James Norrington isn't surprised to discover Sparrow's named himself Pirate King because really, if anyone's suited for jewel-bedecked regency of an offence punishable by death, isn't it Sparrow?

Nor is he surprised to hear who Sparrow's named Pirate Queen.

Surprised is not the word.

***

"I'm what?"

Will Turner tries to smile. James entertains a brief, vivid and highly satisfying fancy of slapping it from that broad, gormless face.

"I know, I know," Turner says, like it's all some grand joke. "That's Jack for you, though."

"And has no one pointed out the fallacies inherent in that pronouncement to our felonious friend?" James curls the sarcasm in "friend," though he's sure it's wasted on Turner. Pity, that. James feels it a most compelling touch.

"Fallacies?" Turner blinks. Frowns that vague concern that so often crosses his face when it's Jack Sparrow under discussion.

James sighs. Says, "Yes, Mr. Turner, fallacies. Flaws. Idiotic assumptions which will require correction before this particular malignment of Sparrow's finds itself in the wrong ears."

James's head hurts, a situation he lays at the ill-shod feet of one Captain Jack Sparrow, self-proclaimed Pirate King and idiot for the ages.

"I'm sure he didn't mean to malign you, Commodore," Turner says eventually, when James is halfway through yet another entertaining fantasy of Things He'll Do To Sparrow. This is James's favourite game, the sole bright point on his days of desk-bound drudgery while he's trapped in port. "You know Jack. He's many things, but he's not a maligner."

James surveys Turner's face once more, searching for some sign of subtlety which might indicate the boy has any idea of what's happening here. As always, his search falls short. James hopes he recalls enough to properly convey this meeting to Elizabeth at some later point, because James has time nor patience to do so now.

James pinches the bridge of his nose because if he looks at that face any more before he's calmed himself, he really will beat the Governor's son-in-law bloody in sheer frustration. It's been a trying day. Says, "I, Mr. Turner, am a Commodore of His Majesty's Navy. Sparrow is an offence to common decency. Who has now, if you're to be believed, both assumed authority over the same piratical vermin I'm sworn to hang and, and perhaps this is the part which requires further restatement for emphasis, named me his co-regent. What part of that do you believe meant to be flattering?"

***

Governor Swann is restraining his response ably, which slightly mollifies James's mood most foul. Elizabeth, however, is making no such attempt.

"I'm certain, Commodore, that no one who's made your acquaintance would believe such nonsense," Weatherby says. James assembles his driest mien because fantasizing violence against the Governor of Jamaica is no doubt treasonous, even if the man's prone to fits of inexplicable short-sightedness.

Particularly where pirates are concerned, a situation apparently sweeping Port Royal's finer halls these days.

"The fact remains, in declaring his authority over his ill-reputed ilk, Sparrow has in effect challenged our—your—authority over these waters." Privately, James thinks Weatherby Swann's authority over the seas begins and ends with mastering his own seasickness, but he's been too Navy too long to let that slip. Elizabeth's laughter slows to something James thinks portends speech, so he lifts a hand to cut her off. He's in no mood for yet another of her lectures on the beneficial qualities of piracy in the hands of 'good men'. Nor, as forsaken suitor, is he obliged to listen anymore. "He has also declared himself our highest priority. What good is preventing a mere pillage and loot in Kingston or a sacking at Port Royal if the Pirate King goes unchallenged and uncaught?"

"What are you proposing, then?" Weatherby asks, and James thinks, "My God, does it never end with this family, have they no sense at all?" Clearly, more hand-holding is required to properly sell his plan.

He smothers any questions which may have arisen as to the exact nature of Weatherby's appointment to the Governor's mansion in favour of solemn dignity. "Quite simply, I propose to have him."

James sits through the bluster that follows, Elizabeth railing as befits a tavern wench, Turner pleading for Jack's life, Weatherby sitting in ineffectual authority.

All as it should be, then. James considers this meeting a success.

