Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognise.

Don't ask where I pulled this from. I was just wanting to write a oneshot to get my writing going again, and I've always wanted to write a Barbossa/Jack love story... thing...

Warnings: Double crossing, spoilers for the first movie, open ending (you imagine what you like for the other movies), oneshot, tragedy, suicidal thoughts, language.

Jack once loved.

He'd been a young man, an ambitious man. First time at sea.

The moment that ship set off into the horizon, spray whipping up from the sea, the ship rocking gently and the loud calls of the crew, he thought he'd never be able to find anything, anyone, better than the ocean.

Until he set his eyes on Hector Barbossa.

Barbossa had been on the ship five years and was ordered to show him the ropes, which he did with much muttering and eye rolling. Jack hadn't minded his obvious distaste, though, because he was certain he could follow Barbossa forever.

Jack fell easily, and fell hard, with everything he loved in life, be it the ocean, his family, those feisty little whores he cheated on just to see their reactions, or a strapping man.

Back when Jack had first met Barbossa, the man hadn't been hardened by the years. He was twenty four, and Jack was eighteen. Barbossa's face was smooth and tanned, hair long and curly and eyes smouldering.

And Jack just loved that hat he had.

Jack had pestered him endlessly, not caring if Barbossa disliked him, so long as he talked to him, even just to snap at him.

"So, what's this little rope here do?"

"Go away Jack," he'd reply in his tantalising drawl, voice sending shudders down Jack's spine. Jack would grin at him charmingly, displaying all his pearly whites which hadn't been replaced by gold teeth back then.

"Seriously, what does it do?"

"Don't you be touchin' that!" Barbossa would snarl, hitting his hand away. Jack noticed that, on these occasions, Barbossa's hand would linger a little too long before pulling away so he could shove Jack a little. "Be off with yeh," he'd order and go back to ignoring Jack, who was, by then, quite happy, and would skip off on his merry way to badger the captain.

Tension rose between the two. Crew members would comment that they'd never seen the unflappable Barbossa so infuriated before, and would mutter among themselves that Barbossa had an 'interest' in the new lad.

Jack never heard this, and so never had reassurance for his heart-ache. In five months, he'd fallen so deep that every little thing about Barbossa, he found adorable, be it the way he gazed at the sea with gentle eyes, or the way he fondled his hat lovingly.

Jack would have sleepless nights, mind filled with images of Barbossa, caressing him, kissing him, loving him. He'd toss and turn and groan and want, with such an intensity it frightened him.

He loved Barbossa more than the sea, more than his family, more than those feisty little sluts.

But Barbossa could never return his feelings. The man made it obvious on more than one occasion that all he felt to Jack was annoyance, irritation, not even enough to be called real anger.

Jack wasn't even worth that much.

After hours of his imagination taunting him, he'd slip out onto the deck, grab a bottle of rum and drink until he could blot them out, until all he felt was a vague numbness.

His mind couldn't disturb him here.

On one of those nights, Barbossa found him entangled among netting and rope, not bothering to untangle himself so long as his arm could lift the rum bottle to his mouth.

Barbossa hauled him out and dusted him off, before looking into Jack's eyes very sternly, his own slightly crazy eyes widened in seriousness.

"Now don't you go getting a habit for this stuff. It's ruined many a life," he ordered, shaking the bottle in front of Jack before throwing it overboard.

Jack didn't know what to do, having the almost irresistible urge to dive after that bottle, and the completely irresistible urge to snog Barbossa senseless.

Barbossa was closer.

Jack lunged forward, catching Barbossa's lips in a clumsy kiss. He'd never kissed before. The sluts he carted around wanted sex or money.

Barbossa was Jack's first kiss.

And he enjoyed it, the firmness of Barbossa's lips which pressed against his own, the rumble in the older man's chest, and the way in which Barbossa grasped his short hair roughly.

Until Barbossa used his grip to pull his head back. His eyes bored into Jack's.

"What do yeh think yeh're doing?" he snapped, pushing Jack away roughly. Jack floundered, mouth working for a moment as he swayed. He held up a finger, opened his mouth again, and then closed it.

Barbossa shook his head and walked away.

Jack wondered if he could dive after the rum now.


