Title: General Lawlessness
Author: Mostly Harmless III
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl
Pairing: Jack/Will
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Slash, adult themes, adult content. Not beta read.
Summary: Will, Jack, a piccolo, a stuffed rabbit, and a garter belt. A secret, grand adventure that neither man really remembers.
Author's Note: Set after the first movie and refuses to take the others into account. Not because I don't like them, but because this was written immediately after the release of the first one and only finished today. That's right, this fic is OLD.

General Lawlessness

Captain Jack Sparrow is not against most any criminal activity for a profit, even if his ship is not involved. He'd take off after a treasure in the desert without thinking twice.

And one would think that a pirate requires a ship to wreak havoc- but Jack has the skill to be a scoundrel on sea or land. Piracy is easier with a ship, he says, but it's more of a luxury. What you really need to be a pirate is a certain finesse, the balls to take a chance, and the luck to get away with it all.

A lot of rum helps, too.

That's why I find myself hiding in the shadows with him, waiting for an endless stream of marines to pass. The dark alleyway where we hide reeks of refuse; it's narrow, barely large enough for the two of us to fit. Our footsteps sound loud as we back up further into the concealing shadows. We hit a brick outcropping and end up slammed against each other, his elbow butting into my stomach. It's a struggle not to curse. I chuck him away from me and he looks up with unfocused, rum-drenched eyes. He belches. Charming.

I take a moment and try to be horrified by the scenario. Jack is wearing a garter belt around his head and carrying a piccolo. He tells me he can play; I don't believe him.

Incidentally, I'm holding a stuffed rabbit. Thanks to the rum, this makes perfect sense to me. Even after I scrutinize it. The certain, inescapable logic of it all fills me with…something. I'm not sure what. My stomach is roiling.

Each time one of the redcoats passes, I cringe, certain that a strangely intelligent Lieutenant will catch on that the alley might be a great place to hide. Terrified, I crush the rigid bunny to my chest as if it had life in it to run away. Jack adjusts the garter belt to a jaunty angle and appears as if he really wants to give the piccolo a try.

I'll be damned if he isn't enjoying this.

I pull the instrument away from his lips and signal for him to be quiet. Jack, conspicuously stuffed rodent-free, is trying not to laugh. Somehow, it stands to reason that I'm miserable and he's having the time of his life.

I consider it luck that his talent for getting into trouble is surpassed only by his talent for getting out of it. The redcoats have become nothing but the distant rumble of feet when Jack finally lets his laugh escape.

"Lad," he begins when his chuckle burns itself out, his fingers finding their way to my shoulder, "that was grand."

I just knew it.

The man is insufferable.

And barely standing.

"Come on, then," I whisper and I hoist him up. One of my arms slides under both of his to keep him balanced. The other arm, of course, clings to the bunny. After all it took to steal the damn thing, it seems a waste to lose it now. I take a moment to be proud of the fact that I'm sober enough to navigate us out of the narrow alley, no space between our bodies and Jack's breathing a storm near my ear.

The streets are silent, not another person-criminal or otherwise-shuffling through the shadows. Just us. Me and Jack. Lit only by the faint moonlight.

And I realize that this is a very romantic scenario. The kind of scene one might imagine for a dashing man and his blushing ladylove. Helping her back to her room, gallant and noble, only to be rewarded-after all is said and done-with a kiss.

Jack sways dangerously close to a shop window and it's all I can do to grab him by the collar and pull him back to me.

"Bloody windows," he mutters, his breath tainting the air around him.

Yes, very romantic indeed.

I wonder if he'd weigh less without the fifteen layers he wears. My back is straining from trying to keep him upright. Port Royale is all but a tropical paradise, what is he doing wearing so much?

"Jack," I slur, "why do you wear all those layers?"

"Can't very well go 'bout naked, can I?"

Well, that makes sense. "But why so many? So, so, soooo many?" I think I'm whispering, but I might be shouting. Rum has strange effects on my ears.

"They rather just accrued after a time." His frown seems to say that he really has no idea himself. As if he just woke up one morning in dozens of scarves and couldn't remember how it happened.

I wouldn't be surprised if that were the case.

Considering the "grand" chase they gave us, I'm rather disappointed in the marines. To have made it back to the smithy without a single encounter...it seems anticlimactic. I'm slowly beginning to lose my confidence in our military. It's been on a downturn ever since Elizabeth was kidnapped and I was almost killed by undead pirates. That sentence, by the way, sounds even worse out loud than it does in my head. Men tend to scoot far away from you if you say such things too often. Women cross the street to get away from you. That's why it's nice to have Jack around sometimes: he doesn't treat you like a leper if you happen to mention undead pirates and cursed pirate gold. The whole affair had been just another adventure in a long string of adventures for Jack.

Governor Swan prefers to act as if none of it ever happened. No one else seems inclined to want to talk about it either. So, it's just me and Jack. Again.

"Funny thing," Jack continues while I lean him against the doorframe, wishing I could slump there myself and stop the rocking of the world.

Might be a bit further gone than I thought. There's the ungodly lurch of something up my throat that signals the start of unpleasant things.

"What is?" I ask, trying to unlock the door. The keys waver in front of my eyes. Lovely.

"How long it takes to get all this off!"

I can hear myself gulp. I'm, sadly, imagining undressing Jack.

And I know he is marked all over with tanned lines that slip into pale skin hiding in secret places. Fields of skin and lean muscle. Muscle from fighting; muscle from adventure. A pile of fabric at his feet, he steps away from the faded cloth and comes closer. Closer to me.

