Pirate Dreams

Chapter 6

by

Alexfandra

For his own part, he tried not to think about what had happened on board the Intrepid with his father and Hardcastle. He tried to push it to the back of his mind. He told himself that it had happened long ago, old history, best left forgotten. And he might have succeeded except for one thing—the possibility that Hardcastle still lived, unrepentant, unpunished. Someday, one way or another, they would get off this island, and when that day came he would bring those painful memories back to the surface. He would deal with them in his own way.

The day they finished the path to the lagoon was unusually hot, so after they finished, they naturally went for a swim. They raced a few times as they had before. Will found himself lagging behind several times on purpose just to watch Jack's sleek form gliding smoothly through the water. Oh, how he missed their "romps" in bed, and so much more. Yet Jack did not seem to recall much about Will or their friendship. He still had great, gaping blanks. As the days had passed by with little improvement in his memory, Jack remained unconcerned, as usual. He seemed fine with whatever snippets came back to him day by day, finding them intriguing, but never getting upset about not remembering. Quite in character, due no doubt to his face-each-day-as-it-came, unplanned way of living.

Will wondered how he would have handled something like that. Not nearly as well, no doubt. He tended to get upset quickly when things went wrong, engaging in rash action or reaction. No doubt Jack would put that down to his youth. Sometimes Will even wondered why they got on so well together, with such opposite temperaments. Yet he didn't dwell on this, content that they were mates. Though at the moment, here at the lagoon, naked, Jack's body glistening in the water, he dearly wished there was a way to tell Jack that they had been more than mates. He just had no idea how to do it.

Far too much temptation here. Will suddenly surged ahead, passing Jack, beating him in the last race to the beach and collapsing onto the sand. Moments later, Jack padded up onto the beach next to Will, shaking himself all over like a wet dog. Will sighed as he plopped down beside him. He didn't think he could take much more of naked Jack.

"You let me win."

"What?"

"Back there—the races. You were letting me win."

"I beat you the last time," Will countered.

"Not good enough. I'm not old, you know. Not that old, anyway. I can beat you fair and square. Savvy?"

"Agreed," Will said. "You're not old. In fact, you're downright childish at times."

"I'm what?"

"Well, all right," Will conceded. "You're not quite that bad. But no, you don't look old, and you certainly don't act old a good deal of the time."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," Will explained carefully, realizing perhaps Jack didn't have quite the grip on his own character that Will thought he had, "that you have a devil-may-care-attitude, going through life doing whatever you please, not obeying anyone else's rules, haring off on whatever adventure takes your fancy next, no plan, no ties, except to that ship of yours."

Jack raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "There's something wrong with that? You seem to have gone haring off with me. What does that make you?"

He didn't sound angry, merely curious. And this made Will pause to consider. Just what did it make him? He had admired Jack's freedom, he'd wanted to have his own adventures. Yet at times he found it a struggle, as it went against his basic nature, his high ideals and that ever-present feeling he had—sometimes even an overwhelming need—to always try to do what he believed was right.

"I'm not sure," he replied lamely. Maybe I'm really the older one here.

"You're a bit of a mystery," Jack said. "Perhaps more than I am right now." Then he abruptly changed tack, giving Will a light slap on the arm. "Come on, mate, let's get back. Think we might have some fish on the line by now, and I'm feeling peckish."

He set about getting dressed again, for which Will felt profoundly grateful.

#

"What about this one?" Will held up a two-foot long board, slightly warped, with one ragged end.

Jack contemplated. "Medium."

"Right." Will tossed it onto a growing pile. They had spent two days gathering all the broken boards from the launch and their ill-fated new boat. The wood lay scattered for nearly a mile along the shore, as well as far inland. They dumped it into one massive pile on the beach. Now, on the third day of their labors, they were trying to sort out the mess. Jack suggested arranging three new piles according to condition, based on the wood's usefulness in constructing another boat.

