Part 1: Desire

It should have been amusing, and perhaps slightly embarrassing. It should have sounded like the beginning of a bawdy joke. "Two Navy men and a pirate ..."

Instead, Norrington was coldly furious. That was the only name he would give to the feeling that made his stomach churn and his blood freeze: fury. Righteous anger and indignation at Gillette, at Groves, and at Sparrow, who must be to blame for this ... this offence against decency.

"Sir, it was the prisoner's own suggestion—"

"Be quiet, Lieutenant. I have no interest in your excuses."

He tried to ignore the way that the wine from the wardroom dinner was hazing his vision and, no doubt, his judgment: he tried not to think of what he'd seen, or of how long he'd stood and watched before stepping in.

"Groves, have you a more credible explanation of this situation?"

"No, sir." Groves was still blushing furiously. "But Lieutenant Gillette is right. It was Captain—the prisoner who, er, proposed the ... Who proposed it."

It would almost have been better if they'd been roughing up the pirate, though Norrington generally disapproved of brutality. God knew, if anyone deserved a thorough beating it was Jack Sparrow. But the scene before him—Sparrow half-naked and shamelessly draped over the battered table; Groves and Gillette blushing and stammering like new recruits caught with a whore; the reek of sex and sweat, smoke from the guttering lamp and some exotic, spicy scent—spoke of a graver abuse of power.

The warmth of the room might account for the colour in both Gillette's and Groves' faces: then again, they had been exerting themselves. Norrington did not think of the noises Groves had made, or of the breathless obscenities with which Gillette, slumped against the wall, had encouraged the other officer. He did not let himself look at Jack Sparrow—an uncharacteristically, if mercifully, quiet Jack Sparrow—to see whether his skin was equally flushed. There was far too much of that skin, darkly tanned to the waist and disturbingly lighter below, on display.

"Start at the beginning," he instructed Gillette, turning slightly so that he could no longer see Sparrow at all. "And be brief."

"The prisoner was apprehended approaching Turner's house," said Gillette, rather hoarsely, staring straight ahead. "Said he was going to give Mr Turner a wedding present. He had a jar of ... of ..."

"Ointment, sir," supplied Groves. "Claimed it was an aphrodisiac." He had the grace to blush. "For Mr Turner's wedding night, he said."

"Officer Groves challenged the statement—"

"You didn't believe him either!"

"Gentlemen!" snapped Norrington. They fell silent, staring at him. Behind him, he could hear Jack Sparrow moving, but he did not turn around. The pirate could hardly escape, with three officers of His Majesty's Navy between him and the door.

Even if two of those officers were Groves and Gillette.

"Lieutenant Gillette, pray continue," he said. "Groves, if you have anything to add, I beg you to leave it until Gillette has recounted the evening's events."

"We didn't believe what the prisoner said, sir. About the ... the contents of the jar. So he said we should try it out, and ..." Gillette's gaze wandered from floor to door to window: anywhere but in his superior officer's direction. "And if he was telling the truth, we'd let him go. Obviously we weren't really going to set him free, sir," he added hastily.

There was a small, outraged noise from behind Norrington, and he found himself relaxing slightly. Groves and Gillette, however ungentle they had been, had not ... damaged Sparrow.

"I see," he said slowly. If it had not been Jack Sparrow, he would have thought they were lying, despite their hitherto excellent records: but with Sparrow concerned, law and morality and common sense counted for little. "Consider yourselves confined to your quarters until further notice, gentlemen. You may go."

"But, sir—"

"You may go, Lieutenant." He was aware of a strong urge to hit Gillette, and it would be hideously inappropriate. The wine was blurring his judgment and fuelling his temper, and he could not afford to give in to a display of emotion in front of his men, much less in front of Sparrow.

He locked the door behind the two men: it would not do for anyone to walk in on a situation so easily misconstrued. Sparrow would have to make himself presentable before either of them could leave the room: then Norrington would be able to decide his fate.

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

He did not want to look directly at the other man, especially as he could not see Sparrow's face: only that muscular, scarred back, and ...

"Well?" he said irritably.

Jack Sparrow was chuckling quietly, though there was a hitch in the laughter. "Wanted me all for yourself, did you, Commodore?"

"Don't be crude!"

"No danger of being anything else, I'm afraid." He shifted, as though trying to make himself more comfortable, and Norrington found himself staring at the play of light and shadow on the man's back. "'Tis powerful stuff, Commodore. I'm surprised you haven't tried it."

