Written by: mamazano

Title: Surprises
Rating: M
Characters: Jack/Will, and other surprises
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just like playing with them.

A/N: Jack is having trouble planing a very special birthday for Will. Set in the Unwritten History AU, with references to Havana Revisited and Key West.

Surprises

Jack Sparrow walked, deep in thought, down the sun-drenched lane, lined with pastel-painted bungalows, colorful, tropical flowers spilling over white picket fences, palms fronds rustling in the warm sea breeze. He noticed none of this, though, his mind miles away, his usually expressive hands thrust deep into his pockets. He could easily have been mistaken for a tourist, fresh off a cruise ship, with his baggy, white cotton slacks, colorful flowered shirt and Panama hat, complete with the sauntering gait of a sailor, regaining his land legs.

But that was the bloody trouble, now wasn't it? Jack wasn't a tourist, out to experience some of the "local color" of Key West, as the cruise directors so cleverly called it, before guiding their ducklings back to their resorts and spas, their banquets and buffets. After all, there was only so much local color to soak in, so many trinkets and souvenirs to buy, before they were whisked off to their next destination. The locals tolerated them, mostly for the dollars they spent, and once gone, the town would once again settle back into its sleepy existence.

One of the more "colorful" local establishments was the Black Pearl tavern, a favorite of the locals, and a "must see" on all the tourist brochures. Located on the gun deck of an actual pirate ship (a replicate, no doubt, as wooden ships of this era could never have possibly survived this long, now could they?), the bar specialized in rum, serving only the best, either straight up, or mixed with Coca-Cola and lime or just a splash of water. Grog. Authentic. There were also wooden kegs of beer, supplied from a local craftsman, for those that preferred a less potent potable.

The Black Pearl tavern didn't serve anything else. Especially none of those so-called "boat drinks", those bloody dreadful concoctions with the fruit garnishes and tiny umbrellas. There were also no "tours" of the ship, the remainder of which was off limits to anyone but the closest friends of the owner. A double disappointment to the tourists, who generally only stopped by for a look 'round and photo or two, before heading to Sloppy Joe's, another "must see" on their list. Which was fine with the owner and the locals, the dimly lit tavern a safe haven from the sprawl of commercialism that had consumed the island.

At least one, if not the biggest attractions of the tavern, and what brought the locals back time and again, was the crusty old seaman who tended the bar. His tales of pirates and knowledge of history, along with his mutton chops and tattered, ancient British Navy garb, made him not only a local legend but a favorite among the regulars. Well, him and his two barmaids – one blonde, one redhead, both beautiful in their period gowns, ready to serve with a smile, and a bit of cleavage. They were not available for extra-curricular activity, but no one seemed to mind. Their attractive presence and attentiveness was enough, not to mention their easy-going demeanor.

The owner of the tavern, and captain of the ship, was the same Jack Sparrow, who was making his way from his own bungalow towards the harbor, where the Pearl was anchored. It was only a few days away from his lover's birthday, and Jack was at a complete loss as to what he could do to make the day special. And special it had to be, seeing how Jack hadn't seen Captain Will Turner in almost six months. Six months of loneliness, and sleepless nights and too much rum.

It was not unusual for short separations, as Will was always "on call" whenever a major sea disaster struck. As captain of the Flying Dutchman, it was Will's duty to see that all went smoothly as the crew of the Dutchman ferried those lost at sea to the other side. But a combination of a busy hurricane season, and several ferry mishaps, not to mention the cruise ship disaster, had kept Captain Turner away much, much longer than an impatient, lonely, not to mention horny Captain Sparrow could stand. Patience was never Jack's strong suit, and these months had tried it almost to the breaking point.

In other times such as these, there would be no problem. Jack would take the Flying Pearl, a smaller sailing vessel that he and Will escaped the world in, whenever possible, and sail to where Will was currently located, spending time with him and relieving the constant ache Jack felt whenever they were apart. It wasn't about the sex, although in that department there was nothing but total ecstasy. No, it was the bond of love, endless, eternal that they had for one another.