***

"We're chasing Sparrow again, sir?" Groves and Gillette exchange uncertain glances. James ignores them, pushes into his office for something which might resemble blessed peace, and settles at his desk.

"Are you sure that's wise, sir?" Gillette begins with a hesitance James feels should have kept the man silent. "It's just... begging your pardon, sir, but chasing Jack Sparrow doesn't turn out well for us. Historically speaking."

James quails with a look. Huzzah. "I'm aware of that, Gillette," and here James swallows the venom on his tongue, which he's sorely tempted to disperse despite knowing it belongs somewhere else entirely. "I can even appreciate why you might show caution now, under the circumstances." Gillette breathes easier, apparently under the mistaken impression there's been some risk avoided. James lets that go because this conversation's wearing him down, too, stifling him like the fort's incessant baking heat under tropical sun, and James has no interest in prolonging this. "But rest assured, gentlemen, that this time, I have additional motivation for success."

***

He resumes command of the Dauntless as though there's been no long, dreary six-month in port. Governor Swann comes to see him off, mere protocol, James suspects, as now that he's no longer a potential suitor for Elizabeth, the man seems at a loss as to how to interact with him in any capacity.

The Turners attend as well, Elizabeth still smartly pointing and sharp-tongued, as though that might sway him, this power she pretends to wield. Turner spends his time hangdogged and silent, save a single bout of "Please, Commodore, let me talk to him," which James instantly dismisses.

The only thing worse than Sparrow at large, beyond his reach, is the thought of time at sea with Will Turner.

***

James meant to take one final look at Port Royal disappearing behind him, but Sparrow's not in Port Royal, he's somewhere further out of reach, and James has nothing he particularly wants one last glance at.

He thinks he feels it, anyway, when they've passed beyond Port Royal's sights.

James thinks this because a flush of something comes over him, washes like sea in an errant wave. He's fine when it hits, dutiful as expected, but he's inescapably alive when it passes.

He smiles at nothing. He's sure no one notices.

***

And in the end, Sparrow is remarkably easy to find. Swilling rum from his dank corner of some Tortuga pit, a wench on his lap, two more at his sides, chattering aimlessly as Anamaria and Gibbs exchange quiet, frantic conversation beside him.

Sparrow, James thinks, looks quite ordinary for royalty.

***

"But why aren't we taking him in, sir?" Groves follows behind James, dogging his steps, and what James wants most in this world at the moment is to simply turn 'round and explain with deadly precision why he's not meant to be dogged tonight.

Sadly, this is not an option.

Sadder still, that's not even truth. What he wants, what he really wants, he can't begin to express, civility be damned.

"Are you questioning my orders, Mr. Groves? Don't question my orders."

That, James thinks, should be that. Alas, it's Groves, who's cheered by a decade of knowing Commodore James Norrington better than most anyone left in the world. Groves, who's assumed a level of familiarity James can't dissuade.

"Not questioning, no, sir," Groves says. Then, "But, James, is this really how you want to handle this?"

James loathes the man's knowing look. "If you're insinuating I can't handle Sparrow, don't do that, either."

Groves ducks in, assumes confessional air. James clenches his fists at his sides and resolves to take this, too, from Sparrow's sun-stained hide. "Look, I'm sure you'll be fine. Proven right or whatever. Just... just we know you, Gillette and I, and we know what you're like when it's Sparrow. Irrational. No offence meant, you understand, but... we worry."

James has already half-cocked a brow. "Irrational?"

A lesser man might've swallowed. Groves clears his throat, which is almost enough for James.

"Obsessed, sir."

"He's a pirate." Odd, how clearly that emerges from behind gritted teeth. "I'm not obsessed, I'm employed."

"Chase them all like this, then, do you?" Groves snorts. "We both know you don't."

James attains what he believes to be a philosophical antipathy for the ruddy state of affairs in Port Royal, which has allowed discipline to become so lax, James can't even handle one little Sparrow chase without finding himself subject to scrutiny &ndash extreme scrutiny, under the circumstances &ndash from his crew. Friend. Crew.