"Don't think you can fool me as easily as—"

"Not trying to fool anyone," said Jack, rather testily. He shifted again, and now Norrington could see one dark eye fixed on him, and the glint of teeth in a grin that was almost a grimace. "All true, every word: swear to it. Powerful strong stuff, too. Don't think your little lieutenant believed me."

Norrington raised an eyebrow. "A man could make a career out of not believing you, Mr Sparrow."

"That's Captain Sparrow." Jack writhed again, and frowned. "C'mon, Commodore. James." The one visible eye narrowed, seductively. "You know you want to."

Norrington decided to ignore the over-familiarity. "I certainly do not want—"

"You most certainly do," said Jack Sparrow, staring directly at Norrington's groin and licking his lips salaciously.

Norrington felt himself blushing. Whatever his mind might say, his body had already overridden. He was hard: had been hard, he thought, since watching Gillette's flabby buttocks pumping as he fucked Sparrow hard and fast, muttering imprecations and ...

Thinking of that wasn't helping at all.

"Damn you, Sparrow!" he said anyway, aware of the emptiness of his protest. "That's nothing to—"

"Commodore," interrupted Jack, sighing. "You want to do it. And I want you to do it, too, because your lieutenant used far too much o' the damned stuff and I'm burning up here, savvy? And you're not a cruel man."

Norrington looked away, but he still ached, and he could still smell sweat and semen and that odd spiciness. And he did want ... what Jack was offering. Wanted to master Sparrow, wanted to have the man's attention focussed on him, wanted to take and own and—

"This won't do," he said to the wall, and was appalled at the unsteadiness of his own voice.

"It'd be torture to leave me like this," said Jack, and out of the corner of his eye Norrington could see the wink that accompanied his words.

There was something surging through his blood, certainly, but he no longer cared whether it was fury or embarrassment or lust or the simple annoyance that he had always felt in Jack Sparrow's vicinity.

"Commo—"

"All right!"

It felt very easy, dragging his breeches open, taking himself in hand—he spat, and wondered if it would be enough, but then both Gillette and Groves had come—and kneeing Jack's legs still further apart, positioning himself and—

Sparrow made an impatient noise and shoved back against him, taking him in, taking him to the hilt, smooth and slick and fast and hot. He knew he wasn't going to last, but he clenched his eyes shut and tensed every muscle in his body, giving Jack what he wanted, giving it to him over and over and harder and harder. Thank heavens for Sparrow's babbling, which was covering his own sounds: though the way that Sparrow was writhing against him, spreading his legs even wider—stronger and more flexible than anyone Norrington had ever had—and begging for more, that was enough to make anyone lose it. And it was such a glorious feeling, the way they fitted, the way he didn't have to hold back, the easy slide (he remembered the look on Groves' face as he'd come, and moaned at the memory) and the stretch and pull and pressure of Jack's arse on his cock with every thrust, pulling him in, deeper and deeper—

He bit Jack's shoulder when he came, to stop himself shouting, and Jack cursed and yowled and twisted. Norrington could feel the spasms going through Jack's body, and he held on, letting Jack fuck himself on his still-hard cock. And maybe it was that salve, that biting edge to the heat inside Jack's body, but he was still hard, and Jack was shuddering and gasping and rippling around him, far too good to withdraw ...

He thrust again, slowly and inexorably, and Jack shuddered and writhed and hissed "Yes"; which was enough.

"What is that ointment?" Norrington said breathlessly, somewhat mistrustful of his unnatural stamina. Not only his: he'd watched as Jack was taken roughly by Gillette—who'd fucked as though he were punishing him—and then by Groves, who'd taken his time, who'd touched and stroked and brought Jack off before his own climax, as though Jack were a cherished lover. As though Jack were not a prisoner, bribing his captors with the only coin he had.

"Present from Singapore, mate," murmured Jack, twisting beneath him. "They say it makes a woman insatiable."

Norrington thought of Elizabeth being prey to the sort of man who would use such a trick, and found himself thrusting harder, as angrily as Gillette had done.

He pulled out abruptly, despite the delicious way that Jack's body seemed to hold onto him. "Turn over," he said curtly.

Jack made a noise like an angry cat, and did not move.

"Turn over," Norrington repeated. "I want to see you."

Jack moved after a moment, slowly, as though he ached. He rolled over and sprawled on his back, kicking off the breeches that were tangled around his legs. His eyes were almost closed, though Norrington could see the glint of lamplight and knew that Jack was watching him.

