Mayflower

CHAPTER ONE

The Barbican, Plymouth

"I think they make a lovely couple," said Elizabeth indignantly.

"I asked if you thought it'd last," said James dryly, smiling, "not if they looked nice together."

"Where's your sense of romance? Will, didn't you think they looked happy?"

"What?" said Will, who had stopped to look out over the water. Out in the Sound, bright-sailed yachts swooped past grey frigates. Closer to shore, a school of red dinghies went about at the mouth of the Cattewater. There was a queue for the ferry at the Mayflower stairs, and an ice-cream van parked next to that peculiar bronze-verdigris sculpture, baroque with antennae. "Oh, Helen and Matt? Yes, I suppose so."

"You suppose?" scoffed Elizabeth. She twitched her stole back onto her tanned shoulders, and almost overbalanced on the slippery cobblestones.

The spring sunshine had brought out the local fishermen, safely wrapped in oiled wool sweaters, to fish from the quayside or from their moored boats. One of them wolf-whistled, and James scowled. He grabbed Elizabeth's elbow and steadied her. "Don't say I didn't warn you. It's bad enough down here anywhere, what with the tourists and the fishing and the fruit stalls. Why don't you just take off your shoes?"

"Because they're fabulous, of course," said Elizabeth, looking down at her high-heeled sandals. They were fabulous, even Will could see that; silver leather, with ankle straps and jewelled tassels, and a stiletto heel sharp enough to dissuade the most drunken dance partner. The sandals made her as tall as Will, and kept the hem of her Nicole Farhi dress off the filthy pavement.

"Anyway, why worry? I have two gorgeous men to carry me!" She smiled at them both.

"I'd be honoured," said James, laughing. Will simply grinned, and wished that Elizabeth would smile less at him, and more at James Norrington. James, after all, was paying court to Elizabeth; Will simply loved her.

They were walking slowly, because of Elizabeth's shoes and because of the champagne that they'd drunk earlier, toasting the bride and groom. It was mid-afternoon, and the sun -- which had made an appearance, after a dull May morning, in time for the wedding photos -- was warm. Will kept looking over his shoulder at the tall ships moored on the other side of the marina. Unfair, to come back to Plymouth when there were real ships in port, and have to attend Elizabeth's cousin's wedding instead. Not that he had ever been able to say no to Elizabeth, even when they were children growing up together.

"James," he said, nudging his friend, "what's that flag?"

James, of course, was more interested in the Navy frigate out by the breakwater. "What flag?" he said, not shifting his gaze.

"On the back of the sailing ship."

"The stern," corrected James. "Merchant ensign, I should think."

"I'd recognise that," said Will, sidestepping a dropped ice-cream. "Red, white and blue."

"The French," said James distastefully.

"Will you two hurry --"

Both men turned quickly, though not quickly enough, when Elizabeth shrieked. Will thought he saw her fall, but he might have been imagining it. There was a spreading ring of ripples in the filthy greenish water.

He sprang forward, ready to dive in and rescue her, but James caught his elbow. "No, don't."

"But she'll drown!" Will protested, pulling his arm free. Elizabeth's head popped out of the water, hair dark and slick against her head. She spluttered and shouted. Four hundred pounds-worth of cream and blue silk floated around her, like the skirts and tentacles of a designer jellyfish.

"It's filthy in there," said James quickly and clearly, looking around. They'd taught him to stay calm in a crisis, and for the first time Will could see that his friend would make a fine commander. "There's all sorts of rubbish under the water, nets and ropes and so on. We need -- ah!" He headed for the lifebelt fastened to the railing.

Elizabeth went under again, and Will watched in horror. "Hurry!" he yelled at James.

"Keep your head up, miss!" shouted a man on the other side of the quay.

"Something down there --" Elizabeth managed breathlessly, arms flailing, before she went under again.

Will looked at the turmoil in the water, and couldn't help thinking of all the horror films he'd seen; sharks, squid ...

One of the yachts rocked as the dark-haired man in the cockpit stood up, setting aside the rope he'd been splicing. He looked consideringly at Elizabeth, and then glanced up to where Will stood. For a moment their eyes met; the man nodded to him, and dived. Almost before Will had registered that flare of contact, he'd surfaced, and was swimming strongly towards where Elizabeth had gone down for a third time.

The man ducked under the water again, and when he came up he was holding Elizabeth in his arms, and flinching as she flailed and kicked. Will wondered if she was still wearing the fabulous shoes, and winced at the thought of being on the receiving end of those heels. Elizabeth had torn her dress on some underwater hazard, and the man's hands looked dark and somehow obscene against her pale stomach.

"Stop fighting, luv, and let's get you back on dry land," he said to her, speaking loudly and slowly. Elizabeth stopped struggling -- Will suspected that her rescuer had done something, under cover of the opaque water, to distract her -- and let herself be towed towards the nearest steps. James' lifebelt, belatedly wrestled free, hit the water in front of the two, and Elizabeth's rescuer flinched from the splash. As though he's not already swimming in the stuff, thought Will. Nevertheless, he caught hold of the lifebelt with one hand, and let James tow the pair of them up to the steps.

Elizabeth pulled herself free of the man's hold, and he let her heave herself onto the stone steps. Her ruined dress clung to her, and Will tried not to notice the outline of her knickers through the soaking silk.

"Elizabeth!" said James urgently, charging down the green-slimed steps towards her. "Are you all right?"

"Do I bloody look all right?" snapped Elizabeth. She sat on the edge of a step, one foot drawn up inelegantly in her lap, examining the remains of her shoe. Her other foot was bare, and bloody.

"You should get that seen to," said Will, proffering his handkerchief. "The water's filthy."

"You're telling me?" said Elizabeth rather hoarsely, spitting into the oil-sheened harbour water. "I think I drank half of it."

James was halfway down the stairs, looking down at the man who'd jumped in to save Elizabeth. James had the advantage of height, and of standing several steps above the gipsyish stranger; but the other man's expression matched his for hauteur.

"Well," said James contemptuously, "if it isn't Jack Sparrow again."

CHAPTER TWO

Tall ship moored in the Cattewater

A thin, sharp-faced woman had emerged from one of the pubs on the quay, swooping down on the little group of them with blankets and a mug of strong sweet tea. "Here, love, get that down you," she commanded Elizabeth, letting Will pat the blanket into place around Elizabeth's shoulders. "Now, come and get dried off and into some clean clothes, eh?"

"We're staying just up the road," James said, turning from his silent staredown with Elizabeth's rescuer. "I can take --"

"She don't want to be walking around like that, now does she?" demanded the woman. "Jack Sparrow, that was a good thing you did. You all right, boy?"

"Fine, Mrs Hobbes," said Sparrow, bestowing a smile of considerable charm on the landlady. "Can't have young ladies chucking 'emselves into the harbour, eh?"

Elizabeth turned an icy look upon her rescuer, and seemed inclined to protest: but Mrs Hobbes took the half-empty mug from her, and began to lead her back towards the pub. "I'll have her back with you in just a minute, sir," she told James, "but it wouldn't be right for her to walk around like that. An' it's not summer yet, eh, Jack? You get dried off too, you hear?"

"Righto," said Jack Sparrow. Will looked at him properly for the first time. He didn't seem especially bothered by his soaking, or by the filthy water in the harbour. His long hair was bedraggled: there were earrings all up the curve of his left ear, like the spiral-binding on a notebook: he wore tatty black jeans and a paint-smeared red t-shirt, all dripping wet, and he stood barefoot in a gradually-expanding pool of water, head tilted back to meet James Norrington's disdainful gaze.

"Jack Sparrow," said James again. "Still hanging around down here?"

"'S where me boat is," said Jack helpfully, nodding towards the yacht he'd leapt from to save Elizabeth.

"She's yours?" said Will, his eyes running covetously over the gleaming ebony paintwork and the neatly-furled sails. "She's a beauty."

James rolled his eyes; Jack beamed at Will. "Ain't she, though?" he said. "The Black Pearl, she's called. Named after a fearsome pirate ship that went down off the Lizard."

"There's no proof of that," said James. "Oh, sorry, Will: this is Jack Sparrow, who was at college with me for a while. Until --"

"Until circumstances changed," said Sparrow, wringing water from his hair. He shot a look at Will, his eyes quite unreadable. "Why don't you come over? I'd just as soon not stand here all afternoon."

Without waiting for an answer he set off around the quay to where his boat was moored. Will, not waiting to be asked twice, went after him, and James (swearing only very softly) followed.

"Jack," he said, "this is Will Turner."

Sparrow, about to leap down -- the tide was coming in, but not yet high -- onto the forepeak of the boat, turned, and looked hard at Will. "Turner, eh?" he said. "Aye, I see it now."

"I suppose you knew my father," said Will, glancing at James for support: but James said nothing.

"Aye, I knew 'im," said Jack. "Good man. Come on, Will, or d'you need a hand down?"

Will scrambled down, cursing his smart smooth-soled dress shoes, and Jack steadied him. His hand was hot and strong on Will's arm.

"Been to a wedding, eh? Anyone I know?"

"Elizabeth's cousin," said James repressively, descending the rickety iron ladder bolted to the sheer stone quay, and waving away Sparrow's helping hand. "You know, Jack, you're just like the bloody Ancient Mariner."

"Am I?" said Jack, grinning. "Oh, an' welcome aboard the Black Pearl, both of ye."

"You know," said James. "He stoppeth one of three, and all that."

"Whatever you say, mate. Though I didn't 'xactly stop the bonny lass," said Jack, twisting sure-footed round the stays and dropping down into the cockpit. "More rescued her, really. Seeing as how I'm not dressed up all fancy like the two of youse, it seemed only fair. Don't I deserve a thank-you for dragging your young lady from the briny?"

"She's not mine," snapped James.

"I see," said Jack, eyebrows raised: but he flicked a wicked look at Will, and Will couldn't help but grin back.

"As to what you deserve, Sparrow ... You imagine I don't know about your little runs over to France? I should report you."

Jack Sparrow shrugged. Will was fascinated by the way his collarbones moved. "There's worse 'round here than that, sir," he said. "What about old Barbossa, eh, and his weekend adventures?"

Norrington frowned. "I don't --"

"Bloody hell," said Jack, raising his eyes to the street behind the quay. "Talk of the devil."

Will followed the line of his gaze. There was a sleek silver Jaguar easing into place by the kerb, despite the 'Residents Only' sign, and Jack Sparrow was scowling at it. Even James was frowning a little, though he looked puzzled rather than angry.

"You said you knew my father," Will said to Jack, trying to defuse the situation.

"Aye," said Jack, pulling his gaze from the car. "Good bloke, 'e was."

"I don't really remember him" said Will. "Just remember Mum telling me his boat'd gone down, and he wasn't coming back."

"That was a bad business, that," said Jack, nodding. "Navy denied it, eh, Mr Norrington? Oh, beg your pardon: it's Lieutenant now, ain't it? But everyone reckoned it was a submarine, come in where it shouldn't've been."

"I never knew that!"

"Not one of ours," said James coolly. "Will, trust me. I've checked the reports exhaustively -- no, nothing I can show you -- and there weren't even any undisclosed exercises in that area."

"How can you be so sure," probed Jack, "if they weren't disclosed?"

James closed his eyes for a moment. "You'll have to take my word for it. But it's not impossible that there was something else off the Lizard that day --"

Jack hissed at him, and James fell silent obediently, though his expression promised retribution for that: and from the quay above them came a genial voice.

"Mr Sparrow!"

"Aye?" said Jack Sparrow, surly.

"Good to see you, Sparrow," said Barbossa. He was a big man, and although the afternoon was warm he wore a long black coat which added to his bulk, and enhanced the air of menace that hung about him like his expensive aftershave.

"Wish I could say the same, mate," said Jack lazily, but his black glare was furious.

"Well, Mr Sparrow, I wouldn't be here now if you'd not defaulted on our accord."

"I haven't defaulted on anything," said Jack Sparrow icily. "We never had an accord."

Barbossa, eyebrow raised, nodded slowly. He was older than Jack, and there was grey in his hair, which he wore in a pony-tail that showed off the gold ring in his ear. "Thought you'd say that, Jack," he said. "And if that's how things are, best I just take your little boat as settlement."

Jack's eyes blazed, and his nostrils flared, but Barbossa did not seem to notice: he looked the Black Pearl over, all neat stays and gleaming brasswork and fresh varnish, as though he were looking at a woman. Insolent, thought Will, that's the word. It offended him: how must Jack Sparrow feel?