Will deferred to his judgment in all things ship-related. They had a "high-grade" pile, a medium, and a low-grade one. Will tried, with little success, to determine which pile to toss boards onto. He'd been following Jack's decisions all morning and had yet to figure out the logic behind his choices.

He held up a short bit of wood, hardly a board at all. "Low?"

Jack shook his head. "Medium."

"Why?"

"It's from the launch. Better quality, and it's curved."

Will tried again, holding up a nice-looking, fairly long board. "High?"

"Low."

"Why?"

"Great huge bloody knot in the middle."

"Oh." He'd missed that somehow. Will tossed it onto the low-grade pile. He'd never get the hang of this.

The day started out mildly warm with a soft southerly breeze. By noon, with the sun directly overhead, and after more than three hours of sorting—pulling out boards, some quite heavy, and tossing them about—both of them stripped off their shirts. They worked barefoot, their standard practice on the island, only putting on their boots to walk the wooden path to the lagoon. Jack had on his bandana, and Will tied his long hair back, though strands often came loose. He felt hot, tired, and sweaty. When he reached for another board only to get a large splinter in his thumb, he decided it was time for a rest.

They had brought up a bucket of fresh water from the lagoon that morning. He took a long drink, splashed a bit on his face, then sat cross-legged on the sand to try digging out the splinter.

Jack strolled over for a drink. "What's wrong?"

"Splinter." Will held up his hand. "I got most of it, but it broke off. I can't get the last piece out."

"Here, let me look." Jack studied Will's thumb intently, then deftly picked it out, pinching the tiny sliver of wood between his fingernails.

"Ta." Will rubbed his sore thumb.

"More work to be done, mate." Jack ambled over to the piles to start tossing boards again.

Will sighed, but he soon rejoined him in the task. The three new piles grew larger as the original main pile shrank. They might finish by evening. Then, the following day, the plan was to gather up broken trees to decide which ones might be useful for the new boat-building effort.

Will slowed down, distracted by Jack's naked chest. He watched attentively as Jack bent to retrieve a piece of wood, then straightened, his muscles flexing smoothly. Will couldn't keep his eyes off Jack as he studied the board, then turned to throw it on another pile. Will could now admire his tanned back, sleekly glistening. Then Jack turned round to the main pile again, and Will ached to run his hands down that chest, to wrap his arms around that slender waist, to feel the taut flesh, to lick his lips over sweat-beaded skin....

"Hey."

Will snapped back to the present reality, startled to see Jack staring right at him, with a puzzled, slightly suspicious frown. Will swallowed hard. "What?"

"Something the matter?"

"No," he said too quickly. "Nothing at all."

"You're not sick, are you?"

"No, honest. I'm fine. I was just thinking about something and my mind wandered, that's all. Nothing wrong. Everything's fine." Shut up, you idiot. Will hurriedly grabbed a board. "Medium pile?"

"Yes."

"Right." Will threw it on the pile. He'd finally got one correct, purely by chance.

"So, what was it?" Jack returned to his sorting.

"Sorry?"

"This thing you were thinking about."

"Oh, that." Better come up with something good. Something reasonable that he'd believe. "Uh, well, I was thinking about my father." That ought to work. It was certainly a distracting subject.

Jack paused to give him a concerned look. "You sure you want to be doing that?"

Well, now that he'd brought it up, Will supposed he ought to actually think about his father, whether he wanted to or not. That didn't mean he had to go to unpleasant places. He wasn't about to dwell on the Intrepid. "It's all right," he improvised. "I was only thinking about the Black Pearl, and Barbossa's betrayal."

"I don't remember that."

"Oh, I didn't realize. I forgot you didn't remember."

Jack laughed at that, and Will joined in, his tension easing. "Come on," Jack said. "Tell me about it while we work."

So Will threw boards onto piles while telling Jack what he knew of the Pearl's ill-fated adventure in seeking the Aztec gold.

