Pairing: No pairing, really. Just Jack and Bootstrap, describing how Jack managed to come across that strange compass - and explaining just what it does.

Rating: PG-13, man. Nothing except drinking and stealing and a few curses - tame!

Comments: I really don't know if this would be considered canon. After all, no one knows how William "Bootstrap Bill" Turner would react to anything. My only hope is that Jack is in character... -_-''

Summary: How in the world did Jack get that compass, and what's so special about it?

Disclaimer: I own a pug, a computer, and a truck (if you call it that). If I owned Captain Jack Sparrow, I'd be a very rich woman. As it is, I don't. Damn.

Title: Legends

Word Count: 2,260; 11 written pages; 4 typed pages

"So what do you think, mate? Twenty shillings goes as a steal compared to what you'll get, I'll 'ave you know."

Earnest blue eyes met doubtful brown, which in turn met amused black.

"Yer so full o' shit yer takin' on water. S'what I think," the brown-eyed pirate said dismissively.

The man who sat before him scowled deeply. He had just enough of the Englishman in him that his eyes were blue, but otherwise the salesman had the look of a true Caribbean native. Spanish, Jamaica, mongrel - all dark skin and dark hair, slick with sweat or grease - or perhaps a combination of the two - with a broad nose and wide, too thin lips. He had approached the brown-eyed man and his partner when they were already deep in their cups, named himself Alfredo - or maybe it was Alejandro - and proceeded to swindle their remaining money.

"This is a true piece of New World 'istory," he insisted, "passed down from generation to generation among my people, since the days of Cortez." Alfredo - Alejandro - whatever - made a broad gesture to indicate the inhabitants of the tavern, one nameless building among many in the port of Tortuga. "Many able-bodied men 'ave tried to fellow the lure o' Cortez's gold before with me compass, but they've all sunk in the reefs as surround the Isla de Muerta. But you are no ordinary men, and the Black Pearl no ordinary ship. I've 'eard the stories."

The brown-eyed pirate's partner leaned forward, bracing one hand flat against the table the three shared. Black hair, braids, and beads dangled about his face in the movement. "If the compass leads t'the treasure," he said, voice slurred with a combination of rum and rough accent, "and all's as took it from y'sunk, how's it you keep gettin' the damn thing back, I wonder?"

Alejandro (it had to be, since Alfredo was a French name, and this guy didn't look to have much French in him, leastways Bill didn't think so) didn't really have anything to respond with save for a stupefied look.

"Twenty shillings is better spent on repairs to the ship -"

"And rum." Beads and coins chimed almost silently in the rowdy tavern as the black-eyed pirate leaned back in his chair.

"- and rum," his partner amended, flicking his eyes from his friend and back. "Better spent on those two alone then on some fool's errand for an imaginary treasure."

"Imaginary!" The mongrel's voice was positively scandalized. "The gold 'tis real enough, mate, paid to Cortez from the Aztec's to stop the slaughter of their villages. He hid it from the king in order to keep it for hisself, killin' off his crew so's none could say the way back, an' making this so's that he could." For the second time that night he pulled out a battered box from somewhere on his person, carved wood and aged, soiled leather, held together by a clasp and a hinge of brass that were obviously well-cared for. "It points not north, but to the Isla de Muerta, the island of death, homed in on the chest o' gold that Cortez put there hisself and ne'er returned to."

"Bullshit," was the cynical pirate's declaration, which he promptly followed with the sound of his empty tankard striking the tabletop.

"It is true," Alejandro insisted, pulling the compass to his chest and cradling it like he might a precious child. "The Aztecs paid it to Cortez -"

"- because they were bloody idiots in believing a man onna horse to be a god, yes, we know." The black-haired pirate fluttered one hand in the air, a golden ring on the forefinger gleaming dully in the half-light. "But I agree with ol' Bootstrap here. Who's to say it exists, or still exists, if you'd rather, and you never said how you kept getting the compass back." He tapped the same finger as bore the ring lightly on the tabletop. "Besides which, if your people have kept this for so long, why haven't ye already looted it?"

