"You're in my bed," said the commodore to the pirate. He spoke through gritted teeth, wincing at the steady throbbing in his head. As feeling slowly returned to the rest of his body, he became aware of a sensation beyond the pain. "And you're naked."

"That's a lie," Jack said, patting his own skull. He did not look like a very small, very strong person was trying to hammer its way out through his ears; he merely looked sleepy. "Still got th' headscarf."

"You'll forgive me if that's less than comforting." James made an attempt to get up. It proved unsuccessful, as his muscles had apparently turned to jelly while he slept, so he flopped back again. Hands sent skimming down his body discovered it in a state of undress very similar to his companion's. With a monumental effort, he managed to lift his head to peer around the room. Clothes and personal belongings were widely scattered—breeches flung over his desk, nightshirt in a puddle in front of the armoire, leather boots lying askew beneath the open window. His wig had found a new perch upon a post at the foot of the bed. He wondered if one of them had possessed good enough aim to toss it there.

He wondered, more importantly, what exactly they'd done last night that would necessitate such a skillful throw.

It was clear enough that something out of the ordinary had happened, for waking up with another man pressed against his bare back was not generally how he started his days. When he wracked his brain for the relevant details, however, he came up mostly empty. He remembered being awakened by Sparrow climbing through the window; he remembered sniping at him, and some explanation about the Turners and a bolt of muslin and donkey droppings. He remembered the taste of rum, sliding cool and wet down his throat. And he had a vague impression of chasing the pirate in lurching circles. That would certainly explain how the chair had gotten knocked over.

"Jack," he said, blocking out the morning sunshine with palms pressed over his eyes. "Do you remember... well, anything?"

Jack's only answer was to grunt and roll over, burrowing into James's side. The warmth of his body was inviting, but James shoved him away.

"Sparrow! Something had—has happened here, and we must determine what, and how, and..."

Yawning, Jack flung out his arms, smacking James in the chest. "Why?" he wanted to know. "Doesn't seem t' have done us any lasting harm, whate'er it was."

James shifted away, averting his eyes as Jack indulged in a languorous stretch. He paid no heed to the sheet slipping down his torso. James snatched at it before it could retreat any further. He knew for a fact that this sheet and this blanket had been tightly tucked in when he'd gone to bed last night.

"Why, Commodore," Jack said with a chuckle, noticing his discomfort, "'f I didn't know better, I'd suspect you o' modesty." He propped himself up on his elbows, wiggling eyebrows and hips in lewd tandem.

Blood rushed to James's face. He sat up, clutching the sheet to his lap. "I can't be held accountable for anything you talked me into while I was under the influence of your infernal supply."

"Didn't say you should be, mate." Jack turned away from him, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and getting to his feet like it took no more effort than it ought to. James dragged his gaze down to his own clenched hands, but not before he caught a glimpse of lean thighs, slim hips, pert arse—all the same nut-brown shade. How could the sun possibly reach the man in such places?

The possibilities made him blush even deeper. He clamped down on the thoughts, feeling an intrigued prickle run down the length of his body. Arousal was simply out of the question. Later, perhaps, when he was alone...

"Honestly, James, no need to turn so white," said Jack. "'Twas only a bit of fun."

Risking a look, James was relieved to find him in the process of dressing, hopping as he tugged on a boot. "A 'bit of fun' may be of no consequence to you, Sparrow," he snapped, "but I for one do not—well, I never do this, that's for certain."

Jack's bottom lip stuck out in a pout. It was slightly swollen, which was no doubt James's fault. "Now wait just a moment, I find that highly insulting. How come yours is the only honor worth protecting? What proof d'you have that I go about sinking me line into every porthole that's willing?"

"Oh God," James exclaimed, panicking anew. "You didn't, did you?" He arched his back, searching for the ache that would mean he had been even more free with himself than he'd thought.

"No, I didn't," Jack replied, rolling his eyes. He was winding the red sash around his waist now. Dimly recalling how it felt to undo the worn fabric, James couldn't help but follow its path with his eyes. "I wager I'd remember." Jack pulled the sash tight, grinning wolfishly. "I wager you'd remember."

"Don't flatter yourself," James muttered, sinking down into the pillows and glaring at Jack as he flitted about the room gathering his things. When he was finished, he bent over the bed. There was a surprising degree of sincerity beneath the mirth in his eyes.

"Blame me if that makes it easier," he said quietly. "Forgetting about it's what I'd suggest."

