point. They must've gotten overwarm sometime in the night and kicked off the blanket, now wound around both their feet.

Two whores were the sum total of his intimate sexual experience. Two patient, older prostitutes down off the docks of Port Royale had taken on Will one night when he'd had a few ales to bolster his courage into a ménage a trois. He smiled to himself, figuring Jack would never guess such a thing; nor would anyone else. It wasn't something he necessarily cared to repeat, but at the time, his hazy brain and stiff, needy cock had found the proliferation of body parts and wet mouths all on one bed exceedingly interesting. He remembered being grateful for their professional discretion later on—when he'd had occasion to deliver a sword down near the docks the following week, the two gave him a cursory look-over, but said nothing as the blushing almost-man hurried past them. He'd taken the long walk around back home to the shop.

"Mmm, must be a 'ell of a dream." Jack's gravelly voice interrupted his memories.

"Hmm?" was all Will could think to rebut, not even moving. This was entirely too comfortable, too lovely.

"Nice way t' wake up." With that, Jack arched in a rub against him, and Will realized his half-erection tucked against the crease of the man's backside. "Dare I ask what's on your mind? Or who?"

"Oh." It was a softer exclamation than his brain intended; the deliberate, slow slide of firm muscle against his penis was a bit more than his mental faculties could resist this early in the day. "I- Just you." He closed his eyes, inhaling sharply with another slow, catlike rub of Jack's arse. "I- Oh, yeah... Jack, it's... it's... kind of starting t-to... chafe..."

At that, Jack stopped and turned forward a little into his pillow away from Will, shoulders shaking. He released Will's fingers to do it, balancing his hand against the mattress. Will was at first alarmed that he'd somehow hurt Jack's feelings, said the wrong thing, but he soon heard the muffled guffaws, and concern turned to surprise. "Are you laughing at me?"

A quick nod, more laughter, and then Jack rolled completely onto his stomach, turning his head to look up at Will, tossing some hair back over his shoulder to do it and coughing. "Can't say as that's somethin' I've had occasion t' hear in bed before," he managed to choke out.

Will's face suffused with heat. "Oh. I didn't—"

"No, no—I 'spect it's more honest than tha' claptrap I usually hear 'bout 'Oh, yes, Jack, oh yes, right there, Captain,'" he explained, the last part all falsetto and batted eyelashes.

Lips twitching up on one corner, Will nodded deliberately. "Fine. Make fun of me just because I know better than to go at it dry-handed—" He was cut off by a sudden hoot of laughter; Jack dropped his head and collapsed into it again. Far from being annoyed, Will had to fight back a stupid grin. "You son of a bitch."

When he could finally prop himself up on his elbows and take a breath, Jack shook his head. "Hey, be nice t' me mother," he warned. "Weren' for her puttin' up with Da, you'd just be here jerkin' off and talking to yourself."

"Oh, I'd be all alone, you think?" Rolling to his back, Will laced his fingers beneath his head and fixed his eyes on the plank ceiling. "So you think you're the only one I'd be bringing down here, Captain?"

"You're much too virtuous t' be bringing all manner of sailors an' strumpets back to your den," Jack retorted, sitting up in a rustle of sheets and jingle of baubles. "Die a monk, ye would—swear t' God."

"Ah." Will scooted his right foot back, raising the knee, and let his left foot fall to the side. It was a conscious, gradual opening of his body; he kept his eyes on the ceiling, not quite ready to offer himself and look Jack in the eye all at once. "Yes, I know... I look like such the shrinking violet."

Murmuring in approval, Jack pressed a hand to the center of Will's abdomen and leaned closer. "Definitely not shrinking." He splayed his fingers, turning the hand downward, and slid it past Will's navel. "Purple, somewhat, maybe..."

He closed his eyes, tilting his chin into the air as he buried the back of his head into the pillow, when those fingers burrowed into the tight curls nuzzling the base of his prick. "Come on, Will," Jack coaxed, voice rumbling. "Say somethin' else about me dubious parentage." Two fingers bracketed the rod, lifting toward the head. "What's th' matter, darlin'?"

He couldn't help the soft, strangled moan from the back of his throat. Nobody had ever given him this much attention, and he didn't realize how his body craved touch—especially Jack's calloused, firm touch. And words. And Jack. "You... how?" he breathed.

