He'd been sure he was dead. His time had to finally come, there was no way of cheating it forever, and it hadn't even seemed to matter. He only had a vague memory of being hauled out of the water just as it began to torrent into his throat, but that was impossible. Yet here he was, unless it was an illusion. He was dry and wrapped in blankets and warm, and it was all so unlikely that there was still a good chance that he was dead. He hadn't opened his eyes yet, not wanting to spoil it, and just sat back and enjoyed the warmth and the gentle, rocking motion of the ship.

"Jack."

That voice snapped him back to reality uncomfortably quickly. He opened his eyes.

Finding himself in a dimly lit, private room, his breathing only froze for a fraction of a second when he realised why. "Hector," He greeted, his eyes settling on the fiend. Considering everything, he was rather proud of the steadiness of his voice, and smiled at the older man as if he had been expecting this all along.

Barbossa hadn't changed. He looked weathered but capable, sat at his ease a little distance from Jack. His face was obscured slightly from the dim light and the angle of his hat, but Jack could see him smile back at him. "What do ye say?"

Jack raised an eyebrow.

"Saved ye life, Jack," Barbossa said drolly, looking him up and down. "A simple thanks wouldn't go amiss."

"Wouldn't it, now?" he murmured. "From what I can remember, you've almost taken my life more times than you've saved it, mate, so I don't think a thanks is in order. You've just evened the odds."

Barbossa narrowed his eyes, unamused. "Mebbe I should throw ye back then, if that's the way ye feel."

Jack tried not to look alarmed, but it was hard to react as quickly as usual. His head felt funny, presumably from absorbing half of the Caribbean Sea before Barbossa had so kindly dragged him out. What were the odds? He still thought he could be dead.

Barbossa apparently hadn't been serious. "So what've ye done to ye'self this time?"

"Oh, nothing exciting." Jack looked away. He was feeling the most vulnerable he'd felt in years, and this was the last person in the world he wanted to be in the care of. Jones would be preferable. "Thanks," he added, and grudgingly meant it. Dragging a man out of water was one thing, but wrapping him up in his private quarters was humanity that Jack wasn't aware the other man possessed.

"Aye," Barbossa acknowledged without looking too smug. "Ye look tired."

"Aye," Jack mimicked. "Nearly drowning does that to you."

The look Barbossa gave him told him he knew it was more than the nearly drowning. "I haven't heard much about ye Jack," he said suddenly. "Nothin' at all, these days. I was beginnin' to think you were dead."

"Didn't know you cared." He tried to make it sound light but it didn't work.

"One thing I heard..." he trailed off, and Jack looked at him tiredly, uncaring. "Tha' you were on the Dutchman."

He breathed out, but still took a moment before answering. "Well." he said eventually. "Evidently not. No tentacles." He went to raise his arms to demonstrate this, before realising in the nick of time that he was unclothed. "Did you - undress me?"

Barbossa started cackling with laughter. "Don't be so coy, lad. You'd 'ave frozen in those clothes."

Jack waited for the older man to stop chuckling. "I was on the Dutchman," he said, when the older man shut up. He wanted something to fiddle with as he spoke, but it was a difficult task being naked in another's bed. "I convinced Jones to let me get the chest for him, personally, from Beckett, as a way of paying the debt."

Barbossa listened patiently. "An' how did that go?"

"Well. It's done." He held a hand out, more carefully this time, palm up. "No mark."

"An' Beckett?"

"What about him?"

Barbossa shrugged languidly. He stood up and made his way to the fire at Jack's side, tending to it with a poker. Jack felt an irrational, cool slice of fear in his stomach, and noted with relief that everything that had been on his person; sword, gun, dagger, was well within his reach beside the bed. It should have been the first thing he noticed. He sat up straighter, trying to sharpen up.

"I'm wonderin' which of those was the worst enemy to make."

Jack just looked at him, trying to gauge how much he knew. If Barbossa really had been the one to undress him, he would have seen his wounds. Maybe being thrown back overboard wasn't such a bad idea.

Barbossa, meanwhile, dragged his chair closer to the fire so he could poke it at his ease. This close, he could see Jack wasn't as calm as he was making out; could see him trembling and had a slightly unstable look in his eyes. When Barbossa had found him, he had so much blood on him that Barbossa wondered how much of it was his own. He hadn't been too surprised at the turn of events. Returning from a man who had once branded you could not have gone well.