"I was marooned once before?" Jack interrupted when he got to the part about Barbossa's mutiny.

"Twice before, though not very long either time." He told Jack about the rum-runners' cache, and how he got off that island. Then he moved on to Bill's death, what little he knew, anyway, which was that Barbossa had tied him to a cannon and tossed him overboard. "I expect if he were in deep enough water, with its crushing pressure, that he couldn't possibly have survived even with that curse on him. At least, I hope to God he didn't."

"They truly turned into skeletons?" Jack asked. "That's hard to believe."

"I know. But I saw them myself." He went over their more recent adventure, telling Jack about the rescue of Elizabeth, the lifting of the curse, the death of Barbossa. "So you see," he said when he'd finished, "you turned into one yourself for a short time, after you palmed that gold piece from the chest."

"That's interesting."

"You'll remember it all someday." Will picked up a board, studied it. "High?"

"Good. I think you're catching on."

They worked quietly for a while, then Jack asked, "You said Barbossa and his men betrayed me ten years ago, but we didn't lift the curse until a short time ago. Where was I those ten years?"

"Mostly in the far east, getting up to no good."

"Ah. More piracy?"

"That, and smuggling, and God knows what else." Will wondered if he could trigger more of Jack's memories, get him to recall the Nighthawk and Captain Nate Flynn. He felt intensely curious about Flynn, about how close his and Jack's friendship had been. Jack had obviously hidden things about his past before, about the Intrepid, about Bill Turner. Did he have more secrets?

Will thought back to that time, not long after they'd been marooned here, after their first swim in the lagoon, when he'd gotten upset with Jack for not saying when he felt in his heart. He'd suspected then, from what Jack said, that he had lost someone dear to him sometime long ago, possibly even Flynn. Would it be fair to try digging out those memories? Memories Jack clearly hadn't wanted Will to know about?

Will frowned. How did he know Jack wouldn't have told him all about Flynn some day if he hadn't lost his memory? They'd grown closer over the past months, perhaps close enough for there to be no more secrets between them. How would he know if Jack were willing to be open with him unless he got the old Jack back?

Will picked up the next-to-last board from the main pile. He needed to do this. He needed Jack back fully in his life, not this half-friend, half-stranger. The only way to do that was to dredge up all of Jack's memories from their oblivion, no matter how deep they harbored.

He decided to try an abrupt question out of the blue, hoping that if Jack didn't know what was coming, he'd reply without thinking and the memory would be freed.

Jack picked up the last piece of wood. Will took a deep breath to steady his nerves, tossed his board randomly onto a pile, and said as casually as he could manage, "How did the Nighthawk get captured?"

"Because of me—" Jack froze. The board slipped from his hands, his eyes widened. "Because of me... No—I don't want to remember this." He took a stumbling step away from Will. "What are you doing?"

Will stepped towards him, grabbing Jack's upper arm. "I'm trying to help you. What I did worked—you remembered. Now go on. You need to tell me what happened." He released Jack's arm and stepped away. "The more you remember, the faster you'll recover."

Jack shook his head, obvious pain in his gaze. "I... we—" He faltered. "I can't."

Will pushed him. "The Nighthawk was an East Indiaman. A merchant vessel, though in those waters, she must have been heavily armed."

"Forty-eight guns." Suddenly Jack's gaze shifted. He no longer stared at Will, but somewhere else, looking at a far-off horizon. "And she was very fast."

"Yet the Nighthawk was captured," Will prompted. "You told me that."

"Did I?" Jack still looked far away, lost in another world.

Will didn't want to hurt him by bringing painful memories to the surface. He didn't want to, yet he had to, for fear of leaving Jack stranded in the shadows forever. "Tell me what happened."