"Forget that you broke your word?" James asked, arching an eyebrow. "I granted you a reprieve for three days, Sparrow. The day of the wedding, one day before and one after. That was nearly a week ago. I wonder at your nerve in showing up on my doorstep—or windowsill, as it were."

Jack snorted in good humor. "You'n me both, love."

He started to pull away and James caught his wrist, pressed a thumb lightly against his pulse.

"Why?" he asked. "Why did you come here?"

Looking down at him with an unblinking ease, Jack shrugged. "B'cause I wanted you," he said simply. "And I knew you wanted me—don't deny it," he added as James opened his mouth. "There's little you can hide behind those pretty green eyes, Commodore." He drew in a breath, raised a hand to tweak James's earlobe. "So I came here, made sure you'd be agreeable, an' we worked this knot out together, savvy? That's all it was."

"And nothing...nothing has changed between us," said James slowly. He left enough uncertainty in his voice for Jack to read a question into it, but only if he so chose.

Jack cocked his head and smiled. The expression was a bit crooked from this angle. "What could change?" He tossed his head, setting his trinkets to jingling merrily, and crossed to the window with his particular brand of artless grace. "'Ta, James. You'll not see me again, not unless you can find a ship t' match the Pearl." He gave a little wave as he swung onto the tree branch just below the sill.

Long moments passed before James rose from the bed, sufficient time for Jack to be gone by the time he stood gazing into the yard below. He watched a faint breeze waft through the tree branches, surprised at the heavy weight in the pit of his stomach.

Shaking his head at his own folly, he backed away. It was normal for bachelors to be lonely. Taking up with a pirate who'd be here one day and gone for the next few months would hardly help in that department.

It wasn't until he was sitting alone in his office, nursing his headache with strong coffee, that he discovered the bead. It was a tiny thing of blue enamel, fallen into his left jacket cuff. How it had gotten there, he had no idea, but there was only one person to whom it could belong.

James leaned back in his chair, holding the blue bead up to the light. If he squinted at it, he thought he could almost see flashes of what had gone on during the night.

No, he decided, the problem wasn't his memory; it was his approach. He was trying to visualize what had been impressed upon him mostly through touch, sound, and taste. Closing his fist around the bead, he shut his eyes and willed himself not to see, but to feel.

And that was it, or nearly so—chapped fingers sliding up his ribs, firm lips nibbling at his neck, a clever tongue swiping damp heat over his nipples. The rum bottle falling to the floor with a dull clunk as they heaved themselves onto the bed. Desperation a sharp, salty tang in the back of his throat as he grasped and pushed and strove. Breathless, rumbling whispers—mmm yes, please, that's it, goodgoodohChristsogood—deafening his ears to his own cries.

How could he have lost the sense of this so quickly?

He couldn't lose it again. Wouldn't.

Biting his lip, he popped the buttons on his breeches with one hand while the other remained curled around Jack's missing bead.

"Damn bead," Jack muttered, hiding in the shadows behind the smithy. He wouldn't even have noticed it was gone, except that it'd been loose for awhile now and he had developed a habit of checking to see if it was still there. Why he hadn't just fastened it more securely onto the end of the braid, he had no idea.

But it was gone now, and damned if he was going to leave it behind. It wasn't particularly exotic or expensive; he just liked to have everything as it was. A new one wouldn't be the same.

Nothing doing, then, but to find the commodore and demand his property back. He was probably at work by now, all gussied up with nowhere to go but a stuffy office filled with paperwork. It was criminal, keeping a man like that tied to this rock. James Norrington needed to breathe deep, needed open skies and wide waters. Jack had seen that in him last night, felt it as they moved together, tasted it in his hungry mouth. It had frightened James this morning, or at least the lingering remnants had; not Jack. No, it had done nothing but fascinate Jack, reeled him in till he was in serious danger of leaving pieces of himself behind for James to keep.

Right. Find the man, get the pretty, get the hell out. He'd given too much of himself already; the Pearl had staked her claim ages ago.

He prowled around back of the fort, delighted to see that James had a ground-floor office. Less air, maybe, but infinitely more convenient for him. Sidling up, Jack gave one last look 'round before he reached for the French windows. They were just tall enough if he crouched, and already open.

A soft noise from within gave him pause. He took a closer look at James. Though the man had first appeared to be sitting demurely behind his desk with his hands in his lap, Jack could see now that he had the chair pushed back, himself sprawled out in it with his legs spread, and those hands were busy below his waistband.

