"Think he's angry with us?"

Nose in a book and feet drawn up under her on the swing, Alice Witter shrugged. She and Jack had been at the same conversation intermittently over the course of several days, and that conversation was their wondering what, exactly, was looming over Isaac Faust's head so much that he kept mostly to himself. That he was a sucker for being the center of attention they knew well and so his behavior was odd. Alice had chalked it up to his being told to leave Elizabeth Turner alone, but Jack wasn't convinced and remained much worried about the boy.

"He's no reason to be."

"No reason to be?" Jack, sprawled in a chair with a glass of wine in his hand, frowned at her. "We left him in London."

"No," she said tiredly, "I know I've said that I played a part in the leaving the lad in London plot, but that was only to assuage your conscience—if you have one, that is."

Jack's jaw dropped.

"Don't look at me like that, Jack Sparrow. It was you who left the lad in London and it was your leave the lad in London plot that ended us up leaving the lad in London to begin with. Not I and not mine, but yours. So my point is, sweetcheeks, that he's no reason to be angry with us. Now you, that's another matter altogether."

"So you think that he's angry with me?!"

"He's no reason to be."

"No reason to be?" Jack glared at her. "But you just said it was my fault we left the lad in London!"

"No," she said tiredly, "I didn't say it was your fault because there's no blame to be laid. Isaac knows well as I do you had the best intentions when you hatched the plot to leave him in London. And from what he's said it seems he liked the place well enough. So it seems to me, Jack, that your boy has no reason to be angry with you."

"Oh," said Jack. He frowned again. "Then what is wrong with him?"

"I don't know," she said, finally setting aside her book to gaze at him. "And as fairly certain I am we've exhausted every idea, I am he'll come out with it sooner or later. Probably to me because you are an emotional mess."

"Blatherskite if I ever heard it," he declared.

"Mmm," she murmured, eyes narrowing on him. "You'll get choked up. You'll get anxious about being choked up. And then you'll make an attempt at wit that fails miserably in that, first, you aren't witty, and second, you'll have unnerved whoever's pouring it out so that they stop pouring. It's just your way."

"It is not," he said, "my way. I'm very open to matters of the heart. Just ask Will Turner."

"Oh you mean the one you're afraid to go talk to because even being here knowing he's in that room is twisting your hardened heart?" She raised her brows. "That one, Jack?"

He sighed.

"I'm sorry," she said, gathering her wispy skirt to cross the room to him. Carefully she crawled into his lap, knees along his, and stretched against him, arms over his shoulders and hands clasped behind the back of the chair. There she gazed down at him, at the weary look upon his face, and she kissed the tip of his nose. "If it's bothering you so, perhaps you should go knock on the door and have that moment he's been on you about."

"Mmm…" Jack closed his eyes. "No… I said he'd come out when he's ready, and I meant it. He will."

--- --- --- ------- () ------- --- --- ---

But Jack wasn't so sure about that. In fact, much later that night, Jack Sparrow lay awake under rows of lit candles, his wrist rolling as his mind wandered. Such was keeping him from sleep. Careful not to disturb the woman sleeping on the other side of the bed, he sat up, threw down the coverlet, and jammed his feet into the soft cotton slippers waiting on the floor. Out the door he strode, shutting it softly behind him. Turning right into the narrow corridor, he halted almost immediately. That there was no light flickering under the golden door as it had been for the duration of Will Turner's sequestering raised his brows.

Turning left, he found himself back in the little round room of doors. Which would lead to Will Turner he wasn't certain. For a matter of moments he stood there, glancing at each door in turn. From first to third and third to second his gaze switched. Then he realized with a scowl that the first was the door to his own quarters. That was where he'd been and he was quite positive Will Turner wasn't in there—less of course he was hiding under the bloody bed which was rather unlikely—so his gaze fell upon the two doors side by side.

Snores sawed through the door, the third, which closed off the crew's quarters.

Jack went through the second.

There was of course no sign of Will Turner in the abandoned dining hall, but Jack hadn't exactly expected such. No, he'd not imagined Will laying out a midnight feast. He'd taken the second door because, well, those snores—sawing through the walls of the hall as well—were quite unsettling in the dark of night.