"I do remember. It's all clear, every piece... We—we were chased down by a man-o-war... she found us at dusk, and we would have made it to safety if—" Jack faltered again, clearly struggling. Then he closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths. When he opened his eyes, he kept them focused firmly on the horizon, speaking rapidly. "We were far enough ahead. We only needed a little more time until nightfall, when we could lose her in the darkness. But she got close enough, just once, just for a brief moment, to fire one shot, not even well-aimed. They got lucky. It struck the mizzen yardarm, snapped it clean off. I was standing in the stern nearby, and as it fell the ship pitched, flinging the yardarm towards me. I lost my footing trying to get out of the way, and... and I went over the side."

He hesitated, took another deep breath. "The yardarm flew off as well, and I grabbed hold of it. Nate turned back. He shouldn't have. He should have kept running into the night, he would have been safe. But he—he turned back. He lost too much time, in order to save me. By the time I got plucked from the water, safe on board again, by the time Nate tacked back before the wind, it was too late. The man-o-war had caught up, we were in range of her guns. She had twice the guns we had." Jack stopped. He trembled all over, breathing hard. He suddenly frowned, staring at Will with a strangely sharp look.

Will reached out to touch him. Jack flinched away, and Will dropped his hand. "Jack, I'm sorry."

"Are you?" Jack's gaze abruptly returned from whatever distant shore it had visited. "He died because of me. They needed hard labor, so they threw the crew in prison, but they had to make an example of the captain. They hanged Nate. They caught him and they hanged him because of me. He died because he cared too damned much—is that what you needed to hear?"

"No." What have I done? "It's what you needed to remember."

"Why? It doesn't help. Mate. Not one bloody bit." Jack pushed past Will to stride off down the beach.

Will started after him, then stopped. No, let him go. He watched Jack's determined gait as he tore off along the shoreline, then he suddenly veered off to climb into the grassland above, rapidly disappearing to God knew where.

Damn. Will wished he could take his words back, wished he had never insisted on breaking through Jack's walls. He'd suspected the memories of Flynn would hurt, but he wouldn't have pressed on had he known just how painful they were for Jack. He died because of me. Jack couldn't blame himself for such an accident of fate. Yet he clearly did. Most likely because Nate Flynn wouldn't have turned the ship round for anyone else. Only for Jack.

Because he cared too much. Because he had loved Jack Sparrow.

And so do I. Will kicked at the nearest pile of boards, sending several flying. I am a stupid, selfish sonofabitch. He'd cleverly convinced himself that he wanted to "help" Jack, when all the while what he truly wanted was an answer to his own burning question—could Jack Sparrow love anyone? Well, of course he could. Will believed that Jack had loved Nate Flynn. His curiosity had been quenched, replaced now by guilt at the way he'd gone about satisfying his own needs at Jack's expense.

The guilt increased as the day wore on, and Jack failed to reappear. When the sun started to set with still no sign of him, Will's guilt turned to worry. He set off to search, but with only an hour or so of light remaining, he didn't get far. He went into the grassland where he'd last seen Jack, and wandered about calling his name, then he went down the path to the lagoon. No luck. The sun went down, and Will had no choice but to return to their hut.

He ate a little, not really interested in food. He slept fitfully, waking frequently, listening for any sound of Jack's return. Nothing.

Where on earth had he spent the night? He'd been wearing only his trousers when he'd stormed off, and it got cold at night. He couldn't have been terribly comfortable. At dawn Will got up to go look for him again, packing supplies in a satchel—some leftover fish from his supper, an empty rum bottle filled with fresh water, Jack's abandoned shirt. This time he covered more ground, starting with the shore and working his way inland to every place they normally ventured. He had no idea Jack would be so upset as to vanish so completely like this, and he dearly hoped he was all right.

Around midday, after hours of trudging all over the island, Will spotted Jack perched atop a cliff about two miles from their hut, just staring out to sea.

He made a slow approach, not sure what reception he'd get. Will made sure Jack knew he was coming up behind him, making a lot of noise, coughing a few times. Jack didn't turn round.

