*Thump. Thump, thump, swish. Thump. Swish*
*Click. Click, click, click. Click. Click, click, click*

They're out on the deck again. Mr. Cotton figures this is probably the 10th or 11th time, but truly he's lost count and knows the number isn't really important. It's the frequency that matters.

The old pirate enjoys the night watch, likes the silence and calm that comes from having the deck to himself. But he's not alone tonight.

*Thump. Thump, thump.*
*Click. Click, click, click.*

He looks out over the placid ocean, feels the gentle undulation of the waves. He sees only a few clouds in the sky, the moonlight illuminating the ship in an eerie white glow that seems almost too bright to be possible for so late an hour. Turning back to look across the deck he sees the two figures with whom he shares the otherwise vacant space.

*Thump, swish, thump.*
*Click*

On a large, open area towards the bow of the ship Will Turner fights an invisible opponent. It looks like a death match and at this point it's not clear who's winning. Mr. Cotton doesn't want to venture a guess who Will is pretending his enemy to be, but clearly the harsh movements of his sword indicate the young man has no qualms about killing the absent opponent. His movements are too rough and desperate to be called graceful, but it's still an elegantly choreographed series of moves.

An hour ago Will's movements were controlled and even, like a set routine of motions as in practice. As the time has passed Will has abandoned these controlled actions in favor of faster, less regular (though no less deadly) thrusts and position changes.

*Thump, thump, swish, swish*

He stops briefly to remove his damp white shirt. His glistening chest nearly glows in the moonlight. Mr. Cotton watches as he resumes his previous stance then blocks several unseen attacks before going on the offensive. He listens to the soft thumps of Wills boots on the wooden deck and the deadly real sound of his sword cutting through the air.

Another sound catches his attention and Mr. Cotton turns to observe the other member of the Black Pearl's crew who's topside tonight.

In fact, the pirate captain is very nearly not seen at first glance. While most of the area is flooded in moonlight, Jack Sparrow hangs back, obscured by the shadows of the structure behind him. The only part of him the moonlight illuminates is his one hand, the silver coin glinting in its predictable travels. Wearing a dark jacket and pants Jack melds into the shadowed wood and, if not for the one hand sticking just a little way out and the soft clink of the coin, he could go unnoticed.

It's strange for Mr. Cotton to see this. His captain likes to make an impression and clearly relishes the spotlight. Gestures and speech all designed to attract attention, though whether that be of a positive or negative nature, Mr. Cotton can see no real preferences as far as Jack is concerned. But on these quiet nights the man seems content to settle into the background and go unnoticed, his unnatural stillness balanced only by the repetitive and constant movement of his fingers. Jack gazes out to over the dark water, not facing Will or Mr. Cotton. In fact, he never acknowledges their presence. Mr. Cotton is used to going unnoticed. After all, a man who can't carry on a conversation can be rather easy to ignore.

It's Jack's obvious ignoring of Mr. Turner that unnerves Mr. Cotton.

Since Will's arrival on the ship, after a short-lived and surprisingly disastrous marriage, Jack has had his eye on Will almost constantly. At first it seemed motivated by concern for the young man, but quickly the looks and glances became a lot less one sided and a whole lot less subtle.

The relationship between their captain and Will Turner was accepted easily by the crew (which was very fortunate for Jack since things like that, acceptances like that, were vital if a captain was to retain his crew for any length of time). As time progressed and the two became more public and bold, subtle glances and winks gave way to smoldering looks and undisguised smiles.

If both men were on deck at the same time they always acknowledged each other usually with a look, though occasionally with something more: a hand that lingered just a fraction of a second too long on another's shoulder or a brushing by a touch more closely then was absolutely necessary even in the confines of a ship. But never would much time pass that that one would seem unaware of the other's company. More than any kind of physical contact, it was their near constant eye contact that Mr. Cotton had noticed. Uncounted times each day they'd catch each others attention for only a moment, often ending with Jack giving a teasing wiggle of his tongue or exaggerated puffing out of his chest. Of course, considering the general eccentricity of his mannerisms, these could very nearly go unnoticed if one didn't follow Jack's line of site to his usually embarrassed (sometimes even blushing) counterpart.

Captain Jack Sparrow's stance at first appears to be one of subtle ease. He's leaned against the hatchway, one knee crooked and the foot at the end pressed against the wall behind him. It's the lack of movement that first sticks out. He stays like that for hours, balanced on one foot and seemingly casually resting against the wall. But as Cotton looks for longer he notices as he has before that the stance is not casual and there's tension in his captain’s face, dark brows knit with deep thought.

*Click. Click, click, click.*

He sees the minute movements of Jack's waist high hand, listens as the coin clicks lightly against each of the many large rings. The small chunk of metal travels form one finger to the next, changing direction as it reaches the last digit. It's the only movement Jack makes and it's so slight as to not be seen at first.