The kitchen, too, was empty. Cook had long since abandoned his post there. On the counter lay a tray of unprepared fruits for the morn. Jack whisked up a pear on his way and bit into it as he strolled out into the crumbling hallway. Dust fell as he rounded the corner and he sighed, rolling his eyes up at the flaking ceiling as he bit defiantly into his peppery fruit. Through several dark, shadowy rooms he strolled, and through another dilapidated hall where two tiles fell and cracked on the floor before him. He kicked them aside and slipped through the double doors at the end. Closing them, his back to the great white room, he froze.

Filling the air was the rich aroma of a slow-roasted, rum soaked tobacco. It tickled his nose and sent a shiver rippling through him. For many years he'd not smelled that particular smoky blend.

"Took you bloody long enough."

If it were indeed possible, Jack Sparrow was convinced that every hair on the back of his neck stood straight up. That he recognized the voice that had spoken was an understatement. Well enough he knew the resonant voice with the smooth as smoke diction, that even the short, concise statement seemed a thousand words. That they were the same words that had fallen from the mouth of Isaac Faust was not lost on Jack Sparrow and so he wondered if perhaps he was dreaming once again.

"Nope."

Dark eyes blinked as Jack strongly considered pinching himself.

"It'll hurt," warned the deep voice.

Pressing his mouth together so as not to utter any words he didn't realize he was uttering, Jack most quietly complained in his head about there being no privacy in a place so few ever dared to venture.

"Sorry." There was a soft, albeit feigned sigh. "It's not as if I want to be mucking about in a head wonky as yours."

"Wonky?!" The word turned Jack Sparrow around, eyes wide and brows together. Hands fisted at his sides, he growled instinctively. "Hardly!"

Strong, handsome William Turner looked up from his seat at the chess table. His square jaw was stoic as always, his mouth unturned, but there was a smile in his warm brown eyes. In them something akin to amusement shone. Taking in Jack Sparrow's sudden change from flushed defiant to shocked white as a ghost—whiter, really, as William, ghost that he was, wasn't all that pale himself—he lifted the long-stemmed pipe to his mouth. Pinching the ivory, arching mermaid's bosom, he put his lips 'round the silver bit and drew on it for a long, silent moment. Then, slow as he'd inhaled, he exhaled, and smoke furled in the air.

"Alright," William conceded, "perhaps only a tad mad."

To this, Jack Sparrow found he could not respond.

William Turner's brows rose. "Really? Ye've got nothing?"

"Maybe only a tad mad but a whole bushel of brilliant," he blurted out.

There showed upon the other man's face a satisfied smile.

Jack waited on baited breath for the apparition to fade away before his very eyes as so many ghost stories did go.

"Aye and that's why they're called stories, I'd wager." Bootstrap's smile widened, revealing only a glimpse of impeccably white teeth. "Unless ye right tick me off, I ain't about to up and disappear."

Jack scowled. "Stop that!" At his friend's look of dismay he flicked a hand as if to grasp what it was he meant and show the man. "That… mind-trickery. Thievery." His brows snapped together. "You thief!"

"Pirate," shrugged the accused.

Jack shrugged. "Alright, I'll give you that."

William looked at him expectantly, one brow raised.

"You know, this is very much a trivial conversation we're having," said Jack, stealthily closing a bit of the big gap that remained between them with a stroll down the runner carpet in the white room. Several feet away he stopped, framed in the doorway, and stared. "Probably not what it is you chose to visit me for, aye?"

"No," shrugged Bootstrap, "not really."

Jack Sparrow narrowed his eyes.

William's eyes shone up at him. "But ye know, Jack, I'd rather ye were a bit closer. Little bit warmer that way."

Jack cocked his head. "Warmer?"

"So to speak," William said.

"I'm not sitting on your lap, mate." Jack hesitated at the door, his hand coming up to flutter in front of his shoulder. "You won't grab hold of me and suck me into the icy grips of the underworld, will you?"

Bootstrap scoffed. "Please."

Jack shrugged, sauntered to the seat opposite William Turner, and sat in it.