Will drew nearer. Jack sat cross-legged a few feet from the cliff's edge. By now it was warm out, though a cool wind blew in off the ocean. Will pulled out the shirt from his satchel and sat down close by. He held out the shirt. "Thought you might want this."

Jack took the shirt, slowly pulling it over his head. Will proffered the fish and water. "Thought you might be hungry."

Jack took them. He quietly ate a little of the fish, took a few sips of the water. When he finished, he said simply, "It's all back now."

Will frowned. "What?"

"Everything. All my memories, everything, it's all back. Last night. Like a bloody great tidal wave." He still didn't look at Will.

Oh, great timing. "I'm glad," Will managed to say, while inwardly fighting down his fear that Jack hated him for the way he'd forced those painful memories to return, for the way he'd used Jack's lost memory against him by tricking him into telling him things he'd wanted to keep private. If Jack were truly himself again, remembering everything, then he knew why Will had done it. He must know now that Will had wanted to learn the truth about Nate Flynn no matter what the cost to Jack.

He couldn't begin to find the words to make it right again. Instead, Will turned to look out at the sea. "How long are you planning to stay here?" he asked.

"Don't know. I like the sea."

That didn't sound good. That sounded as if he wanted to be sailing once more, that he was done with life on the island, with only Will for company. He was guessing, though. He had no idea how Jack really felt. So he just sat there quietly, waiting, hoping against hope that somehow he and Jack would get back on an even keel.

The minutes stretched out. Will watched the waves rolling in towards the island, watched the terns circling over the water, seeing one occasionally dart down to spear a fish. The soft wind blew inland, rustling the long grass around the cliff top. Will tried to clear his mind of worry, tried to stop dwelling on whatever the future might hold. He focused on the ocean, letting its unending rhythm calm him, lull him towards a more peaceful state.

Into this awkward silence Jack said quite clearly, "I did love him."

Will started. For God's sake, don't say anything stupid. He looked down at his hands, realizing with some surprise that he was nervously clenching them together. He consciously pulled them apart, drew his legs up, and wrapped his arms around them, dropping his chin to his knees. "I know you did."

"We were together for three years." Jack finally turned to look at Will. "I wished a thousand times over that he had let me drown."

Will tilted his head towards Jack in time to see one solitary tear slide down Jack's cheek. Oh God. Will closed his eyes, silently choking back an emotion he could not name, an aching confused mix of grief, guilt, love and pain. I didn't know. I'm so goddamned sorry. I didn't know....

Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. Will opened his eyes, raised his head. "I'm an idiot," he said.

Jack gently rubbed his shoulder, then brushed back an errant strand of Will's hair. "True enough."

"I didn't mean to—" Will broke off, feeling that his excuses were terribly lame. "I didn't know what I was doing."

"The devil you didn't. You knew."

Will couldn't hear any anger in his tone, only sadness. Tinged, perhaps, with a faint disappointment. "Too rash," he said softly, more to himself. Too young, wearing my heart on my sleeve. His feelings for Jack were too strong by half. Yet he didn't know how else to live. He had needed to believe that Jack could feel just as strongly, that his disdain for "romantic notions" was nothing more than a facade, a way of hiding from his own heart. And oh, how he had succeeded, much to his own regret. Jack had loved strongly, and he had buried that love just as strongly, a treasure never meant to be recovered.

Will sighed, and then he lay his hand atop Jack's. "Please don't give up on me. I couldn't bear that."

But he never knew what Jack might have answered, for suddenly Jack's fingers dug into his shoulder as he levered himself to his feet. "Sail!"

"What?"

Jack violently wrenched Will upright, pointing towards the southeast. "That's a sail!"

Will followed the line of sight. Something pale, square-shaped far off, above the water. A mainsail? A ship? Were they finally saved?

"Come on!" Jack tugged at his sleeve. "We need to light a signal fire." He tore off running.

