Title: Contradictions 2: Fight

Author: Veronica Rich the First (I've used the name for God knows how many years, so I am likely actually the first G)

Category: "Pirates of the Caribbean" J/W slash. Turn back now if you're squicked!

Rating: PG (Ratings will eventually change by chapter)

Pairing: Jack/Will

Special Thanks: To the Crow and the Spoon for beta-reading and God knows what all else ... ;-)

Disclaimer: If I owned Disney, Donald Duck would get some on a regular basis just so he'd be in a better mood. If I owned Bruckheimer Productions, "Armageddon" would never have been made. But thank heavens they finally did something right and made POTC. (What I do own is an aging Chevy that just got new brakes.) No profit is being earned and no offense is intended to the real people behind this fictional production that inspired my stories. (I can tell reality from fantasy very well, thank you.)

Summary: No slash yet, perhaps not for a while. This is the second in a series of stories collectively called "Contradictions," for reasons you will hopefully see as it wears on. This is an Alternate Universe story, which splits off from the original movie story after Barbossa's defeat. Will gets a change of scenery and Jack gets an equal in more ways than one ...

NOTE: Except for rating changes, this information will not repeat in subsequent chapters, so memorize it REEEEEEEAL good ....

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"I'm sure the crew thinks me quite mad for this," Will Turner surmised aloud, sauntering past shelves dusted with books and the occasional colony of green mold spores drifted in aloft damp breezes.



"Nay, me job's to be th' daft 'un," Jack Sparrow answered, a couple of shelves over. "Though I can' say they wouldn' think us both mad, spendin' our swag in this fashion."



Will chuckled to himself. He'd been aboard the Black Pearl for well more than a month when he'd discovered, quite to his pleasure, that Jack was indeed capable of reading and writing. He'd thought he would get the one-up on Jack by challenging him to literary debates, then, but the captain had been the one to continuously pinion his newest crew member with views that Will suspected must have gotten their start in some English classroom and ripened in the hot Caribbean sun.



His fingers came to rest on a slim volume of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream.' "Shakespeare?" he asked aloud.



"Pirate." Will glanced up and could see Jack's beaten leather hat swishing from side to side as the head beneath presumably shook in disagreement.



"Excuse me?"



"Th' man stole more material than a shipload o' scalawag seamstresses."



"Hmph." Will disagreed; he and Elizabeth had grown up reading the Bard, and to criticize was akin to sacrilege for any self-respecting Englishman. Or woman. Then again, he was not at all sure Jack was an Englishman, and the man didn't seem to give a hang for convention, at any rate. He poked about a bit more, until finally he sighed. "Why?"



A low, throaty chuckle issued from his captain. "I knew ye wouln' be able t' take it for long." But nothing more was forthcoming.



"Jack!"



"Keep your knickers dry, mate." Jack must have stood on his toes then, for Will saw a bit of the red scarf and bronzed forehead arch up a bit over the shelf. "Th' man stole most o' his collected works. I'd say Chaucer was th' mos' likely wronged party; then 'gain, *he* swiped from the Italians, so ye can' rightly say he was any better off." The motormouth paused. "In fact, th' English as a whole 'ave a fine reputation o' takin' whate'er strikes their fancy an' makin' it their own. Rather like th' Romans." An elegant hand, forefinger held aloft, lifted above the shelves. "Ah, now there was a race o' marauders t' put th' entire o' the Caribbean threat to shame, lad."



"Wait -- aren't you English?" Will asked, genuinely curious.



"A bit 'ere, a bit there," came the cryptic answer.



The blacksmith rolled his eyes, still looking over the volumes before him. If Jack ever gave a direct answer about anything having to do with his past, the pillars supporting hell would probably collapse, crushing the demons. Then again, it would leave the place ripe for occupation by one Captain Jack Sparrow, which would likely fit right in with the man's intentions at the end of his unpredictable life. "Well, I would think an English literary 'pirate' would be right up your alley, then," he quipped, stressing the moniker in a way that clearly conveyed he still didn't believe the older man's assessment.



"Nay … swag's a fine thing t' relieve a rich man of, but ideas are free, mate. No call t' be profitin' off 'em when ye can get off your lazy arse an' come up wit' a few o' your own."



Will puzzled this, recalling something Elizabeth had once told him from a book of philosophy. "Is there really anything new and original left, though?" he wondered aloud, going around the end of the shelf and skipping over to the row where he'd seen the hat bobbing. "I mean, there's only so many different ideas, right? I've read plenty of stories that had the same plot or idea, but it was told differently -- isn't that the trick?"