Bootstrap's strong hands shot forward to grab the pirate's. A terrible moan filled the air. The chill of death gripped the pirate's wrists, yanked them across the table, and shook them.

Quite horrified, Jack shrieked.

With a hearty chuckle, William let go.

Jack yanked his arms back, folded them across his chest, and glared at him. "That," he said succinctly, "was not funny."

"Just couldn't resist," grinned the ghost.

"Aye, figured as much," shot back Jack, still in much a huff. "So is that what death is, William? Trickery? Foolishness? A silly little game?"

"Aw, come off it, Jack." William's grin turned to a warm smile. "Ye'd do it to me."

"I would not!" Jack winced. "Alright, maybe I would."

Bootstrap nodded.

"So. Going to haunt me for the rest of my days, are you?"

"No," said William, taking another drag off of his pipe and blowing the smoke out in tiny tendrils. "Haunting Captain Jack Sparrow for the rest of his days seems a bit melodramatic, if ye ask me. Why I'm here is much the opposite."

"The opposite."

"Aye, Jack," he said softly, "figure it's time we finished this game."

--- --- --- ------- () ------- --- --- ---

The sea was calm and black under the starlit sky. Moon full, she shone down upon the inky water to reflect silver in it. A cool, gentle breeze lifted Will Turner's loose curls off his neck. He turned his face up to the soft caress and sighed, letting it wash over him with its soothing touch. In his hand rested the long-stemmed pipe with the arching ivory mermaid bowl. His hand curled around it, and his other reached for the pouch of tobacco Samson had quietly given him aboard the Swan the night of his birthday celebration. The big man had said it was intended as a gift to his father if 'those stories weren't true' but 'being that they were, William Turner's boy should have a bit of what it was all us used to sniff'. Will had thanked him, and he had wondered when he would ever smoke a pipe as it wasn't something he did, but now, sitting on the sand, he felt there was nothing much else he wanted to do.

Deft fingers filled the silver bowl with the rich-smelling tobacco, struck a match, and, touching flame to herb, brought the silver bit to his mouth to fire up the smoke.

Puffing once, Will choked.

Tears burning his eyes, he pounded a fist on his chest. "Hellfire!"

As soon as he recovered, he put the pipe to his mouth again and puffed. The second attempt was successful—he only gave a small cough once. Rum and resin filled his lungs and then tickled his taste buds as he exhaled the smoke.

--- --- --- ------- () ------- --- --- ---

Jack Sparrow stared at William Turner with a frown on his face. "You mean," he said, glancing down in distaste at the nearly finished game of chess, "you're here to finish a bloody chess game?"

"In a manner of speaking."

Without so much as a twitch from either of them, three candles on a ledge above leaped aflame. Two on a side table lit in succession. And the big lantern on the wall flared bright. William Turner, noting his friend's look of incredulity, polished his knuckles with his other hand and blew on them. Captain Jack Sparrow was mightily impressed.

"Now that is a right decent trick."

"Aye, takes awhile to figure out though."

"Could I do it?"

"Jack…"

The soft, imploring tone of voice drew the pirate's attention forward. Pretending not to notice William Turner's serious visage, which surely denoted a serious intention, he frowned. "Suppose not." Realizing that the man's scowl most likely resonated from the fact that he was surely well aware of the sudden ruse, he sighed and sobered. "Aye?"

"Ye did the right thing," William said, "but ye were wrong as well."

"Did I? Was I?" Jack shook his head. "What?"

"Bringing my boy here was the right thing to do." The man's face saddened. "And ye were right. It was the wrong thing leaving him and his mum on their own like I did so long."

Those big brown eyes tugged on Jack's heartstrings. He sighed, placing a hand there where his chest ached. "William—"

"But ye were wrong when ye told him ye couldn't walk in me boots." With that, William Turner took Jack's black king with his white bishop in a swift and sudden checkmate. "Wear the same size, we do."

Glancing at his lost game, Jack turned dark eyes on William. "Do we?"

"Aye," said the man with a soft smile. He reached across the table and laid his hand on Jack's, but his touch was as warm as ever the pirate remembered it. "We do."