Unfortunately, the Flying Pearl was currently dry docked for maintenance, and Will was somewhere in the Indian Ocean, and Jack was alone. And miserable. Calypso, Tia Dallam, sea witch extraordinaire, had promised Will would be back before his birthday. But then, she was, in her own words, "harsh, and cruel, and untamable as the sea…", not to mention fickle and famous for whims of fancy, which Jack had still yet to ever fancy. She claimed it was to remind him of who really was in charge, but Jack just chalked it up to her liking to torment him.

Like bringing back that bastard Barbossa. What the fuck was that all about? Jack had lost his beloved Pearl to that blaggard, and then finally was able to shut his intolerable, bragging mouth with the bullet Jack had saved for ten long years. Only to find out that Tia Dalma had had the audacity to revive the black-hearted maggot to serve her own selfish purposes.

Well, Jack had had the last laugh, or so he had thought, when Joshamee Gibbs, best quartermaster a man could ever have, had stolen back the Pearl, abet a very small Pearl, in a bottle no less, but still Jack's beloved Pearl, and between them, were able to find a obeah that could break the spell and return the ship to her former glory. And size. But the Golden Days of Piracy were coming to an end, and Jack eventually lost track of Gibbs, who gave up the sea for the life of a tavern keeper in Tortuga.

Until, one day…

It had been about two months after Jack had last seen Will. Down in the dumps, lonely, BORED (as if the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow could ever be something so mundane as bored), Jack had wandered over to Sloppy Joe's, where the annual Hemingway look-alike contest was being held. Not a big fan of the "new" Sloppy Joe's (Jack having too many memories of the original bar in Havana, some of them not so pleasant), he nonetheless decided to play the local tourist and see what all the hullaballoo was about. Besides, he needed a stiff drink and Joe's did serve some of the best rum on the island.

There were tourists crawling all over the place, and it seemed every other one of them spouted a white beard and hat, hopeful to be this year's winner in the contest. Jack could have cared less about the contest, or Hemingway for that matter, having known the bastard while he was still alive. Not much to like there, but there is no accounting for fame or who becomes famous, even if they were a total ass in life. No, Jack had actually wandered over to hear the story-telling, a new addition to the week long celebration.

It was the voice that first drew Jack's attention. He'd known that voice anywhere, but it couldn't be. Could it? Jack had pushed his way through the crowd to where he could get a better look at the Hemingway wannabe, spinning an old sea tale as only one person could possibly do. At the climax of the story, of a motley group of pirates who won a battle against the entire British armada, the man had looked up, piercing blue eyes meeting Jack's deep brown, and winked.

A few hours, and a bottle of rum later, Jack had found out the truth of if all, bloody improbable as it were. It seemed that when Jack had trekked into the swamps to find the famous Fount of Ponce de Leon, he'd taken his quartermaster's leather flask with him. The rum gone, along with Blackbeard (Teach, the mutinous minion who had stolen the Pearl from that other mutinous bastard, Barbossa, who had purloined the Pearl from Jack because of same said quartermaster Jack was now drinking rum with), and while Angelica (now THAT was the biggest misnomer Jack had ever heard of) was sobbing over her despicable, and now deceased father, Jack, always one to hedge his bets, had slipped down to the waters and filled the flask.

Taking one, perhaps two, good swigs from the flask, Jack had then taken care of some unfinished business, and with his now in good graces quartermaster, Gibbs, had headed to Tortuga, with the Pearl (and quite a few other ships) in a bottle, to search for a way to restore his ship to her original size and glory. Once in Tortuga, Jack had parted ways with Gibbs at the entrance to the Reluctant Bride, with the promise that Gibbs would stash the bottles of ships in a safe location. All but one. Jack had kept the Pearl, not willing to let her out his sight again.

