Author's Notes: Much thanks to my beta, heartofslash. My one-stop kink store and dear friend. And I would like to thank firesignwriter. I've blatantly stolen a wonderful plot idea from her superb(!) Moonverse series.

Mr. Gibbs brought William Turner his bread and water first thing in the morning. So furious he refused to address the lad or even acknowledge him for the first two days, Mr. Gibbs would open the door to the cell, place Will's rations just inside the bars, and return to deck. No point in locking the cell. They both knew he wouldn't leave it. Will didn't eat, just sat there slumped in a corner, not bothering to look up. Didn't make a sound for two whole days. The water was drunk, the piss pot used, but the bread lay untouched, chunks nibbled out of it by the rats.

On the third day, Mr. Gibbs swung open the cell door, threw a loaf of bread at Will's head, and then hurled the jug containing his water on the floor. The boy barely reacted to the bread hitting him squarely in the forehead, or the water splattering all over the cell. Raising his head just enough so that his eyes met Mr. Gibbs', the morning light inching through a lone porthole showed the boy looking more skeletal than human. Fucking christ on the cross. If Will'd been a ghost of himself three days earlier, now he was mere shadow.

"How's Jack?" he asked.

"Been completely stinking drunk for two solid days," Mr. Gibbs snapped back at him. "Three minutes after we threw you in here, he carted up two cases o' rum from the hold, lashed hisself to the wheel, and hasn't uttered a word since. Won't let anyone come near him. He's worked his way through eight bottles. We're all betting he'll kill himself with the drink by day four, Mr. Turner. Marty's given him until day five, but he's got more faith in Jack than the drink."

Will clutched his knees with both hands, tight. "Oh, it's 'Mr. Turner' now is it?" he said softly.

"Became Mr. Turner when you made Jack choose between yerself and his crew. Yerself and his ship." Mr. Gibbs stepped back through the door of the cell and slammed it shut with a clang. "Any other captain'd have keelhauled you. When you humiliated him before his crew, not once, but twice, lad, he didn't have no choice. In all the time I've know'd Jack Sparrow, he's loved two things. His ship and you. Whatever turmoil you two are having in the cabin, it's between you and Jack. On deck, it's Mr. Turner and Captain Sparrow."

"I didn't mean to throw the knife," he protested, the lad so young he couldn't hide the tears threatening. "He provoked me, Mr. Gibbs, he wants me…"

"Don't care what he wants, Will. He's our captain first and foremost, your lover second." Will, bless his soul, blushed at that. "And don't think that any of the crew feels any different. What happens between you and Jack is no one's business but yer own. You two want to fuck the bejaysus out of each other or throw knives at each other, do it in the privacy of yer cabin. Admit he can be handful…"

"A handful?" snorted Will. "Do I need to remind you about the time he thought he was dying because the parrot hadn't told him he was dying? The fact that the parrot can only say four things somehow immaterial. Or the eyebrows?" At that, the faintest smile tickled the edge of his mouth. Then Will remembered he was supposed to be that angry at Jack, and the frown and outrage returned. "I'm amazed I've kept my sani…"

"That's not here nor there, Mr. Turner," Mr. Gibbs brought him up short. "And I'd like to remind you of that fine set of books Jack stole for you knowing you're a book learning man. How the legendary sailor Jack Sparrow took onto his ship a lad who barely knew a line from a sail, when that kind of ignorance can be fatal to a crew. Or how he let you set up a forge in the hold of a wooden ship because he trusted you not to set fire to the Pearl. Now I suggest you eat those rations and not let the rats get fat. The crew donated their share to you. Don't throw that in their faces."

Will turned the loaf of bread over and over in his hands. "Thank them for me, Mr. Gibbs, if you will."

Mr. Gibbs grunted an "aye" and was halfway up the steps when Will called him back and mumbled to the floor of his cell, "Please tell Ja…I mean Captain Sparrow that I would like to apologize to him."

Lord save him, Mr. Gibbs was tired. He stifled a groan as he turned around. "Can't do that, Will."

Will shot to his feet, swayed, and grabbed the bars of the cell to stop from falling over. "Please," he begged. "I want to see him."

"Said you can't. For one thing, he's passed out drunk. For another," Mr. Gibbs scratched his beard, "don't want to get shot."

"For god's sake, Mr. Gibbs," Will pleaded again and shook the bars in frustration. "He can't be both passed out and able to shoot a pistol…"

Mr. Gibbs fixed his right eye on Will.

"Oh, this is Jack," he mumbled. "He, uh, once…he can, uh, do some amazing things when…" Will's voice trailed off with a blush.