That the candles went out, that the smoke was gone from the air, and that William Turner no longer sat at the table did not surprise, startle, or dishearten Jack Sparrow. On the chessboard there lay the evidence to the game they'd finished, and the tears stinging his eyes testament to the words they'd shared. Eyeing disdainfully his captured King, Jack pushed back his chair and stood. The walk away from the table was a long one and his steps heavy, but Captain Jack Sparrow spirited through it, stooping to pick up the pear he'd dropped on his way in. Dusting it off, he took a bite.

It tasted good.

--- --- --- ------- () ------- --- --- ---

In the silence and still of the night Will Turner watched the white smoke curl away. Carried on the breeze it was swept out over the dark water. For a moment, as the wind died down, it lingered in form—a smoky apparition. The fantom figure swirled and then the spray of seabreeze washed it away into the silver seafoam frothing on the sand.

"Right pretty sight that is."

Will Turner hadn't been expecting company save for Jack. He almost cussed himself for having not noticed the person's approach behind him. He'd not heard the sound of sloughing sand, nor had he heard the breath of another. He'd not noticed the stronger smell of smoke that meant he was not the only one with a pipe in his hand. He wasn't sure what to make of the voice that spoke. It was unlike all other voices he'd heard, but so much like the one in his dreams that it flooded his senses. Entire being tingling, Will looked up at the moon as if she had been the one to speak, and cocked his head.

"No," said the smooth voice, "afraid the moon's not very talkative, lad."

That someone sat himself in the sand beside him, Will knew without a glance. It was the strangest thing, for he'd not heard the rustling of linen or the soft sound of limbs settling. There was no warmth so usually present amongst close companions. Unthinking, he glanced sideways to make certain he wasn't imagining things. Indeed, there was beside him the silhouette of a man—his silhouette… but squarer, and less… pretty. All of the sudden, Will Turner wondered if it were truly possible for a heart to stop beating because it seemed his had.

"I hope not," said his father, "sounds rather unhealthy, it does."

Sitting beside him in the sand was William Turner. His dark eyes were turned up to the moon same as Will's had been, but his eyelids looked heavy. Long, dark lashes fluttered on the man's high cheekbones. Long fingers brought a pipe, identical to the one in Will's hand, to a firm mouth and those cheeks hollowed with the man's inhale just as they'd always done in Will's dreams. The hand dropped a bit and then the white, rich smoke sighed out in a slow stream. A sound of content issuing from him, William Turner turned his head toward him. His dark eyes shone with the warm smile that spread across his face.

"Have a bit of trouble with that, earlier?"

Will glanced down at the pipe his father nodded toward and flushed hot in the face.

"Would've showed ye how to do it," said Bootstrap, "but I was trapped in a state of madness."

"The madness of the afterlife?"

"No." The man frowned. "Sparrow's head."

At such, Will couldn't help but smile. "Ah."

"Don't tell him I said that. Wouldn't want one of those," said Bootstrap, pointing at the bruise on Will's face.

Will sighed.

"I don't blame ye for not trusting Jack Sparrow ye know. He is a pirate."

"So were you."

William Turner nodded. "So I was."

"I trust Jack," said Will pointedly. "Sometimes."

"Ah." He nodded, inclining his head toward him. "But not yer Da who ye did'n see, aye?"

"Difficult to trust someone you never see."

Brown eyes saddened. "Seeing me now, aren't ye?"

"I don't know," said Will in earnest, turning to look at his face. "Could be I've fallen asleep reading and am having yet another dream to haunt me the rest of my days."

"What," asked William, rolling his eyes at that last sentiment, "is with the two of ye? Bit dramatic it is, this haunting people for the rest of their days. Sparrow I expected that sort of nonsense from, but ye?"

Will glared at him. "It's not nonsense." He turned away to gaze out at the moon's reflection in the water. When he spoke again, his voice sounded soft even to him. "Nonsense doesn't hurt." That his father didn't reply was not a surprise to Will Turner. He turned to him with a scowl, and went on despite the sorrow etched in the man's strong face. "Why start talking to me now? Haven't you anything better to do, like you had before when it was we were both alive?"