"You got any rum?"

Expecting this, Barbossa felt in his pockets and handed him a bottle. "Are ye all right?" he asked eventually. It was a question, a concern, never shared between pirates, least of all him and Jack, but something about Jack was making him uneasy.

Jack, however, just gave him a blank look.

"He'll be after ye then," he observed, somewhat nastily, to get him to talk.

"Who?" Jack said, a little impatiently.

"Beckett."

His eyes became cool, distant. "Actually, I'm hoping he's dead."

"Hopin'?"

"I pushed him into a fire."

"Ah. Tha' may have done it."

"Maybe. I was pushed into a fire once," he said casually. He held the bottle up. "This isn't all you've got, is it?"

"Aye. Make it last."

Jack frowned. He was silent for a little while before speaking up again. "So. What are you up to these days?"

Barbossa allowed himself a smirk. "Why? Worried about what I'll be doin' with ye?"

Jack was past caring. He avoided the eyes of the man by the fire and finished the bottle with relish. "I imagine you'll give me to him," he said matter-of-factly.

"Jones?"

"Beckett," he said, impatient at his slowness.

"Don' put ideas in my head," he said, with a chuckle. Then he took pity on his old acquaintance and dropped the joke. "We'll be passin' Tortuga soon. Migh' as well drop ye off."

He saw the tension leave Jack's body like a tide. "Much obliged," he murmured, toasting him with the bottle.

Barbossa was almost a little offended at what Jack thought him capable of. He'd heard some nasty things about Beckett, nasty by even his own standards, and wouldn't consider aiding the man against his enemies, even if they were the likes of Jack. And he was under the impression of an unspoken agreement between himself and Jack, that although there had been a lot of blood under the bridge, such an act would be going too far. He must be going soft with age. Men still had to sell each other out. They sat in silence for a while.

"Or," Barbossa spoke suddenly, making Jack start slightly. "Ye can stay."

Dark eyes met his own, darker still with suspicion. "Why?"

"Why not? Tortuga'll be the first place he looks for you. He won't expect ye to be with me. If he is still alive."

"I don't need bloody protecting."

"It's the easiest option though, aye?"

"Is it?" he said, eyeing the weathered captain warily.

Barbossa continued smoothly. "Any soul in Tortuga'll sell you out."

"So will you." He spoke quietly, but with assurance.

Barbossa narrowed his eyes, but Jack wouldn't meet his gaze. Then he grunted and said quietly. "Fine. Suit yeself. But let me tell you this. That man is poison, an' I don' hate you enough to want you in his hands. Ye understand?"

"Yes," he muttered.

"Do you?"

"Yes," he said, meeting his eye finally. ""I just don't see what's changed between us."

Barbossa dropped the poker with a loud clatter and stood. "Not a thing," he snarled.

Jack braced himself for a punch. He never had Barbossa down as one who would attack the injured, he was a perfectly adept swordsman and no coward, but this act of charity was too good to be true. Reflexively closing his eyes, waiting for it, instead of pain, Jack felt the weight of Barbossa's hands on the bed, and then a mouth pressed against his own in a kiss.

Barbossa tasted unexpectedly sweet, of apples and his pipe, and smelt of the sea. Jack attempted to push him away, only to be pushed further into the pillows by the other's man's body, as he languidly tasted him. He was shocked, but at the same time somehow felt this had been coming, brewing between them over the years only to come to a head at the worst possible time.

The thud of his heart excited Barbossa. He pulled back absently and raised a hand to Jack's cheek, only to have him jerk his head away. He looked at him and found him flushed, trembling, but looking at him with what was unmistakably fear and alarm. Oh, there was desire, excitement, lust there too, underneath. Barbossa was suddenly overcome with loathing for him. Of all people, he'd thought Jack would understand. But most of all, he loathed and felt disgusted with himself. Stupid, stupid man. He stood up as if nothing had happened and left the room without a word.

The next morning, Jack wondered if he'd been slipped something in the rum, for he woke up alone on a beach - not Tortuga but not, fortunately, a desert island either - with no recollection of being left there. He looked around uneasily, gathering his bearings and making sure no-one was in sight. Barbossa, or whoever had been in charge of him, had had the kindness to dress him and give him his things back. He looked out to the horizon, although the ship was not in sight. There was now another person to avoid for the rest of his life.

Rough and rusty draft that I found on my computer from ages ago, so please excuse shoddiness!