And what safer location than the Painted Lady, Pierre's boutique and dress shop? So, while Gibbs had made his way there (looking forward to seeing his favorite former ladies of the night), Jack had sat in the back of the Bride, drinking rum and studying the tiny Pearl. There seemed to be some sort of bug up in the rigging. Jack had drunkenly squinted in the dim light, only to be dismayed to find it was no bug at all, but that cursed nemesis of his, that bastard Barbossa's monkey. Rum gone and bottle of Pearl in hand, Jack had decided to go find Gibbs. Perhaps they could coax the pestilent pest out of one bottle and into another. Worth a try.

In the meantime, Gibbs had regaled the girls (and Pierre, as well), with accounts of narrow escapes from the gallows, infamous pirates, voodoo, and of course the reason why he was carting around a burlap sack full of miniature ships in bottles. The chorus of "oohs" and "oh no's" and "Mon Dieu", not to mention the liberal libations from Pierre's private cellar, loosened Gibb's tongue a touch too much, and for his "coup de grâce" , he had produced his leather flask, lowered his voice to a ominous whisper, and told his captive audience that he held the aqua vitae, the Water of Life.

Pierre had promptly produced four crystal glasses, and suggested a toast to celebrate the most brave victories of Joshamee Gibbs and Capitaine Sparrow (unfortunately not present, or available. C'est la vie. Pierre could always hope). Gibbs had hesitated for a moment, but after all, if the stories were true, a special ceremony was required, not a simple toast between friends. So the water was poured, with all the pomp it deserved, and each of them had raised their glass and toasted to eternal friendship.

Hence, fast-forwarding over three hundred years, Jack had found the said same Joshamee Gibbs, that bright, sunny day, along with his delightful companions (well, the jury was still out on Pierre being delightful, as far as Jack was concerned). Here, in the flesh, in Key West, Florida. Giselle and Scarlet had rushed to hug Jack, arguing as usual over who would get to go first, and Gibb's jaw had dropped, and for the first time since Jack had known him, was actually speechless. Pierre? Well he had been too busy trying to impress a handsome, young waiter that Jack knew from his occasional visits to Joe's. For a brief moment, Jack had pouted. Not that he wanted Pierre fawning over him, thank the gods for that. It was just that Jack had sort of enjoyed the attention in a weird way. It had been a great ego-booster, and Jack's ego did like to be preened.

So, between the sheepish explanation from Gibbs, the bazillion questions, and confusion, (which would be another whole story, now wouldn't it?), a very big part of Jack had begun to ache. If only Will could be here, beside him, where he belonged. Not off in some foreign place, at Calypso's beck and call. Here, witnessing this bizarre, and wholly unexpected revelation, the consequences long-reaching, but at the same time, amazing in the feeling of being surrounded by those people who knew him best. Knew Captain Jack Sparrow. Had sailed with him. Had been there to share the battles and booty and… friendship.

Damn it, Calypso!

"You called?" A sultry voice had purred in Jack's ear, a dark-skinned hand slithering down his arm. Gaining control of the tingling of trepidation down his spine, Jack had turned with his most charming smile. "Tia Dalma!" Gibbs turned a sheepish-white, and hadn't waited to see what happened next, just rounded up his group and headed for the bar. Tia had fluttered a dismissive hand at them, before turning her attention back to Jack.

"Jack," she'd purred again, "What is it in dis world that you want de most?" Jack had been tempted to say for her to go away, but knowing her way of turning vindictive on a whim, smiled his most engaging smile he could muster under the circumstances. "You know exactly WHO it is," Jack had said, as he'd surreptitiously nudged her hand from his arm.

"Den you wouldn't mind if I were to take your precious Pearl? Hmmm?" She had turned and sashayed away, heading for the berth where the Pearl was anchored. Jack eyes had widened, and he'd hurried after her, stepping in front of her to stop any further action, as he'd gestured frantically with his hands.

"You can't, I mean, you wouldn't, would you?" Jack's pleas had fallen on deaf ears as she'd pushed him aside and continued through the crowd that had gathered around Sloppy Joe's. The judging for the Hemingway contest was getting ready to start, a perfect time for a sea witch to commandeer his ship.