"Just like this, love." The fingers turned into a whole hand, fisting and stroking, and sliding down between his legs to cup and roll loose, hard scrotum. Will let his knees fall aside without prompting this time, and one long finger slid lower, stroking the smooth, satiny distance over his prostate back toward his arse. At something flicking against his lips, Will opened his eyes and his mouth, and Jack's tongue delved between his lips as his dark eyes fixed on Will's wide ones.

"Like that?" he asked, the tip of his tongue lazily swiping the roof of Will's mouth, down over his teeth and behind them. His finger kept stroking, reaching back further each time, and Will blinked rapidly, breath held.

Agile, Jack rose to his knees and forced both between Will's thighs, balancing himself on the heels of his hands on either side of the man's shoulders. With deliberate, slow strokes, he angled his own hard cock against Will's perineum and dragged it back and forth, pushing up and angling back like a stretching cat. Desperate to touch him, Will reached up and framed his neck with his hands, then angled down until his forefingers brushed Jack's tight, dark nipples.

Jack paused, faltered, exhaling raggedly. His lips parted on a gasp, his eyes closed, head back. Will tried again, heady with his success. Taking full advantage of his strong abdominals, he curled up and licked at a nipple, twice, lying back slowly and holding Jack's suddenly open eyes—and smiling up at the man. He was giddy again, the heat in those eyes incredible and possessive.

Will had little time, however, to marvel at what he could do to Jack before the man was on him, slanting his mouth across the smith's. Their tongues met, twined, scraped beneath teeth as Jack gave up propping himself and simply pressed into Will. His hands moved along Will's sides and over his hips, while Will gripped Jack's shoulders and then lower, hands on his back. They kissed wildly, open-mouthed, gradually narrowing their frantic tonguing into long, slow, deep kisses. Jack reached up and threaded the fingers of his right hand into Will's sweat-dampened hair; Will reached lower and curled his large hands over the firm swell of Jack's buttocks.

"I want you," he whispered between kisses, surprised at the need in his voice, the ache in his chest. "Jack..."

"Yeah." Another, softer kiss. "I know, Will."

He opened his eyes. Jack lifted off his mouth and nuzzled his nose, butting at it with the tip of his own. They both smiled, rubbing noses as Will stared up into those gold-flecked deep, brown eyes. "You want me, too," he murmured over the nervous pounding of his heart.

"Ought t' be somewhere more comfortable than this," Jack answered, voice hushed.

"No." Will shook his head. "I want to be able to look over here when I'm working, and see you like this in my mind. Anytime I like."

"Will..." He trailed off, seemed to be thinking carefully. "I'm not goin' anywhere—we can do this anytime ye like. I'm just thinkin' it should be someplace more spacious, and fitting—"

"What's more fitting than a smithy?" Will sat up, and Jack leaned back, until they were vertical, Jack kneeling between Will's long legs stretched out. "We met in one; it's where I beat you for the first—"

"Hey—" Jack started to protest, but Will pulled him close and kissed his neck.

"Hey, yourself," he shushed.

"Don't try t' distract me from righteous indignation," Jack pouted. He was, Will reflected, lovely when he pursed his lips like that—and said as much. "Ohh," Jack nodded. "First, 'm beautiful, then, lovely. What's next? Precious? Sweet?"

"Jack, I swear to Christ himself I would never accuse you of 'sweet.'"

"Well, that's that, at least," Jack grumbled good-naturedly, sitting back on his heels and resting his arms on Will's shoulders, fingers playing with the ends of Will's hair. "But no, really—I don' have anything t' ease the way, so to speak. Be hard to—" He paused at Will's smirk and rolled his eyes. "Be difficult to do without th' proper supplies."

"You're just trying to get back to your cabin," Will pointed out.

"I see nothin' wrong with takin' this to a nice, comfy bed, if that's what ye mean, no." He shifted, and winced. "Better on our bruises, I'd think, too."

He had a point. "Maybe," Will hedged. There was something about having Jack in his smithy, in his space, that gave all this a more serious cast than it perhaps deserved. After all, the captain could simply be making sport with his blacksmith—neither had exactly pledged his undying affection to the other. The fact it felt more than casual to Will himself might mean very little. Which was why he hated to lose it so soon. "Morning's not far off; you've got to rest a day or two, at least, Ben said. Let it come and we'll see if it's safe for us to—" He caught and corrected himself. "Safe for you to move."

Jack draped his arms around Will's shoulders and leaned in. "You know," he confided with glittering eyes, "you're always welcome in me cabin. For any reason."

"I didn't want to presume—" He was cut off by Jack turning his head to the side and laughing, a rich, happy sound. "What now?"

"You'll throw yourself on me for a kiss, but ye don't wan' presume about stayin' over?"