William Turner's mouth tightened and he turned to look out at the sea as Will had. Reticent he was as he drug slowly on his ivory pipe. His brows rose, and they fell as he exhaled. The smoke curled up and was swept away over the seafoam much as Will's had previously. But instead of swirling, it dissipated. Watching it, Will half expected to glance askance and see his father had done much the same. But he hadn't. The man's jaw twitched under his gaze.

"Only thing I know about better," he said, "is it's what ye are, son. Better man. Better husband. Better father." A sardonic smile crossed his face as he glanced from Will's hands to his own. "Certainly better with yer hands. A damn good blacksmith ye are."

Throat tight, Will cleared it. "How is mother?"

Bootstrap shrugged. "Don't know. Haven't seen her yet."

Will darkened. "Should've expected as much. What's keeping you from her now?"

"Things that needed finished," said William. His dark eyes shot to Will then fell away. "And me own foolishness, ye know. She being better'n I ever was and all."

"She wouldn't think so," Will said, remembering the loving words his mother had used to talk about his father. "She never did. She never spoke ill of you. Not once. Not ever. No matter how you hurt us."

"Aye," said William, "and that's the proof what makes her better'n me."

"Perhaps a better fool."

"Boy, don't ye be talkin' 'bout your mother that way!"

Will wasn't expecting the cold hard smack across the back of his head. Growling, he glared at his father. "What have you to finish? Finish it then!"

William softened, his hand still lingering on Will's neck. As his eyes grew warm, so did his touch. His hand curled under the dark hair so much like his own and he studied it, twining the soft waves around his fingers where golden light glowed. Eyes bright, he smiled sadly. "Know I said there were no value in regret, but I shouldn't have left ye alone."

Will stared at him, chest rising and falling rapidly with the caring touch of hands he thought sure he'd never feel. "I've friends in Port Royal." Setting his jaw, he held tight to his sanity and reserve. "And a family. A wife and children, and a… a pirate!" That he'd laid claim to Jack in such a way made him frown but he refused to let his father see his confusion, cloaking even his thoughts on the matter and inclining his chin stubbornly. "I'm not alone."

But the man's smile grew fond then, and his fingers slipped through Will's hair to the curling ends as his expression sobered. "No," he said, "you're not. But if ye keep actin' like it, soon ye will be."

"Any other fatherly advice?" asked Will snidely, not quite wanting to hear from the man any sort of counsel while wanting it desperately at the same time. He raised his brows. "Perhaps you've to tell me how to use a fork. Or buckle my shoes. Maybe you need to tell me all about the birds and the bees!"

"No. Think you've mastered all those things."

"Yes," agreed Will with a glare, "on my own."

"Aye, on yer own." Bootstrap frowned. "Except for that birds and the bees part."

Will shrugged.

"So are ye going to dwell upon yer shoddy excuse for a father and mope about for the rest of yer days?"

"Now who's resorting to dramatics?"

William shrugged. "When the boot fits…"

"Funny," said Will, "Jack said he couldn't walk in yours." He hesitated. Then his eyes narrowed at the man. "He was wrong. It's you who couldn't walk in his."

The remark seemed to stun the man silent. For a matter of moments he took to smoking his pipe, inhaling and exhaling slow and steady and watching the white whorl out to sea and dissipate. Out at the wavering moon in the water he gazed. Above it, where black met black, there flashed a green point of light so suddenly that when Will Turner turned to find the source of it, it was gone. Both pairs of eyes narrowed upon the spot where it had been, but both mouths said nothing of it. Bootstrap puffed a series of round smoke rings and blew a stream of smoke through them. When he noticed his son watching, he shrugged.

"Tell him that then," he suggested, fiddling with the silver button of his dark green vest, "I don't think he'd mind."

"Maybe I shall."

"Good!"

"Great!"

They fell silent, both jaws tightening as they forced their mouths into submission. Both sets of eyes looked away and out to sea, and both right hands brought ivory pipes to their pressed-straight lips. Both chests filled with the inhalation of smoke and fell with the exhalation of the stuff. The scent of roasted rum tingled both men's tastebuds and drew both gazes out at the black horizon. Frustration got the best of the both of them as two sets of brows drew together and two left hands fisted in the dark, cool sand.

"Maybe I shouldn't have left, but I'm not sorry I did."

