If he really thinks about it, he supposes he must have hit his head. But he doesn't have time to think, for there is water and noise and burning all around him, and he is afraid.

When they are free of the loud, bright, confusing mess against which he shut his eyes, he looks at the man beside him and says, "My name."

The man—tall and lean and unshaven, no more familiar than his own dark hands—blinks at him. "What?"

"I don't remember my name." He closes his eyes again, trying to reach for something—some faint shade of recognition. But there is nothing but roiling darkness. "I don't remember anything."

The man pulls in a deep breath. His face is handsome, though riven with tension and sadness. "Jack," he says softly. He reaches out, and Jack surprises himself by jerking violently away. With a frown, he holds out his hand and lets the man pull his dirty sleeve up, though it makes his skin prickle to do so. He stares at the bird inked on his forearm, the raised white P, and shakes his head. They mean nothing.

"Do I know you? Are you a friend?" he wants to know, puzzled when the man's green eyes shift downwards, heavy lids shadowing them from his view.

"Yes," says the man. "I am—" He pauses, hands curling into fists at his sides. "My name is James."

"Oh," says Jack, before his head goes gray again and he has to lean over to vomit.

He is sick for a long time, and he cannot be sure that it's only seasickness. The torturous pitching and rolling of the vessel on which James has bought or bartered passage couldn't possibly bring on the fog that makes him forget things he was told an hour ago, nor the dreams from which he wakes screaming and soaked through with sweat. James bears the impact of his flailing fists with nary a word, merely holding his struggling form down until Jack recognizes him again. The other passengers in the tiny cabin grumble, but James tells them his brother is unwell and they mostly leave him alone.

One day (like any other day, really) Jack is lying curled in his bunk, having again rebuked James's efforts to get him to go on deck. A blond man who speaks only a few words of English comes to him and presses a porcelain pipe into his hands.

"Good," he says in his strange accent, putting his lips to the long stem. The sweet smoke dulls the pain in his guts, the throb at back of his eyes, the unfamiliar thoughts racing through his brain. He likes knowing the effect comes from inhaling amd nothing else, so he does it again—and he can almost, almost catch the name of the stuff...

James throws the blond man against a bulkhead when he returns, causing Jack to laugh at the thwack of bones connecting with solid wood. Babbling in his language, the man scrambles up the hatchway, leaving the two of them alone. Advancing on Jack, James grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him, hard.

"You fool," he hisses, green eyes blazing. "I don't know why I bother."

Dizzy from the shaking, Jack raises a hand to his face, brushing the rough pelt of his beard with suddenly sensitized fingertips. He can feel the pulse of blood beat faster when he strokes his thumb across James's bottom lip.

"Don't you?" he whispers hoarsely, grateful for the smoke that seems to be the last word necessary to reading this. The taste of salt and iron in James's mouth chokes him, makes him clutch at James's shoulders for support as his body seizes up. James draws his head back as he lowers them both to the hammock, his eyes searching Jack's face. Jack knows that look and tries to answer it rather than avoid it, for once.

He rubs his knuckles against the placket of James's breeches, drinking in a groan, and says, "Is this how it was before?" Before what dies stillborn in his mind, pushed away as James pushes a knee between his legs.

"Yes," James replies, eyes shut tight, brow knit like he's in pain. "Yes..." They rock together in the stifling heat of the passengers' cabin, undressed only enough to feel skin against skin. Somewhere along the way Jack recalls the word is opium and he wonders if that's why everything is at once so heavy and languid, and so immediate and diamond-sharp. James comes first, pressing into the groove of Jack's thigh and muffling a cry against his neck. After recovering he grips Jack's cock in one hand and slides the other back. Taking his long fingers in is like breathing the opium—instinct fumbling in the wake of need. What else Jack needs is to say something in the moment when it finally breaks, some affirmation of knowledge. James is not what he says, however; some other name does not come to his tongue, fails to shape his lips, and he's left whimpering in frustration even as he spills himself in James's palm.

He refuses the blond man's generous offers for the rest of the voyage, so that James will climb into his hammock when the rest of the passengers are absent or snoring. The dreams and the numbness return with the seasickness, but it's a deal he's willing to make.

When they disembark he is too relieved to be concerned about the narrow streets they walk or the room James rents. He gets worse for awhile, never leaving that bare space for fear he won't find his way back to it again. He sleeps during the day, for there is nothing in it to hold his constantly wandering attention. At night James is there, bringing food and his weary smile and the comfort of his body. Jack stays awake while James slumbers, listening to his even breathing and touching him too lightly to wake him.

Too many days for Jack to count pass before he asks, "What do you do?"