Saved... Will couldn't believe it. He wanted this so much for so long, to return to civilization, but why did it have to come now of all times? While he and Jack had this strain between them? When he didn't even know for certain that Jack wanted them to stay together? Not fair.

Will took a moment to curse the fates before taking off towards the beach.

#

The ship which anchored just offshore turned out to be none other than the Black Pearl. Gibbs sent the jollyboat out to collect them. After a reunion that Jack kept short, he and Will followed Gibbs up to the helm.

Gibbs nodded towards the crew members on deck below, who were getting ready to set sail. "Some of those dogs were ready to give up the search. But I told 'em, no, Captain Jack Sparrow's been in worse straits than these. We'll find 'em."

Will felt grateful for his persistence. "Surely you heard about the Spanish wreck."

"Aye, we heard. Didn't make no nevermind to me, though."

"Thank you," Jack said simply.

"We did have a big area to search, no clear bearings 'cause of that storm," Gibbs went on. "At first we more or less searched hither and yon, but then we got to thinking a bit. Anamaria had the notion to make a grid over the chart, and each day we'd search a different section. Maybe it took a good deal longer, but we knew we'd not be missing anything that way. We figured if you two was stranded out here somewhere, it weren't on any island on the maps. So we just kept sailing."

The crew had tucked the jollyboat away into its proper place. Jack turned to give them orders to get underway. Then he motioned to Gibbs to follow him down to the captain's cabin. "Bring the charts."

Will followed rather tentatively after, hovering in the cabin doorway, not entirely sure yet of his welcome. Jack had been awfully quiet since spotting the ship. He seemed distant, off in a place where Will couldn't reach him. He watched as Gibbs spread the chart out on the table.

Jack studied it. "Show me our position."

Gibbs pointed out the bearing for their island. Jack made a mark on the chart, then carefully rolled it up and set it aside. "Now then," he said to Gibbs, "you can give the helmsman the bearings for Tortuga."

"Begging your pardon, sir." Gibbs shifted, looking uncomfortable. "But I don't think you'll be wanting to do that."

Jack quirked an eyebrow. "And why don't I want to be doing that?"

Gibbs very deliberately cleared his throat. "I'm afraid we're no longer welcome there. Not any of us. Things have changed since you disappeared."

Jack's eyes narrowed. "Tell me."

"Well, it's like this." Gibbs glanced at Will over in the doorway, then back to Jack. "You see, Captain, that little set-to with the Spanish came to an end not long after we lost you. And shortly after peace was made, Norrington's brand new ship arrived from England, to replace the Interceptor, with new men as well. They sent a warship with eighty guns and over four hundred crew, and there was Norrington with naught to do with 'em. So he got this idea to clean out Tortuga, the last pirate haven in the Caribbean. He took command of the ship, put the Dauntless under Gillette, and both of 'em sailed along with a couple of small sloops, and it didn't take 'em long at all to clear Tortuga of all its ruffians. They're planning to bring in settlers." "That's interesting." Jack cocked his head. "But I don't understand. Why would we be unwelcome? We were pardoned. We're not wanted men."

Gibbs shuffled away from the table, closer to the doorway as if desiring to make a quick escape. "You see, that's where the other trouble comes in." He reached inside his jacket to pull out a thick parchment sheet. "You are wanted men, I'm afraid. We all are." He spread it out on the table.

Will's curiosity got the better of him. He stepped inside and crossed to the table to examine the sheet. A crudely sketched portrait of Jack Sparrow stared up at him. Wanted for heinous acts of piracy, torture, and murder. "How can this be?" Will felt utterly confused. "Is this recent? It can't be."

"I'm afraid it is," Gibbs replied. "Word came round not long after the conflict with the Spanish ended that Jack Sparrow and the Black Pearl had returned to their pirate ways."

"Not just piracy." Will pointed at the poster. "Murder! What's going on here? We've been marooned on the island, we couldn't have committed these crimes. Norrington can't believe that."