"She probably ain't worth that much," said Barbossa, smiling, "but tell you what, Mr Sparrow, I'll take her as full payment, and we'll be quits."

"I am never giving you my boat," said Jack, low and vehement.

"Best pay up, then, eh? Though I hear the dole don't stretch that far these days. Never mind, Jack: if I make a profit on her, I'll be certain to come and find you in the gutter."

"You can't repossess Mr Sparrow's boat without paperwork," said James Norrington coolly. "Registrations, insurance ... This isn't the eighteenth century, you know."

Will glanced at him in surprise. It was hardly the first time he'd seen James step into an argument to defend somebody -- he'd done it for Will, often enough, while they were at school -- but Jack Sparrow did not seem the type to incite James to heroism. Sparrow was surprised, too: he blinked twice, eyes very wide, but (wisely) said nothing.

"Ah, sir," said Barbossa, his tone robbing the honorific of all its weight, "but I have the paperwork, see? I'll see you on Monday, Mr Sparrow." And he turned away.

"Tuesday!" Jack called to his retreating back. "Monday's a Bank Holiday!"

But for all his bravado, Will saw, he was deflated: and though his wet clothes hadn't bothered him before, he was starting to shiver.

"Sorry 'bout that," he said to the two of them. "And thanks for trying to help, James." Will could hear the echo of a more refined accent in his speech now.

"Can he do it?" said James.

Jack shrugged, and flipped wet hair back out of his face. "I haven't anything else to give him," he said fiercely. "Oh, it's an old debt all right, and one I should never've incurred."

"Could he be telling the truth about the papers?"

Jack fiddled with one of the knots on the sail-cover. "He might," he admitted. "I was in the process of signing her over to a friend a while ago, when the DSS were on my back about something. Didn't like the thought of 'em taking her off me."

"Can't blame you," said James. "Who did you give her to?"

Jack smiled, though there was little warmth in it. "Bill Turner," he said. "Your dad, Will."

Will found himself choked with questions, but the one that made it as far as his mouth was, "So what's that Barbossa doing with the papers?"

"He's a nasty bit of work," said Jack. "But ..." He glanced up at the quay and smiled, mercurial. "He can't do a thing 'til Tuesday, though; and to be entirely honest with you, I'm not sure he can do anything at all."

"If I can help at --"

"Thanks, James," said Jack: and Will looked away, determined to grill James Norrington later about this fascinating friend of his.

"Well," Jack was saying, "awf'lly kind of you all to drop by, but I'd better get going."

"You're not going out this time of day?" said Norrington.

"Only over to Cawsand Bay," said Jack. "Nice afternoon for it, don't you think?" And then, to Will who was staring out over the water, "Care to join me?"

"Sorry, but I've promised to go to the wedding reception," Will planned to say; but halfway out of his mouth the words twisted themselves into what he meant, and what came out was "I'd love to come sailing."

"Grand," said Jack, beaming. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I need to slip into something less ... moist."

He disappeared into the cabin, and the hatch slid shut.

"What about the reception, Will?" said Norrington.

"They won't miss me," said Will confidently.

"Elizabeth will," said Norrington.

"Not if she has you to keep her company," said Will, and was pleased to see James Norrington's face brighten at the thought. "But, James?"

"What?"

"You'll have to dance with her, I'm afraid."

"Oooh, dangerous," said Jack Sparrow from below. "Do they teach you dancing at the Naval College, James?"

"Dancing?" said Elizabeth from the quay above them: rather closer now, as the tide gently lifted the Black Pearl towards the top of the stonework. "You did promise you'd dance with me, James."

James Norrington, eyebrows raised, examined Elizabeth. Her hair was dry, and freshly washed, and she'd tied it back. She was wearing grey tracksuit bottoms, rather tattered at the ankles, and a pink sweatshirt with glittery flowers on it.

"Mrs Hobbes lent me some clothes," she said brightly, fixing James with a look that dared him to comment. "But let's go back to the hotel and get changed, shall we?"

"Elizabeth," began Will. He could feel himself flushing, and that wouldn't do: he wasn't even sure himself why he felt so nervous. "Er ... are you all right?"

"Fine, thanks," said Elizabeth. A line appeared between her brows. "Will, is something --"

"Would you mind terribly if I missed the reception?" said Will, all in a rush. "Only, he's -- Jack's -- invited me for a sail, and it's so long since I've been out on the water." That last bit sounded lame, he knew, but it couldn't be helped: and Elizabeth was smiling again, though Will suspected that it was more amusement at his discomfiture than approval of his plans.

"I'll look after you," offered James diffidently. His back, Will couldn't help noticing, was very straight, as though he were confronting a superior officer. "There's no harm in Will having -- that is, going off for the weekend. Glorious sailing weather, after all."

"I'm sure you'll enjoy it more than being pestered by all the aunts and cousins," said Elizabeth, laughing. "Don't forget I'm heading back on Monday evening, though: if you want a lift --"

"Glad that's all settled, then," said Jack Sparrow, erupting from the cabin. Will suppressed a chuckle at his timely reappearance. He must've heard everything, and Will was glad Elizabeth hadn't made one of her more off-colour remarks.

"I can't thank you enough for diving in to rescue me," said Elizabeth politely, smiling at Jack.

"No," said Jack, beaming. "Well, you don't look any the worse for it, Elizabeth."

"Miss Swann," said Elizabeth. "Will, is your phone charged?"

"It's at the hotel," said Will. "But I need to get my stuff --" He paused, looking uncertainly at Jack. "What do I need?"

"Clothes?" said Jack brightly, looking Will up and down in a way that made his skin tingle. "I've waterproofs to fit you, I reckon, though touch wood we won't need 'em, eh?" His hand continued to stroke the smooth, varnished curve of teak. "Nothing special. Just yourself. And whatever you need overnight."

"When are you coming back?" said James, a smile twitching in the corner of his mouth.

"Monday lunchtime, weather permitting," said Jack Sparrow, eyeing the fluttering flag at the top of the mast.

Elizabeth followed his gaze. "Is that the Jolly Roger?" she said mockingly. Will glared at her, quite sure that she was out to embarrass him.

"It's St Piran's flag," said Jack rather testily. "The Cornish flag, Miss Swann. A white cross on a black ground. None of your skulls and crossbones here."

"What a disappointment," said Elizabeth. "Pirates are so romantic."

"Actually," began Will; but James gave him a warning look, and he subsided.

"So, Mr Turner," said Jack Sparrow. "Up for a little sail, then?"

"I'll be back in half an hour," said Will, smiling. "You two heading back to the hotel?"

James nodded. He was looking at Sparrow, not quite frowning: and Sparrow beamed back at him, so broadly that Will could see gold teeth glinting in his smile.

"I'll get her ready to go," said Jack. "Now, James, don't do anything I wouldn't do, eh?" And he made a curious gesture, half-salute and half wave, at Norrington.

"As if that would limit me in any way," said James, helping Elizabeth up the metal rungs of the mooring-ladder. He paused at the top of the quay, looking back at Sparrow. "Take care, Jack," he said.

Somehow, it sounded to Will like a warning.

CHAPTER THREE

Terraced houses curved above the Cattewater estuary, painted mauve and green and turquoise

"Tell me about your peculiar friend."

"Jack? He's not a friend. Not really."

"You know him, though."

"We were at college together. He dropped out at the end of the first year."

"Bad grades?"

"Bad attitude, is more like it."

"So he's not as stupid as he looks, then."

"Could he be?"

"Well, Will seems to be impressed, anyway. I haven't seen him so smitten for ages."

"Smitten? You mean ... you mean Will's gay?"

"You mean Jack's not?"

"I ... I'm not exactly sure what Jack is. He always seemed to have loads of girls hanging around him back at Dartmouth, but --"

"But what, James?"

"Nothing. Honestly."

"Really, anyone would think you had some objection to escorting me this evening!"

"Of course not! I mean --"

"Good."

It'd taken rather longer for Will to get his act together than he'd anticipated, and he hurried back through the narrow, crowded streets of the Barbican at a breathless pace, afraid that Jack Sparrow would've sailed off without him.

But Jack was still there. The high tide had carried the Black Pearl to the top of the quay. Her owner was sitting in the cockpit, drinking strong black coffee (Will could smell it) out of a white enamel mug, and reading a paperback novel.

"Hello," said Will, pausing uncertainly.

"Ah, you made it! Good, good. Welcome aboard again. Coffee?"

"Please," said Will. Jack Sparrow was wearing paint-stained jeans, ripped at the knees, and a Motorhead t-shirt that was grey with age. His hair, all dreadlocked and braided, was dry now, and he'd tied it back. He reminded Will of the dropouts who hung around outside the Social Security office, drinking and smoking: but his accent betrayed a decent education somewhere in his past, and his gaze, on Will, was clear and perceptive, taking in Will's stiffly new jeans and rugby shirt, and the whiteness of his trainers.

"You c'n have the bunk on the right," said Jack, gesturing. "No point unpacking anything yet: it's safer in the bag."

Will went down the steps into the cabin cautiously, stooping as low as he could. He'd been on boats before, of course: James' father had a sleek cabin-cruiser, and the three of them had spent many a summer afternoon out on the water at Cowes or on the Solent. But Jack's boat was smaller, and older, and the cabin smelt, not of polish and perfume, but of oil and wood and coffee.

"It's very small," said Will, hating himself as soon as he spoke.

"Compact is what it is," said Jack from behind him. He sounded amused. "That bunk there, mate." His hand came past Will's shoulder, gesturing.

The bunk, Will saw, was good and wide, and it extended under the cockpit: it'd be like sleeping in a coffin, though, and a queasy wave of claustrophobia rose in his gut.

"Lovely and comfy," said Jack, "when we're out on the water. Unless you're a particularly restless sleeper, of course?"

Will could feel himself blushing. "It looks great," he lied. He dumped his rucksack on top of the sleeping-bag, and folded himself out of the way while Jack -- neat and efficient, and without any of that eye-catching flamboyance -- lit the gas, and brought the kettle back to the boil, and spooned instant coffee into another mug.

Caffeine overdose, thought Will: that'd explain a lot.

"Milk? Shit, knew I forgot something ... Sugar? No? Come and sit outside, mate," Jack said. "Make the most of the sunshine, eh? We'll head out in a bit."

Will scrambled back up to the cockpit with alacrity. The cabin was so small, and it was bad enough having to stoop and bend: with Jack there too, it felt crowded, and Will was nervous of his own clumsiness.

Sitting in the sun, across from Jack Sparrow, seemed safer, though not precisely safe. And it was a lovely afternoon. A battered little radio with an old-fashioned tuning dial sat on the cabin roof: it was playing something mellow and jazzy, and though it wasn't what Will would've chosen to listen to, he had to admit that it suited the spring sunshine, the smell of salt water, and the creak and rattle of the harbour.

Jack had his bare feet up on the roped tiller, and he'd put his dark glasses back on: Will could still feel the pressure of his gaze. "Where are we going?" he asked.

Jack tilted his head back to look at the sky. (The line of his throat made something leap in Will's chest.) "Getting late," he said. "But there's a nice breeze: we should make it over to Cawsand."

"Just across the Sound, you mean?" said Will. "Hell, I'm sorry: I didn't mean that to come out --"

"Ever sailed 'round Plymouth Sound at night, Mr Turner?" enquired Jack, grinning. "No? More little lights and nasty rocks than you could shake a stick at, there are: I don't fancy putting my Pearl in the way of the Santander ferry, either. We should get over to Cawsand by dark, if the weather holds: and maybe we'll head out a bit in the morning, eh?"

"That sounds great," said Will, burning his mouth on the tin mug. "Er, I haven't sailed for a while: I'm not going to be much use, I'm afraid."

"You just lie back and relax, mate," said Jack Sparrow. "I'll take care of the sailing. Though, since you're there, you can unhitch us from the mooring, eh?" He nodded at the heavy rope on Will's side of the cockpit. "And bring in the fenders, while you're at it."

"What, now?"

"No time like the present," said Sparrow, tipping the dregs of his coffee into the oil-sheened harbour.

