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"Absolutely not."
Barbossa pinched the bridge of his nose, summoning patience he didn't have. "Jack. It's a flooded tunnel. The only way to the treasure chamber. We cannot swim through it wearing boots."
"I can."
"You'll drown."
"I'm an excellent swimmer."
"With ten pounds of waterlogged leather dragging you down?"
"I've swum in worse conditions."
"When?"
"Various times. Numerous occasions. Many instances that I don't need to specify because they happened and that's what matters."
They stood at the entrance to the tunnel—Jack, Barbossa, Gibbs, Pintel, and Ragetti. The passage stretched before them, half-filled with murky water that disappeared into darkness. Somewhere at the other end, according to the map they'd spent three months tracking down, lay a treasure worth more than the Pearl herself.
Between them and that treasure: approximately two hundred feet of flooded tunnel, a swim that would be difficult enough without the added weight of boots.
Everyone else had already removed theirs. Gibbs stood barefoot in the shallow water, his boots tied together and slung over his shoulder. Pintel and Ragetti had done the same, though Ragetti had somehow managed to tie his boots to his head instead, giving him the appearance of a very confused leather-eared rabbit.
Only Jack remained fully dressed, his boots firmly on his feet, his expression set in stubborn resistance.
"Jack," Barbossa said slowly, "why won't you take off your boots?"
"I have my reasons."
"What reasons?"
"Personal reasons."
"Such as?"
"Such as they're personal, Hector, and therefore none of your business."
Barbossa studied him. Jack was many things—irritating, unpredictable, occasionally brilliant—but he wasn't usually this obstinate about something so simple. There had to be a reason.
"Are your feet injured?"
"No."
"Diseased?"
"No!"
"Hideously deformed in some way that would frighten small children and livestock?"
"My feet are perfectly normal, thank you very much."
"Then take off your boots."
"No."
Barbossa felt his eye twitch. Behind him, Gibbs shifted uncomfortably—he clearly knew something but was too loyal to say it. Pintel and Ragetti exchanged confused glances.
"We're not leaving without that treasure," Barbossa said. "And we're not getting that treasure without swimming through that tunnel. And we're not swimming through that tunnel with boots on. So either you tell me why you're being ridiculous, or you take off your boots. Those are your options."
Jack's jaw tightened. His eyes darted around—looking for escape routes, probably, or alternative solutions, or divine intervention. Finding none, his shoulders slumped slightly.
"Fine," he said. "But I want it noted that I am doing this under protest."
"Noted. Now take them off."
Jack sat down on a rock with the air of a man being led to his execution. Slowly—agonizingly slowly—he began to unlace his boots.
Barbossa watched with growing curiosity. What could possibly be so terrible about Jack's feet that he'd rather drown than reveal them? He'd seen Jack face down cursed pirates, sea monsters, and Davy Jones himself without flinching. What could—
Jack pulled off the first boot.
Barbossa blinked.
Jack's foot was... normal. Perfectly ordinary. A bit pale, perhaps, from being constantly encased in leather, but otherwise unremarkable.
What was remarkable was how much shorter Jack's leg suddenly appeared.
"Jack," Barbossa said slowly. "Stand up."
"I'd rather not."
"Stand up."
"The rock is comfortable. I think I'll just—"
"Jack Sparrow, stand up right now or I will throw you into that tunnel boots and all."
Jack stood up.
And up.
And... that was it.
Barbossa stared.
Jack, who had always stood roughly at eye level with him—well, a few inches shorter, but close enough—now barely reached his chin. The top of his head, which usually came to somewhere around Barbossa's nose, was now level with his shoulder.
"You're short," Barbossa said.
"I am a perfectly average height."
"You're short."
"I am five feet and six inches, which is a respectable and dignified—"
"You're SHORT."
Jack's face flushed. "Height is relative. In some cultures, I would be considered quite tall."
"In what cultures? Cultures populated entirely by children?"
"That's offensive to short people everywhere."
"You ARE short people everywhere!"
Gibbs was very carefully looking at the ceiling. Pintel had clapped a hand over his mouth. Ragetti's wooden eye had popped out from the force of his suppressed laughter and rolled into the water.
Barbossa looked down at Jack—really looked down, for the first time ever—and felt a grin spreading across his face. A wide, delighted, absolutely insufferable grin.
"Your boots," he said. "They have lifts in them."
"They do not have lifts. They have... enhanced soles. For comfort."
"For height."
"For comfort."
"They add three inches, Jack."
"They add arch support!"
