The sea is clear and blue, white foam crowning the waves that toss against the shore. In a strange way, it almost looks peaceful, despite the current's tension, despite the tension on the face of the man emerging from the water.

To Jack's surprise, Norrington manages to look quite thoroughly dignified even with his white shirt and breeches clinging wetly to his skin, hiding virtually nothing of the well-muscled body they are supposed to cover.

As if that isn't enough, Norrington's hair is long, reaching just past his shoulders and curls on them like chestnut snakes.

Jack's quite content that he's gained land first, because now he is free to watch Norrington stalk ashore, tall and proud as a Greek God. He nearly laughs as the foam-born one suggests herself to his mind, his favourite of the lasses; Aphrodite, promising sweet pleasure with little of the seriousness usually associated with the divine lot.

And really, the comparison is quite apt, because without the brocade and the abused horsetail to hide it, Norrington cuts a mighty fine figure, which lets Jack's mind stray to the quite sensible, not to mention sensual, advantages of not being marooned alone, but with a pretty, although seething, Commodore whose body calls to mind the Goddess of pleasure.

Because really, for all the noble and abstract term of 'love', the Greeks were a rather earthly sort, and Jack's sure they won't mind him thinking a little further.

Norrington's muscles flex and shift beneath his shirt as he comes closer and closer. Yes. Definitely a gorgeous, seething Aphrodite.

Never mind that Aphrodite is a woman, and Norrington isn't, as his near transparent breeches reveal very nicely. Definitely not an eunuch, and no woman either.

It were the Greeks after all, and if they didn't insist on females, Jack sees even less reason to do so.

Perhaps Norrington minds, Jack, being a man and a pirate and all that, but just the same, Jack's Captain Jack Sparrow, and he has reasonable, well-founded trust in his ability to bring the good Commodore round. Eventually.

If the man doesn't strangle him at once, that is.

After all, that's probably why Barbossa marooned them together, hoping they'd either kill or drive each other mad before their time.

Judging from Norrington's look, that isn't too unlikely, and Jack's glad that he's the one with the pistol; not that he intends to use it on Norrington unless he's forced to, because that shot still is reserved for the mutinous bastard.

Instead of doing anything unpleasant however, Norrington merely glares at Jack as if the whole mess were his fault—quite an exaggerated accusation, really—and pulls off his shirt, spreading it on the ground before he stalks further inland, probably to explore the island.

Jack knows it, knows it all too well, knows every single rock on this godforsaken place from his last stay here. Before he found the hidden cache. Not far away, he can hear a sharp crack, the groan of wood—Norrington has found it, too.

A few more minutes, then Norrington returns, carrying a large branch or possibly driftwood, but, to Jack's chagrin, no rum. Shaking it to rid it off the sand, he picks up his not-yet-dried shirt and pulls it on again: after all, no sun may touch his pristine, white, British skin, even after years in the Caribbean. He would burn up none too pretty, that's true, but Jack has rather enjoyed the flexing play of muscles beneath the pale skin.

Norrington settles himself in the sand, contemplating the shoreline for a while before he turns to Jack, "I did not know sea turtles lived off rum."

So that version of the tale has reached Norrington's ears. Jack's surprised—he knows Norrington does his job well, but he didn't fancy him the type to lend an ear to anything his poncy Navy didn't tell him outright. Looks as if Jack will have to reconsider, because ridiculous as this particular little legend is, underestimating the enemy's means just won't ever do.

He hides his surprise and shrugs. "A special sort, the sea turtles here. Rum makes them stronger."

"In that case, you are more than welcome to summon your fleet of sea turtle minions. In the meantime, I shall weave a length of rope from your hair. If the turtles do not arrive, I am certain it could function as a noose."

"Now, now, Commodore, surely you don't mean that. Would get boring on this island without ole Jack. And the turtles don't like you. Don't think they'll show up."

Despite Norrington turning his back to him, Jack just knows he is arching his eyebrows. Drawing them together and rolling his eyes up in that disdainful look of exasperation. He says nothing, and Jack doesn't either, because that would mean he considers Norrington's silence as an answer worthy of another.

A minute passes, then Norrington picks up his piece of wood, turning it in his hands, then stopping, as if he's found the determination or solution for something. "Your dagger," he says, holding out his hand.

