As it turned out, there were fewer volunteers than Will anticipated, when Jack strode onto deck, his boots echoing slowly but firmly, and called out, "Who here wants t' get a good clock in on th' scurrilous Jack Sparrow?"



Not surprisingly, Mart had no qualms about hurrying out from under a lockbox, where he'd been presumably completing repairs. "I'll do it!" he waved his hand about. "Just put me in range …"



Will watched Jack eye the midget, then glance down at himself in a little alarm, undoubtedly gauging the height range for Mart's fist. "I said clock, not castrate," Jack warned him off.



"Well, then, bend down here!"



"Mate, you're gon' have t' find some way o' gettin' o'er th' Interceptor," Jack shook his head, recalling as they all did the short man's bitterness over the fine ship's demise. Will had learned since then that Anamaria had been set on giving Mart a regular daytime helmsman position, and it was well known Jack's favorite job was steering … when not drinking, climbing the mast, or carousing, that was.



Jack glanced around deck and his eyes widened at Anamaria. "Ah! Will ye be wantin' to get even wit' me for your fine pile o' rubble, then?" he asked with more than a trace of lighted mischief in his eye. Will occasionally wondered at their past together -- if they had one to speak of, or if Jack just delighted in giving his only female crew member a decidedly tough row to hoe.



The woman folded her arms and gave him a half-disgusted look that also held a measure of guilt. "I ought to knock you cold and leave you here to go fight my own battles," she enunciated, a sure sign to Will she was angry.



"Love, we can't 'ave ye doin' that," Jack soothed. "First o' all, he won' fight ye, not when he wants t' bed ye. Second, pistols are not your strength. Third, I get shot, I wan' make sure there's someone 'ere t' keep this shifty-eyed scoundrel from sailin' off wit' me Pearl." He gestured at Mart, who scowled, even when Jack flashed him a couple of gold teeth in jest.



"At least I am sober when I helm," the short man challenged.



"Jus' one o' your many mistakes," the captain countered, "but I let ye stay on 'nyway." He looked at the rest of his crew, then turned to Will. "Well, boy, looks like ye've your work cut out for ye."



"Huh?" Will admitted at times he wasn't the brightest lamp in the tavern, but he truly had no idea what was even going on. "What, you want me to *hit* you?"



"Nay, I wan' ye t' put all ye got behind a good clock to me eye." Jack jabbed a finger toward said facial feature. "Hard."



"Well, now I *know* you're mad."



Jack shut his eyes briefly, and Will could tell it was simply a fancier version of rolling them. "If a second shows up t' duel wit'out th' first in tow, there's a lot said 'bout th' first man's cowardice an' mettle. We'd not be wantin' Gibbs t' suffer for your impudence, now would we?" he directed at Will.



It took a minute for him to sort out what the pirate was telling him, and he began sputtering out a retort. "I'm not the one who put laudanum in his-"



Jack raised a hand, fingers elegantly splayed, and dipped his head a bit, shaking it, glancing up through long eyelashes. "Point is, if I tell Negre I knocked 'im out, I gotta look like I jus' came through a 'ell of a fight, savvy? So, a black eye'll go a long way t' provin' jus' that."



"One black eye?" Will noised skeptically. "I can get that elbowing my way through a tavern crowd."



"I said I wanted t' look challenged, not beat like some wet bitch," Jack dryly retorted. "I *am* still Captain Jack Sparrow. 'Sides, drunk as Gibbs was, he only got in one good punch 'fore I put 'im away wit' this." Jack held up a hand and flexed the ring-clad fingers. "So, you gon' punch me, or do I need t' go find a lil' girl who can do th' job better?"



Will narrowed his eyes reflexively, slitting them nastily, but Jack only grinned, showing teeth surprisingly well-kept for an old seadog. *He's not that old, I suppose,* Will reconsidered. *Wonder how young he looks under all that hair and jewelry?* "If you insist …" the blacksmith felt his right fingers clenching into a fist. "But you can't assign me extra repair duty in retribution; you asked for this," he warned, then paused as he thought. "Or barnacle-scraping, or deck-swabbing, or any other unpleasant, tedious, dirty little chores around this ship," he added, his experience with Barbossa making him a bit savvier about how to strike bargains.



Jack was about to answer when he was cut off by a shrill, "Wind in the sails! Wind in the sails!" They all glanced about at the fluttering, and Cotton's parrot circled briefly overhead before landing on his master's shoulder. The mute man came to a stop about three feet from Will and Jack, eyeing Jack intently.



With no small humor, Will could tell Jack was uncomfortable, trying to think of the best way to address someone who couldn't speak back. Finally, the pirate captain cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and faced his crewman. "Mr. Cotton … and parrot?" he barked in an acknowledging growl.



Cotton balled up his fist and gesticulated that he wouldn't mind filling in for Will. Jack frowned, looking almost affronted. "What'd I e'er do to *you?*" he asked in genuine puzzlement, something Will heard so rarely as to command his attention. Nearly the rest of the assembled crew looked nearly as confounded, both by Cotton and their captain's expression.



"Yo ho ho! Yo ho ho!" squawked the parrot, flapping his wings in some agitation, craning his neck toward Jack and dipping his head in small nods. Without Gibbs to translate, everyone looked around at one another blankly, and Will wondered if they were simply puzzled over the meaning of what was happening, or if this was just another entry in their shared ongoing thought process that usually included the phrase *How the blazes did we end up on this merry freighter, anyway?*



"Um … Captain?" One of the twins, James, stepped forth and extended a slender arm, pointing at the side of his head. "Maybe that …?"



Everyone's heads swiveled, and small noises of understanding went up as they all saw what James had noticed. Jack tried to look, too, but his eyes didn't reach the side of his head. "What?" he murmured, then growled louder. "*Answer me!*"



Nobody spoke, so Will reached forth and wordlessly tucked his fingertips beneath the two brightly-colored feathers the captain had incorporated into his last bead-weaving, swinging from a lock of dark hair. He held them at an angle that Jack could see when he glanced sideways, and immediately, the older man's brow furrowed deeply and he grunted, glancing at Will, then at the bird. "They fell out," he accused lamely. "Fair game."



"Dead men tell no tales!" the parrot argued.



Jack sighed as the crew looked on him accusingly. "Oh, *fine!*" he finally admitted. "So I nabbed a couple o' tail feathers. Not like he'll miss 'em; 'e's got plenty." Jack and the bird regarded each other accusingly. "I am the captain 'ere," the human finally spoke, holding aloft a forefinger in warning. "You could jus' as easily become Davey Jones's mascot, ye know."



The bird quieted, but Cotton didn't look any less agitated. "Captain," Will began, keeping his eyes on the mute, then flicking them to Jack, "maybe you should just let him hit you. You did ask for volunteers, and … well, you wouldn't like anyone collecting Sparrow tail feathers, now would you?" The look Jack shot him was almost glacial and laced with menace, but it didn't keep the silly grin off the blacksmith's face, nor snickers from resounding from the rest of the crew.



Finally, Jack turned toward Cotton. "Make it quick, man," he sighed, planting his feet apart and bracing himself. "Mebbe when I come to, I'll 'ave a crew o' pirates instead o' a comedy troupe."