Gibbs responded with a sharp, unpleasant laugh. "Norrington always believes the worst of folks, son. I tried to get word to him that you were missing. He didn't believe it. Said it was a ruse to cover your crimes. We're not safe anywhere."

"You can't have been sailing aimlessly round the ocean all this time," Will said. "Where have you been anchoring between the searches?"

"The Isla de Muerta, of course," Jack supplied.

"Aye," Gibbs confirmed. "But they'll find us there sooner or later, and we're running low on supplies."

"Right." Jack picked up the poster, calmly ripped it in half, and shoved the two pieces at Gibbs. "Go up top. We're sailing for the Island of the Dead."

"Aye, sir."

Will watched Gibbs leave. He opted to stay, unsure where else to go. What a bizarre change of fortune, to finally be rescued only to be placed in danger again. How could this have happened? Someone must be using their names, committing these crimes and convincing the authorities that Jack was involved. "We could go to Swann and explain. I know he'll believe us, even if Norrington won't."

"No." "But—"

"We're going to the Isla de Muerta." Jack picked up the chart he'd marked. He crossed to the cabinets built into the hull, opened one, and set it inside. He started to close the door, then paused. Then he pulled out a small silver box.

Now what? Will hated this mood Jack was in, far too quiet and composed. As if he had shut down his emotions, or worse, had decided to shut Will out of his life.

Jack ran his fingers over the box's lid, then held it up to his ear and shook it.

A memory came to Will, from when they were in Port Royal, when Jack was recovering from his fever. Swann had told him about a lockbox on board the Pearl, thinking it might contain something that would help reveal Jack's past. Will couldn't recall hearing anything more about it, or whether Swann had ever opened it. Was this the same box? He moved closer. Definitely locked.

A memento from earlier days? Will desperately wanted to make amends, wanted to tell Jack how sorry he was about the way Nate Flynn had died, and about the way he'd made Jack reveal his feelings for Flynn. Perhaps he could find a way to show his sympathy. Perhaps this was the right moment. He cleared his throat. "Will you tell me what's in there?" he asked gently, trying to sound empathetic. "Is it something that belonged to Nate?"

Jack touched the box's lid again, then slowly placed it inside the cabinet, and firmly shut the door. He crossed the short distance between them, coming right up to Will, mere inches from him, his expression dark and cold. "I am the only one who calls him Nate. Not you." He jabbed a finger at Will's chest. "As a matter of fact, son, you don't call him anything at all. Do not ever mention his name in my presence again. Savvy?" Then he turned and walked out of the cabin.

Will collapsed onto a chair, shaking. He buried his face in his hands. What have I done now? He only wanted to offer compassion, he wanted to be forgiven, he wanted everything to be the way it had been before. How could Jack still be so upset with him? Why?

I didn't do anything that bad. Did I?

He didn't know how to fix this. And now they had a new problem on their hands to boot, what with being wanted men. Too much to deal with, all at once. Too many troubles pressed in on him. Will sat up, ran his hands through his hair, tried to calm down. Surely he could find some rum here. He stood to search the cabinet where Jack habitually stored the spirits, and found a bottle. He didn't bother with a glass.

After several gulps of the warming liquid, his shakiness abated. He sat on the cushioned bench against the wall, holding the bottle idly, occasionally taking small sips. He felt the ship moving, picking up speed, catching the wind, leaving their island refuge behind.

Life had been good there, all in all. Will gazed out the windows, the familiar shoreline slipping farther and farther away. Despite his desire to escape from the island, despite the storm destroying their boat, the greater part of their time there had been pleasant. A small paradise at times, just him and Jack, enjoying each other's company, working well together, relaxing comfortably together, spending all those nights in each other's arms.

All gone.

If only he hadn't been so bloody curious about Jack's past.