Jack has one, hidden in his boot, fat load of good it would have done him against any of the undead. He suspects that's why they didn't search him thoroughly. Not worth the trouble. "Now, why would I have one? It might have escaped your attention, but I was locked down in that brig, same as you. And I'm not here because I enjoy the view, pretty though it may be."

That bastard says nothing. Just continues to hold out his hand, back still turned towards him. Considering he thinks Jack has a knife, and a pistol for that matter, he's being surprisingly trusting, especially with the whole pirate factor to bear in mind. But then, Norrington's probably smart enough to know that there's no use in killing him now, and really, Jack finds his company quite entertaining. Even if he still holds out that hand.

With a sigh, Jack reaches down, retrieves the dagger and slaps it into Norrington's waiting hand. Since when is he predictable?

Norrington thanks him, probably more deeply ingrained habit than actual gratitude to a pirate, and sets to work on that stick of his. It doesn't take him long to cut it into a spear-type thing, with a scarily sharp point. Instead of giving the dagger back, he shoves it into his belt, pretty piratical commandeering of Jack's property, all things considered, and gets up, walking towards the shoreline.

"Going fishing?"

"That was my intention, although I am fairly certain this could be used for different purposes. Such as ridding myself of annoying island inhabitants."

"Ah, but that won't get you any food, now will it?" At least he's fairly certain that Norrington's no cannibal. Wouldn't be gentlemanly and all that.

"No." He can all but feel Norrington's smirk. "But silence."

"You'd miss me voice!"

"A risk I am quite willing to take."

"I still have the pistol," Jack points out when Norrington's voice grows a tad too serious for comfort.

"With wet gunpowder?" This time, Jack swears he can even hear the smirk in Norrington's cultured drawl. Bloody bastard. Especially since he's right.

"Might've dried by now!"

Norrington doesn't even dignify that with a response as he pulls off his stockings and stalks into the shallow water.

To triumph if Norrington doesn't catch anything, or to counter his smug grin if he does, Jack goes off to explore the small island once more. He fetches a few rum bottles from the stash, and on his way even manages to find some berries, small and slightly red and hopefully edible. He'd have to let Norrington eat one first. Some pieces of wood complete his burden as he walks back to the shore.

Norrington's still in the water, standing there like a statue, which he's really good at, and staring down into the waves. Then, quick as a bird of prey, he strikes, and Jack's close to applauding when there's actually a fish on the end of the stick when Norrington pulls it out of the water. Strangely he doesn't stop, but just impales the fish on the other end of the stick and resumes his lurking position. Perhaps he's gone soft and wants to share. Perhaps he wants to show off. Perhaps he's just hungry. There has to be a reason he's so tall, even with all that heavy brocade usually pulling him down.

By the time he returns, Jack has a nice fire going, not large but warm and lending some flickering light as the sun begins to sink under the horizon. Norrington sits down, his makeshift spear in one hand and two fish in the other. Using the dagger, he cuts the heads and tails clean off, throwing them back into the ocean without as much as batting an eyelash.

Then he guts them with an efficiency that quite surprises Jack, though a lot less so than how he offers one of them wordlessly to him.

"Why, that's really fine of you, Commodore. Didn't think you'd share your catch with a pirate."

"As threats failed, I thought that perhaps you could be shut up by something to eat. It seems I laid my hopes too high." It might be the rum Jack's begun to drink, but he thinks he catches a hint of amusement in the wry voice, even a hint of appreciation as Norrington casts his eyes on the fire Jack's built and holds his fish, stuck on the spear, over it.

Jack remembers some saying about hands washing one another, and although Norrington's hands are much cleaner than his, he supposes the fish was a rather nice gesture, and as he balances it over the fire on a construction of several sticks, he holds out his bottle to Norrington.

"Want some rum?"

"No. I do not wish to drink with you."

Ah. Probably a teatotaller. Explained the dour face, at any rate.

Despite his words, Norrington reaches for another, unopened, bottle, uncorks it and takes a deep pull from it, one that would send him coughing if he were indeed the teatotaller Jack suspects, but it doesn't.

"I thought you didn't want to drink rum?"

"I said I did not want to drink with you, pirate. There is a difference."