"There's a hell of a lot of difference between doing this, and... that." Will felt his nostrils flare in annoyance.

Jack scaled his chuckling back to merely a secret smile. "Yes," he agreed. "There is."

Will felt his ire dissipate, replaced once again by that stupid grin he was really afraid of becoming part of his permanent expression around Jack. "You said you didn't expect anything more permanent," he pointed out. Oh, there's the butterflies, after all.

"And I'm not sayin' it now, either. Since when has courting e'er been a sure thing, lad?"

"Ohh." Will's grin widened. "Are you courting me, then, Jack Sparrow?"

"Captain," Jack reminded him.

"Just answer the question, sir."

The older man rolled his eyes in what appeared amused resignation. "Why yes, it appears I am. I am courtin' an extremely slow, polite sort of sword-thrower." With that, he dropped his fingers to Will's sides and tickled. When Will twitched, Jack kept at it, chuckling. "Just checkin' to see that th' rest of your reflexes aren' as slow as your brain."

"Jack!" He wriggled, trying to scoot away, which was difficult given their positions. "Stop it! Don't, Jack!" He reached down to catch those infernal hands, more put out by his own unmanly giggle than the actual tickling. "Cut it out, dammit!" He finally caught hold of Jack's wrists, tightly, and pulled them to his chest, forcing the man closer. "That isn't going to work in an argument."

"I seemed t' be doin' pretty well before ye decided to employ brute force," Jack pointed out, gazing down into his eyes. Then the pirate blinked.

Slowly.

And blinked again. Also slowly.

And when Jack only raised his lids halfway, peeking through long, black lashes, Will realized he was flirting. Jack parted his lips, licked the lower one, and dropped his gaze to Will's mouth. Oh, Christ he thought, wondering how he could've thought he ever wanted anyone else after meeting this man.

What part of Jack's hair not done up in dreadlocks and partially stiffened by sea salt was surprisingly soft. Will plunged his fingers into the dark mess after he pulled Jack to the mattress, rolling until the man was pinned beneath him. He started with his forehead, kissing a line to the bridge of Jack's nose, then down until the tips of their noses brushed, at which point Jack opened his eyes to stare into Will's again.

Wordlessly, Will kissed him. He took his time, engaging Jack's tongue in a long, complex dance of wet heat before drawing off and aiming his mouth at the underside of Jack's chin. He bit into one of the short beard braids and tugged gently, eliciting a soft laugh from its owner, then hid a grin against the hollow of Jack's neck.

He moved lower, exploring, sucking tenderly at the man's right nipple. When it was hard—and he could feel Jack was, too—he kept at it, licking and blowing, until Jack was writhing and groaning in a mixture of protest and approval. Trailing down further, Will licked into the thin line of fine, dark hair wandering into Jack's navel, and let his tongue follow. Resting on one elbow, he brought the other hand to Jack's hip, palming the slope of it. Then, he scooted back, moving lower, stopping just shy of the wiry, dark curls looping over one another between the man's thighs.

Lifting up, Will regarded the erect, curving rod. Its length stretched the confines of the foreskin; a sheen of viscous stickiness gathered at the tip. Curious, he leaned in and swiped at it with the tip of his tongue, finding it salty-sweet but of an intriguing consistency. All that rum, no doubt. He flicked his eyes up to find Jack propped on his elbows, watching, not breathing, eyes wide and wishful and hopeful.

Daring to hold that stare, Will lowered his shoulders, keeping his lower back arched, and wrapped his lips around the tip. He went partway down before drawing off; when he did it again, he added a bit of a suck, and Jack's breath rushed out in a ragged, pronounced sigh. The more he swallowed, the tighter he sucked, the more Jack's head tilted back until it was nearly upside down, only the underside of his chin visible above the propped shoulders and exposed throat. Will found the vulnerable posture sexy as hell, and took a deep breath before forcing himself to swallow all the way to the root of Jack's cock.

That's when he finally arched his hips into it, following Will's mouth as it released. The smith swallowed again, bobbing his head, the flat of his tongue tracing the ridged vein under the penis. He brought a hand close to cup Jack's bollocks, rolling and stroking and feeling as he sucked, feeling a sense of wonder as they tightened and drew into their host body, the more he aroused Jack. Pulling off, he fisted the cock and stroked a few times, lubricating his hand on the meager fluids, then applied his mouth once more as he reached down between his own legs.