Barbossa threw his head back and laughed. A full, genuine, from-the-belly laugh that echoed off the tunnel walls and probably disturbed whatever creatures lived in the water below.
"All these years," he managed between guffaws. "All these years of you strutting around, looking me in the eye, acting like we were equals—"
"We ARE equals!"
"You were standing on stilts!"
"They are not stilts! They are boots with a slightly elevated heel, which is a perfectly normal fashion choice that many people—"
"You're a short man in tall boots!"
"I am a man of AVERAGE HEIGHT who happens to prefer SUBSTANTIAL FOOTWEAR—"
Barbossa was doubled over now, tears streaming down his face. Gibbs had given up any pretense of composure and was wheezing against the wall. Pintel had actually fallen over. Ragetti was fishing around in the water for his eye, but he was laughing too hard to find it.
Jack stood in the middle of them all, barefoot, diminutive, and absolutely furious.
"Are you quite finished?"
"No," Barbossa gasped. "No, I don't think I'll ever be finished. I think I'll be laughing about this on my deathbed. I think these will be my final words: 'Remember when Jack Sparrow turned out to be pocket-sized?'"
"I am not pocket-sized!"
"You could fit in my pocket!"
"That is anatomically impossible and you know it!"
Barbossa straightened up, wiping tears from his eyes, and walked over to Jack. He stood directly in front of him, looking down from his full six feet of height.
Jack glared up at him.
Very, very far up.
"You know," Barbossa said, still grinning, "I always wondered why you were so insistent on wearing those specific boots. Remember when we were becalmed off Martinique and everyone else went barefoot to save on leather? You kept yours on. Said they were 'lucky.'"
"They are lucky."
"They're compensatory."
"They are LUCKY and I will not stand here and be—"
"You're not standing anywhere near 'here.' You're standing about three inches below 'here.'"
Jack made a sound of pure frustration. "Can we please just swim through the tunnel and get the treasure and never speak of this again?"
"Oh, we're going to speak of this again. We're going to speak of this frequently. At length. In front of everyone we meet."
"Hector—"
"I'm going to commission a painting. 'Captain Jack Sparrow: Actual Size.' I'll hang it in my cabin."
"I will murder you in your sleep."
"You'd need a stepladder to reach my bunk."
"I HATE YOU."
Barbossa just kept grinning. This was, without question, the best day of his life.
The swim through the tunnel was uneventful, if uncomfortable. The water was cold and dark, and more than once Jack felt things brush against his legs that he preferred not to think about.
But they made it through, emerging into a vast chamber lit by phosphorescent moss on the walls. And there, in the center of the room, sat the treasure: chests upon chests of gold and jewels, glittering in the eerie blue-green light.
No one was looking at the treasure.
Everyone was looking at Jack.
He stood at the edge of the pool, dripping wet, his hair plastered to his face, his clothes clinging to his frame. His very short frame. His extremely, noticeably, unavoidably short frame.
"Stop staring," he snapped.
"I'm not staring," Gibbs said. "I'm just... observing."
"You've known me for years, Gibbs. This can't possibly be a surprise to you."
"Honestly, Captain? I always thought you were just hunching. You know, to seem more approachable."
"I do not hunch!"
"You do lean a bit," Pintel offered. "Sort of a... casual slouch. We all figured it was an affectation."
"I lean because I'm CASUAL, not because I'm trying to disguise my height!"
"Could've fooled us," Ragetti said. He'd found his eye and reinserted it, though it was now pointing in a slightly different direction than before. "All those years of standing on crates and barrels during speeches—"
"I stand on crates for DRAMATIC EFFECT!"
"Sure, Captain. Whatever you say."
Barbossa had wandered over to the treasure, but he was clearly still listening, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
Jack sloshed through the water toward him, dignity in tatters. "If you're quite finished mocking me, perhaps we could focus on the actual reason we're here?"
"Of course, of course." Barbossa turned, and the full force of his amusement hit Jack like a wave. "It's just... you're so small."
"I am not small."
"You're adorable."
"I am a feared pirate captain!"
"You're a feared pirate captain who could walk under a table without ducking."
"That is—I could not—tables are a standard height!"
"Standard height for you, maybe. For normal people, they're significantly taller."
"I AM NORMAL PEOPLE!"
Barbossa patted him on the head. Actually patted him on the head, like he was a child or a particularly excitable dog.
Jack's eye twitched. "Remove your hand or lose it."
"Feisty little thing, aren't you?"
"HECTOR."
Barbossa removed his hand, but the grin remained. "Alright, alright. Let's load up the treasure and get out of here. We can discuss your... situation... later."