They motored out of the marina, Jack Sparrow standing tall (though Will had a couple of inches on him) at the tiller and Will sitting beside him, craning to see. There was another boat just in front of them, the Ariel, a sleek fibreglass beauty with a life-jacketed teenage girl at the helm: she slowed as she approached the Mayflower steps, and the metal-cage footbridge from the Barbican to the Aquarium.

"How ...?" began Will, feeling stupid.

"They'll have to open up for that," said Jack, pointing at the Ariel. "No point in 'em doing it twice." He idled the engine while lights flashed and bells rang at either end of the bridge, and a couple of kids vied to be last across before the gates clanged closed. Then the bridge swung ponderously aside, and the Ariel leapt forward like a greyhound, and the Black Pearl followed sedately after.

Coming out of the harbour, Will could feel the difference in the water at once. Though the Breakwater kept the worst of the Atlantic swell from the inner Sound, there was enough of a swell to set the Black Pearl dancing skittishly on white-crested waves. Will swallowed, and turned his face to the sun. It was much colder out here, too, and he wished he'd put on a sweater: but his clothes were all below, and the thought of venturing into the cabin made his stomach twist.

"Sea-sickness tablets in the panel 'bove the table," said Jack, not looking at Will. "There's a jacket on my bunk, if you're cold." The depth sounder beeped, and he twitched the tiller slightly.

Will thought of protesting, but he was cold, and his stomach was sick and roiling with the memory of champagne and rich food at the wedding lunch -- another world, that'd been -- and he didn't want to humiliate himself by throwing up before they'd passed the Battery. He grinned ruefully. "How could you tell?"

"Prone to it meself, mate," said Jack cheerfully. "Never set off without popping a pill."

The cabin was as bad as Will'd feared, but he found the tablets in their foil package, and took two. Unpacking his bag, though, would mean spending far too long in this lurching, gloomy space: he grabbed the dirty red jacket from Jack's bunk, and put it on, though the smell (oil, sweat and grease) made his stomach churn.

Back out in the fresh air, he felt better at once. The sun was bright on the waves, and the fishermen on the Battery were small as gnomes. The breeze was cold, all right, and the engine was noisy: but the tang of salt and the noise of the waves against the hull made everything simple and elemental and right. Will looked back. Terraced houses curved above the Cattewater estuary, painted mauve and green and turquoise: above them again, a green hill soared against the sky, with the dark squat shape of the firing-range at its crest.

"You're lucky to have this all so close," he said.

Jack Sparrow snorted. "There's luck an' there's luck," he said. "Scenery's all well and good for pulling in the tourists of a summer, but there's fuck all else 'round here, now the dockyard's closed."

"What about the Navy?" said Will. No, you idiot, came Elizabeth's voice, clear as a bell. He dropped out of naval college, remember?

"Fuck the Navy," said Sparrow, and for a moment there was a sour twist to his mouth. Then he looked over at Will, and grinned. "Time to make sail, I reckon. Hold this." And, with no other warning, he swung the tiller at Will, and Will caught it.

"But what do I do?"

"Try not to hit anything, eh?" said Jack over his shoulder, already up on the roof of the cabin and stretching to unhook the bungees from the halyards. Freed, they clattered metallically against the mast.

"Watch out for those dinghies," suggested Jack, and Will pulled the tiller over so that the Black Pearl turned aside from a swarm of small, bright-sailed boats. He could feel the creak and flex of the boat through his feet, and the purr of the engine; his eyes flicked from the depth sounder to the speedometer, and back to the shining water ahead of him. The Black Pearl was heading almost directly towards the sun, and the trees on Mount Edgcumbe were hazy with light. This was marvellous.

There was a groaning noise, and a rush, and Will tried not to flinch: but it was only the sail filling. Then Jack sprang down next to him again, and fiddled with some knots, and instructed, "Now, ease down the engine, eh?"

Will had watched Jack coaxing the engine into life, and he was accustomed to temperamental machinery; patience and perseverance got you further, engine-wise, than any amount of force. He was gentle with the gear-stick, and careful not to stall it. Jack cursed, and bounded for'ard again to free a tangled line: then, silhouetted against the bright sky, he called back to Will, "Kill the engine."

Will turned the key and the engine pounded to a stop. The only sounds were wood, and wind, and water: and, high above, the cries of gulls.

"Welcome to the Age of Sail, Mr Turner," called Jack, and though Will could not see his smile he heard the glee in his voice, and grinned too.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sailing, Plymouth Sound

The sun was hot, for May, but there was a good stiff breeze to carry them across the water to Cornwall. Will got the hang of the tiller quickly enough: if he was too rough or too fast, his actions had no effect.

"Gently does it," said Jack, grinning at him. "Like a woman, eh?"

Will hoped he wasn't flushing. "Whatever," he said.

Was Jack's expression knowing? Hard to tell, behind the sunglasses. Will wished he'd thought to wear his own; he was squinting into the sun. Besides, Jack's attention made him want to hide.

Jack laid his hand right next to Will's on the tiller -- was he trying to be provocative? -- and eased it over. The Black Pearl turned, and the noise of the water on her hull changed.

"We're going to turn," said Jack. "Or go about, if you want the nautical term. Mind your head."

Will ducked as the boom swung the sail across, catching the wind from the other side. The Pearl was sailing more or less south, now, towards the Breakwater. From this angle Will could see that the squat tower halfway along was a circular fort, not part of the Breakwater at all.

"Better now?" said Jack, relinquishing the tiller to Will once more.

"Fine," said Will, grinning. He realised it was true. The greasy roiling in his stomach had subsided, and there was no longer a bitter taste in his mouth. The salty air and the bright sunshine made him feel happier than he'd felt all day, and the pitch and buck of the boat under him, pressing against the soles of his feet, was like a living thing. They were not sailing very fast: four knots or so, which meant it'd be an hour until they reached the other side of the Sound. But Will was not interested, any more, in solid ground.

Jack was grinning too. He didn't seem to mind letting Will take the tiller. In acknowledgement of the breeze, he'd put on a sweater, all stained and patched and unravelling at the sleeves (though, Will noticed, the loose ends had been neatly trimmed, so as not to catch on anything). He lounged, feet up, on the cockpit bench, with another mug of strong coffee -- he'd made one for Will, too -- and the radio playing cheerful fiddle music. There was an occasional burst of static from the short-wave radio. ("Coastguards," Jack'd explained, "and the shipping forecast.") And there was the endless rush and hiss and slap of waves against the hull.

Will's increasing confidence must've shown, for Jack began to provide a commentary, of sorts. "Ocean-going cat," he said of a huge, sleek monster that sailed past as though the Black Pearl were stationary. "Navy minesweeper," as a grey gun-girt ship emerged, slow and stately and with siren booming, from the mouth of the river.

"Is that the River Tamar?" said Will. "I thought it'd be wider."

"That bit's the Hamoaze, actually," confided Jack. "Mouth of the Tamar. Funny old tide-race there. Take you up there some time, if you fancy a change of pace."

Will beamed at him. "I'd like that." Then, afraid he'd said too much, "I don't get down to Plymouth often, though. And --" He shut his mouth on what he'd been going to say, which was that Jack might well not have a boat to sail, next time Will saw him.

Jack might've read his mind. For a long moment he was silent and still, but just as Will opened his mouth to say something -- anything -- Jack shrugged and grinned. "Whenever you're around, mate. Now that," he said, gesturing, "is Drake's Island. Good man, Drake: good pirate. Not sure he'd've been keen on millionaires buying up his island and using it for dirty weekends, but there you go."

"What, you mean pirates don't approve of dirty weekends?" said Will, grinning.

"No pirate worth the name'd limit himself -- or herself, as it might be -- to weekends, mate," said Jack, with that toothy grin. The gold teeth made him look pretty piratical, Will had to admit, though he shuddered to think of the dental bills. Jack might be stone broke now, but he'd had money at some point in his life.

"Bring 'er about," said Jack, and Will realised that he was staring. "In fact, head for that fort on the Breakwater, eh?"

"I thought we were going to Cawsand?"

Jack cocked his head to one side. "Let me explain tacking to you."

By the time the Black Pearl motored into Cawsand Bay -- the wind having dropped as they came into the lea of the headland -- the sun was behind the hills, and the air was cooling fast. Will helped Jack anchor, well off-shore. There were sheep grazing on the steep green hillside above the village, and Cawsand itself ("that's the bit on the left," said Jack; "right of the quay it's Kingsand, and they're extraordinarily particular about it;") looked prettier from the water than Will remembered it being by land.

"We came over here last summer," he said. "Elizabeth wanted to go to some new restaurant at Mount Edgcumbe, but James missed the turning, and we overruled her."

"I'll bet she was pleased about that," said Jack. He'd taken off his sunglasses now, but his black gaze was just as impenetrable without them. "What about you, Will? S'pose you get to a lot of fancy restaurants, eh?"

Will shrugged. "I can take them or leave them," he said. "We had a perfectly good roast in the pub, there."

"I can do better'n that, mate," said Jack, beaming.

"Where are we going?" asked Will, eyeing the delightfully still stretch of the beach below the village. He didn't feel sick any more, but his balance was all over the place. Jack Sparrow seemed quite at home with the gentle roll of the swell, coming into the bay from the south-east: but then, Will thought rather enviously, he's used to all this.

"No need to go ashore, mate," said Jack cheerfully. "We've everything we need, right here." And he rummaged in the space under the seat and produced, with a flourish, a two-litre bottle of cider, labelled in bright supermarket colours.

"On an empty stomach?" said Will, eyebrows raised.

"Didn't they feed you, at that wedding lunch?" Jack waited for Will to start laughing before he added, "And anyway, I'll cook."

"What's for dinner?" said Will, accepting the tin mug -- this time full of fizzing cider -- that Jack passed him.

"You're not a vegetarian, are you?" enquired Jack, drawing back in feigned horror.

"No," said Will. "Just wondering."

"Surprise," said Jack. "Now, you just sit up here and enjoy the peace and quiet, Mr Turner, and I'll deal with the comestibles." He disappeared into the gloomy cabin.

Will shivered, set down his drink, and went after him.

"Only room for one," said Jack fiercely, brandishing a frying-pan.

"Just getting a jumper," said Will meekly, reaching for his bag and yanking out a thick black polo-neck. "It's all yours, Captain!" He retreated, and laughed to see the hatch slide shut and the wash-boards put in place. After all the fuss, it'd probably be spaghetti, or beans on toast. Will didn't care to invade the cabin just to find out.

And anyway, he could do without the provocation of Jack Sparrow's proximity. Even out here in the cockpit, Will had been aware every moment of Jack's presence, of how easily his hand might brush against Jack's leg, or Jack's foot nudge Will's thigh. Perhaps it was the sea-sickness tablets? Will couldn't remember the last time he'd been so very drawn to someone -- to, in fact, a man. And he had no proof that Jack was even interested in men, let alone in Will himself.

Well, apart from the fact that he'd invited Will to come sailing with him. Apart from the fact that he was in there, cooking dinner for Will. And then they'd spend the evening together, alone, on the Black Pearl. And then the night.

Will shivered again, but not from the cold. He poured himself more cider -- it was cool and appley and delicious -- and leaned his head back against the rail. It was still and lovely here, with the lights of the village reflecting in the water, and the sea so calm that he could see the reflection of the Black Pearl from hull to mast. Will sat, and breathed, and gazed back over the Sound to the dirty orange blur of Plymouth. Very far away.

From: [ELIZABETH]

Sent at: 01/05/05 17:40:33

R U OK? Where R U?

From: [WILL]

Sent at: 01/05/05 17:44:04

Fine thanx. In Cawsand Bay, we sailed here. J cooking dinner. Am drinking Tesco cider.

From: [ELIZABETH]

Sent at: 01/05/05 17:50:13

LOL J & I ate at hotel, off to recep now. Will drink some champagne 4 U. & some for me ha ha. J sez is Jack behaving?

From: [WILL]

Sent at: 01/05/05 17:55:09

Jack being perfect gent. :(

From: [ELIZABETH]

Sent at: 01/05/05 18:01:32

Sorry to hear that must try harder! Have fun xx

CHAPTER FIVE

Cawsand Bay

"Dinner," announced Jack, "is served."

"Hmph?" said Will. He cracked his eyes open and focussed on Jack, who was no more than a silhouette against the brightness of the cabin. It was dark now, and pretty chilly, and somehow -- lulled by the sound of the water on the Black Pearl's hull, and the distant sound of sheep on the hill -- he'd dozed off. "Sorry," he said.