Mr. Cotton remembers the first time Captain Sparrow came up on deck in the middle of the night unexpectedly, and not because he needed to correct course or something similar. Will had been pacing on deck for several minutes, seemingly deep in thought. Mr. Cotton had watched the young man emerge from the captain’s quarters he shared with Jack. From the look on his face Mr. Cotton had assumed the two had had a fight. When Will had roughly unsheathed his sword and began making stabs at the air the old pirate had
really become convinced there was something wrong between the two men. He could plainly see the undisguised anger in Will's movements. His attention had been pulled away from Will when he heard the door bang open and saw an obviously riled Captain Sparrow emerge. The man was without his hat and coat and looked distinctly disheveled (and for Jack that was really saying something) as though he had just been rudely woken from sleep.

Jack had stopped while still in the shadows, a look of apprehension and maybe fear visible on his face even from a distance. Mr. Cotton had watched as Jack slowly extended one shaking hand beyond the shadows and into the moonlight. Over the soft sounds of sails flapping and water butting against the ship he'd heard the sigh, watched as Jack sagged in relief. Then, with an almost comical look of disbelief, Jack had repeated the motion only to have the same reaction when his hand was illuminated by the moonlight. Jack had then noticed Will on deck, fighting his invisible foe. To Mr. Cotton's surprise Jack had simply turned away as if to give the young man privacy.

Over the next hour Will had continued his practice or venting (for Mr. Cotton figured it to be something in-between). If Will had noticed Jack standing in the shadows he never made any kind of acknowledgement of him. Jack had repeated his actions of sticking one hand into the moonlight many more times as though he wasn't entirely sure his previous observations were correct. Mr. Cotton had heard that Jack had, for a short time, been a victim of the same curse as the previous crew of the Black Pearl. Jack's actions were clear enough proof that although the curse was gone, as dead as Barbossa himself, its memory still haunted Captain Sparrow.

When Will had apparently tired of fighting invisible enemies, he had returned to the shared quarters passing right past Jack without a word or look. Jack had followed several minutes later. He had thrust his hand into the moonlight three more times before retiring for the night.

Every night they'd appeared since (and as far as Mr. Cotton could tell there was no discernable pattern to it, save his being at the helm) had been nearly the same. Will was always the first to emerge and took up the same place and stance. The only thing that changed was the varying ferocity of his one sided fights, jabs and swings sometimes backed by enough power to break bones, yet other times little more than the controlled and guided movements of drilled practice. By the second night of their appearances Jack had begun flipping the coin over his constantly illuminated fingers in favor of moving his hand in and out of the light. The rate and rhythm didn't vary at all, nor did he even step all the way out on deck as though to show he wasn't invading Will's space, though of course on the empty deck there was plenty of room for them.

And so every time this happened Mr. Cotton watched the men clearly trapped in their separate struggles. He alone bore silent witness to their individual pain. He understood it in a way. He'd never been cursed (at least as far as he knew) and he didn't know what Will fought so hard against each time he swung the blade, but he did know a great deal about pain that went unshared. While neither man had ever acknowledged his presence on these nights he felt a connection to them, felt they were kindred spirits in things left unsaid, in memories best left unshared. He'd heard none of the crew mention noticing Jack or Will's occasional, odd nighttime behavior so he assumed they only did this when he was on the night watch. Really, who better to keep secrets than a man who didn't speak? Buford (his parrot, though nobody knew him by name) would never speak of such things either and at night was always below deck, nestled safely in Mr. Cotton's bunk.

Mr. Cotton watches as Will finally returns his sword to its sheath, sees the last glint of moonlight on its shiny surface as the weapon is returned to its dark, protective cover. Will retrieves his abandoned shirt, carelessly draping it over his shoulder as he strides across the deck. His eyes follow the young man as he nears the cabin entrance. He's seen this countless times before and knows the pattern: Will will pass Jack without a word or look and Jack will follow a few minutes later. He's heard the crew's jokes about some of Jack and Will’s less than quiet nights and he's noticed that there was never reference to this noisy, passionate behavior after one of these nights.

Mr. Cotton is somehow relieved to see the men's silent struggles are about to be put to rest for the night. But something is different tonight and he watches as Will stops at the doorway and leans close to Jack, whispers something in his ear. He sees the coin stop its travels across Jack's fingers as Will takes the fidgeting hand into his own. He can't hear what was said but Jack's expression softens.

He watches in surprised silence as the two walk hand in hand through the doorway and back to their quarters, Jack turning to give him a quick wink before disappearing below. Of course he watches everything in silence as he has for a very long time. Though he'll never tell a soul what he's seen he somehow knows he'll never see the two on deck in the middle of the night again. He's relieved but in a way feels a sense of loss. His pain is his alone again.

End

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