He tilted Jack's hips up and eased back in very gently, stroking his hands across Jack's chest and eliciting a whimper when his wrist brushed against Jack's dark, erect cock.

"What does the ointment do to a man, Jack?" he said softly, pausing before the next thrust.

Jack's eyes were still closed, more or less, but Norrington saw him grin before he pushed up, changing the angle of the thrust. Norrington groaned, and pushed in again, feeling the heat close around him. With Jack Sparrow spread out in front of him like this, he saw for the first time the tapestry of scars and tattoos that decorated the pirate's torso. He ran a finger along one long cut, and Jack murmured some sort of protest.

"I'll stop if you want me to," Norrington promised, though the feel of Jack's body, taking each slow thrust to the hilt, was something he could not imagine letting go.

"Don't stop," said Jack almost soundlessly, and he rocked up against Norrington. There was a little smile on his face, and his hand was moving towards his own cock.

Norrington got his own hand around Jack's cock first, though, and pulled hard and slow in time with his thrusts: and the look on Jack's face, the pleased note in his moan, made him feel a warm, affectionate fondness that had nothing to do with anything outside the room.

It was the aphrodisiac, of course, making him feel that way: making him want to caress Jack, making him want to—what the hell, he thought, and leant forward and kissed Jack the way he'd kiss a woman: and Jack's mouth opened almost eagerly under his, tongue lazily circling his own, cock thrusting into his hand and then spurting a meagre climax as Jack convulsed under him.

That was enough to send Norrington over the edge again, and Jack did not stop kissing him. It was an almost passive kiss, as though he had no choice in the matter, but it was not quite passive. The sudden strangeness of it, as Norrington's climax ebbed and left him aching, still buried in Jack's body, was dizzying.

Norrington got his hands on the table before he collapsed onto the other man. He could not remember feeling so exhausted after lovemaking: but then, this evening had had little of love about it.

He was surprised to feel a certain lingering care for Jack Sparrow, who lay quiescent under him as though he'd dozed off after a particularly tiring bout of plunder and pillage. Which was, Norrington supposed, the case.

"Jack?" he said softly. "Are you ..."

One eye cracked open and gazed up at him. After a moment, its owner managed a very economical shrug.

Norrington had no idea what to say. After a moment he withdrew carefully, wincing: his cock was still half-hard, but he could feel nothing except a vague ache.

Jack stretched, slowly and thoroughly, and opened his eyes, but he did not meet Norrington's enquiring look.

"Fine way to spend my last night on earth," he said, staring past Norrington's shoulder.

"What?"

"Short drop and a sudden stop, wasn't it?" said Jack, flicking an accusatory glance at Norrington. "Commodore?"

Norrington flinched, and shifted back until he was sitting on his haunches, chin propped on his folded arms on the edge of the table. "You surely don' t think—"

Jack shrugged again. He had made no move to cover himself: in fact, he had scarcely moved at all. Norrington wondered how he felt, and whether they had hurt him, but did not know how to ask.

"Your ... your arrangement," he said. "With Lieutenant Gillette and Officer Groves." He felt a small, heartening frisson of annoyance at their names. "They were to let you go, once you'd ..."

"Once I'd shown them a good time?" said Jack lazily: but his eyes were very dark.

"Once you'd whored yourself for your freedom," said Norrington, surprising himself with the venom in his voice.

"A man like me can't afford to have principles as fine as yours, Commodore," Jack replied. "Though if you want to set your principles aside and let me go, I assure you that none shall hear a word of you from me that doesn't concern those fine principles. Nothing of your letting me ... loose." A quirk of the brows to emphasise the innuendo. "Nothing of why you'd want to."

"I'd never thought of you as a blackmailer, Sparrow," said Norrington thoughtfully, stalling for time.

"Oh, I'm not," Jack assured him. "The truth's never sensational enough to sell." He eyed Norrington appraisingly. "Hardly ever."

"You didn't deserve—" Norrington began.

"Deserving's got nothing to do with it, Commodore," Sparrow said sharply. "I made a bargain. Whored myself, if you like." His hand described an arc. "Shame you had to come along and interrupt it—not that I'm making any comparisons, of course. Speaking for myself, I'd sooner entertain you than—well. Naturally, I hope you've warmed to me enough to let me walk free, but—"

"It's not up to me," said Norrington curtly. He pushed himself to his feet, adjusting his clothing as he turned away from Jack Sparrow. "I'm not the only one who knows you're here. And you're hardly inconspicuous: you're not going to walk out of the barracks unnoticed. Or were you planning on leaving your clothes behind and parading yourself from here to the docks, scandalising to silence everyone you met?"

