As Jack dozed, his subconscious filled in gaps between what his mind called for and what his conscience dictated …

"Oh, Jack … it must be terrible for you, to be stuck on this island …"

"What? Oh … um, yes, it is terrible, but the company is-" He pulled away a bit to say something different to Elizabeth, but she was no longer there. Seated next to him on the sand, next to the campfire, was Will. His vest was gone, as were his shoes and stockings, and his hair, unclubbed, fell around his shoulders.

Jack stumbled over his words, throat closing up at the glow of fire through the strands of Will's lightening hair. "Th' company's infinitely better than last time … and th' scenery …" He couldn't finish around the constriction below his Adam's apple, especially not with Will tilting his head and gazing at him like that. "Rum?" he offered his bottle lamely.

"I don't want your rum, Jack."

"Well, technically speakin', it's not really mine t' begin with." Jack turned his attention to the squat, wide bottle, rolling it between his hands. "How'd you get here, instead o' 'Lizbeth?"

"You tell me. Your dream."

"No, I was really here. This weren't a dream."

"Was I there?" Jack didn't speak. "How, then?"

"I couldn' stop thinking 'bout ye," Jack finally admitted. "Was worried t' death that monster's crew'd try something on ye while you's their pris'ner."

"I'm here now."

"I know." Jack's brain thought it was reliving actual events and, as such, tried to intervene by having its owner rise to his feet to get away from the younger man, though a bit drunkenly. Mainly because he was -- well, drunk, not to put too fine a point on it. He swayed, and Will, who'd magically climbed to his feet as well, caught him by hands on his shoulders. "Ye shouldn' be doin' that, mate," he mumbled, pulling back.

Innocently: "Why not, Jack?"

Remembering his silent vow to Bill that he'd honor his son's space, Jack protested. "Stop sayin' me name like tha'."

"Like what, Jack?" For some reason, Will's voice was right next to his ear, then. "Jack … oh, Jack …" he murmured, hands sliding down his shoulders; the captain felt a light quiver go through him. "Good God, Jack … yes, Jack …please, Jack …"

The object of that appellation twisted his head to the side abruptly, catching the speaker's mouth with his own. He rationalized it was to shut Will up, but such a distant façade was difficult, at best, to maintain with a delectable young blacksmith's tongue down one's throat. Jack's blood fired, his body moving of its own accord to wrestle his partner to the sugary sand, limbs and lips tangled. Every time the side of his nose brushed Will's, the younger man moaned into his throat, and Jack would groan in return, until they were both panting, lips barely brushing, Will's fingers wound into his dark, beaded locks, the heels of his hands cradling Jack's jaws just below his earlobes. "Jack," he whispered into his lover's mouth.

"Will …" He could feel the cry in his throat, the way he spoke the name different from every other time he addressed his friend. He opened his eyes to see the smith's, which were large and dark, only a few centimeters away, hotly roving his features as if searching for a focal point to ground them; certainly, at least Jack felt like *he* was falling.

And then Will tilted his chin up to meet Jack's lips again, and the captain let his eyes fall shut, drowsily laving kisses on that windburned, delicious mouth, which pushed back, parting and smiling for him -- for him, alone -- and spoke occasional whispered snippets of endearment-

A horrific booming noise shattered Jack's dream, snapping him from intense fantasy into clammy reality in the space of less than two seconds. He sat straight up, sheet twisted between his bare legs, right fist up with a wicked fifteen-centimeter blade gripped tightly within. He suspended his breathing, listening.

He didn't have long to wait; less than a minute later, another deafening repeat rocked his cabin, and he ripped the sheet away with his free hand, feet on the floor to cross the short distance to the sideboard. Tossing the dagger point-first into a scarred wooden beam of the wall, he made short work of pulling on trousers, boots, chemise and sash and loading up assorted weapons, accomplishing the feat in less than three minutes. Yanking his door open, he was met in the corridor by a few crew members who'd apparently not taken the same care in dressing, a couple not wearing anything at all.

"Dress and on deck," Jack growled at them, yanking a scarf into a hard knot at the back of his head. "Now!"

As the crowd hurriedly moved out, an exhausted-looking Will stepped forth, rubbing his face. "Where're we at?" he yawned. He was dressed, but his own chemise was untucked, and the cuffs hung from slender forearms, unbuttoned.

"S what I intend t' find out." Normally, Jack might've appreciated the view; now, he barely noticed, not even having time or presence of mind to feel abashed at what had been on his mind regarding this man not five minutes earlier. "Round up a coupla th' crew an' check th' cannons," he ordered. "I wan' know who's firin' an' why. Bring 'em on deck." With that, he spun and lightly sprinted for the steps leading to deck, taking them two at a time.

Halfway across the deck, Jack stopped. Stock-still. He tilted his head back, looking into the sky as he made a slow circle, ending by facing the bow. *Those stars should be to port,* he deduced. It didn't take a scientist to figure out what had happened, and Jack turned himself back toward the stern, ready to demand answers from Cotton at the helm.

Only it wasn't Cotton … "Where's th' helmsman?" Jack demanded, coming up the steps carefully to face Curly.

"You're looking at 'im."

Jack didn't care at all for the tone, pausing at the top of the steps, hands at his sides. "No, I'm lookin' at me newest pris'ner, I don' get th' answer I want," he replied with false calm. "Where is Mr. Cotton?"

A small, curious smile flitted across Curly's sunburned features. "Takin' a nap."

Somewhere in the red haze settling across his mind, Jack gave short pause to hope the mute -- and his parrot -- were still among the living. "I see," he continued, moving imperceptibly closer. "An' who'd be helpin' ye in this?"