"There is no situation. There is nothing to discuss."
"Whatever you say, Short Stuff."
"Do NOT call me that."
"Little Man?"
"NO."
"Tiny Sparrow?"
"I will end you."
"Captain Compact?"
Jack actually growled.
Barbossa held up his hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. I'll stop." He paused. "For now."
They began loading the treasure into waterproof bags they'd brought for the purpose. Jack worked in furious silence, hauling gold and jewels with a single-minded intensity that suggested he was imagining each piece was Barbossa's head.
Gibbs sidled up to him at one point, voice low. "For what it's worth, Captain, I don't think any less of you."
"Thank you, Gibbs."
"You've always been a great captain, regardless of your... vertical limitations."
"Thank you, Gibbs."
"And you know what they say about short men—"
"Please stop talking."
"—they've got a lot of fight in them. Pound for pound, they're—"
"Gibbs. I am begging you."
Gibbs patted his shoulder and moved away, leaving Jack to his misery.
The swim back through the tunnel was somehow worse than the swim there. Jack was hyperaware of how much smaller he was than everyone else, how he had to kick harder to keep up, how Barbossa kept glancing back at him with that insufferable smirk.
When they finally emerged on the other side, Jack made immediately for his boots.
"Oh no," Barbossa said. "Those are going in a bag."
"I need my boots."
"You need to let your feet dry. Walking in wet boots causes blisters."
"I'm willing to risk blisters."
"Well, I'm not willing to listen to you complain about blisters for the next week. The boots go in a bag. You walk barefoot."
"Hector—"
"That's an order. Co-captain's privilege."
Jack stared at him with pure hatred. "I liked you better when you were dead."
"And I liked you better when you were tall. We're both disappointed."
The walk back to the beach where they'd left the longboats was excruciating. Jack had to take two steps for every one of Barbossa's. His bare feet squelched in the mud. Pintel and Ragetti kept whispering to each other and giggling.
And Barbossa—Barbossa just kept walking, his long legs eating up the distance, occasionally glancing back with an expression of pure, malicious delight.
"You know," he said conversationally, "I always thought it was strange that you never took off your boots. Even that time we were captured by the Spanish and they took everything else, you somehow managed to keep your boots."
"I'm persuasive."
"You bribed the guard."
"I'm persuasively generous."
"You gave him your entire share of our last haul to keep your boots."
"They're very good boots!"
"They're three-inch lies strapped to your feet!"
"They are COMFORTABLE and STYLISH and I will not apologize for having GOOD TASTE in FOOTWEAR!"
Barbossa shook his head, still grinning. "I can't believe I never noticed. All those times we stood next to each other, all those confrontations, all those dramatic stare-downs—"
"We can still have dramatic stare-downs."
"Not without you craning your neck, we can't."
"I do not crane!"
"You're craning right now."
Jack realized, with horror, that he was in fact tilting his head back to maintain eye contact with Barbossa. He immediately dropped his gaze to somewhere around Barbossa's chest, which only made things worse.
"This is humiliating," he muttered.
"This is hilarious."
"Hilarious for you."
"Yes, that's what I said."
They reached the beach. The longboat was where they'd left it, and beyond the reef, the Pearl rode at anchor. Home. Safety. Boots.
Jack practically sprinted for the boat.
"In a hurry?" Barbossa called after him.
"I want to get back to the ship!"
"The ship where you have spare boots?"
"The ship where I have PRIVACY!"
The row back to the Pearl was mercifully short. Jack sat hunched in the bow of the longboat, his knees drawn up to his chest, refusing to look at anyone. Behind him, Barbossa hummed cheerfully to himself, occasionally chuckling at nothing in particular.
The moment the longboat touched the Pearl's hull, Jack was up the ladder and disappearing into his cabin. The door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the windows.
Gibbs climbed up after him, followed by Barbossa.
"Should someone check on him?" Gibbs asked.
"Give him time," Barbossa said. "He's processing."
"Processing what?"
"The death of his dignity." Barbossa stretched, his joints popping. "It's a lot to take in."
"You're enjoying this too much."
"I'm enjoying this exactly the right amount." Barbossa headed for his own cabin at the other end of the ship. "Tell Jack I'll see him at dinner. I have some ideas for table arrangements that I think he'll find... accommodating."
"Captain Barbossa, that's cruel."
"That's piracy." Barbossa grinned. "I'll bring a booster seat."
TWO HOURS LATER
Jack emerged from his cabin wearing his boots.
His very tall boots.