"Right. Normal don't exactly apply here. Being Jack, not sure how he's doing it, since he's passed out at the wheel, but anyone who gets within ten feet of him gets a pistol cocked in their face. Seems to be able to aim that damn thing, too, even though his eyes are closed. Saw it with me own eyes. Put a nice hole through Marty's shirt. Didn't touch him though. Course, can't see Jack shooting an unarmed man. T'was more of a warning, like. Cotton thinks that cats are in on it. Helping him aim. Must be helping him to steer the ship, too. He slouches to the left or right depending on the wind. We're right on course for Singapore. Reckon we'll be there in four days if this wind holds up."

"He'll have drunk himself to death by then," Will muttered and pushed open his cell door.

"Do not leave that cell, Mr. Turner," Mr. Gibbs bellowed and slammed the door shut, forcing Will to stumble backward against the wall of the cell. "Have you heard a single bloody word I've said? By god, you keep your fucking arse in that cell. Don't be humiliating him again."

Bleak, only word for it. The boy's face was bleak. Then he fell to his knees, his chin resting against his chest.

"Eat your bread, Will," Mr. Gibbs reminded him. "Oh," he added, "and I'll bring you some more water." He felt old. He didn't like it.

The third curse was the worst of all.

She mutinied.

Mr. Gibbs suspected something was wrong when he lost his taste for drink. Had happened once before. Only once. Time he had a fever so fierce he couldn't even lift his hand to grab a bottle. Come to think of it, wasn't like he lost his taste for drink, he was just too weak to grab the bottle. But this. Just didn't want it. First time he'd actually drank water in…well…can't remember the last time he drank water.

Then Marty pinched Anamaria's arse and didn't lose his balls for his insolence. Fact is she pinched his arse back and no one sawed hide or hair of them for three hours after.

Then Mr. Cotton was seen petting the cats.

Then, oh christ, then…

First the deck went cold. Not know'd to those who don't sail her, but the Pearl's deck's always warm, no matter what the weather. To those she wants to sail under her flag.

Back when they fished Jack out of the water, they made straight for the Isle de Muerta. The first order of business had been to drag Barbossa's stinking carcasse to the far edge of the cave. Second order of business called for loading the swag. When they were down to the last couple of wheelbarrows full, Jack and Mr. Gibbs shared a well-deserved drink by the fire. To the shouts and tired exclamations of the crew toting out the last of it, Mr. Gibbs asked Jack why she never knew Barbossa's stripes.

"We were both wrong about him," Jack spoke into the fire, and Mr. Gibbs had to strain to hear him. "Cost us ten years. Then they were cursed, and she had no choice but to sail under him. Going to make it up to her, I am. We'll set course for England tomorrow and have her refitted. Re-varnish every inch of her. New sails. Black, o'course." Mr. Gibbs got the trademark Sparrow grin, the gold teeth flashing in the firelight. "Hate the old sod," and here Jack and Gibbs hunched their shoulders in unison, because they both knew that the entire time they were in England they'd be shivering under their clothes. "But won't trust her to anyone but English shipbuilders. You remember her in her glory, don't you, Mr. Gibbs?" Jack closed his eyes and smiled. His hands fluttered in the air and then one palm cut across his front in one wide arc, as if he were stroking the side of the ship. His eyes snapped open. "Most beautiful ship ever hammered and nailed, and she will be again." Jack took a pull on the bottle of rum in front of them. "And while she's being fitted up, we'll give the accommodating Commodore a nice break from our irritating presence. Did you feel her, Mr. Gibbs? Her deck all warm?"

Usually takes a while, but once she learns the cut of someone's jib. Knew Will Turner on day one. Had barely weighed anchor, Tortuga still visible, when Will marched up to Jack and demanded to know why the deck was warm when the weather so foul. Jack ballyhooed to the crew, "Mr. Turner says the deck's warm." The stone-faced stares of the crew were immediately replaced by grins and shy nods ('cepting Anamaria, o'course. Her face shifted from looking like she was itching to put a knife in him to she didn't want to kill him yet) by one the crew came up and shook Will's hand and welcomed him aboard. Will, always polite, shook everyone's hand even though it was clear from his wrinkled brow he didn't have a notion in hell of what was going on. When all was said and done, Jack flung an arm around his shoulder and cooed in his ear, "My girl likes you, Mr. Turner. Ever hear tell about how your da saved me from marrying a mermaid? No? Well, t'was a day like this, spitting out of the heavens…"

When the deck went cold, the crew first looked down at their feet, and then turned to Mr. Gibbs, their faces stiff with horror.

"Mr. Gibbs?" Anamaria barely got the words out of her mouth when the ship stopped.

She just stopped. The wood groaned and creaked but she wouldn't move. Wind was blowing. Could feel it on their faces, raised the goose bumps on their arms, but the sails were slack.

And when the deck went cold and the sails went slack, Jack opened his mouth, and what came out was the most unholy scream Mr. Gibbs had ever heard in his entire life.

TBC