"Why would you be wanting the Pearl anyways? It's not as if you need a ship. You already have one. And her captain, if I might remind you." Jack's brain had scrambled wildly to figure out what she was up to. The Pearl was not even sailable at that time, thanks in part to the British Museum yanking the funding for her restoration, when Jack had refused to make his Pearl a traveling museum. She was a ship, after all, not a bloody sideshow.

"Another captain has requested her. One I owe a favor to." Tia's voice had become cold, and a brisk breeze began to blow off the Gulf. "One who cut off his own leg for her."

Barbossa. Jack's heart sank. It seemed that wooden leg of his had held something else besides rum. Why would Barbossa, if it were him Tia was referring to, want the Pearl? What did he plan on doing with her, attack cruise ships?

"Couldn't you just give him another ship?" Jack had asked. "I have lots of ships, he could take his pick." Jack grinned as convincingly as he could through clenched teeth. "They're a bit small at the moment, but I'm sure you could just do that mumbo jumbo thing you do…"

"Hush!" Tia waved her hand and the wind had picked up to a fevered pitch, causing Jack to grab his hat, before dying back down to a whisper. "He has asked for de Pearl," she said, her tone indicated there would be no further argument. Jack wasn't one to give up though, and he smiled brightly.

"Well, it doesn't have to be the real Pearl, does it?" Jack had concocted an idea and was willing to bargain, even though he knew the dangers of it. "You could give him another ship, a better ship!" Jack's mind raced. "What do you say, eh? Deal?"

"And what do I get in return, hmmm?" Tia had crossed her arms. "Dis bargain will come with a price."

Jack had spread his arm and smiled widely. "Name your price."

Tia Dalma had smiled back, her black teeth reflecting her black heart. "Six months at sea, with no contact, for Captain Turner."

And before a crest-fallen Jack could reply, she had disappeared in a sudden downpour, the raindrops mingling with the tears creasing down his face.

That had been four months ago, but Jack remembered it as if it were yesterday. He'd gone to work on the Pearl, turning his beloved ship into a tethered drinking establishment. Mostly, to keep Barbossa from stealing her again. On sleepless nights (and there had been too, too many of them), Jack would lay on the deck of his ship, listening to the creaking of the rigging, remembering the times when he would sail for that distance horizon, the Pearl dancing lightly beneath his hands, her sails snapping in the brisk breeze. She still got restless at times, tossing herself about, straining at her moorings, longing as her captain did for the open seas. Mostly, though, she sat content, and allowed Jack to soothe her with his words and hands, knowing too well the hard-handed feel of Barbossa at her wheel.

Jack had recruited Gibbs and the girls and opened the tavern, a success from the beginning, and a way for all of them to remain together, still amazed at the coincidence of their reunion. Gibbs, by the way, never did win the Hemingway contest, though he'd won numerous times at story-telling. Pierre, well he fell in love – with every new, fresh, handsome man he met – and Key West as a whole. He'd opened a new boutique, not far from the harbor, specializing in artisan dresses and shirts, which the tourists gobbled up.

And Jack? He waited. Paced his cabin on the Pearl, studying ancient charts of seas long tamed, and dreamt of the days of old. When a pirate could be free to sail uncharted waters, adventures awaiting every hour. The thrill of "Sail ahoy" hollered from the crow's nest, the bustle of the crew readying for battle, the smell of gun powder and the cannons' roars.

But mostly, Jack missed the nights. Nights filled with romance, with hot lips and warm bodies entwined, so tightly as to become one. Pleasures and passion and desperate needs. Mornings, with the sun breaking through the multi-paned windows of the Pearl, the soft breath of his lover on his neck, their limbs still wrapped around each other as if never to part. Never. Ever. Forever.

Jack was cracking, his loss almost too much to bear. Will's birthday was just a few days away, and all Jack had to offer him was a ship that no longer sailed and the shock of finding there were others from the past still living in this century. How could he translate this into what he wanted most, to just have Will all to himself. Jack had to come up with a plan. Somehow, somewhere, he needed time alone with Will before springing the other "surprises" on him.

He would. That was definite. All he needed now was inspiration. And a bit of planning.