Alejandro lowered his head, gaze following the pirate's hand, eyes suddenly hooded. "We are poor people, unable to fund a trip like this. None know how far it is from here, for no man can find the Isla de Muerta save those who already know the way." His fingers played with the strap that held the compass closed. "But you, Sparrow -"

"Captain," the black-eyed pirate corrected absently, still tapping his finger on the table in a decidedly off-beat tempo.

"Captain Sparrow," the mongrel amended, lifting his gaze once more. "You've got the funds, the ship, the crew. Have ye no idea how much the treasure o' Cortez will add to your wealth?"

"How much?" was the pirate captain's immediate reply.

"Hang it, Jack," was his friend's protest. "You're not really thinkin' o' doin' this, are ye?"

Black eyes met brown from across the table top, and Jack Sparrow smiled charmingly, the gold of one capped canine glinting eerily. "Bootstrap," he said easily, and with that tone of voice Bill knew his friend had already made up his mind. "Me ol' Bootstrap, what are you worried about? Tis naught but a silly compass that's had it's needle discombobulated. If the treasure existed, summon would 'ave taken it by now." He turned back to the mongrel. "How much?"

"They say over eight hundred pieces, an ounce each o' pure gold," was the eager reply.

"You truly willing t'trade eight hundred pieces for twenty shillings?" the captain asked skeptically.

Alejandro spread the fingers of his free hand, the other holding the battered compass tight to his chest. White scars criss-crossed the broad palm, stained dark from long hours of work at a sugar plantation. "I need the money now," was his simple reply.

Silence rested between them for a moment, none speaking a word, letting the start of yet another brawl fill the spaces between conversation. Jack was still staring at Alejandro, dark eyes half-focused in a manner that declared his deep thoughts.

"You're drunk," Bootstrap declared with a snort, thumping his mug on the table again. "You shouldn't even be makin' decisions right now."

"I'm not drunk enough," his friend corrected. "And we both seem to be out of rum." He reached under the table, no doubt to fish more money out of his belt pouch.

The mongrel stared at them both as Jack flagged over a serving wench and teasingly dropped the coins down her bodice as she refilled his and Bootstrap's tankards. "Will you buy it?" he asked after she left, sounding a bit lost on the matter himself.

"Not if I c'n stop 'im," the brown-eyed pirate muttered into his drink.

Jack took a good long pull off his tankard, draining nearly half of it before setting it back down on the table. He delicately wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve. "No, mate," he said finally. "I'll have to pass. Swag's low, money's tight, and me ship's beggin' for a new set o' sails. Twenty shilling's about me allowance on rum for a week." He made a face. "Bloody British Navy does put a stopper in makin' a livin' these days."

"But the treasure -"

"- is a flight of fancy for those richer than I," Jack replied, though not unkindly.

Thank God, Bootstrap thought to himself as he watched the mongrel's face change from surprised to sullen to resigned. He sighed and tucked the compass away, rising to his feet. "Your loss, then, mate. I'll just 'ave to try summon else onna 'nother night." He began to walk away.

Bootstrap choked on his drink as Jack jumped to his feet, upsetting the table and causing it to hit his elbow, making him spill the remainder of his rum on himself. "Damnit, Jack," he growled, but the pirate was already around the table and out of their alcove, dancing nimbly around Alejandro to stall his retreat from the tavern.

"Yer leavin' so soon?" Jack all but pouted, clearly disappointed with the man's departure. He leaned in altogether too close to the man, hands lightly tapping on the other's chest. "We've just gotten back from the Indies, mate, we could trade stories, like. Give us a tale about ol' Morgan." He leaned in even closer, hair in tangles around his face, and Alejandro likewise leaned back. "I'll pay for yer rum."