"I imagine it would take quite a lot."

And, yes, they're just stupid words to fill the time while I fight with the alcohol for control of my body. My hands are shaking.

The rum and visions of nakedness swim through my head and I'm unbalanced by them. Distracted. Wish I could say the direction of my thoughts disturbs me, but I'd be lying if I said they hadn't dipped this way before. Dipped into cooling images of Jack, like slipping into a freshwater pool and finding bliss.

Can't unlock the door at all.

Then a steady hand grabs my own while a strangely sober voice intrudes into my thoughts.

"Best let me get the door, young William." His hand is rough; his voice is like silk.

"Yes," I swallow, "best you do that."

Where did the swagger go? A sober man's hands unlock the smithy door. A sober man guides me into the building, hand at the small of my back. Why is he walking with more composure than he's ever exhibited-sober or otherwise? I begin to wonder...

Not a lot's known about Jack Sparrow before he showed up in Tortuga with a mind to go after the treasure of the Isla de Muerta .

Gibbs words seem to take on new meaning and I'm reminded of how very little I know about Jack myself.

Jack's fingers are hot pokers on my back; I try to lean away from them, but that only makes the world turn in circles.

"Steady, boy," he intones and I feel the silly desire to tell him that I'm not a boy, but I know I'll sound petulant. And drunkenly so.

He guides me through the smithy to towards the well-hidden steps at the rear that lead to the smallish loft I share with Mr. Brown. On our way to the door, we pass Mr. Brown, who is sleeping peacefully, strangely curled up with Daisy, the donkey. There are several bottles at his side.

And somehow, before I know how or why, we're standing in front of my small bed and Jack is looking at me. There is only a small, grimy window in the room. It shines moonlight in on us and casts Jack's golden smile in cool blues and butter yellows. He looks wicked. Sometime before first meeting him and now, the wickedness stopped stirring revulsion and started stirring affection. I can't explain it; I don't understand it myself.

Jack takes the stuffed rabbit out of my hands and I stare after it dumbly. I've grown a little attached to it.

"Has he a name?" asks Jack.

I think for a moment. A slit in the veil of drunkenness lets the light of an idea through. "Thought I'd call him Gibbs. He looks like Gibbs," I say and my hands flop about to assist with my clever explanation.

Jack holds the rabbit up to his face and scrutinizes it. One of his eyebrows soars upwards. "So he does. That is positively disturbing."

Somewhere between the smithy door and here, Jack has lost the garter belt and the piccolo. I have no idea where they are. I don't actually care. We're standing quite close and everything is still and calm. The night and all the things in it seem to be waiting for something to snap like dry twigs.

And there's suddenly this moment when I feel perfectly sober and Jack is looking at me and I at him and there is this remarkable clarity to everything. The edges of the world-of Jack-seem sharper. All the little details of him seem to stand out against the drab wooden walls of the smithy. Jack is staring at me in return and his rum-clouded eyes have cleared and it makes me wonder if perhaps he is really seeing me and understands. The corner of his mouth quirks up. I forget to breathe.

Jack places the rabbit on the low table beside my bed. Then he puts a stained hand on my waist and tugs me close.

"Did you have this in mind? I had this in mind. And if you had it in mind, and I had it in mind, then that's two minds of a mind, so there's no reason to mind, savvy?"

I blink at him. I think I want to kiss him.

Maybe he said something about kisses? Maybe that's the rum talking.

I lean towards him and find…

Air. I'm kissing air.

I open my eyes-they got closed somehow-and Jack is turned away from me and staring at the rabbit. The look on his face is one of extreme discomfort and disgust. The rabbit, in turn, stares back up at him with big, haunted, glass eyes. Unmoving. Lifeless. Truly disturbing.

"It's like he's watching me," Jack mutters. "It's like Gibbs is in this room right now, watching us." He releases me to poke at the rabbit with his fingers, jangling with each jab. Jack is a musical instrument all by himself. An orchestra, really. He makes a sound that comes out like, "Yeech, eww," and then dramatically removes one of his many scarves with a flourish. He then ties the scarf around the rabbit's eyes. I find myself nodding. It is hard to do certain things when you have a pirate watching you do those things by proxy via dead rabbits.

The rum makes all of this completely logical.

And then Jack is back in my arms.

"Better?" I ask. Or slur. It makes no difference.

"Better," Jack answers and I finally get a kiss. Just like a damsel. Only drunk. And not in a dress at all.

The next thing I know is the sun is streaming though the window like a knife stab to the eye. I'm naked in bed and alone. There is a somewhat familiar rabbit on the table beside my bed. He's blindfolded, so I'll get no answers from him. And answers I need because the whole night is a blur or brown rum and hazy thoughts.

There are telltale bruises at my hip and bite marks down the center of my chest and…lower. I can feel scratches across my back.

My mouth tastes like a million graves and my head feels like it's flooded with salt water.

The only conclusion I can draw is that my night with Jack had either been the best of my life, or the worst. Neither would surprise me.

I have no idea where the piccolo came from, but I almost trip on it while making my way downstairs.

When I finally make it down, Mr. Brown is standing in the center of the room with a confused expression on his aged face. On one finger he has dangling a pretty, expensively made garter belt. He is staring at it as if it contains the answers he usually seeks at the bottom of a bottle.

"Must have been one hell of a night," he says in between hiccups.

Indeed, I think.

I tie on an apron and get to work.

Off in the distance, I hear the thundering footsteps of guards and a crash of cannon fire. "After him!" a marine screams.

I smile and strike while the iron is hot.

The End