"Have a drink with me," he had said. "Just one drink, and then I swear I'll let you chase me all about town."

James had raised an eyebrow and replied, "And I'm meant to trust your word that you haven't got twenty men hidden in the depths of that tavern, ready to leap on me the moment I'm out of sight of my marines?"

"Really now, let's not think too highly of ourselves—I'd have four, no more, no less. At the present time, I know not a single soul within this establishment, so you've nothing to fear." The final word emerged after the faintest of pauses, not quite a challenge.

And James was on leave for the first time in months, and he'd already accepted several drinks from his lieutenants at the respectable pub down the street, and so ignoring the flabbergasted protests of one distant corner of his mind, he had swept past the pirate's outstretched arm.

A bottle of rum and some time later, he was squinting at Jack's—Sparrow's—no, Jack's smile in the dim light, distracted by flashes of gold. The man was talking some rubbish about flight and fancy.

"Daresay you'd find me somewhat difficult to catch now, Commodore, am I right?"

"No," said James, frowning a little. The ruckus of the surrounding patrons was beginning to give him a headache. "I," he declared, lifting a fingertip to emphasize his point, "would catch you by surprise. In your sleep." With a sharp nod, he reached for the glass in front of him and was quite dismayed to find it empty. Jack slid his the short distance across the table, which was very kind of him, James thought, considering how dearly he loved his rum.

Watching him tip the glass back, Jack said, "'~Fraid you are mistaken, mate. Pirates sleep with one eye open."

Later still, James rests comfortably despite the lumpy mattress under his back and the man pinning his arm down. He shifts slightly, putting a stop to Jack's drowsy grumbles by closing his fingers on a sun-burnished shoulder and running his thumb over the crescent-shaped scar to the left of Jack's spine, disturbing the heavy weight of his hair. A single lonely chime breaks the silence of the rented room.

His head has cleared completely now, and he's rather surprised to find his sober self agreeing with the previous lax judgement of inebriation: whatever wrongs may comprise this truce, it feels nothing but right.

"You do not," he accuses, fitting his body more neatly to Jack's lazy, elegant coil.

"Wasn't asleep." It doesn't particularly surprise him that Jack is able to pick up the thread of a conversation abandoned hours before. Turning in his arms, Jack touches his face with light fingertips. "And how do young commodores sleep?"

James swallows a yawn, smiling beneath the curious, gentle exploration of his features. "Deeply," he says.

He closes his eyes, wanting to delay the inevitable a bit longer, but Jack isn't fooled and prods him in one ear.

"Deeply," James repeats, very softly, "but not terribly late."

For half a second Jack freezes, his hands framing James's jaw. Then he lets out a long sigh. James hears both sorrow and relief, and his chest tightens along with his embrace.

"Till dawn, then," Jack murmurs, settling against him, beard tickling his neck.

Don't, James thinks fiercely, biting the inside of his cheek. Don't dwell, not yet.

They have hours still, left to them by this night.

Strictly speaking, he doesn't need to be at the docks so early; it isn't as if his men will leave without him.

"Jack?" he whispers, meaning to retract his warning, but the man sprawled across him is already lost to slumber. James snorts and wraps his arms more securly around Jack's waist. He sleeps like a dead man and will probably be hell to wake in the morning.

When weak gray light permeates the thin scrap of curtain at the window, it finds James curled up in the empty bed, quilted in heavy disappointment. He allows himself a few selfish minutes before he rises and reaches for his clothes. Theodore and Andrew will worry if he lingers too long.

He feels hollow when he sets foot aboard his ship, though she is as proud and beautiful as ever. The taste of the salt air sticks in his throat, making him cough. The gulls crying overhead seem by turns to mock him and to mourn some private grief—perhaps, like his own, something ventured but never to be gained.