He forced himself not to watch as Sparrow, moving like a man twice his age (and how old was he, anyway?) dressed himself, grumbling beneath his breath. Norrington paid no attention to the complaints. He was thinking furiously. The window, which he had opened to let clean, cool night air into the room, was too high above the ground to offer an escape route, and it opened onto an inner courtyard. Groves might help, but Norrington was still coldly angry with him for the misjudgment that had begun this whole farce. Why couldn't he have looked the other way and let—

He shook his head. There was no help for it. Sparrow was dressed now, and looking at him levelly. It was almost a challenge.

"And you'd better give that ... that ointment to me," said Norrington, holding out his hand.

From somewhere underneath his sash, Sparrow produced a small, tarnished brass pot. "Anyone in particular in mind, Commodore?" he said amiably. "Or just wishful thinking?"

"I really don't think you're in a position to comment," said Norrington crisply. He shoved the thing into his pocket, hoping that it wouldn't leave a stain. "I'll be sending a pair of Marines to escort you to the cells. I advise you not to make a commotion. The more people who are aware of your presence, the sooner you'll hang."

It was tempting to leave the door unlocked, but there were guards at both staircases—what on earth had possessed them to bring him here?—and Sparrow had not looked as though he could outrun an elderly inn-keeper, let alone His Majesty's Marines. And what had possessed Sparrow to come strutting around the streets of Port Royal with that infernal ointment? (Norrington quickened his pace, longing for the privacy of his own quarters and the chance to wash.) He had expected more common sense from Groves, though Gillette was still damnably prone to acting first and thinking later. Sparrow simply could not be brought to another public execution, not after the farce that the first had become. If he had been caught while engaged in an act of piracy on the high seas, justice could have been served quickly and cleanly. If he had crept through Port Royal at night—as Norrington suspected had happened more than once since that dramatic escape—then he could have been ignored without any loss of face, and without danger to the public. But instead the idiots had to apprehend him: and, having caught him, they'd taken him to the barracks, where every man on duty must have seen two brave officers and a notorious pirate.

Norrington snorted, thinking of the scene that had confronted him when he'd gone to the old cartography room in response to Groves' message. Notorious, indeed. Shameless was more like it.

He was at his own front door, and had no memory of leaving the Fort. His indignation had carried him here: and he would have to go back, after all, because he had forgotten to make any arrangements for Sparrow's detention. But Sparrow could wait.

Part 2: Release

Despite the restlessness he felt, and the nagging ache of Jack Sparrow's presence in a locked room at the Fort—a room from which, it was to be devoutly hoped, he would launch another of his miraculous escapes, thus ridding Norrington of the responsibility—Norrington was almost asleep by the time the housekeeper came to tell him that his bath awaited him.

The hot water eased the physical discomfort, though it did nothing to dispel the memory of his exertions. It would be easy to blame it on Gillette, on Groves, on Sparrow himself. Accepting his own portion of complicity was more difficult. And his tired mind simply refused to linger on what it had meant, for him to take ... to take another man like that.

A pirate, clamoured his mind. And, worse, Jack.

But the simple, guiltless pleasure of warm water was doing a great deal to soothe him. He'd itched and burnt since before he'd left the Fort. Since he'd been in that room.

Better face it. Better own up. Since he'd fucked Jack Sparrow.

Norrington laughed a little, alone in the bath. His mind was indeed overwhelmed if it had taken him so long to determine that there was a very real physical dimension to his irritation. That damned ointment! Its effects were slow to fade, thought Norrington. He roused himself enough to wash meticulously, though it was tempting to let the water relax him until the possibility of sleep was within reach.

He laughed again, wondering how Gillette and Groves were feeling, confined to quarters without the benefit of bathing facilities.

Abruptly another image came to mind: that small room, stinking of semen and sweat and the infernal ointment. The lamp had been guttering, and by now it had probably extinguished itself. Jack would be alone in the dark, itching and aching far more severely than any of them. He would be trying to forget how he'd acquired those aches, no doubt: cursing himself, perhaps, for a fool who'd been cheated of his price. He would wonder why no one had come for him. Wonder whether his infamous luck had run out. He'd have tried the door again and again, hoping that it was unlocked, or poorly latched.

