“Sodomy?” enquires Sparrow, with an untrustworthy light in his eye.

“NO,” snaps Jack, as a sort of a reflex, and then feels oddly regretful.  Because, really: new experiences, and all that.  “Well, ” he says, with a grin, to soften it.  “I’ve had a pretty sheltered life, me.”

“Oh dear.  That’s both enormously touching and completely unbelievable,” says Sparrow, cheerily.

“Unbelievable?  Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean, Mr Shaftoe, that I saw your face on a bill, and even if I can’t quite remember what your crime might be, I’m fairly sure it was committed; and here you are, having walked straight up to me, a complete stranger who’s been giving you admiring glances, in a disreputable tavern in a disreputable part of a thoroughly disreputable city; so all in all, you’ll have to forgive me if I’m having trouble conceiving of you as the innocent and sheltered sort.”

Jack shrugs, and grins.  “Fair cop.”

“... So?”

“So...?”

“So, why did you walk straight up to me, a complete stranger et cetera?”

Jack can’t help it.  He likes the bloke.  He just... likes him.  And he’s still so itchy and restless.  And, really?  If he’s honest about it?  Part of the way he likes this Jack Sparrow is a very, very new way.  A physical way.  A touchy sort of a way.  And so, out of nowhere, he finds himself saying:

“I’m recruiting.  I’m looking for a partner.  A partner-in-crime.  I’ve an urge to play highwayman for a while.”

“Highwayman, eh?” Sparrow tilts his head to one side, and puts a finger to his lip.  “I’m afraid I’m otherwise engaged at the moment.  Captain, and all that.”

“Can’t you take a few weeks off?  Have your crew do some careening, or some such?  Highway robbery’s only fun over the summer months, you understand.”

“Get me drunk enough,” says Jack Sparrow, raising his mug, “and I just might consider it, Mr Shaftoe.”

END...

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