Bloody hell.

"Ah, but are they all Pirate Kings?" James asks, and as Groves mulls that change in circumstance, James says, "I appreciate your concern, Mr. Groves, particularly your reasons for stating it. But believe me when I say that this time, Sparrow has gone too far. I can't fail this time, he's made it far too public for that, left me no choice. I'd have to resign my commission. I can't promise this will all end as it should, not when it's Sparrow, but I can promise to do everything in my power to see that it does. All I can ask is that you trust to my ability to see this through, whatever it's conclusion."

"I do," Groves says. "That's rather the problem."

***

They've left the short fat one and the one who can't keep his eye in his head to handle watch. Perhaps, James thinks, they believe Tortuga friendly. Or perhaps Sparrow couldn't see past the rum awaiting to the possibility that someone might have business on his accursed ship beyond wenching and ribaldry.

Either way, James thinks it's entirely too easy to cross Sparrow's ship.

Tucks himself in Sparrow's quarters and settles in with a cask for the duration.

***

Sparrow, James thinks, takes far too long to return. James can only imagine the level of drunken idiocy the man's engaging in, to still be out there whoring and tottering on his insanely-heeled boots.

James can only imagine, but he'd really rather not.

***

Sparrow might be a bloody awful pirate, but he stores decent rum. Much as rum can be called "decent", which James seriously doubts, but the jar he finds hiding in Sparrow's bunk is surprisingly palatable.

Or maybe that's just the contents of his own now-vanished stores affecting his judgment.

Whatever's taking Sparrow is no doubt some illegal travesty, the sort for which James is no doubt meant to pursue him. James resolves not to mind until he's drained the man's cache.

***

The man has a crown. A crown, of all things. James tries it on because, well, he feels a certain sense of entitlement. If the bloody blighter's going to be naming him pirate royalty and possibly costing him his commission, James feels he's allowed a moment or two with Sparrow's crown.

And, he thinks, whatever else might catch his eye while he's in here.

***

By the time Sparrow finally hobbles in, he's filthy, drunk, and singing about really bad eggs.

James waits until Sparrow topples onto his bunk, bottle rolling from his hand, hat still perched on his head.

Obviously, Sparrow's nigh dead to the world, which is just how James wants him.

***

"Tsk, tsk, Sparrow, really," James says, and enjoys tremendously the way Sparrow's head lifts at the sound of his voice. "Drunk and wobbling through the streets of Tortuga again, are we? Hardly befitting royalty, now is it?"

"Commodore?" Sparrow squints. "R'ye wearin' me crown?"

"Perhaps." James lifts a hand, touches bejeweled brim. "So it would seem."

"Why?"

"Trying it on for size?" James suggests. Sparrow groans. Pulls himself upright, and even in the dark of captain's quarters, James can see the effects of his latest misanthropy on Sparrow's face.

Sparrow rubs at the lines he's so recently created. "Ye're in me quarters, on me ship, wearing me crown, t'see if it fits?"

"So it would seem."

Sparrow laughs. "Mate, I think the Navy might need t' find somethin' else to do with ye, if that's all you've got t' keep yourself busy. Or maybe y' just need t' find y'rself a girl." Sparrow winces. "Another one, I mean."

"Oh, really, Captain, what sort of wife would I be if I found myself a girl?"

***

Sparrow, James notes, isn't laughing anymore. In fact, the man's gone quite pale.

Which, well, James thinks that's more than worth the hours he's spent waiting since he left word with Gillette and abandoned ship.

"Wife?" Sparrow's eyes track every movement of James's hands, so James adjusts his crown beyond comprehension, secure in the knowledge that he's finally captured Sparrow's attention. However fleetingly.

"Indeed." James smiles. Hopes it's as malicious as he intends, but with Sparrow, who can tell? Not James. Never James.