"Really, Commodore, I swear I didn't spit into the bottle. But if you wanted a bottle all on your onesies, all you'd have to do is say so." Seeing Norrington takes another deep drink, Jack's beginning to be glad he isn't sharing the bottle with him after all, because it seems he's Navy enough to outdrink even Jack, and that's saying something.

Norrington doesn't answer, instead he begins to tear pieces from the fish and eat them, somehow managing to look dignified and proper even as he does so with his fingers. Jack doesn't really care much how he looks like eating, just biting into the meat, but the fish actually tastes good, especially as he's had nothing since that blasted apple.

They eat in silence. He doesn't know how long they'll be here, and if silence is what will keep Norrington fishing for him, it's reasonable enough for Jack to stop talking for the duration of their meal.

After Norrington has finished his fish, only a clean line of bone left of it, he rises and walks the few steps to the shoreline, just so far into the water that the waves curl and foam around his ankles. There he stands and stares out at the horizon stretching endlessly around them. Standing so still, the sinking sun flaring brightly against him, he once more looks like a statue, tall and proud yet somehow sad.

Jack watches him for a while, and decides that the more Norrington dwells in his misery and his losses of late, the angrier will he be at Jack, and the less likely to be pleasant company without nooses or murder on his mind. Therefore, he considers it his personal priority to keep Norrington from thinking too much, especially if these thoughts could lead to the conclusion that he has not only professional but also personal interest to see Jack dead.

He walks up to the brooding Commodore, not particularly silent, but Norrington does not show any reaction, and when Jack companionably puts a hand on his shoulder, he spins around and stares at Jack in pained anguish, those green eyes wider than he has ever seen them, their pupils small and their colour clear from staring into the sun for so long.

"Can you not give me one moment of peace?" Norrington's voice sounds raw, and is slightly raised in anger, something Jack's never heard before, so he knows Norrington's really close to the edge now. "Ever since you arrived in Port Royal, you were constantly making my life more difficult. Is it too much to ask that you leave me alone now? You have my word that I will see to it that you receive a fair trial and punishment. My plan is not, should a ship arrive, to leave you behind on this forsaken rock."

"No, because you'd never know if you'd truly gotten the better of me then. The pirate who's clever enough to steal the Interceptor right from under your nose might escape from this—perhaps—forsaken rock with no one being the wiser."

Norrington blinks and almost averts his gaze as Jack mentions the ship whose cruel and pointless destruction they were forced to witness mere hours before. Rather than any request or threat, that is what gives him pause, what makes him think that, perhaps, the man does deserve a little reprieve.

Norrington recovers quickly however, even if he lets himself sink down into the sand, sitting there, his feet in the surf, his eyes still on the horizon.

"If you agree that I have no cause to abandon you here should a ship arrive, then there is no reason for you not to leave. If, for a reason a sane mind cannot fathom, you must stay, by all means, be my guest." Norrington laughs darkly, and he sounds tired, as if he's stopped caring about Jack's being there.

Jack's never minded being a rogue, a liar or a thief, but being a hypocrite is not something he particularly cares for. Still he's got the nagging sensation of being one now, and he can't even blame Norrington for it, though he's the cause. Barbossa's a bloody bastard and a mutineer, but when Jack's honest—and he usually is with himself at least—the reason he's after him for nigh on ten years now is because he's stolen his Pearl. Stolen his ship, and when it comes right down to it, he's done just that to Norrington, only that he's had to watch his Interceptor go down in front of his eyes while Jack still has the hope of getting his Pearl back, definitely will in fact, as he's Captain Jack Sparrow. It's just a matter of time.

Now, considering what Jack's keeping that one shot for, he supposes Norrington's actually rather gracious not to strangle him with his bare hands, especially as he's wanted to kill him before this mess already. He'd like to pretend that Norrington didn't love his Interceptor, and of course he didn't love her like Jack loves his Pearl, but again, being dishonest with himself usually is beside the point, and so he notices the way this aristocratic jaw is set, the hints of pain written so clearly into those pale green eyes staring out over the sea.

He almost considers leaving, but then remembers his resolution from before, and the thought that a brooding Commodore eventually meant an angry and worse, a determined Commodore, so it is better to keep him off balance, though that does not necessarily mean causing him more pain. Barely an arm's length away from Norrington, he settles himself in the sand, the bottle of rum, from which he occasionally sips, between his knees.