His possibly-even-taller-than-before boots.
Barbossa, who was waiting at the dinner table they shared in the captain's quarters, looked at them with raised eyebrows. "Are those new?"
"No."
"They look taller."
"They're the same boots I always wear."
"They look at least an inch taller than the ones you were wearing this morning."
"You're imagining things."
"Jack, I can see the extra sole from here."
"That's a shadow."
"It's an inch of leather."
"It's a SHADOW, Hector, and I'll thank you to stop examining my footwear like some kind of boot-obsessed deviant."
Barbossa opened his mouth—probably to make another short joke—and Jack held up a hand.
"Before you say anything, I want you to know that I have prepared a list of seventeen different ways I could murder you in your sleep, and I am fully prepared to implement any or all of them if you continue to mock me."
"Only seventeen?"
"I was rushed."
Barbossa considered this. Then, with great magnanimity, he gestured toward the table where dinner had been laid out.
"After you, Captain."
Jack eyed him suspiciously. "You're not going to say anything?"
"I'm not going to say anything."
"No short jokes?"
"No short jokes."
"No comments about my boots?"
"No comments about your boots."
Jack relaxed slightly. Maybe Barbossa had gotten it out of his system. Maybe they could move past this. Maybe—
He sat down at the table.
The chair was significantly lower than it should have been. His chin was barely above the table surface. His plate was at eye level.
Jack looked up—very, very far up—at Barbossa, who had settled into a chair that was, if anything, slightly higher than normal.
"You adjusted the furniture."
"Did I?"
"My chair is lower."
"Is it?"
"My chair is lower and your chair is higher."
"How strange. Must be a trick of the light."
"Hector."
"Eat your dinner, Jack. You need your strength. Growing boys need their nutrition."
"I am forty-seven years old!"
"And yet, so little to show for it." Barbossa smiled serenely. "Vertically speaking."
Jack stood up from the too-low chair, grabbed his plate, and marched toward his private cabin.
Behind him, Barbossa's laughter echoed through the room.
ONE WEEK LATER
The crew had, for the most part, stopped commenting on Jack's height.
This was largely because Jack had started assigning extra duties to anyone who so much as glanced at his boots. Marty, who had made one ill-advised joke about "finally having someone to see eye-to-eye with," had been on barnacle-scraping duty for three days straight.
But Barbossa was another matter.
Barbossa couldn't be assigned duties. Barbossa was a co-captain. Barbossa was also, apparently, committed to making Jack's life a living hell.
It started with the doorframes.
Barbossa had somehow convinced the carpenter to lower every doorframe on the Pearl by exactly one inch. Not enough for most people to notice—but just enough that Barbossa had to duck slightly every time he walked through one.
"Careful," he'd say to Jack every single time. "Low clearance."
"I'm not going to hit my head."
"Just looking out for you."
"I'm not going to hit my head because the doorframes are a perfectly normal height for me!"
"Of course they are."
Then came the telescope.
Jack's favorite telescope—the one he'd owned for fifteen years, the one that extended to exactly the right length—was replaced with one that was six inches shorter. When Jack tried to use it, he couldn't see over the rail.
"Problem?" Barbossa asked innocently.
"Where is my telescope?"
"That is your telescope."
"This is not my telescope. This telescope is for a child."
"It's the same telescope you've always had. Perhaps your arms have grown?"
"Arms don't grow, Hector. Arms are fully developed by adulthood."
"Hmm. Must be your imagination, then."
And then—the worst one—the helm.
Jack went to take his turn at the wheel and discovered that it had been raised. Not by much—just a few inches—but enough that he had to stretch uncomfortably to reach it. His shoulders ached after ten minutes. His arms burned after twenty.
Meanwhile, Barbossa steered with easy, relaxed movements, looking like a man born to command a ship.
"Something wrong?" he asked when he noticed Jack's discomfort.
"The wheel has been moved."
"Has it?"
"You know it has."
"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about. The wheel is exactly where it's always been." Barbossa smiled. "Perhaps you've shrunk?"
"I have not shrunk!"
"People do shrink with age. It's a natural process. The spine compresses—"
"I am not old enough for spinal compression!"
"Aren't you? I lose track."
Jack gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. "I am going to get you back for this."
"I look forward to it."
"I'm serious, Hector. When you least expect it—"
"I'll keep an eye out. Well, an eye down, in your case."
Jack made a sound of pure, incoherent rage.
Barbossa patted him on the head and walked away.
TWO WEEKS LATER
Jack got his revenge.