Jack grinned. Well, now. He had time enough for a moment's distraction.

He slipped into the room silently, keeping his feet light and never taking his eyes off the commodore. James was lost to the world, his lips parted as he stroked himself with one hand. Jack crept forward, his breath quickening at this second sighting of young Norrington's impressive bequeathment. Oh, he was a lovely one, long and hard and flushed with earnest effort. His own cock twitched, remembering how it had felt to be the one beading James's brow with sweat, making him jerk like that, putting that pink color into his cheeks. Watching his face, Jack's arousal heightened. It was that abandonment, he decided, the way James looked like he was throwing himself forward and no longer fearing the descent.

Those fingers were capable, sure enough, but it was a pity to leave such a welcome task all to one man. Jack knelt before him, balancing carefully, reached until his hands were hovering just over James's skin.

"Jack," James whispered, his eyes still closed in rapture. Jack's breath caught in his throat, forcing a gasp. Without thinking, he lunged upwards to fasten his mouth to James's.

He was aware in some sense of James sputtering in shock, his hands flailing, the chair rocking back. Mostly he was concentrating on maneuvering into his lap and fumbling between his own legs, ignoring the satin-smooth shaft against the back of his hand until he could—

"Yesss," he hissed, rocking down and drawing a moan from the other man. The confusion fled James's eyes. He pulled Jack's shirt out, flattening his hands across the bare flesh of his back. The scars gave him momentary pause, but Jack craning his neck and kissing him insistently brought him back to the matter at hand.

Which was lift—down—press—again—dig furrows into blue wool, taste acrid powder in the sweat behind his ear because they mustn't make a sound, not one word, quiet—quiet—

"Shh," James whispered against his temple, voice thick and bookended by small groans. "Hush, we can't, we can't..."

Can't be heard, Jack thought, and also can't be doing this, except they were, they most certainly were. He hung doggedly onto a thread of control and lifted his head, forced his eyes open to meet smoky, limpid green. Was it his imagination, or had James just bucked his hips a little harder?

"Can't," he repeated in a growl. "This is... wrong."

James's eyes squeezed shut and his mouth fell open. Jack kissed him, sealing off any sound. The hoarse cry shocked through his teeth, his tongue, down his gullet, into the heat gathering low in his belly. As he finished James bit down on Jack's lip, hard enough to draw blood. Jack shunned the tang of iron, wanting to dip his head and take the softening cock in his mouth, taste the sea in James's spent seed. But there wasn't any time because he was coming too, gripping the back of the chair as he sobbed into James's mouth and—there.

They slumped together, leaning into one another, ragged breathing probably louder than any noises made during the act itself. Jack tucked his fists into James's lapels and let his arms hang. Lifting his head from the broad shoulder was beyond his ken at the moment. What got him, when he could actually process semi-rational thought, was that they had done nothing, when it came down to it. Rubbed against each other like any beast with blood pumping through its veins—like frightened boys with no idea in their heads except the most basic inkling of what felt good. If he was in such a state now... good Lord, fucking the man was likely to kill him. But what a story he'd have for old man Peter, eh?

James mumbled something into his hair.

"Wha'?" Jack managed.

"I said," James continued after clearing his throat, "that I was wrong before." He sighed deeply, arranging his arms into a more comfortable deathgrip around Jack's waist. "Everything has changed."

Jack's toes wanted to start twitching at that. That was bad—what that meant was very bad indeed. The exact opposite of what he wanted.

Wasn't it?

James kissed him gently on the mouth when he lifted his chin. His eyes were warm and sated, his lips curved in a smile. A simple smile, small and sweet, but oh, what it threatened to do to him...

He brushed fingertips against that smile, up the slant of his jaw, threaded through his dark hair.

Well, after all—why not?

Jack knew there were reasons why not, damn good ones, but for the life of him, he couldn't recall them. Not when James was looking at him like that.

He must have attempted to voice a doubt or quell it out loud, because James's brows drew together and he said, "What was that?"

Jack curled tighter against him, chin dropping back to his shoulder. "'S nothing." He frowned in protest when James stirred, but it was only to shift some ornaments so that he could rest his cheek on Jack's head.

"By the way," he said, "your bead is... er, here. Somewhere. On the floor, most likely."

Jack cracked one eye open, spying it a few feet behind the chair. Cheeky little bugger. "It'll keep."