"Don't worry 'bout it, mate," said Jack cheerfully. "Come and get it while it's ... hot."

Was that a wink? Probably not, thought Will with a pang of realism. He picked up the cider, and his cup, and followed Jack down into the cabin.

The small space felt cosy and cheerful now, after the chill of the evening outside. There was a tiny two-ring gas cooker, with a massive pan wedged inside the guard-rail, emanating a mouth-watering smell of garlic and herbs and fish. The cabin was full of steam, though Jack was sliding open one of the windows to let it out. Will could not stand up straight: the ceiling was too low. He slid onto one of the benches. The little table was properly set, with plain black bowls that reminded Will of a Japanese restaurant that Elizabeth liked, and heavy glass goblets, and linen napkins. There was bread steaming on a plate in the middle of the table, and a bottle of good white burgundy, and -- Will smiled to see it -- a sprig of hawthorn in a water-glass.

"Some people," said Jack, "reckon mayflower's unlucky, in a house. But this ain't a house, eh?"

"This is ... wonderful, Jack," said Will, grinning. He gestured (carefully, for there wasn't much room) at the table, which'd been heaped with charts and newspapers -- Jack read the Guardian -- when he'd first arrived. "Thank you."

"You haven't had dinner yet," said Jack darkly: but he was beaming. "You pour the wine, eh? I'll dish up."

Will poured the wine, and watched Jack as he busied himself at the stove. The radio was playing something operatic, and Jack hummed along, more or less in tune, as he retrieved a slotted spoon from a drawer, and turned off the gas. He was still wearing the Motorhead t-shirt, and his filthy jeans; his only concession to cooking (never mind to his guest) seemed to be the leather thong that he'd used to tie back his hair. Will's mouth was watering, and he couldn't work out whether it was the smell of the food or the sight of Jack Sparrow. He giggled.

"No wine for you, mate, if you've overdone the cider," warned Jack, grinning. He turned from the stove and, with a theatrical gesture, lifted the lid from the pan.

For a moment Will was enveloped in a warm, aromatic cloud: then the steam cleared, and he saw blue shells, and pink claws, and yellow rice.

"You cooked paella?" he said. It came out rather high-pitched. "In here?"

Jack's expression hovered between smugness and uncertainty. "I cheated," he admitted. "The mussels are boil-in-the-bag."

"But ..." said Will, gesturing. "Everything!"

Jack'd settled on smugness now, and Will thought he had every right. "Excellent fish market in Plymouth, mate," he said. "All good an' fresh, too: none of your frozen rubbish. Crabs so feisty you have to count your fingers. How much d'you want?"

Will finished off two bowls of paella -- it was good, rich and buttery and full of mussels and prawns, shrimp and cod and little scraps of anchovy and octopus -- and nearly a bottle of wine. Jack, opening the second bottle, had come up close and peered into Will's eyes: no doubt it'd been to check on his state of inebriation, but Will'd hoped for a kiss, and when none was forthcoming he'd very nearly lunged at Jack himself. Only some vestige of dignity -- and the calculation involved in doing anything in a space so small -- prevented him: and by the time he'd talked himself into it, Jack was sitting down again, across from Will, and pouring him another glass.

Still, it was early yet.

"Was hoping to catch you, princess: I've got a little present for you."

Elizabeth looked up at someone, a man, behind James: she gave him a pleased smile, and James felt a small unwelcome nudge of jealousy.

"I didn't expect to see you here!" said Elizabeth brightly.

James looked over his shoulder. Elizabeth's anonymous friend was tall, and skinny, and wore his blond hair short and spiked. His suit was good enough (though he'd ruin it if he kept his hands in his pockets like that), but his silk shirt was a loud cobalt that made his blue eyes bluer. He was smiling: he had a good tan, and white teeth, and an earring in one ear.

"Friend of the groom, love," he said to Elizabeth. James, in ten years of friendship with Matthew, had never met him. "And it's my clear and present duty to ensure that it's a white wedding."

He took one hand out of his pocket, and passed an origami square across the table to Elizabeth. James glimpsed a smile and a white dress: it looked like a page torn from a glossy bridal magazine. Elizabeth tucked it into the front of her dress as though it were something more than mere paper: and James, averting his gaze, was suddenly, sinkingly certain of what was wrapped inside.

"How much --"

"You can owe me, darling." There was a brief pause, into which party noises swirled like smoke; James could feel the other man's eyes on him, and imagine the amusement on his face. He did not look up. "See you around, eh?"

James waited a moment, until the fellow would be out of earshot -- peddling his wares to the other guests, no doubt -- and then said, low and miserable, "Elizabeth, I ..."

But there was no way to finish that sentence without sounding pompous, or priggish, or over-protective. He looked at her helplessly.

"Don't you ...?" said Elizabeth, and then answered herself. "No, of course you don't."

James would have expected this to sound judgemental, or -- worse -- pitying, but her tone was quite neutral.

"I don't even know what he gave you."

"Sold me," said Elizabeth firmly. "It's coke. Cocaine. Have you ever even tried it?"

"No," said James, not bothering to mention the obvious reasons. "And I'd rather not start now."

Elizabeth looked at him, frowning slightly, and he realised that he might have sounded rude. "But you must do as you please," he added.

"I'll flush it if it bothers you," she said.

"I'm not asking --"

"I know," said Elizabeth, with a smile much warmer than the one she'd awarded the dealer. It made James dizzy and euphoric -- which was funny, really, because wasn't that how drugs were supposed to make you feel?

"I know you're not asking," she said. "But what you think matters just as much as what you say."

"What I think of you?" said James, dry-mouthed. He gulped champagne.

Elizabeth nodded, and now there was a secret hidden in her smile.

CHAPTER SIX

Evening: the Eddystone, from Cawsand Bay

Inside the little cabin it was warm and bright, redolent with garlic and saffron and the delicate scent of mayflower. The radio was playing blues guitar, but it was overlaid by music from somewhere beyond the open hatch. "Live band on at the Halfway House," Jack'd explained as he excused himself to go outside.

The music carried clearly over the still water of the bay: 'All or Nothing' almost drowned out the radio, and Will leaned over and turned it off. He was trying not to think of Jack pissing over the side of the boat, and wondering if it'd be too obvious of him to go out while Jack was out there. Whether he'd get a look.

Sea-sickness tablets and supermarket cider were certainly an effective aphrodisiac, concluded Will, even without good wine and food and company. It was almost embarrassing, how much he wanted Jack. Before, it'd been only the way he looked that made Will's blood surge. There was more to it now, more dimension, more depth.

For, though he'd wondered what on earth they'd do all evening, given the lack of any entertainment save one another's company, Will was amazed at how easily the time passed. Jack might be poor, and he might be dishonest -- James thought so, anyway -- but he was fascinating. He read a lot (Will could see a shelf of paperbacks, novels and non-fiction, above his bunk) and he'd sailed all sorts of places.

"Went across to the Caribbean a couple of years back," he said, most of the way through the second bottle. "I was crewing on an old schooner: but I'd rather have my own boat, and sail her as and when I please."

"So where've you sailed the Black Pearl?" said Will, vaguely recalling that he shouldn't speak of the future.

"Oh, all over," said Jack, waving a hand vaguely. "Down to Spain ... over to Denmark an' up the Baltic, though that was a mistake: bleedin' cold ... all round Ireland and the Hebrides, some vicious tides up there ..." His gaze sharpened on Will. "It's about freedom, you see."

Will looked away. "I don't think I'm very free," he said quietly, tracing the curve of his glass with a finger.

"Free as you want to be, mate," said Jack. He was looking hard at Will, intent and unreadable, and Will looked back helplessly. He felt as though anything could happen, but incapable of moving or even speaking. His whole body was one prickly ache of lust.

"Reckon you're ready to hit the sack, mate," said Jack, leaning back against the hull. He was smiling, but the tension had gone out of him.

It did not sound anything like an invitation: but Will, desperate, began to stutter, "Will you come w--"

Jack's finger, redolent of garlic and prawns, was against his lips. Jack's gaze, as black and deep as the sea outside, was fixed on Will's, holding him still. And, very softly, Jack was saying -- was saying, "Not tonight."

Will sat back and thought about this for a moment. It was not the "no" he'd expected. It was not a "no, you're too young," or a "no, I'm straight," or a "no, thank you."

"Why not?" he blurted.

Jack smiled at him. It seemed, to Will, the sweetest and most promising smile he'd ever seen. "Because you're drunk, Will," he said. "And I ain't too sober, either."

"So when I'm not drunk," exclaimed Will triumphantly, "you'll --"

"Let's sleep on't," said Jack: then, grinning, "an' anyway, I reckon you'll be comfier alone."

The wedding party had spun itself apart into its various components. Around the edge of the room, at little round tables littered with glasses, discarded corsages and sugared almonds, clusters of family and older friends sat laughing and chatting, voices raised to be heard above the music. On the dance floor, a crowd of young men, jackets and ties off and shirt collars loosened, lurched around like a mobile rugby scrum in time, more or less, with the pounding beat of a Pogues number. James and Elizabeth perched on stools at the bar, finishing off their second bottle of champagne. She'd told him all about the job she'd taken at her father's firm: he'd told her about the Navy, and his hopes of a command. Neither of them had mentioned Will, or Jack Sparrow; neither had mentioned anybody else at all.

"Well," said James. He couldn't help staring at Elizabeth, whose mouth was red and flushed; the bar lights struck brilliance from her necklace, and led his eyes to her neck, and thence to the way that her dress (green silk, and very strappy) clung and draped.

Elizabeth smiled dazzlingly at him, eyes wide. "Well?" she teased.

"We should leave," said James. "It's pretty much over, isn't it?"

"You promised me a dance," said Elizabeth, pouting: but there was a wicked look in her eyes.

"To this?" protested James.

"Why not?"

James sat back, and put down his glass. "If that's what you want," he said gallantly. "How's your foot?"

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose at him. "Sore, as a matter of fact."

"We could dance slowly?" offered James, flushing as he thought of what that implied: holding her close, swaying together to some saccharine love song. "I'm sure they'll put on something quieter in a minute. 'Lady in Red', no doubt."

"I'm not dancing to that," said Elizabeth, grinning. "Let's head back, shall we? Perhaps," and she paused, looking James right in the eye, "we could have a nightcap before we turn in?"

James slid off his stool, and offered her his arm to steady herself. For a moment, as she leaned towards him, he thought that she might kiss him, here, in front of everyone where he couldn't kiss her back the way he wanted.

That spark of wickedness, wildness, was still there in her gaze. He'd put nothing past her. Nothing.

"Let's go," said James, suddenly desperate to be away from all these people; to be somewhere where he need not behave. To be alone with Elizabeth; to look back at her the way she looked at him. To look, and touch, and ...

Elizabeth was limping a little now -- she'd sat down for most of the evening -- but James was not inclined to wait around, or call a taxi. The hotel was a stone's throw away, and the night was warm. The air would do him good.

Will came awake suddenly and completely, as though he'd been galvanised. He lay for a moment trying to remember where he was. Not his bed. It was very dark. He was warm and snug -- almost too warm, zipped up in his sleeping bag -- and the bed was moving. Or was it his head spinning? His thoughts felt fuzzy enough. No, not ... well, yes, he had been drinking, but it wasn't just the wine. (Very good wine, thought Will). The bed, everything, was rocking, swaying, rolling gently from side to side, and there was the oddest noise, wet but not rain, liquid but --

Oh. Oh yes. The Black Pearl; Jack Sparrow; Cawsand Bay. All that wine, and cider, and ... and everything. Will almost groaned aloud at the thought of what he'd said to Jack.

He could hear Jack breathing, snoring very gently, clearly deep in restful sleep. The man must have a head like a brick; though he hadn't had the cider first.

Oh, he was so close: just the other side of the steps that led up into the cockpit. Almost close enough to reach out and touch. Almost close enough for Will to roll over and snuggle up to: shame there was an engine in the way. And the boat was creaking enough anyway -- though that was probably natural, in a wooden vessel of any age -- without Will making a racket by crawling out of his (unnervingly coffin-like) berth and into Jack's.

Though there'd be room: the berths were wide enough, wider than the single bed he'd slept in at college. Will bit his lip, trying to fight down his enthusiasm. On the other side of the hull, something splashed noisily, and his heart raced, and slowed.