It was subtle. It was devious. It was, in Jack's humble opinion, absolutely perfect.
It started with the boots.
Barbossa's boots, specifically. Jack had paid a cobbler in Tortuga a considerable sum to create exact replicas—identical in every way, except for one small detail.
The soles were half an inch thinner.
Not enough to be immediately noticeable. But enough that, over time, Barbossa would start to feel... shorter. His pants would seem longer. Doorframes would seem higher. The world would seem just slightly off.
Then came the furniture.
Every time Barbossa left his cabin, Jack would make tiny adjustments. A chair raised by a quarter inch. A table lowered by half an inch. The bunk elevated just enough to be perceptible.
After a week, Barbossa was walking around with a permanent frown, occasionally reaching up to touch doorframes he was sure he used to clear easily.
"Something wrong?" Jack asked innocently during dinner.
"No. Nothing." Barbossa shifted in his chair. "Does this table seem... taller to you?"
"Seems normal to me."
"Hmm." Barbossa's frown deepened. "I could have sworn..."
"Could have sworn what?"
"Nothing. Never mind."
Jack smiled into his rum.
The final touch was the mirror.
Jack had commissioned a special mirror—one that was ever-so-slightly curved, just enough to make the viewer appear shorter than they actually were. He'd had it installed in Barbossa's cabin, replacing the regular mirror, while Barbossa was on deck.
The next morning, Barbossa emerged from his cabin looking genuinely disturbed.
"Jack."
"Hector."
"How tall am I?"
"What?"
"My height. How tall am I?"
"Six feet, last I checked. Why?"
Barbossa's expression flickered with relief, then suspicion. "You're certain?"
"Quite certain. You've always been six feet. Annoyingly so." Jack tilted his head. "Why do you ask?"
"No reason. Just... checking."
Jack waited until Barbossa had walked away before allowing himself to grin.
This was going to be fun.
ONE MONTH LATER
"JACK!"
Jack looked up from his cards—he was winning, for once—to find Barbossa storming across the deck toward him. His face was thunderous.
"Something wrong?"
"You know exactly what's wrong!"
"I'm sure I don't."
"My boots! My furniture! My MIRROR!"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
Barbossa grabbed him by the collar and lifted him clear off his chair. Jack's feet dangled several inches above the deck.
"This," Barbossa snarled, "is war."
Jack grinned. "I know. Isn't it wonderful?"
Barbossa stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, his expression shifted. The anger faded, replaced by something that might have been grudging respect.
"You manipulative little—"
"Careful with the 'little' comments. I've still got a list of seventeen murder methods."
"Twenty-three. I've seen your notes." Barbossa set him down—gently, almost. "How long have you been planning this?"
"Since you lowered my chair."
"The doorframes?"
"A nice touch. I learned from the best."
Barbossa was quiet for a moment. Then he laughed—a real laugh, surprised and genuine.
"You're a bastard, Jack Sparrow."
"I prefer 'vertically efficient.'"
"You're still short."
"And you spent a month thinking you were shrinking. I call that a win."
Barbossa shook his head, still chuckling. "Truce?"
"Truce." Jack stuck out his hand. "No more height jokes?"
Barbossa took it. "No more height jokes. From me, at least. Can't speak for the crew."
"I'll manage the crew."
"I'm sure you will." Barbossa released his hand and stepped back. "For what it's worth... I don't actually care how tall you are. You're still the most annoying man I've ever met, regardless of your stature."
"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
"Don't get used to it."
Jack smiled. "I won't."
They stood there for a moment, two captains of very different heights, bound together by treasure and circumstance and something that might, in the right light, be called friendship.
"So," Jack said. "Rum?"
"Rum."
They headed for the cabin together, and if Barbossa had to slow his pace slightly to match Jack's shorter stride, neither of them mentioned it.
Some things, after all, were better left unsaid.
EPILOGUE
Years later, long after both captains had sailed their final voyages, the story of Jack Sparrow's secret boots became legend.
It was told in taverns across the Caribbean—how the famous Captain Jack Sparrow, terror of the seas, scourge of the Navy, had secretly been standing on three inches of leather his entire career. How he'd fooled everyone for decades with nothing but good cobbling and sheer audacity.
Some said it wasn't true. Some said it was exaggerated. Some said Jack Sparrow had actually been seven feet tall and the boot story was invented by jealous rivals.
But those who had been there—those who had seen him standing barefoot in that treasure chamber, glaring up at Barbossa with murderous indignation—they knew the truth.
Captain Jack Sparrow was five foot six.
And he was absolutely legendary anyway.