The next day, Barbossa swaggered over to him, grasped his hair, and pulled him into a rough kiss, forcefully shoving him against the railing of the ship.

Jack moaned into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Barbossa, fingers splaying on the man's back. Barbossa's kiss was like the man himself. Fiery, passionate, brutal.

Jack needed more.

Barbossa pulled away, never loosening the grip on Jack's hair. Jack was gasping, out of breath, and Barbossa wasn't much better, eyes lit up with intense fire.

"Yeh want to be mine? Do yeh boy?" Barbossa asked, voice causing Jack's nether regions to twitch.

"Oh yes," Jack groaned out, smiling as Barbossa tightened his fingers, causing his scalp to burn.

"So long as yeh know what yeh're getting into," Barbossa told him, then released his hair. "Yeh do what I say and I'll treat you right," he promised. Jack felt like his dreams had come true, and could feel his eyes sparkling.

"Don't celebrate just yet," Barbossa cautioned. "Quit yeh're drinking, or else I'll not be giving you anything."

Jack's face fell. Barbossa nodded and backed away, looking around to see if anyone was watching them. It was early morning, cold, no-one but them was willing to come up yet.

"Come to me tonight with yeh're answer," Barbossa told him. Jack didn't even have time to confirm that he would before Barbossa turned his back and walked away.

This time, Jack didn't feel a crushing despair when he saw Barbossa retreating.


Jack wiped his sweaty palms on his shirt, standing outside the doors to Barbossa's cabins. He was the first mate to the captain, who treated his crew well. Barbossa was allowed his own cabin.

The moment Barbossa had voiced his question, Jack had already known his answer. He'd give up anything for Barbossa, he'd give up breathing for Barbossa, if only the man would accept him and his feelings.

Jack knocked, and when he heard Barbossa's growling voice bid him entrance, he pushed open the door and walked in. Barbossa was sitting at a desk, parchment strewn upon it. He was staring at Jack, however.

Jack smiled nervously, looking around the quarters. It was sparse, but a vast improvement on the sleeping quarters of the crew. Looked like Barbossa even had goose feathers in his bedding.

Barbossa caught him studying the bed and smirking.

"We'll be leaving that for later. Now, what's yeh're answer?" Barbossa asked, though he already knew. Jack was not at the stage where'd he'd choose alcohol over everything.

"You. It'll always be you," Jack breathed out, then felt extremely embarrassed. Maybe the words were too sentimental for the situation, maybe he should have just said his answer and not added anything.

Barbossa didn't say anything for a moment, running his eyes up and down Jack. The boy got him riled up like nothing else.

He knew the reason why.

"And exactly how long have you had these here feelin's?" he asked. Jack shrugged slightly, but when Barbossa fixed him with a rather terrifying look, he answered.

"...Ever since I saw you. Yeah..."

Barbossa thought back to those first few days, of the naive boy pestering him endlessly. That seemed about right, then.

"Ever b'in with a man before?" Barbossa asked, pushing down the jealousy at the thought of Jack with another. To his relief, Jack shook his head nervously.

"Women... whores... no men. That all right?" he asked unsurely. Barbossa stood and moved over to him, tiling Jack's head so he was looking right into his eyes.

"Tha's fine," he growled out, before kissing Jack passionately.


They kept up their relationship for three years, regardless of the opinions of the crew. Jack had ambitions which were never crushed, and wanted bigger, better.

He acquired his own ship. It was a monster of a ship. After so many trips to villages to pillage and plunder, he'd gathered enough money.

He was in love with the ship the moment he saw her, and didn't care about the price. Barbossa just rolled his eyes at his recklessness. Jack didn't even bother to check if the ship was usable, if it wasn't broken and the seller was conning them.

He did that work instead, and was pleased when the ship was in one piece. He wasn't sure he would have wanted to see Jack's expression when he said that the ship didn't work.

Jack was like a child in a sweet shop. He hopped around the ship, taking in every detail, making sure to touch every square inch of the thing. Barbossa had shook his head and retired to his quarters as first mate.

When Jack didn't fail in his voyage as captain within the first month, he could see that Barbossa was shocked. He hoped he was proud, too, but had never been able to gauge Barbossa's reactions like Barbossa could read his. Barbossa was a closed book and never talked about his feelings.