Will lay in the dark, in the warm constriction of his sleeping-bag, and longed for sleep. Perhaps he could text Elizabeth, find out how her evening had gone. He grinned into the darkness. If she had netted James, the last thing she'd want would be an interruption. And besides, he hadn't worked out how to switch his phone to silent yet: and Jack would be even less impressed with him.

He hadn't said "no", though. Will hadn't messed up that badly. And there was always next time, wasn't there?

Hopes and dreams of next time -- with the Pearl as much as with her captain -- made lying awake less tedious, And when sleep claimed him again, dragging him down to drown, he dreamt of Jack Sparrow, and the ocean, and the sun.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Fog in the Sound

When Will woke again, the cabin was full of pale light, and opening his eyes produced small explosions in his sinuses. He groaned; then turned his head, peering over at the other bunk. Jack's pillow, ringed with watermarks -- no doubt the cabin leaked, in a storm -- lay there: but Jack did not.

Will blinked, and swallowed, and wished his mouth didn't taste so foul. Wished the inside of his skull wasn't all pain and murk. Wished he could go and have a long hot bath and soak the hangover away. He scowled.

"Coffee?" said Jack from somewhere behind him. Will jumped, and banged his head on the bulkhead.

"It's not that good, mate," said Jack. Will heard him pouring water and clattering spoons: then a steaming mug appeared on the step next to his head.

"Once you're feeling a bit brighter," said Jack, "I thought we might head over to Cellar Bay."

"Mmm," said Will, trying to remember if he'd packed aspirin. He rolled over to reach for his coffee. Jack was sitting at the table -- funny, Will knew what a cramped space that seat was, but Jack looked quite comfortable there -- eating, noisily eating, a slice of toast and reading yesterday's paper. There was a cafetiere of coffee in front of him, three-quarters empty.

"Weather'll clear in a while," he said, smiling at Will. There was nothing to that smile: no subtext, no hidden agenda, no veiled allusion to last night. Just a smile. Will, not yet capable of complex thought, was immensely grateful to Jack for his simplicity.

The coffee (good and strong) helped Will work out which way was up. He visited the bathroom, a primitive affair that Will admired more for its ingenuity -- a sliding sink above the toilet (no, it was called the head, wasn't it?), a footpump for fresh water, a door that swung back to make a cupboard of the space behind it -- than for its comfort. The ceiling (the deck) was so low that he had to stoop, cleaning his teeth. He gazed out of the porthole into a bright, featureless white blur.

"It's foggy!" he exclaimed to Jack, going back out into the cabin. "Will we be stranded?"

Was it his imagination, or did Jack look at him appreciatively? Will tightened his stomach muscles reflexively: he hadn't put on a t-shirt yet, and since he was parading around half-naked he might as well make the most of the opportunity.

Jack grinned, but that could have been for any one of fifty reasons.

"Nah, it's safe enough to head across the Sound," he said. "Fog'll clear by midday, anyway: there's often a touch of it, first thing."

"First thing?" said Will, looking around in vain for a clock.

"It's about eleven," said Jack, definitely grinning now. "But I didn't think you'd fancy an early start, eh?"

"No way," said Will. "Seems like a good day to chill."

"Every day's a day to chill, when you're on the water," said Jack, watching him.

"Sounds great," said Will, rummaging in his bag. "D'you mind if I go outside? I could do with some fresh air."

"Sure you don't want breakfast?" offered Jack.

Will shuddered, grabbed a sweater, and retreated.

The boat was cocooned in pearly white fog, flattening the grey waves, hiding the village, the cliff, the sheep on the hill. Will could just make out the shadowy ghost of another yacht, no more than fifty yards away, rocking at anchor. Plymouth had disappeared.

He lay down on the cockpit seat, propped his feet on the rail, and listened to the silence. In the cabin, Jack'd put the radio on again, but the quiet, mellow music vanished into the fog and made the silence seem greater. Out in the bright blankness, beyond the circle of visibility, a motor-boat went past. Will wished the sun would come out and warm him up: but he found himself dozing again, and dreaming.

He woke up when a pillow landed on his stomach.

"Heading out now, I reckon," said Jack, standing barefoot on the deck and holding up a licked finger to check the wind direction.

Will's stomach lurched at the gesture; at the thought of Jack Sparrow's tongue against skin.

"Great," he managed. "Is there anything I can do?"

It turned out that there was. Will's stomach muscles almost rebelled at the sheer hard work of raising the anchor, but he consoled himself with the thought that it was an excellent opportunity to show off his strength, and his usefulness. And Jack certainly seemed appreciative. So Will pretended that the sheer noise of the rattling chain, all close and focussed by the fog, wasn't echoing through his skull, and that the stinking mud from the sea-floor didn't make him feel sick. After a while he even got into the rhythm of it, hauling arm over arm, feeling the boat judder as Jack engaged the engine so that they wouldn't drift towards the cliff.

"Good man," congratulated Jack. Beads of fog were condensing on his hair. "I like a man who isn't afraid to get his hands dirty."

"I'm a mechanic," said Will, holding out his hands for Jack to see the oil engrained in the skin. "My hands get dirty every day."

Jack took hold of Will's hand and peered intently at his palm, like an old-fashioned fortune teller. Will's stomach lurched, thinking of what Jack might read there, and Jack smirked up at him.

"Never've taken you for a grease monkey, mate," he said, "not with the high-toned company you keep."

"My mum used to work for Elizabeth's father," said Will, wondering dizzily if Jack's touch could possibly feel this good on other parts of his body. "She and I were pretty close, growing up; like brother and sister, really."

"What about old James, eh? One of her admirers?"

Will chuckled. "The opposite, really. We were all at the same school, and she's fancied him ever since, but ..." Will shrugged. "Maybe I get in the way."

"Well, you're out of the way now," said Jack, with a wicked smile. "And not in my way at all, mate: quite the contrary." He was still holding Will's wrist: he squeezed, gently enough that Will didn't dare respond, and then let go. "Leave 'em to it, eh?"

Will managed a smile, though his sinuses ached with it. "I suppose so," he said.

"Happy to hear it," said Jack. He squinted up at the masthead, where St Piran's flag hung limply. "No sailing yet: there's not enough wind. Why don't you go below and have a nap?"

"I'd rather stay up here," said Will. The hangover left no room for any other debility, and his sea-sickness had disappeared: but the thought of being stuck below, in the snug, steamy cabin, when up here was the sea and Jack Sparrow ... no, not to be borne.

"Wrap up warm, then," said Jack. "This fog'll chill you to the bone."

"You're only wearing a t-shirt," pointed out Will, "and --"

But perhaps it was not a good idea to tell Jack that he'd never heard of Brigandage, whose tour dates -- Will had been at primary school -- were listed on the back of the shirt. He really didn't want to remind Jack, right now, of how young he was.

"And?" enquired Jack, eyebrows raised. The man stands like a dancer, thought Will irritably: he deserves everything he gets.

"Nothing," said Will. "Just saying."

"'M used to it, mate," said Jack blithely. He peered into the bright golden haze ahead of them, and twitched the tiller. "Make me a coffee while you're down there, eh?"

Will dozed for much of the rest of the morning. Jack didn't seem to mind. He sat there on the other seat of the cockpit, tiller against his knee, staring at the sea ahead of them. Gradually the mist began to lift, and once when Will opened his eyes he saw something huge looming above the Black Pearl.

"Hold on," advised Jack. "That thing's got a wake like a tidal wave."

"What is it?" said Will, blinking, and levering himself upright.

"Santander ferry," said Jack. "Floating tower block. Wouldn't catch me dead on one of those."

Will could see, now, that the massive white thing was half a mile away: but out here, in the hazy morning sun, it felt claustrophobically close. He clutched the rail and swallowed as the boat rocked crazily in the ferry's wake. Perhaps it was time for another sea-sickness tablet.

The pill made him sleepy and he lay down again, not quite asleep but certainly not properly awake. Now that the sun was shouldering its way through the layers of mist, Will'd put on his sunglasses, and the great advantage of this was that, every time he woke, he could look at Jack Sparrow in secret.

Funny how often Jack seemed to be looking at him.

No point pushing it, thought Will with chemical profundity. It's like sailing. You use what there is: you take what you can.

So he didn't arch his back or stretch out provocatively, or throw his arm out so that his hand brushed Jack's, there on the tiller. He just watched Jack, and wanted.

Jack nudged Will awake from a peculiar dream about rowing into a sea-cave. "Take the helm," he said. "I'll get us sailing: then we'll have some lunch, eh?"

Will sat up, and took hold of the tiller. It was still warm from Jack's hand: though the day was much warmer, too, and the mist had vanished altogether. The sky was very blue: the hills ahead, on the other side of the Sound, very green. Everything was bright.

He watched as Jack unreefed the sail and messed around with ropes and canvas and winches. There was something very sure about every movement. Perhaps it was just the fact that he'd done this so many times; perhaps it was something compounded of grace and confidence and economy of movement.

"That's it, Will; ease the engine down," said Jack from the cabin roof, and Will realised he'd been staring. He lowered his eyes and concentrated on stopping the engine without stalling it.

Within a minute, the only sound was the rush of luffing canvas. Jack slid down on the seat next to Will, grinning. Will could feel the heat of him, and smell clean sweat. He fought the impulse to close his eyes and inhale.

"You keep hold of 'er for a moment," said Jack, waving a hand at the impenetrable mess of rope and tackle that controlled the mainsail. "I'll sort out lunch."

Will was content to sit, watching the press of the breeze against the patched sail. The sun poured down, bouncing little disks of light off the solid, glassy waves. He could feel his face starting to burn, but what the hell? It was early in the year, and it'd been a long gloomy winter. He needed sun. He needed ...

"Lovely morning," he said when Jack emerged from the cabin, laden with bread and plates, finger hooked into the plastic webbing of a four-pack of beer.

"Oh, aye," said Jack, jerking his head towards a gleaming, red-spinnakered yacht coming past the end of the Breakwater. "Brought out all the weekend sailors, it has. But look over there, Will: that's your genuine English Bank Holiday weather."

Will glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes widened. A huge roiling mass of black cloud hung above Cawsand Bay, a couple of miles behind them. To Will it looked as though it was waiting to pounce.

"Shouldn't we ..."

Jack, setting out plates, made an encouraging gesture with his free hand.

"I don't know," said Will crossly. "But can't we do anything?"

"Think of it," said Jack, "as a test of your waterproofs, eh? My Pearl's come through worse than that." He patted the strake. "Quiche?"

"You're mad, to stay out in this!"

"Well, Will Turner," said Jack thoughtfully, buttering a slice of bread. "We've no chance of making it back to the marina, or even into Cellar Bay, before that hits. And it won't last: just a spring squall. Who knows, Will, you might even enjoy a bit of rough ... weather." And he winked at Will, in a way that made Will's blood run hot and juddery.

"Mmm," said Will vaguely. Jack handed him a plate. He emptied it without tasting a single thing.

The wind was stronger now, and the Black Pearl bucked a little as the waves grew more boisterous. Will steadied her.

"Five knots," he said. "Tell me about my father."

Jack gave him a questioning look.

"You said you knew him. I hardly did: I was only seven when ... when it happened. Tell me about him."

"Good man," said Jack, just as he'd said earlier about Will. "Had a 30 footer, sweet little boat; the New Mayflower, she was called. We used to take her out and head round to Ireland, or over to Brittany --"

"What about ... didn't you have a job?"

"Only off-season, mate. Working in summer's a mug's game. Now, where was I? Ah yes. Yes, we'd head off for a week or two, bring back some decent wine and so on to cover costs --"

"You mean you were smuggling?" said Will, around a mouthful of apple.

Jack waved his hands irritably. "No, no: all within the legal limits for personal use. Though we might've said there were more persons on board than just the two of us. Once or twice. You know."

Will sat back and laughed. His dad a smuggler! That'd explain ...

But Jack was talking again.

"Old Barbossa was always trying to get us to work for him," he said. "Lots of folk wanting to dive a wreck around here, and heaven knows there's wrecks aplenty." He glanced over his shoulder. Astern, Cawsand had vanished behind a veil of grey rain.

"So why didn't you work for him?" asked Will.

"Ah, Barbossa's dives weren't strictly legal, see?" said Jack.

"Nor's smuggling," Will pointed out.