When James leans forward, draws his boots from the man's table to thunk them against the Pearl's wooden floor, Sparrow starts. Scrambles up and Lord, isn't that entertaining, too? Sparrow's still unsteady on his ridiculous heels but James suspects that's more than rum now. Hopes it is, anyway.

"Now now, Commodore," Sparrow says, hands up, fingers fluttering, mouth drawn and eyes pleading. "Let's not be hasty, hey? Obviously you're a bit... unsettled... 'bout something. Perhaps somethin' ye need t'get off your chest, hey?" Sparrow's gaze lifts as he mutters, "Or off yer head."

James settles back in the chair. Feels at the moment as thought he owns the world, such is the victory in unsettling Captain Jack Sparrow. "Is that an offer, then, captain?"

"What?" Sparrow's face falls again. It's ridiculous, how much Sparrow's myriad of floating expressions suit the man. James has about four he uses reliably, none of them nearly as verbose-with-a-twitch as Sparrow's shifting dismay. Sparrow scrubs at his face as though if he presses hard enough, he'll discover James isn't really there.

Ah, this is perfect.

***

"Had it occurred to you, Sparrow, that there are certain qualities one presupposes in a Pirate Queen? Qualities I appear to lack." James glances down at himself as though to check, sure Sparrow follows this, too.

Sparrow gulps. James loves the way the muscles in his throat work, bunching and pulling and twisting and such. It's all manner of illegal immoralities that when James sees that throat work, he feels in through his prick.

"Can't say's I've noticed anything you lack, quality or otherwise, Commodore," Sparrow says, eyes wary on James, which is just how James wants it. "Ye're Commodore bloody pirate-hangin' Norrington, hey? Ain't a scallywag on these seas what don't know that, savvy?"

"James," James says, and Sparrow's eyes widen. "You call me James, Jack."

"Captain," Jack corrects. "Captain Jack. Or Your Majesty. M'rather fond o' that one meself."

James ignores him.

"When one thinks Pirate Queen, Jack, one imagines a lady pirate. Would that be a safe assumption?" Jack nods slowly, quite clearly disconnected from his earlier egg-singing self. "Yet I, your selection for such dubious esteem, am neither lady nor pirate. I am, in fact, quite the opposite. Had that occurred to you?"

Sparrow glances away, checks the porthole then looks back. "Might've."

"Before or after you'd declared me your mate?" Sparrow blanches. Mumbles something James scarcely hears and cannot comprehend. "Louder, if you please."

"Didn't think ye'd hear," Jack says on a burst of defiance that seems more like the Jack Sparrow James has hunted than anything else he's seen tonight. Jack's eyes narrow. "How did ye?"

"Mr. Turner felt it something I should to know."

Jack's nimble mouth quirks in frown. "The whelp?"

"Yes, Captain, the whelp."

Jack mutters something else James decides involves suitable retribution for said whelp, then turns wary anew. "Ye want me t' take it back, then, I assume? Undeclare you, if you will, aye?"

"Whatever gave you that impression?" James smiles then, an honest one.

"Ain't that what you're here for? Or will there be hangin'?"

"Neither." James finds himself surprisingly short of words. For all he's planned this, he's not quite captured how unsettlingly inscrutable Jack Sparrow can be. He withdraws long enough to summon courage, then says as scripted, "No, Captain, I should think my purpose here rather obvious. To a man of your ingenuity, I mean." Jack preens. James likes that.

"No hangin'," Jack murmurs, smiling cautious, and James repeats that to further soothe bristled pirate nerves.

Then James says, "No, Captain, I'm here for my conjugal visit," and Jack Sparrow's perpetual motion halts in what can only be shock.

***

Seducing pirates is bloody hard work. James has given this considerable thought since Turner brought him news of his new appointment, and he's decided that whatever attraction he's felt for the unrepentant felon who's near-wrecked his life simply must be mutual on some level, for why else would the man provoke him so?

There are, after all, other Commodores in the sea.