"I'd rather you pay for the compass," the mongrel replied stiffly, and brushed past the captain, swift steps taking him through the door and out into the night. Jack barely gave him a second glance after he'd walked away, already swaggering back to Bootstrap and his rum.

"Good Lord, Jack," Bootstrap said as his friend reseated himself. "Must you always walk like a whore when you're drunk?"

"You ask me that when I'm sober, too, y'know."

"That's because it's all you when you're sober. When you're drunk you can at least blame part of it on the rum." He paused and tilted his head at his friend, giving him a hard look. "You really were considering that foolish treasure, weren't you?"

Jack just leaned back in his chair, all golden smiles and tangled hair. " 'Course I am, Bill. Gold like that can take you back to England, so's you can stop hobnobbin' 'round the sea with me."

So you can take care of your woman and child like a husband ought to, was what Jack was saying silently.

Funny how he always put Bootstrap and his family first in matters like these. A pirate Jack Sparrow was, with a heart for gold and his ship and little else, but no truer friend did Bootstrap have. For nearly ten years now Jack had been subtly but naggingly insistent that Bill return to England and Sarah and his little Will.

But I'm too well know in the Old World, he would protest, and so's you and so's the Pearl. Going back even for a brief visit would be a fool's errand. They had swung south around the Cape of Good Hope and into the Indian Ocean for the specific purpose of letting the after-image of their black sails fade into distant memory.

Don't you think ten years has done that? Jack asked him the night before they pulled into Tortuga. Your boy is old enough to put foot to riggin' now. We can nip up to jolly ol' England, filtch Sarah and your boy onto the Pearl, and nip on back out. Teach her and yours the way o' the Code.

Sarah would never consent to lettin' him be a pirate, he had said softly, or to being one herself.

Then I can take you someplace you're not known, and you can set shop there. Hispaniola. Jamaica. New Orleans, St. Augustine, one of those prim and proper Protestant colonies up north - does it matter?

'Course it does, Bootstrap had said before considering his words. What about you and the Pearl?

For a change Jack didn't have an instant response at hand.

Of course the idea of gold like that would catch Jack's attention. 'Twould attract any pirate's attention. The captain of the Black Pearl was no fool - though some would say otherwise - but would he really chase after a legend just to give his friend a chance at honest life?

You really were considering that foolish treasure, weren't you?

Of course I am.

Bootstrap blinked and pulled himself out of that moment of unexpected reverie, and narrowed his eyes at the man across the table.

"You're still going after it, aren't you?" he asked suspiciously.

Jack took a swallow of his drink, pulling the mug away from his lips but not setting it down. He smiled without showing his teeth. "Yup."

"Great Gods, Jack. How in the world are y'goin' to find a treasure on an island no man can find 'lest he's been there before?"

Jack's smile grew broader, if possible, the hint of a golden canine showing between dark lips. Wordlessly he lifted his free hand, and from one finger dangled the belt strap of Alejandro's compass.

Bootstrap was struck speechless for a full thirty seconds.

"You filtched it?" was all he could say after that time had passed.

"Pirate," was Jack's condescending reply.  "Didja honestly expect me to pay twenty shillings for this when I could be puttin' that money to good use on rum and the Pearl?"

He stared at his friend for a moment longer before he finally saw the humor in the situation. Oh sure, they needed new sails and supplies and a new crew (seeing as the one that had been with them the past year was positively sick of them) and the gold would have to be split equally amongst them, if it existed at all... but if it did...

If Cortez's gold really existed, he could go back to England, and Sarah and Will could have a proper life with a father and husband that was always home in time for supper. Perhaps he would do just as Jack suggested, and find them a home in the Caribbean. Perhaps in Port Royal, even - he had heard the tales of its grandeur, and in a busy port like that Jack would surely be able to visit from time to time.

Once he started laughing, and Jack joined with him, he found he could not stop. He laughed and laughed and laughed, and wondered if he would ever be able to repay his friend.

~end