Norrington's gaze rests heavily on him, but when Jack keeps his silence, something hard and steely in the Commodore seems to relent and he slumps into himself marginally, again staring out at the waves.

Jack watches him, and when, after long minutes, the tension on his face eases, speaks, softly, not directly to him, as if talking to the sea, and perhaps that is why it comes out more honest than Jack intends. "Didn't mean for her to be destroyed. That's just waste of a beautiful bo... ship, and downright cruel. I know you probably don't bloody well care, but I know what it's like to lose a ship, and that's nothing I'd wish on anyone, 'xcept perhaps Barbossa, but then, his ship technically is mine so he really wouldn't lose his ship, all things considered."

Those bright, green eyes no longer flash with anger but only sadness and a strange curiosity when Norrington turns to him. "But the Black Pearl does not lie in splinters on the ocean bed. The wind still catches in her sails."

"No, she doesn't. And though her sails are tattered, I still have the chance to replace them, stand under them when they billow in the breeze. But forget not yer other mistress, for a great bonny ship your Dauntless is." He's surprised there, and catches himself at the wistful tone to his voice. A true sailor's blood beneath that stiff brocade, tempered perhaps but not destroyed by a Navy that sails the sea but does not love her.

The reminder of his other Lady does bring a small smile to Norrington's face, barely visible, but leagues more honest than the wide-mouthed smirks he has shown Jack before, and he nods marginally.

"It merely is... the Interceptor was my first command, and I thought she would go down more than once. But I always thought I would go down with her." The short hesitation, the sentence left unfinished, the low tone of that usually crisp and determined voice, they are the only indication to the tempest that Norrington stoically fights to hide.

The pain is still there, and an apology on Jack's lips, one he can never speak, not to this man, not to anyone, because it is an honest one. Instead he wordlessly offers his bottle, and this time, Norrington accepts and lifts it in salute. "To our ladies of the sea, then." He takes a swallow, another, then returns the bottle to Jack, who sees no reason not to drink to that particular toast, not that he usually needs additional encouragement.

For a while, they sit like this, silence stretching between them, comfortable, almost as between comrades, the bottle passing back and forth, the sun burning off its last fire in the waves before sinking beneath them.

When the bottle has nearly reached its end, Jack considers his options. He can rise and fetch another one, for Norrington seems not too likely to do so; or he can make use of Norrington's strangely mellow mood to put his plans of seduction into action.

The nightly breeze makes him shiver, and he sees it as a reason to seek the warmth of a certain Commodore, although both the fire and the rum would provide warmth in equal measure, and his decision could have gone either way.

He shifts a little closer, and when Norrington does not protest, closer still, until their shoulders are almost touching, his right hand offering the bottle as he drops the left into the sand, behind Norrington who still does not react, only takes the bottle and empties it.

His arm slinks up Norrington's back, around shoulders which really are as broad as they look under all that usual brocade, and to his surprise, Norrington doesn't even slap him. Perhaps that is the true difference between men and women.

Instead, Norrington lifts his eyebrows and somehow, despite them being nearly at eye-level now, manages to look down his nose at him. How he does it, Jack would love to know, although it's looking more funny than intimidating. He's about to inform Norrington of that when the man's cultured drawl cuts through the air like a knife, calm but with enough disdain for three men. Which Jack is reasonably sure he doesn't deserve. His hand is fairly clean after all.

"Sparrow, remove your arm from my shoulder before I do it for you."

Jack doesn't, but he's a bit more cautious now as he remembers Norrington still has his dagger, and judging by the glare in his eyes, isn't too adverse to using it.

"'tis getting cold. Thought you'd appreciate some warmth, your shirt still being wet and all that."

Norrington arches an eyebrow and turns his head in the direction of their shelter, but he still hasn't dislodged Jack's arm. "The fire is still burning."

Jack lets his hand slide lower. "Mayhap, but that's hardly the point."

Now his arm is pushed off and Norrington stares at him, that line between his eyebrows drawn tight. "Sparrow, are you propositioning to me?"