Jack didn't even know if Barbossa liked him in any way, or still thought of him as a nuisance who was just good in bed.

His crew were part of the reason he stayed afloat. They attacked other ships, they looted, they stole from towns and left no survivors, took no prisoners. Everyone died. That was it.

He formed a strong friendship with a crew member called Bill Turner, or Bootstrap to everyone. He had a son, young chap who, when he turned five, came aboard their ship. Jack wasn't sure about letting kids on the ship, but William caused no problems, so he ignored the brat.

He spent more and more time with Bootstrap, talking, plotting, gathering.

It was Bootstrap who discovered the story of the aztec gold. So much gold pieces in one chest. So much worth to them. Jack was enamoured with the very idea of owning Cortes' gold.

Barbossa was as well. Bootstrap wasn't.

There were curses surrounding that gold. Strange, dark curses, the likes of which they'd never heard of before. It sent a chill up Jack's spine, and Bootstrap tried to convince him to forget the gold, to leave it alone.

Barbossa struck out at that. He hit Bootstrap and then slung an arm around Jack's waist.

"Remember who 'e belongs to, Turner. Not you," he snarled, spitting on Bootstrap before tugging Jack to the captain's quarters.

Jack didn't know why Barbossa acted this way. He still doesn't. There had been plenty of sex, and Jack had been trying to include him in everything to do with the ship.

But it was hard, when Barbossa was closing himself off. His face was becoming more haggard with time, with knowledge. There were lines surrounding his eyes and mouth, and that sparkle about him had disappeared.

But Jack still loved him, heart and soul, because he could see the man he loved in there. In the rough, passionate nights and the occasional smouldering look, the way his voice could still make Jack's knees buckle, and the way his hands played his body like a musical instrument.

But he was becoming more and more bitter, and Jack was desperate to stop it.

One night, they were sitting in Barbossa's cabins. Jack's breath stunk of rum and he tried not to get too close to Barbossa, lest the man know he had gone back to the concoction that made his mind numb.

"Where be the gold, Jack?" Barbossa asked suddenly, hands caressing a glass of wine, more lovingly than he caressed Jack.

"Around. Don't worry, I got it covered," Jack told him, winking. His hat tilted slightly and he frowned, shifting it back into place.

"Aye, but surely you'd tell me. What could go wrong with disclosing the information? Bloody Turner already knows," Barbossa snarled the last part. Jack suddenly realised what this was about. Barbossa was feeling envious of Bootstrap and his knowledge.

He wanted to ease Barbossa's mind of all these spiteful thoughts, to make him to man he once was, full of life.

"All right, I guess it can't hurt."


Barbossa's cackle had long since faded off into the distance, but it still swum around in Jack's mind.

'He's been withholding information!'

'Doesn't trust us!'


He sunk to his knees in the sand, the gentle sway of the tropical breeze stirring his long hair. His eyes strained to catch a glimpse of the Black Pearl which had vanished from view by then. He ignored the tears trickling down his face.

He buried his face in his hands, if only so he would stop looking for the Pearl, stop clinging to the desperate hope that his beloved crew members were coming back for him...

That Barbossa would ever come back for him.


Jack spent his time on the desert island drinking. Every time he opened a new bottle, the promise he made to Barbossa rung in his head, and he drank with relish, savouring the fact that he was getting his revenge on Barbossa, in his own small way.

But mostly, his vast consumption of rum was to stem the memories of Barbossa which his mind played ruthlessly, over and over again until he wanted to cut out his own brain and chuck into the ocean which had never seemed so unforgiving before.

He laid in the sand, crying until he could cry no longer, and then it was just dry sobs, inhuman wails bursting forth as he clutched a rum bottle close.

Barbossa's satisfied cackle never left his mind, always there, morning and night, never letting him get any sleep. He laid under palm trees and stared at the green canopy, wondering what he'd done wrong, how he'd displeased Barbossa, and then blaming Barbossa.

And then blaming himself again.


Jack sat on the merchant boat that had rescued him when coming to pick up their shipment of rum. He cradled a bottle to his chest, eyes staring unseeingly at the crew who were manning the boat. He swayed back and forth with the sea, body limp, face expressionless, and eyes blank.

He was horrified to realise he still loved Barbossa more than the sea.