Sure, he's found other reasons. This way, Sparrow effectively declares his lordship, then establishes it by offering the illusion he's tamed the Caribbean's famed pirate hunter, however unexpectedly. James imagines that might do quite a lot for a man's reputation among scoundrels, though it's quite unnecessary. Certainly nothing Sparrow was forced to do, at any rate, which suggests to James ulterior motives.

And if His Majesty's Naval Service would flay his hide quite literally for the things he wants to do to Captain Jack Sparrow, well, James can't imagine a little thing like legislated morality stopping the man himself from anything he fancies.

Not even James.

***

So it all comes down to this moment, wherein Jack decides whether he is, in fact, interested in what James offers so very rarely or whether he was, in fact, using James as political token.

James feels very much like he imagines Elizabeth must have done that day at the fort. No wonder she toppled to sea, he thinks. It's remarkably heady, the possibility of being wanted for himself to this extreme, though he doubts Elizabeth quite as tantalized by the thought of his affections as he is of Jack's. It's also remarkably frightening, the prospect of being someone else's decoration.

He wonders what he's meant to do to effect the answer he wants. He has no cliffs handy, just that note for the Governor and word with Gillette. Terrifyingly final, what he's left behind, but nothing as immediately distancing as cliffs.

Elizabeth, he realizes with sinking dread, would have found herself very much a token without them.

***

"You've already got a list long as your arm of things to hang me for," Sparrow says, inscrutable now as he hasn't been all night. "Don't need t' be addin' matelottin' to it, do you?"

James holds his breath while he interprets that. "You don't think I'm serious."

"Oh, you're serious," Jack says. "Can't take the wig from the Commodore, even if you're hidin' it under me crown."

"You don't believe my offer is in earnest, then," James clarifies.

"Well, it ain't, is it, luv?" Jack's smile's resigned, just a touch sad.

Which propels James across the quarters, until he's got squirmy, rummy pirate pinned to the bulkhead, less than an inch separating their mouths. It's not the most comfortable position James could assume, but it functions as it's meant to, holding capricious captain still long enough for corrupted commodore to grind proof of sincerity into the man's sashed hip.

Jack's lips part. Shock, surprise, lust, James doesn't care why because Jack feels so good in his arms, he's put so much into this visit and now he's... yes, James doesn't care why Jack's mouth opens, so long as he can taste it.

"Stupid pirate," James hisses. Jack's lashes flutter. The man makes no move to pull away, something for which James thanks whatever fortune has accidentally smiled upon him. "I assure you, it very much is." Another grind, a harder press, and James covers Jack's gobsmacked mouth with his for a kiss rough as he can.

Jack tastes like rum and spice and seaman just hit port, tavern food and cheap ale and still more rum. James wants to ask should he taste like whore, too, but he'd have to speak for that, pull back from Jack's yielding lips, and James isn't ready for that just yet. Not when he's still got no answer for whether he'll have this pleasure again.

Then Jack's nimble tongue probes, slips into berth in James's mouth, and Jack's heavy fingers pull at James's back. Jack's speaking, James thinks, or trying to, and James doesn't want to hear it if it's bad news so he prolongs the kiss as long as he can.

Kissing Jack Sparrow's heady rush enough on its own. The breathlessness, when it comes, is nigh superfluous.

Jack presses back against him, takes control from James to possess James's mouth like Jack possesses all else he enjoys. Loose and lazy, command hidden under befuddling charm. James fists elflocks and goes where Jack wants him, back on his heels.

Yes, James can see why Jack might have expected him the royalty on his back. He's nigh willing for that now and he's spent three weeks planning quite the opposite.

Jack pulls away. Not completely, that sharp nose touches his, Jack's breath hits spit-sheened lip, but James misses the kissing and tries to protest.

Jack shushes him. Says, "Take off me crown, commodore, don't want it wrecked in the plunderin', savvy?"

James savvies very much.