"You, in about ten minutes." He lifted a hand toward the bow. "We're comin' up on her, probably be close enough to board in less than a knot."

Despite himself, Jack craned his head toward the bow, and caught in his peripheral vision something being held out to him. "Go on," smirked Curly, nodding with more confidence, probably since he was still standing on the boat and not swimming through sharks. Jack took the telescope and extended it, hoping the moon would shed enough light to explain what the hell was going on, though he had a sinking feeling he already knew.

Sometimes, he *really* hated being perceptive.

The ship he'd refused to approach and board earlier in the day -- at least he was fairly sure it was one and the same -- was steaming in their direction, practically on a collision course, and Jack came to a sickening realization. "We fired on 'er," he murmured, lowering the telescope. He ignored the sailors pounding to deck from below, and turned to face the tall redhead at the helm again. "You fired on her," he amended, voice sobering as he felt his insides clench, chill.

"Well … technically speakin', *Captain*, you fired on her. Bein's the Pearl is your ship." Curly slapped the wheel sharply, jovially. "Shall I give the order to drop anchor, or would you like to?"

Jack had never been so drunk he couldn't remember what was happening at any given time, and he'd rarely imbibed even enough to be mildly tipsy, despite appearances to the contrary. It was in such a stupor many years before in some dive in Tortuga, though, that he'd concluded he possessed quite a long tether between the spark of someone making him angry, and snapping on following through with any action acknowledging it. Frankly, the snap had damn near come when cannon fire had jolted him out of a perfectly pleasant wet dream, and Curly had just provided the lovely shearing of said rope.

He only knew he moved; he had no real idea what he'd done until he was holding the redhead bent back over the rail by his stringy hair, the man screeching in pain as the fingers of his left hand wiggled, tried to claw away from their master, which had been pinioned palm-up to the wooden rail by the dagger Jack usually cradled in sleep more intimately than any lover. Instead of being shocked, Jack allowed the hot blood to course. "Now what I need from *you,*" he calmly addressed the wailing mutineer, "are names."

"N-Names?" the man managed to hitch out between cries of pain.

"Glad to know your hearing isn't affected. Names," he repeated calmly, yanking on the hair in the opposite direction of the pinned hand. "Who's helping ye?"

"I c-can't-"

"Do you know th' average shark can smell blood up to over a knot away?" Jack lectured. "Smart, hungry fish, they are. These waters are positively riddled with th' buggers, and I doubt they'd turn down a free meal, even one such as yourself, Curly."

"C-Connors! Connors helped me!"

"And?"

"Just … him! No one else!"

Jack gave his hair a vicious yank. "Who else?" he snarled. "God damn it, TELL ME!"

"Nobody! I swear t-to God! Me mother's own g-grave!"

"And that's supposed to make me believe ye?" Jack leaned in very close, the tip of his nose touching the man's quivering bottom lip. "As if your mother'd be anything great to swear 'pon, you son of a bitch."

"Jack. Captain."

"What?" he ground out, not taking his eyes from Curly.

"We found Connors. And Cotton; he's hurt, but alive."

Somewhere in Jack's mind, it recognized Will's voice not too far behind him. "Bring Connors up here."

"Captain, we-"

"I said bring him forth." Jack closed his eyes, trying to find something calm where there was none -- not even for Will Turner.

"Jack," the voice appealed rationally, "the other ship's almost on us, and we really need to be-"

"Are you incapable of following a simple order, Mr. Turner?" Jack wheeled, releasing Curly, and closed the distance between himself and Will so quickly the smith actually took a couple of steps back. "I said, bring him up here, NOW!"

Will's eyes widened and he swallowed, but he didn't have any other visible reaction. "Yes, sir," he answered a bit scratchily, turning on his heel and striding down the steps at a measured, stiff pace.

Eyes intently on the approaching vessel, Jack grabbed the front of Connors's tunic when he was near enough, dragging the man to the rail next to his buddy. Reaching forward, he plucked his dagger from the hand and wood, ignoring Curly's yelp of pain. Not taking his eyes from them, he called for Ana, who joined him on deck shortly. "Meet our diplomats," he told her in clipped tones, gesturing to the two frightened men.

"What're they doing, Captain?" she wanted to know.

"Why, this is our welcomin' committee," he gestured with a wave of his wrist that had sacrificed its trademark grace for jerkiness from white-hot anger. "They'll be at th' front of th' boardin' party."

Ana pulled at his chemise from behind and in a low voice several feet away, murmured in his ear, "So we're attacking, then?"

Jack looked at her very briefly, then raised his voice. "You don't have to whisper -- crew deserves to know what's happening." Gesturing sharply toward the two men, he silently sent Ana over to guard them, then moved to the steps to speak to his crew.

"We have aboard two traitors who've taken it upon themselves to engage us in an attack on the ship we spotted earlier in the day," he let his commander's voice carry the words out across the deck. "Because we've already fired … and seeing as we're not exactly on Mother England's good side right now-" Here he paused, anticipating, and getting, guffaws at the understatement. "We are indeed going to fight and board."

He cut himself off at that as an equal mixture of rowdy cheers and exhausted groans went up from those assembled; it seemed some of the crew remembered well enough his hesitation earlier in the day. If he were proven right -- as he suspected he would be soon enough -- at least this would stand as an example against mutiny in the future. *As if Barbossa weren't warning enough,* he snorted inwardly. Curly and Connors had been part of the Interceptor crew and should've known better, in his surmise. They deserved whatever came their way; the rest of the crew didn't.

"Damn it all to 'ell," he muttered to himself, palms gripping the rail as he continued to face the bow and a likely foolish decision he had no control over. Some days, he *really* hated being the guy wearing the big hat.