The next he saw of Barbossa was on Isla de Muerta. Barbossa was rougher than ever, face consumed by lines, hair scraggly rather than full of life. He had a beard, but it looked awful, unkempt. The curse had consumed Barbossa as it had the others.

But Jack still felt a deep stab of love, was still attracted to Barbossa. Time hadn't changed his voice or his personality, even if it had deadened his eyes and laid waste to his body.

Barbossa barely gave him any notice, other than a bit of surprise to find Jack alive. It cut Jack deeply, that Barbossa had been convinced he would die, had left him to a sure death. He forced down tears by acting his insane self, gone mad from days under the ruthless sun of that island.

The only time the two were alone, Barbossa grilled him for information, but didn't even try anything else. Jack had done everything he could to get the man's attention, eating an apple seductively, using all his suave charms, but the man ignored him. He didn't even know why he was trying to be noticed when Barbossa so obviously hated him. He told himself to stop it at once.

If Barbossa noticed his failed attempts, he didn't mention it.

They left him on that god-forsaken island again, and Jack really did cry, although he didn't let Elizabeth see it. But to have been marooned again, knowing now that Barbossa had truly intended him dead and hadn't known about the merchants who had saved him, and that he expected Jack dead once again, crushed him.

He got drunk. And he got drunker. That pistol was looking mighty interesting, as it had the first time. Now, he knew, without a doubt, that Barbossa truly hated him.

He remembered once, saying to that Turner junior, that the shot in his pistol wasn't meant for him, pleading for Turner to move out of the way.

No, the shot was meant for him. He'd know it all along.


When he was 'saved' by that bloody commodore, he hoped they'd hang him. He looked forward to it. A party for all, really, to see the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow hanging from a noose. Barbossa would be sure not to miss it.

However, when he was locked up by the guards and watched carefully as Norrington made plans and Elizabeth inevitably complained about the fate she'd subjected herself to, he formulated a plan.

He wanted Barbossa to die as well. Wanted him good and gone, to wherever people went when they died, where he could maybe become a better person, where Jack could meet him after he was hung.

Or he'd die trying.

He questioned whether he'd ever been right in the head, and doubted it greatly. Falling for a man who found him a nuisance, believing Barbossa wouldn't plot behind his back, and even believing Barbossa hadn't wanted to maroon him, that he'd been pressured into it. All the actions of a mad man, there.

And now wanting to murder him just so they might a second chance in the afterlife.

Bloody hell, no wonder Barbossa had never wanted him.


Shooting Barbossa had felt so good. The shot that was meant for himself murdering his lover.

But moments later, the victory was ripped away when he saw the look in Barbossa's eyes, the guilty, loving look he sent to Jack. His eyes seemed to convey something he had never said before.

I'm sorry. I love you.

Jack wanted to reverse time to a few minutes ago, snatch the gun from his own hand and shoot himself instead, because seeing this once proud man fall to the ground had tore a deep hole in his heart. He was consumed with guilt and grief.


Jack grinned as they read out his many, many offences. Ah yes, he remembered impersonating a member of the church. That had been so much fun. Barbossa had been with him, dressed as a nun.

Oh, the man hadn't liked that one bit.

Finally, it was over. Gosh, he hadn't realised he'd committed quite that many offences. The list was ridiculously long, and he got the feeling they'd probably made some up to make him look even more of a scoundrel, a pirate who deserved to rot in hell.

'The deepest circle of Hell is reserved for betrayers and mutineers.'

He belonged there all right.

The lever was pulled, the trap door under him open, and his stomach lurched while his heart lodged into his throat at the feel of the coarse rope rubbing his throat.

He was going to die.

And suddenly there was a sword under his feet.

He groaned.

Oh for fucks sake.


No idea what prompted this. Depressing, isn't it? I wasn't too sure whether to make Barbossa unloving or secretly loving. I decided to go with 'loving but having many dangerous flaws and emotional problems'. Whether you like him or hate him in this is up to you. I love him...

Imagine what you like about the next two films. I tend to like leaving PotC at the first film, so I won't do anything on, assuming anyone actually wants me to :P (the next two films were disasters, but I'm sure many of you love them).

I'd love it if you review, constructive criticism is really helpful.