His arm returns to its place, this time sliding up beneath Norrington's shirt, feeling the muscles tensing there. No good. He rubs to get them to relax. "Jack. Or Captain. Under these circumstances, I admit I prefer Jack a bit, but if you like calling out ranks during it, no problem for me."

Norrington stands up and shakes his head, anger and disappointment lining his features. "I thought, when we spoke of the Interceptor, that for once, your words were sincere. It appears that I was mistaken and you are incapable of ever being serious."

Jack rises and persists, because before that stiffening he could feel Norrington pushing ever so lightly, unconsciously, into his touch. "Never was more serious, 'least not with you. I want you, and unless I be wrong—which I really wasn't for quite a while, 'tis always just the circumstances—you want me."

"You do not know what you are saying." Again, Norrington pushes his arm away, angrily.

"Don't I, or don't you?" Jack's lips spread into his most inviting golden grin.

With the suddenness of a striking snake, Norrington snarls and throws himself at Jack, pushing him down into the sand. Jack gasps as he hits the ground hard, as Norrington lands atop him and wrestles until he has Jack's wrists gripped painfully tight in his hands. Their faces mere inches apart, he hisses, "Leave me alone."

It is obvious that Norrington knows it: desire, well-known among sailors but frowned upon by polite society; perhaps wanting it, but thinking that temptation long past, long beneath him, fighting his own morality, attacking Jack for the temptation he presented.

When Norrington, obviously accepting silence as acquiescence, loosens his grip, Jack wraps his legs around Norrington's hips, using surprise to his advantage and nearly spinning them over and bringing himself to top.

Nearly, but not quite. Norrington's a good bit taller than him and stronger, and with that strength he pushes Jack back, pinning his arms against the rough grains of sand, panting. Then Norrington growls, and the sound makes Jack shiver, but only very little if anything of it is fear. He licks his lips and stares up, challenge in his eyes.

This is when Norrington kisses him. Not that Jack minds that, not in the least, it was his goal after all, but he does mind being surprised. Those lips, insistently pressed on his, definitely surprise him, as does his own moan which Norrington ungentlemanly takes advantage of to push his tongue into his mouth. If Norrington doesn't do this often, which Jack suspects, he's bloody well excellent at covering it, his tongue much as he imagines the man to be in battle, quick and strong and merciless. Not to mention that it's warm and insistent as it explores inside Jack's mouth; inviting as it withdraws and allows Jack's tongue between Norrington's lips.

Norrington's hands, long-fingered hands hardened from work with most interesting calluses Jack's never suspected the Commodore to have, release his wrists to slip under his shirt and have just convinced Jack that, oh yes, still waters definitely run deep, and that he'd like to take a plunge into this one, when Norrington stiffens. Not to say that Jack doesn't, but Norrington's doing so in all the wrong places, and then he pulls his lips away. Jack bites down on the lower lip before it's completely gone, but to his chagrin that doesn't stop Norrington from withdrawing, although he's still perched above him like a predator, those lovely pale arms trembling in the sand with the effort of holding him up.

Jack stares up into green eyes, now feral, his lust further fuelled, but the ferocity yields and gives way to iron control, perhaps even a bit of contrition as Norrington sits back on his heels, as if in shock about his own behaviour. He probably sees the blood on Jack's lip, appalled that he is its cause. "The violence of my reaction was not appropriate. Forgive me."

Norrington's about to rise, draw back completely, and Jack knows that as soon as the predator is once more strangled by duty and restraint, his chance is lost, which really would be a shame considering how much energy, not to mention rum he's invested. Swiftly, he grabs Norrington's shirt collar and pulls him down, hissing, "Only if you finish what you started," before forcefully crashing their lips together again.

At first, Norrington remains stiff, trying one last time to pull away, but when Jack's lips part, he tastes blood—quite literally—and sinks into the kiss, not letting up. Norrington's teeth scrape over Jack's tongue, bite his lip; but he is fairly certain that is not intended as discouragement, and so he reciprocates, until both of them are breathless, both of them too stubborn to break the kiss until they withdraw in the same moment, gasping for air.

Again Norrington's hands slide beneath his shirt, and this time they urgently push it off, closely followed by the man's mouth which fiercely claims his again.