"Yeah... yeah, Will, there, oh Jesus," Jack panted. He slid against the sheets, rubbing his backside as he helped with the friction. He was still propped on his elbows, hands curled into the material beneath him, legs sprawled. "Lick it, suck it, sweetheart... ye know what you're doin', oh, hell..."

Will pumped himself frantically, his sucking becoming firmer, shallower. His jaw was getting tired, but like anything he started, he was determined to finish in style and with quality. Jack's hips stiffened, tightened, and Will stopped his hand, concentrating totally on getting his lover off for the moment. It was a good thing, too, for the load was too much for his inexperience, and he pulled off, choking, alternately swallowing and coughing. He sat back on his heels, reflexively licking his lips and reaching up to wipe the excess from his lower lip and goatee.

Jack sat up, swiftly pulling him down in a tangle of limbs. Will soon felt a hand on his prick, thumbing and pumping, as Jack's tongue forced his lips apart and licked into his mouth. Instead of being disgusted, Will pushed back. He pumped his hips and his tongue, and Jack swallowed and stroked, and their cries drowned out the whip-fast pounding of Will's blood behind his ears.

And then he came, feeling it shoot out as copiously as Jack's had, and when he was done, he dropped against the body under his. He felt dirty and sweaty and sticky, and when he opened one lazy eye on Jack, he found the other man studying him with new respect and affection. He spoke, voice drawling and honeyed.

"Anyone ever tell ye what a good fuck ye are, Turner?"

****

The bigger one was in the captain's cabin, and this is where Will somewhat boldly decided to clean up. Grabbing the large pail out of it, he headed up the short distance on deck. After drawing water from the ocean, he would carry it back; after a few buckets, he could light the two small fires to get the process started while he finished hauling back seawater. It was far from perfect, but the heat somewhat made up for the salt, and it was better than nothing for getting the rest of Will's sticky self scrubbed off.

Thinking over the past several hours wasn't enough to embarrass Will. Stepping out on deck wearing an uncustomary half-open shirt and loose hair, however, and being grinned and wolf-whistled at by at least half the crew within minutes did enflame his cheeks. The Pearl, he reflected, was of vast size in combat but really rather small when it came to news—a mouse could fart in the hold and the sound would make its way up on deck within the hour.

When a few started up a round of applause, Will set his pail down and sighed. "All right, all right, knock it off... for heaven's sake." He tried not to blush too furiously. "Just- Can I get my water in peace, please? I promise to sharpen all your blades if you'll—"

"Aye, won't that get th' captain jealous?" someone called from the back.

Will picked up his pail and ignored the comments and raucous laughter that followed. He should've expected this—except he had no idea how they'd figured it out. Hell, Maxi had been the only one he remembered at the door of the smithy, and Will knew for a fact he was a misanthrope of the highest order and rarely spoke with anyone, let alone the crew. Too, nothing he or Jack had hollered through the door could be misconstrued (or, in this case, correctly interpreted, he supposed) as sexual in nature.

Head high, Will hauled his pail up and carried it below to dump it into the tub. Well, the worst is over with, at least he figured, heading back up on deck.

Except that it wasn't. As soon as he appeared on deck, he was met once again with clapping and few bows thrown in for good measure. Shifting his jaw in annoyance, he ignored it and pulled up more water. He got quite good at this over the next several trips, never acknowledging the attention, never saying anything, simply keeping to himself and moving to and fro as though it was a normal day out in the sunshine.

On what he judged to be his next to last trip to the rail, he turned to head back below, coming up short upon seeing Jack on deck. The man had carelessly thrown on breeches and a shirt in much the same fashion as Will, with perhaps the same idea, judging by the way he lowered his eyes to the sloshing pail. Oddly, the deck was absolutely quiet; some crewmen were turning away, perhaps wanting to pretend they'd never made a peep about any of it. Others stood as if frozen in a constable's lamplight with their hand in a rich pocket.

He should have felt smug, relieved, vindicated. Instead, Will was ill at ease. The only reason they shut up was Jack. It's not me; they have no respect for me. He realized it was Jack's ship, but still, he'd worked so hard what time he'd been aboard the past year, and fought alongside them, and he'd actually started thinking of most of them as a sort of family, and... and...

He swallowed his disappointment and crossed the deck, intending to go below. As he passed a confused-looking Jack, however, he squared his shoulders and set the pail down. In for a farthing, in for a crown. They want a show? I can oblige.