Then again... as the rum took effect, Will's ceaseless self-blame diminished. Why should he be the only one at fault? It was just as much Jack's fault as his. Will took another large gulp, suddenly feeling bolder, more in control of himself. Jack was the one who had closed off his past in the first place, he was the one who hadn't trusted Will with his emotional life. He was the one who always denied that their many and varied bouts in bed meant anything serious. So what if Will had called his bluff? Was it his fault if Jack couldn't handle a little honesty, couldn't take the truth about love? No. It wasn't his fault at all.

He turned away from the window, and the motion made him feel lightheaded. Uh-oh. Will liked the rum, but he didn't fancy making himself ill just because Jack had put this sudden chill in their friendship. I'm not getting passed-out drunk over him. He capped the bottle.

And just what am I going to do next?

Well, he could leave. First chance that came along, he could ask to be dropped off. Leave the ship, and leave Jack. Maybe even leave the Caribbean. He could go to England. Surely they had need for good swordsmiths there.

Then again, could he truly abandon Jack when he was in danger, wanted by Norrington? Besides, if the whole crew were wanted, and the last Norrington knew, Will himself was part of that crew, then he was a wanted man as well. Running away to England wouldn't help. He needed to clear his name first.

He sighed. They'd all have to work together to do that. He couldn't leave.

Not that he honestly wanted to go anywhere else. He still loved Jack, that refused to change. What Jack felt towards him, Will hadn't a clue. He seemed to want to push Will away, for the most puzzling of reasons. Why would the memory of Nate Flynn send Jack into this strange state? Why would it make him turn his back on Will's friendship, on his love?

Then, in a flash of belated insight, Jack's words from the day before came back to him. He died because of me. Flynn died because he cared too much.

Oh hell.

Will stared at the bottle he still held. He carefully rose, crossed to the cabinet, put it away. Then he opened the cabinet nearby and pulled out the lockbox. He shook it gently. A metallic noise jingled from within, possibly a piece of jewelry. A ring, perhaps? He wasn't about to try breaking the lock. Will replaced the box, shut the cabinet door.

He crossed back to the windows, and stood gazing out at the sea, their island now a mere speck far in the distance. What a complicated man he'd chosen to fall in love with. A man who didn't want to risk loving him in return, for fear of losing him the way he'd lost Flynn. If you choose to spend your life with Jack Sparrow, you live in a risky world, rife with dangers, always one misstep from the hangman's noose. And I chose that life, and he can't handle it.

They'd been through plenty of danger so far, since the first day Will had come aboard the Pearl. Fighting the Spanish, chasing after their ships, thrown in a brig, wrecked on unknown shores. They'd both survived. But those dangers had happened before they had grown so close to each other. And now the memory of losing Flynn preyed on Jack's mind, the memory of putting the life of the one you loved at risk. So perhaps the only real reason he pushed Will away was simply because he didn't want to ever have to do that again.

The war was over. This new trouble—they could get through it, too. They didn't have to go off having more adventures, not if they didn't want to, not if it meant destroying their friendship. And perhaps that made everything a hundred times more complex, for Will couldn't see Jack giving up the Pearl. Maybe Jack was even contemplating doing exactly what Norrington thought he'd already done. He might want to take up a life of piracy once more. If he did, with the danger of the hangman's noose always over him, then he wouldn't want Will around to share that danger. Not if he loves me, he wouldn't.

Tiredness washed over him, with a sense of hopelessness in its wake. There was nothing he could do except stay beside Jack, as long as Jack would let him. And he'd have to stay quiet about what he suspected the reason behind Jack's coldness to be, for fear of driving him farther away. Nothing Will said to him lately seemed to help, and every time he tried to close that distance between them his words only made things worse.

Evening would soon draw on. Will decided not to be here when Jack returned, nor to eat his supper there, nor to even dare suggest that he share Jack's bed. A hammock in the crew's quarters would suit him fine.

With a pang of sadness in his heart, he turned to leave the cabin.

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