Jack was stroking a page of open text, dragging his forefinger along the margin of a plate print as if tracing the drawing. When he got to the bottom and turned the page, he turned halfway and glanced back at Will. "I'm not sayin' ye can' make a good idea better-" he began.



"But that's exactly what you said!" Will looked about hastily, then lowered his voice. "I mean, you just said someone who can't come up with their own ideas is a lazy-"



"Said if they *profit* from stealin' an idea, they's a pirate."



Will stepped closer so he could lower his voice further; by this time it was probably too late, the proprietor of the shop behind her counter presumably going over accounts or inventory already undoubtedly having heard them. "Jack, you're a pirate. You profit from others' work all the time," he hissed. "Now how is Shakespeare any different from you, then?"



A slow smirk stole across the shorter pirate's face, and Will groaned, knowing he'd played into the man's verbal waltz like a gazelle before the lion. Dark eyes twinkling, Jack cocked his head, the slight motion making his beads clink hollowly. "Nay, din' say there's any dif'rence; pirate's a pirate."



"I wasn't saying he-"



A sudden, loud shot reported close enough to crack their eardrums, and Will barely had time to cut off his sentence before he was being knocked to the floorboards by nearly two meters of pirate captain. They both crouched, Will with his head reflexively half-bowed, Jack's hands on his shoulders as the older man hovered nearby in his own hunker. "Stay 'ere," he commanded, straightening his legs as he bent at the waist, staying well below shelf level, turning away.



Will immediately began following, and Jack turned on him, hissing. "Did I not give ye a direct order, sailor?" he snapped.



The blacksmith ignored those hard-marbled eyes and scowled in return. "I'm not hiding out here while you wander out into … whatever!" he whispered furiously.



"You're buckin' t' be crazier 'n me, boy."



"Yes, but I'm better with a sword." Will couldn't resist, though it meant Jack's lips pursed and he sucked in his cheeks a bit gauntly, looking ready to spit fire, narrowing his eyes in a way that implied he'd deal with this mutiny later.



Keeping low, both men approached the end of the shelves and made their way the short distance to the doorway. Jack straightened and kept to the facing, inching around to peek out, while Will hung back and watched, waiting for a signal. He glanced at the shopkeeper, expecting fear and upset, but her face was calm, though she crouched behind her counter.



"Aw, hell." Jack withdrew his head a bit and pressed his forehead to the door facing, shaking it. Will noticed his eyes were shut and his brow was likely furrowed as his hand came up to curl around the edge of the facing. "Gibbs, ye dumb ass."



"What?" Will pitched his voice low, leaning closer. Surely the Scot hadn't gone finding trouble; he was usually pretty happy with his flask and his bed, wherever he happened to bunk on any given night.



Jack looked his way, and oddly, Will chose that moment to notice how, in the shadow of this brief column of wood hidden from the sun's rays, his captain's delicate features resembled a girl's regretful expression. "T'was his pistol, Will; th' ox's apparently defendin' Anamaria. Probably some ill-conceived attempt t' avenge 'er dubious honor."



Following along, the first thing Will noticed when they were outside was how the older sailor stood in the middle of the cobbled road, his hand pointing his gun toward the ground, though not in a direction away from a large African man about five meters from him. The fellow had a meaty hand clamped on one of Anamaria's wrists, and Will barely had time to wonder what the hell had transpired. "Jack?" he leaned down and murmured near the man's ear.



"Shh," the captain waved him off, inching closer to the tableau.



"The wench is a fit whore, and I intend my shilling's worth," the African spoke in an oddly pleasant, deep voice.



"She's not a 'ore, ye slack-jawed idiot!" Gibbs bellowed in return, waving his pistol as he gestured at the man. "'Sides, she gave ye your shillin' back! She's a sailor! Let 'er alone!"



"No such thing as wench sailors," came the booming voice again, still oddly even.



Anamaria, for her part, looked utterly poleaxed, probably the first time Will could remember seeing such a thing. Then again, the man who had a hold on her was extremely large and none too patient. His fingers looked to be digging into the young woman's flesh, and Will reflexively took a step in her direction. An arm of steel clothed in dark blue wool shot out in front of him, and Jack swiveled his head just enough to throw the younger man a warning glance. "Do not do anythin' stupid," he half-growled beneath his breath.