"Smuggling's no harm to anyone, save our friend the excise-man and his bottomless pockets," said Jack. "But there're some things that shouldn't be disturbed. Some of those ships've lain out there at the bottom of the sea for three hundred years, Will. All their cargo, aye -- I reckon there's millions of pounds sitting there, in silver and gold -- but all the men who sailed 'em, too. Ships from Africa, carrying slaves: ships from the Caribbean, carrying Spanish gold. Pirate ships, too, like the original Black Pearl." He gestured at his own trim, shining vessel. "Now, if a wreck's dived properly, the bones are treated with respect, and the archaeologists and historians and all the rest of their merry crew get a good look at everything, and the dead rest in peace."

"But Barbossa doesn't do it properly," guessed Will.

"Barbossa and his wreck-diving parties are only in it for the loot," said Jack bitterly. "Everything else gets chucked aside, or destroyed. They'll bring stuff all the way up and then chuck it over the side if it ain't as shiny as they thought."

"No wonder you wouldn't work for him," said Will.

Jack shook his head. He was smiling again. "Not me, Will, and not your dad. Though I did always wonder, when he went down, if he'd ..." He shook his head again. "We'll never know," he said, and fixed Will with a look that signalled, very clearly, the end of that conversation.

Will digested this unpleasant possibility in silence. "You should tell James. James Norrington," he said eventually.

Jack shrugged, and looked away. "I should get our gear on," he said, gesturing to the west. "And so should you."

Will twisted round to look, and gasped. He could see the storm, moving like a creature made from grey rods of rain, leaving footprints of white water on the surface of the sea. Coming straight at them.

But Jack did not seem concerned. He collected the debris of their picnic lunch and took it below, and emerged with two sets of waterproofs.

"All we can do," he said, "is ride it out. The Pearl's built for heavier weather than this. An' that little squall won't last more'n half an hour."

The boat lurched, the tender crashed against the stern, and the tiller almost wrenched itself from Will's hand.

"Get your gear on," said Jack calmly. "I'll take her."

Looking back, Will was never sure whether the storm had really passed in half an hour, or whether it had caught them and played with them for days. He was glad of the sea-sickness tablet: he was glad to be out in the cockpit, battered by the rain, feeling the corkscrew twist as the wind pressed the Black Pearl's bow down into the waves, and her stern lifted free of the water for a moment. Again and again and again.

Jack was grinning like a maniac. Early on, Will had decided to trust him: and Jack certainly looked as though there was no problem at all. But Will couldn't help noticing that they were, now, the only sailing boat this side of the Breakwater. Everyone else had run for the safety of sheltered bays and harbours.

Will could not help grinning too. Jack's pleasure was contagious, and there was a primeval thrill in taking on the wind and water, and staying afloat. Will steadied himself against the thwart, staring back at the white-crested waves that chased them east, and laughed aloud.

"Taking to it like a natural," said Jack approvingly, after a while. Will realised he could hear him: the wind must've dropped. "Your father's son, all right."

Will beamed.

"Here, clap hold," said Jack, handing the tiller back to Will. He slid back the hatch and ducked into the cabin. Will, alone in the storm, thought of panicking. There was a huge black rock ahead, frilled with white water, not very near but they were cracking along at seven knots now; there were cliffs off to the left, and green hills, washed with rain and dotted with sheep, beyond the rock.

"Have this," said Jack, handing him a flask. "Warm you up."

Will braced himself against the seat and took a slug. He spluttered. "What the fuck is that?"

"Rum," said Jack Sparrow, grinning. "Liquid Caribbean sunshine. I must say, Will, you're getting the hang of this crewing business marvellously. You can certainly come again."

The rum, or something, sent warmth all through Will's body. He relinquished the helm to Jack once more and sat, arms spread out for balance, on the edge of the cockpit. The Black Pearl was running more smoothly now, straight for that huge rock.

The Mew Stone

"That's the Mew Stone," said Jack. "We'll give her a wide berth: see the buoys? The channel's marked out for us."

The Mew Stone turned out to be a single vast slab of tilted black rock, streaked with guano and crested with thousands of white birds. Will gazed at its unforgiving rise as the boat rushed past, into the calmer water beyond the narrow channel. The sea here was green and clear. Will could see jellyfish hanging in the current, all brown and lacy with their tentacles streaming around them.

Now that the rain had stopped, the air smelt marvellous: fresh and salty, yes, but there was something else. Will sniffed the air, head up like a dog.

"Mayflower," said Jack, and Will started.

"What?"

"That scent."

A lone wave rocked the boat and Will grabbed at the shrouds for balance. Jack just swayed, eyes closed, a smile on his face.

"It smells different to how I remember it," said Will, inhaling the delicate scent. He could see the hawthorn trees now, foaming with creamy blossom at the edge of the grey cliffs that dropped from green fields to green sea.

"It's the sea air," said Jack, directing his smile at Will now. "They reckon that's why the Pilgrim Fathers named their ship Mayflower -- to remind them of home."

"And my father ..." Will fell silent. There was nothing more to say.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Cellar Bay

They took down the sail and motored into Cellar Bay, where the land rose up between them and the sou'westerly breeze. The scent of mayflower was stronger here, and the sea calmer: Will stared down through three fathoms of salt water, and saw the outline of a long-sunk boat on the sand below.

By the time they'd tied up at the wooden pontoon, and Jack had gone off to pay their dues to the harbour-master, it was late afternoon and the light was like clear golden syrup, bringing a fresh brightness to spring leaves and the paintwork on the other boats.

"That bit's Noss Mayo," said Jack, gesturing at the steep-stacked houses on the hill. "Other side's Newton Ferrers, where the poor people live."

Will looked hard at the neat rows of whitewashed houses, and chuckled.

"Thought we'd head up the hill for supper," said Jack. "There's a nice pub up there: does a good roast. And draught cider, too." He looked askance at Will.

"I've gone off cider," Will said. "You mean we ... you're not cooking tonight?"

Jack grinned. "Wouldn't want to spoil you, mate." He looked Will up and down. "Aye, you'll do. Don't go anywhere." And he disappeared into the cabin, closing the hatch firmly behind him.

Will took a moment to sulk about not having Jack all to himself this evening: surely Jack'd been friendlier, today, almost as if he'd changed his mind about saying 'no'. But maybe it was simply that he was relieved to have got away with it, and wasn't prepared to risk another opportunity?

Will's phone chirped, and he pulled it out of his pocket. Funny, he'd almost forgotten about Elizabeth.

From: [ELIZABETH]

Sent at: 02/05/05 14:14:33

Hope U R not too hungover!

From: [ELIZABETH]

Sent at: 02/05/05 16:32:51

R U OK? No answer to previous

From: [WILL]

Sent at: 02/05/05 17:15:28

Only just got yr txt. We are in Noss Mayo. Going for dinner in a min.

From: [ELIZABETH]

Sent at: 02/05/05 17:19:47

Hows it going?

From: [WILL]

Sent at: 02/05/05 17:22:12

Offered but he said no. Confused. Don't know if he likes me or what.

From: [ELIZABETH]

Sent at: 02/05/05 17:24:01

Poor you! Hope evening goes well. Tell him I said he should.

"What's amusing, Mr Turner?" said Jack, sliding back the hatch again.

"Nothing," said Will, hastily pressing 'Delete'. "Just a text from Elizabeth."

"Lucky to get a signal, down here," said Jack, gesturing at the steep forested walls of the winding valley. "Always reminds me of Switzerland. Though without the snow, of course. Lucky to get snow even in the middle of winter. Ready to go, are we?"

"You look great," said Will. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb; and besides, it was true. Jack wore a clean white shirt, and jeans that were still black, and boots. He'd tied his hair back, and taken out a few of the earrings (though there were still plenty left.) "Do I need to get changed?" asked Will.

Jack eyed him. "You'll do," he said. "C'mon, then: they open at six, I think."

In fact the pub opened at seven, and the two of them wandered around the neat, flower-lined, basket-hung streets of the village, peering into gardens and shop windows, until the church bells chimed the hour. They were not the first into the sunny bar, but Will bagged a table by the window, looking out over the river and the hills beyond, and Jack got the first round.

"To freedom," he said, looking Will in the eye. The intensity made Will's spine prickle, but he drank to the sentiment -- and to the company in which he found himself, which was no less enjoyable than it'd been last night.

The barmaid brought them menus and they ordered (Will chose duck, Jack had pheasant) and more drinks. Those remnants of Will's hangover that'd survived the storm withered and mellowed with the advent of more drink, and the local beer was well worth drinking. By the time they'd finished eating, and had another drink to chase down dinner, he was feeling remarkably bold.

Though not, as it turned out, especially balanced. Jack steadied him as he stood up. "You're supposed to sway when you come ashore," he said, chuckling. "Not when you go back."

"You sway all the time," said Will, very pleased with this logic.

Jack smiled. "Ah, but that makes it less of a problem when the ground's swaying too, eh?"

There was some sort of party further up the hill, and both Jack and Will looked thoughtfully towards the lights and the music; but when Jack raised his eyebrow at Will, Will shook his head, and Jack seemed happy enough with that.

The streets of Noss Mayo were busier now; girls in high heels shrieking with laughter as they negotiated the cobblestones, a gang of teenagers passing a joint between them (Will could smell it from the other side of the road), a Porsche full of Londoners who seemed to be driving endlessly around the same few streets, trying to find someone who knew where the Anchor was.

"That's over Newton Ferrers, mate," said Jack blithely, stooping to the open window. "Just over there -- but if you want to take the car you'll need to head back t'wards Plymouth, eh?"

"Wasn't that the pub we were in?" demanded Will, once the Porsche had made a clumsy three-point turn and headed up the hill.

"Aye," said Jack, shamelessly. "But they won't want that sort in there."

Will laughed. He was walking beside Jack, close enough to touch: close enough that sometimes they swayed together, what with the cobblestones and the drink and the night. Jack didn't seem to mind. Will was almost sure that Jack's arm was brushing his deliberately. Though of course he wouldn't dream of mentioning it.

By the time they reached the Black Pearl, it was full dark. The stars above the river valley seemed very bright, and there were ever so many of them. Will missed the night sky, living in London.

"Is that a shooting star?" he wondered aloud, tipping his head back and steadying himself against a stay.

Jack followed his pointing finger. "Nah," he said. "Satellite. Just watch: it'll go out in a minute, once it goes into shadow."

The little light blinked out above them, and Will, marvelling, watched the place where it had been.

"Fancy a night-cap, then?" said Jack. He was sitting in the cockpit, feet up, utterly relaxed. The radio was on again, playing something that made Will think of period drama on the BBC. He sat down opposite Jack, who was drinking straight from a bottle, a flat curved bottle.

"Rum?" enquired Will.

"Aye," said Jack, licking his lips. Will could hardly see him in the darkness -- there were no lights on the Black Pearl, and only a little illumination from the bare bulb at the end of the pontoon -- but he thought Jack might be laughing, silently laughing, at him. He took the bottle when Jack offered it, and drank recklessly deep.

"Aye, you've got the hang of it," said Jack, low and clear. He leaned forward, and Will had time to think "He's going to kiss me", and to tilt his body towards Jack's: then there was a sudden crash, and rosy light, and Jack was illuminated off-balance and all surprised, perched on the edge of the seat.

"Fireworks," he said, pointing. "Couldn't've planned it better myself."

Will, though, was not in the mood to be distracted by bright lights or pretty colours. He launched himself forward across the abyss between them -- for a flicker of a moment feeling like a moth to a flame, or a trapeze artist mistiming his leap and sure he would fall -- then he was leaning over Jack, bashing his mouth against Jack's teeth, feeling their mouths lock together, feeling Jack Sparrow's kiss.

Jack's arms went around Will's waist to steady him, and he ended up half-crouched over Jack, not quite in his lap, kissing all quiet and then all fierce, dimly aware that there really were stars and explosions and booms, not just in his heart and his head but far away, across the water, up the hill.

Jack pushed him back, but he was grinning: Will saw his teeth glimmer in a flare of blue light. "You sure?" he said.

Will was about to snap a reply -- do I look stupid? -- but then he recognised the faint shading of uncertainty in Jack's voice, and bit back his retort.

"I'm sure," he said, and couldn't resist adding, "I was sure last night, too."

"So was I, mate," said Jack lazily, stretching back and bracing himself so that Will was sprawled more or less on top of him, feeling just how sure Jack was. He pushed against Jack, and Jack gulped air and arched against him, and said breathlessly, "Let's go below, eh?"