If he weren't positively terrified of that cold feeling he'd experienced earlier, Will would have socked the man in the head—ghost or not. In his left hand he strangled the sand between his fingers. His lips pressed together so tight he was afraid they might crush each other.

"Don't hurt yerself," said Bootstrap. He held up a hand. "If I'd not have left ye, would ye be who ye be today?"

"I don't know," said Will coldly, "because I was not given that chance."

"But ye see, it's either or," said William, flipping his hand one-way and then the other. "This or that." His brows drew together again and his brown eyes met Will's as his mouth twisted. "There's no two ways about fate."

At that moment Will looked up at the glowing stern windows of the Swan. Through them he saw the soft form of his wife as she sat gazing upon their children. In their sleep, Jack and Little Lucy were sweet dreaming cherubs and as Elizabeth watched over them she was a radiant guardian angel. Theirs and his too, Will knew. When she'd said so many years ago that she would watch over him, she'd meant it. It had been their fate—together. And Will realized, suddenly, that their fate, their life together, he would not trade for another, even if said other fate offered something he'd wanted desperately as a boy.

"So then you see?"

"Yes," said Will, his gaze falling upon the sleeping faces of his angels, "I think I do."

Satisfied, Bootstrap set to cleaning his pipe. From his vest he pulled various gadgets and tools to do so, his fingers working quickly. "Good," he said, tapping the bowl's contents onto the sand. He looked up at Will with a smile. "No, better'n good. Excellent!" His attention went back to his pipe cleaning and then when he had only the bit to wipe, he turned a quirked brow at his son. "Any words for yer mum?"

Will's breath caught with the question, and he decided to take a good look at the man sitting beside him. Chestnut colored hair was pulled back into a thick, wavy tail and tied with a green ribbon that matched the vest the man wore. It was one that had been worn well over a shirt of linen cream that was tucked into a pair of tan trousers that were tucked into a pair of tall, brown boots. There was, tucked to the soft hide of the shoes with a strap—a boot strap—the silver dagger of Will's mother's father. Spitting image was certain, for they looked much alike. The man was squarer of jaw and chin, but with the same fine cheeks and brown eyes. His mouth was wider and fuller, and crooked with a bit of a hesitant smile. His face was warm, and indeed he was warm himself, his fingertips brushing o'er the top of Will's hand and lighting it aglow with golden splendor.

"Tell her," said Will, turning the hand over and curling his fingertips between the points of light, "that I've found her silver platter and it will soon sit pretty upon Elizabeth's mother's table." His gaze met his father's for a long, silent moment and then he looked far out to sea. "And tell grandpapa I've had blessed dreams."

When the warmth faded from his fingers, Will looked at his hand. The glow was fading from it. It didn't surprise him. He knew it had been let go. Over the undisturbed sand beside him he laid it, and the other he brought up to drag upon the pipe. Quiet had descended again. The only sound was of the sea's froth upon the shore and his own long sigh of smoke. He watched it curl out over the water and hover there to swirl. In its midst, its vortex, there flashed the green speck upon the horizon. When the luminous beacon went out, a gentle breeze blew and the smoke whirled away.

Finding himself suddenly uneasy, Will quickly cleaned the pipe and stood. Through the windows of the Swan he saw Elizabeth watching him and he nodded up at her. Most thankful he was when she met him on the deck of the fine ship with a sweet, tender kiss. Words were unnecessary, he found. Hand in hand they strolled through the captain's cabin to the sleeping quarters where the candles glowed. They blew them out save one and climbed into bed with their children between them. As their hands met between Jack and Lucy, Will blew out the candle beside him and turned his cheek to the pillow. He thought, as he fast fell asleep, that they looked splendid, all of them, drenched only in fate's blessed moonbeams.

--- --- --- ------- () ------- --- --- ---

Author's Babble: Lots of green, silver, and black in this chapter I think. Black's the absence of light, perhaps the color of the unknown, green and silver the colors of Cancer the zodiacal sign of the mother, the mother symbolically 'home'. Threw in some gold glow for warmth, and ivory for its beauty. Wish I could animate this whole bit! Hope it works well enough for everyone.