He suspects they might've rolled closer to the fire seeing how hot his skin is, but when he wrenches his head free for a moment, they're still just as far away, only that Norrington's now yanking his own shirt over his head.

"Going to run, Commodore?"

This time, Norrington smiles. It's not a gentle smile, still predatory and perhaps a little playful. "James. Unless you like calling out ranks."

With that, he surely unbuttons Jack's breeches, yanking them from his legs and tossing them away with what appears to be only a brief, habitual gesture of disgust.

He won't be outdone by a Navyman, so Jack deftly divests Norrington—James—of his formerly pristine breeches, giving them a good kick as they slide away in the sand. The good Commodore definitely looks up to par, naked, even more delectable than in the clinging transparent linen.

James doesn't spare his breeches a second glance, instead he grabs Jack's legs and easily lifts them atop his shoulders, positioning himself at Jack's entrance. And then he stops. Stops! He is casting an inquisitive glance around, face drawn tight in that contemplative look. Without a word being said, Jack realizes that he's looking for something to ease his entry, which really is quite gentlemanly and touching, and Jack is certain that he'd be thankful under different circumstances, but right now he simply wants, no, needs James to bloody well get on with it.

To his right, he spies something red, and after some shuffling, he can reach it. Some of the berries he's found before. They've eaten the fish, so they can now use the berries for different purposes. He presses them into James's hand. James frowns for a moment, but then shrugs with a grin, crushing them between his fingers, slicking Jack and himself with their sticky red juice.

Jack only hopes that fruit, whatever it is, won't make his skin itch, but if it does, he supposes James will be even worse off. Fair's fair.

What definitely isn't fair is how James's smooth slide into him takes away his breath, and how James goes so bloody slow, heedless of all the signals Jack's sends, from the open-mouthed moan to the wriggling of his hips.

Then, finally, James is completely inside, bumping just so into him with a gasp. Jack stifles a cry, barely, but when James settles into a rhythm and brings one hand to Jack's cock, he lets it out, his own cry mingling with James's.

James is bent over him, the one hand balancing his weight trembling in the sand, sweat dripping from his brow as his thrusts slowly gain speed and force. Close though they are to him, Jack can barely make out the lovely sea-green of James's eyes, because they're all stormy and dark, dilated and flaming in the flickering light.

They come even closer when James bends down and kisses him again, shining with an insistence as if he truly meant it. As if that pair of green eyes could make the kiss more personal than a hot tongue and sharp teeth, and strangely, Jack finds out that they can. The pistoning of his hips unfaltering, James breaks the kiss, trails his lips down Jack's throat, licks, bites and sucks.

Jack's close to laughing, would if he had the breath for it, when the only word he can think of to describe James's touch is careful. It's as unfitting as anything, that mouth sucking so hard on his collarbone that he knows there'll be bruises, those long, elegant fingers curled around his cock, pulling with an insistence just short of pain; the slap of skin on skin as James buries himself to the hilt with every sharp thrust into Jack. Still, he never lets a touch slip, every rough push is measured, that iron control firmly in place.

An iron control which is even stronger than Jack has thought, for James halts in his rhythm, his voice perhaps a little strained, but far more composed than Jack thinks is fair or complimentary to his excellent skills. "What is so amusing?"

Jack could give him several reasons, but he isn't sure James would appreciate the irony, and after the control he's displayed already, he might well decide to stop altogether, and Jack really doesn't want to interrupt what he considers to be a most lovely buggering. So he tries a weak grin and offers, "Sand in tender places. Tickles."

James's brow creases into a frown, and then, even while fucking a pirate, proves every ounce the gentleman Jack considers him to be as he grabs his shirt from where it lies next to them in the sand and shoves it underneath Jack's arse before he resumes his thrusting.

Though it wasn't his original intention, Jack has to admit that his cover has excellent results: the linen feels rather nice, certainly a lot better than the hard grains rubbing into his skin, especially as James seems intent on buggering him across the whole island.

Then the fingers around his cock are back, stroking evenly, rough calluses sliding over his slick shaft, and all conscious thought flees as Jack closes his eyes tightly. "Oh, FUCK."