***

"So tell me, commodore, when d'ye turn into a pumpkin?" Jack asks as he tugs at James's breech lacings.

"What? No pumpkin, Sparrow, Christ." James hasn't planned the profane just yet, as they're both still dressed, but Jack's got pickpocket's hands and he's using them in ways James has never even considered before. James is no monk, but he's honestly not sure he'll withstand the excitement.

Jack's eyes gleam. No other word for it, those lost isle lagoon eyes, dark as clouded night, spots of starlight moving as Jack smiles.

"Don't get me hopes up, Commodore," Jack says, the Devil's own twist on his lips, then Jack's nimble fingers are in James's still-laced breeches, on James's hardened prick, and James can only gasp at how good that feels.

Well, gasp and frot, but James feels grinding into Sparrow's touch should really go without asking.

James regains his own. Shoves rough into Sparrow because something about the man invites it, this harsh handling. When Jack's as pinned as before, a moth on display, James growls into his ear, "Make no mistake, Captain, I offer no temporary arrangement." Jack's brow lifts. James bites his ear, then his throat, then his jaw, until the man breathes ragged concession. "There are, in fact, no small number of ways I intend to have you. Now that I do."

"Awfully sure of y'rself, aren't ye?"

James gnaws. Sucks a bruise on Sparrow's throat and pushes his prick into Sparrow's hand, moves his hips so he's stroking himself on Jack, whose fingers curl in reflex when that much becomes clear.

"I intend to have you in a frock," James says. Nods toward the bulkhead near Jack's bunk. "Just there. Skirt up over your hips, mewling like a woman."

James wishes he were better at bed talk, because he's not sure he's conveyed quite what he's pictured, but he pictures such things as he does all else, with care and precision. White linen and blue ribbons and dark pirate, skirts bunched between them, padding Sparrow's posterior against long, deep thrusts. Those beguiling eyes looking up at him, trusting, that clever tongue speechless, those nimble hands clawing James's back, scrambling for purchase as Sparrow's prick rubs James's stomach and James's prick buries purposefully.

James can almost feel Jack's breath, hot-damp-sour, against his ear.

Is feeling it, which makes James smile visibly.

Jack claws at his hair. Says, "Christ Almighty, Commodore, y'can't... I'm no... a frock?"

"A frock," he repeats. Grins maliciously up at his pirate and hopes Jack can read his mind because James can't explain any more without coming in Jack's hand.

***

All of which he explains upon pirate-y prompting, much to Sparrow's amusement.

"Given this some thought, haven't ye, Commodore?" Jack asks as James pulls at Jack's sash, Jack's breeches, clumsy now in impatience.

"Would you expect any less?" James lifts his gaze again, sees Sparrow's golden grin, and feels one of his own break free. "I have no idea how you dress yourself, Sparrow, but these are impossible. You are meant to be naked at some point in your life, are you not?"

Jack takes over James's work, brushing his hands aside in contact that holds a lovely warmth James rather enjoys. "That eager t' see me in me frock, then, are we?"

James flushes. Jack's head dips, one more kiss stolen, and before James has had his fill of Jack's mouth, the wretched sash falls free. The breeches part.

James thinks that's so blessedly brilliant, there should be some form of heralding involved. A piper and a few flags. Possibly a salute. Jack's naked cock.

"That eager to have you out of one," James corrects, and he's right back to sucking Sparrow's throat, palming Sparrow's cock, immersing himself in pirate.

***

"Might go both ways, that frock-wearin'," Sparrow says. "M'not Queen, savvy?"

Aye, James savvies, but he can't concur.

James thinks he'd look ridiculous in any sort of frock, Queen or no. Too broad, too bulky, a stalwart sort of build that's made for a uniform but most definitely not for delicate finery.

Sparrow, James thinks, half-dresses so already. He's slender enough, lithe and lean and lovely. All that effete grace on display, nimble and beguiling. Yes, James thinks, Sparrow's practically made for frocks.