"Aye, an' she is!" Gibbs insisted. Will frowned, knowing the Scot regarded the young woman akin to the daughter he hadn't seen in almost a decade. "Unhand 'er, ye blaggard!"



To everyone's surprise, including that of the small crowd gathering, no doubt, the man released the female pirate. "You would duel for her?" he smirked.



Will's eyebrows shot up, and he glanced to Jack; in profile, the captain's expression was as carefully blank as he'd ever seen.



Gibbs lowered his pistol and gathered himself in. "Aye, if that's what it takes, then," he answered.



"No!" Anamaria stubbornly sliced a fist through the air. "This stops now! Nobody's getting killed over this!"



But the men, as they are wont to do when killing and weapons are involved, ignored her pleas, bossy as they were. "Weapon?" the other man queried, nodding toward Gibbs's pistol.



A nod. "Aye." Even from the back at a distance of a few feet, Will could hear the older man's verbal wavering -- not enough to refuse, just enough to know he'd gotten himself into some deep dung.



"And your second?"



Gibbs glanced about, and Will felt his feet moving forward without conscious thought. "I'm his second," he announced. Immediately he felt fingers digging into his forearm and pulling him back, roughly.



"Nay, ignore th' boy." Jack was in front of him, and a fuming Will could tell by the arch of his head he was tilting his chin up at the African. "I'll be bein' Gibbs's second."



The large man favored Jack with an odd, almost knowing expression, but simply said, "Dusk. At the docks. Winner gets the wench." The man turned a lustfully amused eye on Anamaria, who'd backed a fair distance away by this point and paused only to spit at the ground before him, scowling. She proceeded to rattle off something in a tongue Will couldn't understand, but he was fairly proficient in judging Fluent Cursing in just about any language.



As the crowd dispersed, Will turned on his captain. "I'm neither a boy nor a simpleton, Jack!" he admonished, anger in his voice. "Don't presume to treat me as such."



Jack ignored him pointedly, paused to converse in low tones with Gibbs for a moment, then patted the older man on the shoulder and watched him head toward the Black Pearl at harbor. Once the man was safely out of hearing range, Jack whirled with a flare of his skirted coat and gripped Will's elbow, steering him painfully back toward the book shop. Leading him inside, he ignored the shopkeeper and shoved the younger man against the inside of the door facing, getting up in his face to deliver his lecture.



"Don' you ever dare t' question me judgment." It was no scream or yell, just a quiet, graveled threat. "I'm th' captain, and I didn' get there by bein' a fool or an idiot. Savvy?" The question was couched quite seriously, with none of the playful flair Jack usually used delivering it to some hapless debater or victim. "I'll not be takin' life-and-death advice from th' likes o' ye, Mr. Turner, so ye might jus' as well disavow yourself o' that notion now, or not bother comin' back aboard me ship." He released Will's arm, leaving the blacksmith shaken, but no less affronted.



"I see, then," Will nodded, hearing the escalating fury in his own voice. "Good for taking orders, but not having sense enough to act outside that, eh, Captain? I wonder, was my father so mindfully useless?"



Jack's scowl deepened, and for a moment, Will thought he'd pushed the boundary line. Then, to his surprise, the expression grew less hard, the pirate's lips twitching. "Your Da had 'nough sense to know what's what and when's when," he shot back. "Th' diff'rence 'tween a seasoned pirate an' a whelp still learnin'." Will crossed his arms defiantly. Jack owed him more of an explanation than that lame excuse, and he seemed to realize it. "Look, I know for a fact William Turner would o' had me head for takin' ye to th' sea, bonny lass or no, an' he's prob'ly watchin' from where'er of the Great Beyond as we speak an' plottin' me fiery punishment." *Ah, so you didn't have plans for Beezelebub's quarters, then,* Will mused. "I've already 'nough for a speedy carriage t' hell; I don' need to add 'getting another Turner killed' t' th' litany."



Will was mildly mollified, but far from the insult being gone. "Then I'll be *your* second."



"A second can' 'ave a second," Jack shook his head. "That's th' whole point o' a second; somethin' happens t' him, an' duel's o'er." Before Will could correct him, he paused and regarded the younger man, something close to understanding lighting those chocolate eyes. "Unless …"



"Aye," Will nodded with a triumphant grin; it was he, not Jack, who'd tackled the problem of a harebrained scheme this time, but just barely ahead of the wily pirate. It was a dubious honor, he belatedly realized. "Unless the second isn't really the second in the first place."