"Yes." James seems to consider that a request and pushes even harder, Jack's knees pressed nearly into his shoulders, that control finally cracking a bit, James's thrusts growing uneven, erratic. It is then that Jack has to strike his colours, white fire in front of his eyes and in his blood, spilling out of his shuddering body. He makes a sound that everyone but him would call a shriek, arching up from the sand, and only when he begins to catch his breath can he make out James's answering groan and the heat filling him.

James comes crashing down on him, his breath pressed out with another groan, but before he can even summon enough energy to complain, James has rolled off and is lying next to him in the sand, long limbs stretched out, panting heavily, as though there isn't enough air on the whole island.

Jack knows the feeling from personal experience, and it takes a while until his usual grin is in place. He pushes himself up and trails a finger through the slick sheen of sweat on James's chest. "Interesting."

He doesn't know what he expects, but certainly not the sudden, uncomplicated smile which slowly yields to a smug grin. "Indeed." With that, James rises, just so, picking up his breeches and pulling them on, stalking over and fetching another bottle before he returns to Jack's side and drops down into the sand.

James uncorks the bottle and takes a liberal swallow, then hands it over. While Jack eagerly sucks down a large gulp, James takes his shirt and shakes it to rid it of the sand before bunching it up and pillowing his head on it as he stretches out.

After another swallow, Jack follows his example and lies back, but the sand is hard beneath his head and his own shirt too far away to reach without getting up, which would require an unreasonable amount of energy. He decides that James's shoulder will have to make do as a pillow, and it is indeed supremely comfortable.

At the touch, James cracks open one eye, regarding the pirate on his shoulder curiously, but says nothing, doesn't move or otherwise complain. A few seconds pass, and his eye droops closed again, the rise and fall of his chest evening as he surrenders to sleep.

Jack continues to watch him for a while, watches the rest of the tension slacken in sleep, watches the metamorphosis of the feared Pirate Hunter into a man younger than any would give him credit for.

They do say you're supposed to know your enemy, and all in all, that shag has done a splendid job of mapping out a certain Commodore. Jack knows now that there is fire burning beneath that facade of ice, knows the iron control and strange gentleness tempering that fire. He knows that James does everything with all he is or not at all, that he expects the same of everyone else.

And he knows that dear Elizabeth will miss quite the catch, because he also knows something he suspects James doesn't yet: That he will cease courting her the moment he realizes the lass is in love solely with young William, because he is too proud to force his attentions upon someone who doesn't want them.

At the pleasant soreness of his backside, he winces and remembers that he knows another thing as well: Picking up the pieces of the good Commodore's broken heart will be a most pleasant and rewarding task.

With a grin he just knows James would hate, he falls asleep.


Epilogue:
He wakes to James' shirt beneath his head where a warm body used to be, and the smell of smoke in the air. It takes a few seconds to sit up and clear his head sufficiently, but then he immediately spies the large column of fire a few leagues away. One of the singular trees is burning, and although it's carefully picked so the fire won't jump to other trees, it's burning brighter and higher than it should.

Eyes wide, hands waving, he runs over to bloody Norrington, who is just throwing another bottle of rum into the flaming inferno. "NOT GOOD! What do you think yer doing?"

Norrington, again sweating, his face slightly reddened, turns. "I hate to point out the obvious, but I am making a signal."

"By burning the rum?!" Norrington might've been good, but not good enough to compensate for that.

"I could have used your flaming ego, although I doubt passing ships would be able to spy it." Norrington walks away from the fire and leaves Jack behind, seething.

He has to run to catch up with Norrington's stride. "But why is the rum gone?"

James turns, a grin on his face. "I never said it was. Not all of it, that is." He points towards an array of a good dozen bottles lying in the shade of a few other trees.

Jack freezes, and then he laughs. "Not bad. Not bad at all." He runs over to the trees and cradles the bottles of precious liquid against his chest, heedless of James's mocking laughter behind him.

After a while, he turns, and he has to admit, the fire is large, and unless his subordinates were completely inept—which Jack can't image the Commodore would tolerate—they would be somewhere in this area, searching for the Governor's missing daughter and their superior. There was no way they would miss that signal, and James and he would be rescued soon.

When James walks to the shore, undressing before he dives into the water, Jack catches a good view of his behind, pale and bloody well irresistible.

He decides that a swim is a most excellent idea and hopes they won't be rescued too soon.