Or, more to James's point, made for a frock fucking.

***

No doubt the genteel young ladies of Port Royal have been trained from the cradle to view marital relations as something between mildly unpleasant and outright offence. Just laying one of them between sheets in the nude might have sparked some sort of fit, he thinks, and he doesn't envy Turner Elizabeth's undoing.

Doubtless Jack Sparrow appreciates a good lay. All too easy, actually, to see Sparrow arching, hand behind head, wench at his prick for a lazy afternoon blow.

James feels he has a fair bit of wench in him, should the situation require.

Easier still, once James has that frock thought, to see himself shoving up Sparrow's skirts against a bulkhead on that accursed Pearl. And because Sparrow's not passive, James thinks he'd likely assist in said endeavour.

It's been far too long since James has engaged in any sort of relations, let alone with one of his own, but he remembers it burning at first, remembers the pleasure in it hiding once he'd relaxed. As Sparrow hardly seems the tightly-wound sort, James thinks his bloody pirate might take well to a swiving.

If James offers right, possibly even that swiving in a skirt.

***

"Y'think ye're doin' the swivin', then, do ye?" Jack asks, grin smug and cocky.

"Know I am," James corrects, and rubs at Jack's bollocks, pets at the tightly-bunched muscle just behind them. "If you're very good, we'll negotiate next time."

"Bloody hell, James," Jack hisses and James thinks this a fine time for intrusion.

"You're tight." James frowns. Pauses, which makes Jack wiggle further. "How can you be tight?"

"M'not as loose as all that," Jack says, and James thinks there's a chance he's now insulted the man. Hard to tell with Sparrow, really.

"Well, obviously," James says and Sparrow lifts his brow.

It's strangely tense until James crooks said finger, finds Sparrow's spot, and reduces the man beneath him to begging.

It's remarkably seductive, Sparrow begging at James's hand.

More seductive still to pull that prick through the begging, until Sparrow's coming in James's fist and arching up into James's body and groaning into James's ear.

***

He doesn't realize he's still calling the man "Sparrow" until he hears, "Jack, luv, call me Jack," in his ear.

So he does. Jack grins. Curls a hand over the back of James's neck to drag him in for grinning, golden kiss, which distracts him until Jack's got his other hand firm on James's prick, rough strokes with burning friction.

It's hot and fast and lovely, far better than imagining with his own hand, and James is fighting off crisis until Jack says, "Come for me, Commodore, want to see me lady come for her king," at which point James can't contain himself anymore.

He feels like he can't stop. Like he's wait-less and entirely dependant on Jack's good nature to mind him as James sinks against the bulkhead on a slow, uneven slide to the floor.

Jack catches him. Lifts him and moves him and there's a bed under James's back, a pirate stripping James's clothes, cleaning him carefully with a damp cloth James isn't expecting.

"Sleep now, aye?" Jack touches James's face, more unexpectedly careful contact.

Then there's warm, snuggling Jack in James's bed, in James's arms, and James thinks he hears something about getting back to his ship later, Jack'll see that he does, and James wishes he weren't so tired because he can't seem to form words anymore.

He can only hope he's managed to explain the situation before he drops off. He thinks he has, though, because he's vaguely aware of Jack's startled, "Resigned yer commission?" before he's lost in pirate-scented sleep.

***

When he hears he's been named Pirate Queen, James's first thought is, "But I'm not a woman."

His second thought is, "But I'm not a pirate."

His third thought is, "But wouldn't that be a wedding night for the society pages?"

Which is when he starts imagining Pirate King bedding Pirate Queen.

Which is when he starts imagining himself bedding Sparrow.

Which is when he starts imagining the frock-wearing. What he hasn't told Jack—yet—but will have to before the proper skirt-swiving, is the precise nature of that dress.

He thinks, though, Jack might already know. With kings and queens and swivings, it's only proper to include a wedding gown.

________________
Read the sequel, Reciprocal Frocking.