The cabin was pitch-black, and Will reached out blindly. Jack slithered out of his arms -- he knew his way around, of course -- and next moment his busy hands were working their way underneath Will's jumper, up against his bare skin, so that Will gasped and flailed.

"Sssh," said Jack, and Will could hear his smile. "Ever so much easier to get your kit off before you get into bed, savvy?"

"Only if you do, too," said Will boldly.

"Patience, love," said Jack. "Captain's prerogative."

That 'love' made Will blush, even though it was obviously just a casual endearment. While he was blushing, his body decided to act on some ideas of its own, and swayed toward Jack -- carefully towards Jack, very aware of sharp corners and low ceilings -- to rub against him, keen and wordless as any cat.

Jack got him out of his jumper and shirt, and put his mouth to the hollow of Will's throat. Will, feeling desperate, slid his own hand down Jack's still-clothed chest, and began to unbutton his jeans. Jack moaned, actually moaned, and Will felt omnipotent.

"Just a little light, eh?" said Jack, reaching up, and in a moment there was a warm dim glow from the chart-light above the captain's bunk. Will, heedless of the goose-pimples on his arms and chest, leaned back against the table, looking at Jack, drinking up the sight of him. And Jack grinned, and crossed his arms above his head, and stripped off sweater and t-shirt in one lithe movement.

Fuck, but Will just wanted to rub against him, press skin to skin, chest to chest, cock to cock, and touch and hold and kiss until they both came. He didn't dare think of what else they might do, down here in the gently-swaying dark, with coronae of coloured light flowering above the valley, and the distant noise of the rest of the world. Down here together in the dark.

"Bet you wondered if there was space in here," said Jack, leering at him.

"Not at all, Captain Sparrow," said Will, prim as he could manage. "I was sure you'd have tested everything for ... for comfort."

Jack burst out laughing. "Oh, Will," he said fondly. "C'mere, eh?"

The bunk, it turned out, was wide enough for two, if two didn't mind turning to one another, pulling one another close, gasping and sighing and swearing happily at the slide of flesh against flesh. It was hardly the first time Will had done something like this; but this, with Jack's confident lazy hand on him, with Jack's mouth all hot and teasing against each pulse point he could reach, with the dark and the closeness and the sheer heat ... It was like exploring a new continent, like embarking on some great adventure. Will moaned and pleaded and kissed and licked and came, stickily, all over Jack's hand and body and bed.

There might have been a second or two when he stopped wanting Jack so greedily; no longer than a minute, certainly. And Jack didn't seem one to take his pleasure and turn his back: he pulled Will close, heedless of the mess, and kissed him warmly, and said, "Aye, Will Turner. You can ... come again. Oh yes."

CHAPTER NINE

Submarine, Plymouth Sound -- smoke break!

Will woke up feeling as though he'd been drained out of his skin and poured back in, and was still settling back around his bones. He was hot, and cramped, and he couldn't move, but everything around him was moving. And there was something scratching, coarser than hair and with an oddly musty smell ...

Oh. Oh Christ yes.

He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment more, trying to force into memory every nuance of Jack's embrace. They were lying close -- no other way to lie, in a bunk this narrow -- and naked, pressed together, the warm heavy weight of Jack's cock against Will's thigh, the ripply sough of his breath against Will's bare shoulder. Jack's arm was over his waist; Jack's hand was splayed across the curve of his hip, and Will took a moment to identify the feel of each finger. Will's skin felt sticky and itchy with, with their come from last night. His feet were jammed up against the stern of the boat. Outside, he could hear the faint slosh of water washing against the hull and the jetty: it made him think of swimming, of washing all the sweat and seed and dirt away. Swimming naked with Jack would be ... would be living, would be new, would be something else he'd never thought to do.

"What's on your mind, Will?"

Will grinned, couldn't help it. "Thinking about a swim," he said.

"Oooh, far too early in the year for that," said Jack, chuckling. "'Sides, we're moored, eh? Water'll be filthy."

"I'm filthy already," said Will, opening his eyes at last. Scales of golden light rippled across the low curve of the deck above him. He turned his head to grin at Jack. "Not that I'm complaining, you understand."

"Tha's good," said Jack sleepily, twisting somehow even closer. Will could feel Jack's cock swelling slowly against him, and the thought of that was enough to elicit a similar effect in his own. He ran a hand down the smooth curve of Jack's side, and kissed the nearest bit of Jack's face, just on that high exotic cheek-bone. Jack chuckled again, and his hand, oh his hand, found its sure and confident way to Will's prick.

Somehow Jack -- his bones had to be made of rubber -- got himself on top of Will, smiling down at him. He leaned down and kissed Will, who resisted for a second: his mouth was sticky and stale, but so was Jack's, and he didn't seem to mind. And oh, Jack's hand on him! Will returned the favour, knuckles brushing against Jack's wrist, and they rocked lazily together for long delicious minutes.

Jack's face, when he came, was lovely. Will wanted more of that.

Getting out of the bunk was complicated, and Will was ever so tempted to simply stay there, pressed up against Jack Sparrow: but he needed to piss, and wanted to wash. When he'd finished his cramped, contorted clean-up, Jack was still lying there, with a faint serene smile, eyes closed. He cracked an eye open and smirked at Will.

"All cleaned up?"

"Temporarily," said Will, smiling back: Jack's contentment was infectious. He opened the hatch and slid out the duckboards, and settled himself on the top of the stairs leading down to the cabin, enjoying the warmth of the morning sun; enjoying, far more, the sight of Jack Sparrow, naked, emerging from his bunk and stretching. There was a tattoo on his shoulder, of an old-fashioned sailing ship. Will wanted to taste it. Oh, he wanted.

Jack winked at him, and disappeared into the head.

From: [WILL]

Sent at: 03/05/05 10:51:05

YES!!!

From: [ELIZABETH]

Sent at: 03/05/05 10:55:26

Congratulations!

From: [WILL]

Sent at: 03/05/05 11:03:41

Forgot to ask how was wedding reception? Hows J?

From: [ELIZABETH]

Sent at: 03/05/05 11:11:21

Reception dull. J not dull LOL. Stayed in bed til 3pm yesterday.

From: [WILL]

Sent at: 03/05/05 11:14:58

Brilliant news! R U OK? Is he?

From: [ELIZABETH]

Sent at: 03/05/05 11:22:38

More than OK never better. How R U and Jack?

From: [WILL]

Sent at: 03/05/05 11:23:53

Hopeful. Looking good.

"Keeping her up to date, eh?" said Jack, poking his head out through the hatch.

Will, caught in the act of texting Elizabeth, looked up guiltily; but Jack was grinning at him, obviously unfazed at being the subject of their electronic gossip.

One of the subjects, at least. "You'll never guess," said Will, "what --"

"Mmmm," said Jack, screwing up his face. "Let's see. Can it be that James Norrington, fine upstanding young officer that he is, has finally made 'is move on the young lady?"

Will laughed. "Too clever for your own good, Jack," he said. "Saturday night, I think. Funny, she didn't mention it at all yesterday."

"Obviously too busy," said Jack, leering. "Want some coffee?" He glanced up at the sky, all mackereled with cloud. "We'd best head off soon. Don't want to be late getting you back."

The day seemed to dull. Will was surprised at the sinking feeling in his heart. "Oh," he said. "Er, yes, coffee'd be great. Thanks."

Jack did not immediately retreat: he stood looking at Will for a moment, not exasperated or amused or impatient, but just Jack. "Second thoughts, mate?" he said.

"Hell, no!" said Will, surprised out of his momentary melancholy. He grinned at Jack. "None. I just ..."

Jack looked (and the memory of this, later, would produce a warm glow in Will's entire body) vastly relieved. "Like I said, Will," and he winked, "you can come again. Any time."

"I will," said Will, not smiling now, looking Jack in the eye. "Whenever ... I will."

"Good," said Jack briskly after a long moment in which the world faded away. "Glad that's sorted. Coffee, then." And he disappeared back into the cabin, leaving Will grinning and shaking his head, trying not to think of parting but only of being together.

Jack chose to motor out of the river ("iron tops'l, mate: could wait a week down here for a breeze") and there was little for Will to do save lounge in the cockpit, watching Jack, smiling whenever Jack looked at him. Ridiculous, really, to feel so simply happy at a brief and sticky encounter with a man who had to be a good fifteen years older than him, a man whose entire lifestyle seemed to turn from everything that mattered to Will.

It wasn't as though they could have any sort of future together. He could just imagine Jack, cooped up in his tiny Kilburn flat with nothing to do, pacing and pacing and hating to be away from the sea and his Pearl. (Will shied from thinking about Barbossa and his threats.) And Will wasn't ready, not on the basis of one blissful night, to leave behind the life he'd so laboriously constructed for himself. Working with his hands, a good honest trade; a gang of mates to go to the pub with; Elizabeth, and sometimes James if he was in London, for more elegant entertainments; and occasionally, very occasionally, a date -- an encounter -- with some stranger whose name Will would quickly forget.

Jack would hate it; would hate every quietly desperate moment of it.

But that didn't mean, of course, that they could not be ... Will didn't know what. But he was determined to be something to Jack, and have Jack Sparrow in his world, a friend if nothing more, a reminder of freedom.

The radio was playing old rock'n'roll songs, and Jack hummed along with them all, patently content with the morning, the company and himself. Coming out of Cellar Bay, he turned his face up to the breeze, eyes closed, and grinned: without opening his eyes, he said, "You take the tiller: I'll get the sheets up."

Today, everything seemed easier. That first afternoon, Will had felt the Black Pearl moving beneath him like some strange sea-monster: today, she moved with him, and he felt her respond to his touch like (oh, do stop thinking about him!) like a lover. He gentled the tiller over to keep her on course, looking back over his shoulder at the white-painted markers on the hillside above the bay, keeping them in line. The Pearl raced past fanged black rocks in nests of surf. Jack came and sat by him, out of the way of the tiller but close enough that Will could smell him; sweat, and sex, and the musty odour of his hair. He lounged back against the edge of the cockpit, eyes closed, soaking up the sunshine like a cat.

Never mind the practicalities, thought Will. This is freedom.

He took the Pearl through the channel between the Mew Stone and the land, watching the depth sounder, the speedometer and the buoys on either side of them with almost paranoid care. Several times he felt Jack's attention on him, though Jack'd put on his sunglasses now and Will could not see his eyes. It might as well have been a test, and Will set all his mind and heart to it.

"Nice sailing," Jack said at last, as they came past the end of the Breakwater and into quieter water. Will felt the waves slacken beneath the Black Pearl's hull, and thought he felt the whole boat sigh with regret. Jack's compliment -- for compliment it was, though laconic to a fault -- buoyed Will, though, and he smiled at Jack.

"C'mere," said Jack, grinning. Will shuffled round, not letting go of the tiller, and Jack pulled him closer and kissed him, slow and warm and sweet.

By the time the kiss was over, Will thought that the boat must be sailing herself, for he'd lost all sense of direction, and even of up and down. He was sure he could hear voices -- not the radio, and not Jack's wordless approval, but a group of men, laughing and shouting -- and opened his eyes.

Ahead of them rose something that'd not been there before, a metal tower in the sea. Jack twisted round to look. "Submarine," he said. "One of ours, prob'ly: no need to get excited."

Will flushed. "They saw --"

Jack laughed. "So what? It ain't a hanging offence these days, Will. 'Sides, they probably think I'm a girl." And he shook out his long hair and arched his back, looking at Will from under lowered lids, all coy and camp and yet so breathtakingly himself that Will could not spare another glance for the cluster of men on the exposed hull of the submarine.

"Give 'em a wide berth, though," said Jack more seriously. "Those things'll drag down a small boat, though they've no excuse here in the Sound. Bigger than they look, too."

Will had already swung the tiller round, heading closer to the land. Now a cold shiver went through him as he remembered what Jack'd said about his father.

"You think one of those wrecked my dad's boat?"

Jack shrugged. He leaned forward and took the tiller, adjusting their course a little. "No way of knowing, Will. Your mate Norrington's the man for that, and I believe him when he says it wasn't one of ours. But there's other subs out there, you know: NATO, and the Baltics, and Russians too, if you believe the blokes in the Navy Arms."

Will tried to imagine such a behemoth rising beneath the Pearl, or sucking her down as she sounded. He shivered.