Turning toward Jack, Will took his face between his hands and tilted it for a kiss—not just any kiss, but a deep, probing, solid one, in full view of the crew. He wasn't surprised by the arms that came up around him, but it did sort of knock him for a loop when he realized he'd gone from stubbornly making a point to being drawn into the embrace, being kissed as passionately as he was kissing. To hell with the rest of them; this is the only one I care about impressing, he realized.

They drew back, and when Will recovered and opened his eyes, he found Jack's quiet, fond grin only a few inches away. Forgetting there were other people, Will smiled back, feeling his earlier sunniness seep back into his skin. Who would've ever thought Jack Sparrow could make me giddy? he marveled.

Suddenly, Jack took one of his hands, stepped back so they both faced the stunned crew, and curtsied deeply. The tug of his hand compelled Will to let go or do the same, so he followed suit, feeling foolish again. "Next show's at eighteen hun'erd," Jack announced as they straightened.

Because he simply couldn't help himself, Will arched an eyebrow toward his captain and, without thinking, automatically shot back, "They wish."

Quick, rough laughter filled the deck, and every person Will could see started clapping. A few shout-outs encouraged Will—"Yeah, you tell 'im!"—while other, lewder comments backed up Jack's impromptu declaration. Will glanced between the captain and his crew, and it occurred to him he was less uncomfortable now that he'd talked back and broken the tension. When, a few minutes later, he came back up alone to draw his last pail of water, crewmen were milling about talking with one another and giving reports to their captain, carrying on their regular chores; a couple paused to snap off sloppy salutes at Will, who only shook his head and chuckled on his way back to the cabin.

****

"Not yet." Will half-closed his eyes, still savoring the feel of Jack's legs and arms bracketing him in the small tub. They'd decided to conserve energy and bathe together, with the added benefit for Will of having Jack wash his hair and scrub and rub his back. Clean, exhausted, and hungry, Will drowsed in the lukewarm water, feeling lazier and decidedly less productive than he had in many years. It was sinfully wonderful.

For several minutes, Jack humored him, then nudged his body. "Up, you," he ordered. "I'm gon' shrivel like this."

Grumpily, Will leaned forward to pluck a towel off the floor, then pulled himself to his feet. "Not like it'd diminish you that much," he smarted off, stepping out onto the floor.

"See, now, why couldn't ye've said that in front of me crew, instead?"

"Sorry."

"Oh, quit sayin' that when ye don't mean it." Will laughed, moving aside to dry off as Jack stepped out for his own towel. "Stubborn lad."

"Old reprobate," Will shot back without thinking. He was nearly mortified until Jack snorted, shaking his head. He used the man's good mood to change the subject. "Jack—why did the crew do that, you think? I mean, why did you? And they acted the way they did?"

Jack plucked Will's damp towel from his hand and crossed to the table, draping each over the back of a chair. "Ye've got to understand, Will," he explained, gesturing in circles with his hands as he spoke. "They think of ye as damn near perfect—ye learn things faster 'n most of them do, ye learn more, and ye don't quite embrace th' pirate way as much as any of us do."

"So... they feel like I'm putting myself above them?" He shook his head. "I never intended—"

"Will, Will, me lad—shh." Jack raised his hands. "They don't think badly of you—quite th' opposite, I'm sure. Ye've been so virtuous all this time, even in your piratical pursuits; you don't even go into brothels t' so much as make change." Will was still confused, and Jack came closer, taking his hand and leading him toward the bed as he explained. "For them, twas a relief to see you're no different, that ye need th' same warm flesh they do after all. They don't feel you're quite so high an' mighty, now."

"But I want them to respect me." He watched Jack crawl between the thin sheet and goose-down mattress. "Right?"

"Has nothin' to do with respect for you, or how ye do your job." Jack got to his knees and pulled Will across the bed until they touched, chest to thigh, facing. He rested his hands on Will's waist. "It's about being human, Will. You're closer to their level now, more human, more accessible—"

"Well, not that accessible," he interrupted, reaching up to comb his fingers through Jack's wet hair.

"You bet that sweet, tight arse you're not."

Will deliberately pouted, widening his eyes. "You don't know it's tight," he reminded the pirate in a devilish tone. "Not yet."

Jack blinked, and Will thrilled at the way he could befuddle the glib man for literally whole seconds at a time. "And what're we gon' do about that, hmm?" he finally recovered and challenged.

Will pressed himself to Jack briefly, nose to nose. "I've a few ideas."

Jack kissed him, good and long. "Oh, in case I forgot," he whispered, pressing the smith back toward a pillow with his body, "welcome to me cabin, love."

And truly, Will had never felt more at home.

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