"I work at the docks," says James flatly, cutting his pork into small pieces. "I load supplies onto outgoing ships, and I unload the ones that return. Now and again I carry messages for the captains. It's an honest wage," he adds with an odd, sour twist to his mouth, "if not an impressive one."

It occurs to Jack, for what is and what should not be the first time, that he has been a tremendous burden, bed-warmer or not. There must be work available in town, but he quite literally doesn't know what he could do. He might ask James, except he never asks James those questions, nor does he want to ask why he never asks.

James is looking at him now. Jack fidgets under the weight of his gaze. "I know a man who owns a boat—offered to let me use it of a morning. Come fishing with me on Friday."

"No," Jack says, startling himself with the sharpness of it. Trying a smile, he avoids James's penetrating stare. "No, thank you, I don't believe I shall."

"Why not?" James reaches out to grip his hand so tightly the knuckles go white. Jack grips it back, staring down at their twined fingers.

"Because," he whispers, fighting the familiar approach of shadow, "you know I don't like the water."

He remembers some things—something. James is sure of it. At least enough to not want to remember the rest.

They finish their meager meal in silence and James goes downstairs for a breath of air. When he returns Jack is already in bed, pretending to sleep. James slides beneath the coverlet without touching him.

At some point in the night he wakes James with the usual tosses, turns and names of the dead. Mostly Will this time—Jack calls to him like he's trying to warn him of something. It's a fair guess, from what little James was able to glean of the final battle from Gibbs.

"Hush," he murmurs, turning over on the pallet. Instead of fighting him as he often does, Jack huddles under his arm and mumbles about the Pearl. James wonders if it would haunt him so if he'd been able to watch her go down with the rest of them, if he hadn't been completely insensible at that point.

Even his own memories of that day are hazy. He recalls his relief over being free of Beckett, if unnerved by the manner in which he'd been found. A fatal heart attack at thirty-four was not unheard of, but the soaked weeds and the trail of seawater from the bed to the open window had made all of Port Royal deeply uncomfortable. Trying to put it from his mind, he sailed east until he caught sight of black sails on the horizon. They were pursued, and outnumbered, by pristine, snapping white sails. To this day, he has never given himself a satisfactory reason as to why he followed, or why he turned to fight alongside the Black Pearl. If he'd thought to repair the damage done by his act of redemption, it was far too late.

He watched Will Turner fall from the quarterdeck, but he was too involved amongst flashing steel and blue to see Elizabeth throw herself after him. The battle turned then, with the ship's captain lost as surely as her two heroes. James is fond of Shakespeare but always hated Romeo and Juliet and its selfish children getting themselves and others killed. Perhaps he is still bitter over the senselessness of the loss. Or perhaps he simply misses them.

Everything was a blur, including his own blow to the back of a raving Jack's head, until they were taken aboard the Penelope. He remembers with startling clarity the expression on Captain Gillette's face when he beheld his captives, a moment that stretched and filled his senses until it seemed it would go on until the end of time. Then time sped up again—into a boat with Jack unconscious at his side, across choppy blue-gray waves, to a man bellowing down from the deck of a big brigantine.

Jack sighs, finally relaxing and falling back to sleep. He won't remember his dreams in the morning, but James will.

Though summer is not as intolerable here, it is reaching its peak and he grows tired of maintaining his beard. The novelty of Jack going clean-shaven and James a ruffian has passed, as has the need for disguise. He moves quietly when he returns for the evening, trying not to wake Jack as he fiddles with razor and basin and tiny chip of mirror. Scraping at his skin feels like scraping away everything that has come between him and his former self, however nonsensical that may be. He purses his lips at his stern reflection.

The snoring has stopped. Glancing up, he sees Jack has crept over to him, silent as a mouse. His face is intent, apprehensive, nearly fearful as he touches James's cheek, staring at the pale, newly smooth skin beneath his fingertips. James holds his breath and focuses his will on the reaching, the straining in those dark eyes.

"I—you were—" Abruptly Jack breaks the spell, shaking his head, clearly frustrated with himself. But the fact that he tried, after all these weeks—it makes all the difference. James leans over to kiss him, once at each temple and finally on the mouth.

"Come on," he says, getting to his feet and tugging Jack with him.

Jack seems to know where they are going, and once they've reached a spot on the bank clear of onlookers, reaches for James's hand. James pulls it away and raises an eyebrow. This he must do alone.

Jack lifts his chin, glaring at James, and splashes into the shallows with insulted dignity. Once he gets in to his knees he goes still, looking out to where the river empties into the bay, and thence to the ocean.

For long moments they stand under the glow of the setting sun, Jack quietly shifting in the squelching mud, James with his feet on dry ground. Cicadas thrum a round of nightly scandal and a heron takes graceful flight twenty yards to their left.

Then Jack twists around, his smile stretching into a grin.

"Well, what about that boat, eh?"