"No point thinking about it, Will," said Jack softly, touching Will's cheek. "No point at all. What's done is done, eh?"

"Yes," said Will. "It is." The submarine was well behind them now, moving out of the Sound with its turret still above water. No chance of anyone missing that. "I'm sorry," said Will. "Didn't mean to spoil the moment."

"There'll be more," said Jack, and the hopefulness in his smile made Will kiss him again, and trust Jack and his Pearl to keep their course.

CHAPTER TEN

Mount Batten, sunset

Will had texted Elizabeth once the Pearl was past Mount Batten, and as they motored into the marina he could see the two of them waiting on the quay. Elizabeth was wearing her own clothes again, a strappy top and a blue skirt. James, standing very close to her, looked more relaxed than Will'd ever seen him.

"Good trip?" he called across the water as Jack steered towards his mooring.

Will wondered for a split second whether Elizabeth had passed on all the news: then decided that he really didn't care. He'd never quite managed to admit to James that he wasn't straight: but James, now, looked as though nothing could faze him at all. Except, perhaps, Jack Sparrow.

"Brilliant!" Will shouted back anyway.

"Shame to come back to that bastard," grumbled Jack.

Will looked at him in surprise -- he'd thought that Jack and Norrington were on better terms than that -- but then he saw the silver Jaguar parked outside the pub, and the man getting out of it. "Oh, hell," he said. "What are you going to do?"

"Fight him every bloody inch of the way," said Jack Sparrow, standing very upright at the tiller. The sunglasses covered his eyes, but Will could tell from the line of his mouth that he was staring in Barbossa's direction with bitter hatred.

Will busied himself, at Jack's request, with the fenders. The tide was low, and he had to look up, now, to where James and Elizabeth stood. He flicked his gaze meaningfully towards Barbossa as he approached, and then at Jack; and wished that Elizabeth wasn't looking quite so obviously puzzled by Will's attempts at non-verbal communication.

Will wasn't even clear what he expected, wanted, hoped they'd do. It wasn't their problem, after all: but somehow, over the last two days, it'd become his.

"Mr Sparrow!" called Barbossa, oily as the water back here. "Nice of you to bring back my little boat. Wouldn't want it to get scratched."

"She's mine, not yours," said Jack shortly. He put the engine into reverse for the last, delicate stage of the mooring, and idled the Pearl backwards until the fenders 'round her stern bumped against the stone quay. "Tie us up, James?" he said, tossing a coil of rope at Norrington.

"Matter of fact, Jack, she's mine. I've the papers to prove it, here."

"Where?" demanded Jack, shoving the engine key in his jeans pocket and folding his arms over his chest.

"Right here," said Barbossa, pulling a grubby manilla envelope from inside his coat.

"Let me see those," interrupted Elizabeth; and before Barbossa could stop her, she'd grabbed the envelope and was pulling out its contents.

"None of your business, Miss," growled Barbossa, looking over his shoulder. No doubt he had a back-up in the Jag.

"I'm making it my business," snapped Elizabeth, peering at the papers. "And I don't see your name here at all -- only a William Turner."

"My father," said Will coldly, before Barbossa could speak.

"I told you, mate," said Jack. "I was in the process, so to speak, of signing her over -- just on paper, mind, so they couldn't take her from me." He glared up at Barbossa. "How'd you get those papers, eh?"

"Mr Turner sold 'em to me," said Barbossa, smile gleaming.

"There's nothing to support your story," said Elizabeth. She'd settled herself on a bollard: now she looked up at Barbossa, papers in her lap, and shook her head. "Nothing at all, Mr Barbossa. I'm afraid your claim wouldn't stand up in court for a minute."

"Court?" said Barbossa. "Who said anything about going to court?"

"Interesting test case," said Elizabeth sweetly. "I'm sure one of my father's friends wouldn't object to taking it on."

Beside Will, Jack stood quite still. His mouth opened, and Will prepared to kick him: but he did not say anything. Will carried on trying to catch James' eye.

"What do you suggest, then, missy?" said Barbossa, an edge to his voice.

"I'll buy the papers off you, if you're worried about making a loss," offered Will brightly.

"You?" said Barbossa, and laughed.

This was not exactly the reaction Will had been hoping for, but he pressed on anyway. "Me, sir. My name's there, after all. I'll give you a thousand pounds for them, and no more questions asked or demands made on either side."

Oh, how he wished he could see Jack's face! But Jack was facing the quay, and his sunglasses masked his expression.

"Ten," said Barbossa.

At least he was taking Will seriously. Will stared hard at James, eyebrows raised, hoping against hope that James would understand him: and James, looking back at him askance, gave an infinitesimal nod. Will breathed again.

"Five thousand," he said. "Final offer. Take it, or leave it. Though if you leave it, I'm sure we'll be meeting in court."

"Five grand it is," said Barbossa. "Let's see the colour of your money, then." He looked at Will with a fierce avidity, like a hunting lizard Will'd watched once in Jamaica.

"It'll have to be a cheque, if you want it now," said James Norrington. "I shan't give you cash without a proper receipt, and witnesses: but I assure you my cheque is good."

Barbossa looked surprised, and not altogether happy: but he nodded.

James took a chequebook, and a fountain-pen (Will grinned at the sight) from inside his jacket, and looked around for a flat surface to lean on. Elizabeth stood up, still clutching her armful of papers, and James crouched down next to the bollard to write.

At last Will dared to look at Jack, and found that Jack was already looking at him. He'd taken off his glasses (the sun had fallen behind the houses) but Will could not read that black, impenetrable gaze. He held his breath, fearful of rejection (but surely the Black Pearl meant more to Jack than his pride?) or facetiousness: but Jack just said, very quietly, "Thank you."

"Here," said James to Barbossa, handing him the cheque. "I've put my number on the back, and my address: do let me know if there's any problem, won't you?"

"I will that," said Barbossa, looking askance at Jack Sparrow and Will.

"And I'll be keeping an eye on things," said James serenely. "In case there's any further issues with the ownership of the vessel."

"Of course," muttered Barbossa. He looked around at them all, as though in disbelief that they'd conspired against him. "A débutante," Will could almost hear him thinking contemptuously, "a Navy officer, and a toy-boy." But his gaze went to Jack Sparrow last and longest, and Jack stared back at him icily, giving nothing.

At last -- it seemed like hours later -- Barbossa turned without a word, and went off towards his waiting car.

Only when they'd heard the engine start, and Barbossa drive away, did anyone speak.

"I'm indebted to you all," said Jack. The stiffness had gone out of his spine, and into his limbs: he moved like an old man as he sat down on the cabin roof. "But to whom do I owe the money, eh?"

Will was still weak with relief that James had gone along with his unvoiced plan. He had no very clear idea of where he was going to find five thousand pounds: but James, surely, would give him time. "I --"

"Pay me back if you like, Jack," interrupted James, giving Will a look that warned him not to interfere. "I'd be happier, though, if you were to pay me in information."

"Grass 'im up?" said Jack, and his grin broadened at Elizabeth's pained expression. "Certainly, Lieutenant: I'd be more than happy to share with you the breadth and depth of my experience of Barbossa's working practices. F'r example, I bet you don't know about the language students."

Will could see from James' expression that he did not.

"Let's have dinner some time, eh?" said James Norrington to Jack Sparrow. "Just you and me. Sorry, Will."

It would've been easy (though unfair, considering what James'd just done for him -- well, for Jack) to take offence: but Will only laughed. "Be my guest," he said. "And, James, thank you."

"Yes," said Jack Sparrow, inclining his head solemnly. There was, for once, no mockery in his voice. "Thank you, James."

James shrugged uncomfortably. "She was always yours, Jack," he said, gesturing at the clean lines of the Pearl. "I couldn't let him take her like that."

"I'm very glad of it," said Jack, straightening up. He beamed at James. "Now, Miss Swann: let me see your feet."

"What have my feet got to do with anything?" cried Elizabeth, laughing.

"Lovely feet," said Jack. "And in sensible shoes this time, I see." Will wouldn't've called them sensible -- they were covered with sequins, for one thing -- but they were flat-soled, and he had to admit that Elizabeth was far less likely to take a dive into the marina this afternoon.

"Thank you," said Elizabeth. She'd stuffed the papers back into their envelope: now she crouched -- though the tide was gradually carrying the Black Pearl up the side of the quay, she was still below pavement level -- to hand it down to Jack. "The least I could do," she said, "after your gallant rescue the other day."

"Oh, that was nothing," declared Jack, though Will could've sworn he sat up a bit straighter. "Thing is, Miss Swann -- Elizabeth -- that I'd like to treat you to dinner. All of you," he added earnestly. "Assuming you've time before you rush off back to your glamorous London lives. But the venue definitely requires sensible shoes, since I don't much fancy another swim."

"These," said Elizabeth indistinctly, still chewing, "are the best chips I've ever had."

Jack beamed at her. (Will was glad to see the two of them on better terms.) "Told you so," he declared. "Best fried fish in Devon, too: nice an' fresh from the boats when they come in of a morning."

Watching Jack eat -- the way he licked grease and vinegar from his fingers, the way he relished every mouthful -- was distracting Will from his own dinner. He turned to James, still not quite sure of how his friend'd take the new accord between Will and Jack: an accord that had just cost him five thousand pounds, quite apart from any revelations it might have occasioned.

James was smiling at him. He was sprawled on the steps, just above Elizabeth, apparently oblivious to the green algae smearing his jeans. James had finished his fish and chips already, and was running his fingers -- wiped clean on his handkerchief -- through Elizabeth's hair. Elizabeth, for a wonder, was not complaining. Their obvious togetherness made Will smile every time he looked at them: it seemed very right.

"Don't suppose you'd have room for a couple more guests on the Pearl, eh?" said James to Jack.

Will squirmed at the thought of the two of them, there in that cramped space, watching him. He was uncomfortable enough here, on the Mayflower Steps, with Jack's hand resting familiarly on his knee, and Jack's shoulder nudging him as he turned to answer James. Not that there was anything judgemental in James' or Elizabeth's regard: quite the contrary. But it was all too new and raw ... and besides, there was a lot that Will wanted to do to, with, Jack; though not in front of anyone at all.

"Love to have you!" Jack was saying expansively. "Plenty of space up in the forepeak -- I presume you won't mind sharing, Miss Swann?" His gold teeth glittered in reflected sunshine. "Nice and private, the forepeak."

Elizabeth blushed, but she was laughing. "That'd be fine, Jack -- I beg your pardon, Captain."

"Lovely," said Jack, balling up the greasy paper and tossing it unerringly into the nearest litter bin. "That's all settled, then."

He lounged back against the worn stone steps, waving a lazy hand out at the harbour, and the Mountbatten ferry, and the row of red-sailed dinghies going about at the mouth of the Cattewater. "Just think what it must've been like, back in the 1600s," he said. "Their little boat out there in the Sound, waiting for them, and all of 'em packing into row-boats with their chickens and their children and everything they owned."

"And their Bibles," said James, seriously. "Don't forget the Pilgrim Fathers were running away, Jack."

"Course not," said Jack, with a dismissive gesture. "But off they all went, anyway: not driven away, mate, but in search of their freedom." His face was suddenly solemn. "It's out there, you know. Beyond that pale horizon. Out of sight of land."

"Roxy Music," said James unexpectedly, and with such apparent randomness that Will and Elizabeth both turned to gape at him. "Far beyond the pale horizon," he explained. "It's 'Virginia Plain', isn't it, Jack?"

"Showing your age, James," said Jack, grinning. "I'm surprised at you."

"Are you planning a longer trip?" enquired Elizabeth, clearly keen to avoid a bout of reminiscence.

"A man like me," said Jack expansively, "doesn't make plans, Miss Swann. I prefer life to be full of ... pleasant surprises." His fingers tightened reassuringly on Will's kneecap, and Will smiled at him. Jack's answering smile was so full of heat and promise and memory that Will almost toppled off the edge of the step. He leant into Jack instead, not bothered any more by James' grin.

"So you've no idea of what you'll be doing?" said Elizabeth.

Will sniggered, and Jack tapped him sternly on the thigh.

"No definite plans, love," he said to Elizabeth: and then, to James, "but I'll tell you one thing, mate."

"Only one?" said James, with that wry smile.

"Just the one, for now," said Jack. He looked round at the three of them, with a self-satisfied smile; looked last at Will, and winked. "Just this: it's going to be a lovely, lovely summer."

THE END