They say inspiration can strike at the craziest times, and by the simplest things. Jack's came from a chance conversation he'd overheard at the local grocery store. Produce section, to be exact. Two well-dressed, bleached-blonde women, (overly made-up and obviously nipped and tucked a few too many times), were discussing their last vacations and how lame Key West was in comparison. Jack was about to interject with a few choice words on how the island would be bloody better off without them and their kind, when one of them had mentioned her favorite vacation ever.

An island, that you could charter, complete with vacation home, stocked with everything you'd ever need, as well as a yacht, at your disposal. The only way to reach the island was by boat or aquaplane, and it was as beautiful as it was secluded. Jack lingered over the mangoes and limes long enough to get the name of the company that handled the property, before leaving with two limes and a pleasant "Good day!" to the women, who'd only looked down their tanning-bed noses at him as if he were just another one of those crazy locals.

Perfect! An inaccessible island, a boat to fetch Will with, and time alone, all the time they wanted, with no interruptions. Jack had let out a whooping yell as he walked out of the store, startling the tourist mingling around and giving more credence to the oddities that populated Key West. The company was not hard to locate, being just off Duval Street. Jack had practically walked on air as he entered the door with a jingle from the bell hanging above. The room was decked out with posters of tropical paradise destinations, fake palms and synthetic wicker furniture. A bored receptionist had looked up from her computer to point at the cardboard clock hanging on the door.

"We're closed," she had said, before going back to her lunch, a power bar and arugula salad. Jack tried smiling his most charming smile, but she would not budge, just told him to bugger off (well, not exacting her words but the meaning was clear enough) and come back at 1:30 pm. So Jack had amused himself with reading the many colorful brochures that were on the rack by the door, paced impatiently, hummed to himself, and was otherwise annoying as he could be until finally, several eye rolls and sighs later, she'd asked him just what it was he wanted.

He had explained the island and how he'd like to book a reservation. She'd unenthusiastically but dutifully looked through her listings on her computer and told him with a self-satisfying smirk, that the island was booked through 2014, so he might as well take himself elsewhere. Anywhere. As long as it was out of her office. Bloody cheeky of her, Jack had grumbled, and made a mental note to complain to the management. So, defeated once again on ideas, Jack had headed for the Pearl, and after several (well, more than several) shots of rum, trudged back to his cottage, chin on chest, and heart full of woe.

He'd entered the front door, which he always left unlocked, as there was nothing to steal that he couldn't replace. Jack had only made it several steps inside when he'd noticed the sound of running water. The shower, to be more precise. At first he was puzzled as to why someone would be taking a shower in his house. Then he had surreptitiously glanced around to make sure he was actually in his house (he'd had a bit more rum on the way).

It was then that he had noticed the boots, followed by the coat, and shirt. Following the trail, his heart racing in hopeful disbelief, he'd next found the pants and finally, at the bathroom door, a pair of socks and boxers. Jack, heart still pounding, began to strip off his clothes as fast as he could and opened the door. Steam wafted out, and beyond the shower curtain was the outline of a man, one Jack knew every intimate inch of. He'd slipped into the shower and wrapped his arms around the man from behind, who was busy rinsing the shampoo out of his hair.

"Took you long enough," a muffled voice had said, before the embrace became a frenzy of hugging and kissing and sobs of joy (mostly from Jack, who never could contain his emotions when it came to Will). Between the "how's" and the "when's", they made love, Jack entering Will as if to make them one, forever, both desperately needing the feel of each other, two souls reunited once more. Neither of them had noticed when the water ran cold, continuing from the shower to the bed, not stopping to even dry each other.

It was twilight before, spent and sated and safely in each other's arms, Jack had remembered that he'd never prepared Will's coming home surprise. Mumbling his apologies, somewhere in the vicinity of Will's armpit, Jack had told Will of how he'd tried to plan the perfect birthday celebration for his return.

"You did," Will had told Jack. "YOU are the perfect celebration. YOU are the perfect present. And all I want, ever want. Forever."

And as they both knew, forever is a very, very long time.