"It'd be torture to leave me like this," he'd said earlier. Norrington winced at the memory, and was horrified by the surge of lust it evoked.

He imagined Jack standing by the window, alone in the dark, waiting for someone to come. That would be torture, even without the aftermath of his ill-considered bribery.

No help for it. Norrington eased himself up out of the bath, swearing to himself as his muscles protested. He'd never realised the sheer physical effort of—but it had not been lovemaking, of course. And it had never been like that.

It was late, and the streets were almost empty, but he was lucky to encounter a patrol almost at once. "Take this note to Officer Groves," he said to the older of the two. "He'll be in his quarters. Tell him that I shall brook no delay."

That should put the fear of God into him. The note itself was innocuous enough: it spoke of 'the prisoner' and required Groves, with the bearer of the note, to escort him to Norrington's house "where matters of security may more easily be addressed." A meaningless phrase, but it would bring Sparrow out of the Fort with as little attention as possible. Groves might be light-hearted on occasion, but he would not disobey a direct order: and Norrington's insistence on haste would surely prevent him from considering any ... diversions.

In fact the knock on the door surprised him: there could not have been time for the Marine to run to the Fort, locate Groves and extract Sparrow. Perhaps he had escaped, after all, or—

No. Groves looked pale underneath his tan, and he held himself very still. The Marine looked stoic, though Norrington was sure he'd be dying to tell his mates about his part in the apprehension of a dangerous criminal. And Sparrow ... Sparrow was looking at him almost expressionlessly, head back a little so that he could meet Norrington's appraising stare. There were irons on his wrists. Groves kept glancing at the pirate, but Sparrow ignored him.

"Jack Sparrow," said Norrington levelly, trying not to think about what had happened.

"Commodore," said Sparrow, with a nod that was almost respectful.

"Whatever happens to you now, Sparrow, cannot be permitted to happen in front of an audience." Damn his mind for suggesting that metaphor. He suppressed the memory of watching the three of them earlier—skin and sweat and rough handling—and continued. "The people of Port Royal are not your dupes, to be played for fools whenever you are seized by the urge to flaunt your lawlessness in public. I'll have no more heroics on your account." He gave Groves a hard stare. "Tonight, gentlemen, you may tell your friends that they have seen the last of Captain Jack Sparrow."

Sparrow had gone to his death once before with a quiet dignity that had impressed Norrington deeply. Now it just annoyed him. I know what your life is worth to you, he wanted to say. Stop acting. Stop feeding the myth.

But there was something in the pirate's impassivity that made him think of desperation as much as pride. When he was a boy, back in England, Norrington had seen a fox that had chewed through its own leg to escape a trap. Blood everywhere, and a trail of it leading the men and their dogs across the snow to the fox's earth. And, after all, the fox had died before the dogs found it.

"You may go, gentlemen," he said, showing them the pistol he held. "Oh—the key, Mr Groves?"

"Sir, I—"

"Thank you, Mr Groves. Corporal. That will be all." And, to Sparrow, "Come with me."

He knew that it was cruel to remain silent and thus torment Sparrow with uncertainties. But, after all, it was not easy to betray his uniform, even for a just cause. He was no better, after all, than the man at his mercy.

"Might I ask, Commodore, what you have in mind?" said Sparrow. He walked slowly ahead of Norrington along the corridor that led towards the back of the house. Norrington could see the weariness with which he moved, and was sorry.

"This way," he said, taking Sparrow by the arm to guide him into the scullery.

Sparrow flinched, and Norrington felt shame twist in his gut. He dropped his hand.

"Believe it or not," he said, and was pleased to find that his voice was somehow almost steady, "I have no intention of slitting your throat."

"Then—" the pirate began. He looked up at Norrington, and then away, and said nothing more.

There was a pair of candles on the dresser, and their light cast Jack Sparrow's face into sharp relief, smeared lampblack and half-lidded eyes and that mouth, that mouth ... Sparrow looked exhausted, and wary, and like the embodiment of every temptation that Norrington had ever fought.

And they were alone. The housekeeper had gone home: Groves and the Marine corporal were on their way back to the Fort. It was late, and no one would disturb the Commodore at home. There was a small, tarnished brass pot in his pocket which would overcome a world's worth of reluctance and fatigue, and give him more of what he already craved.

But craving, after all, was not the same thing as wanting. And he did not want Jack Sparrow, not like that. Not as the punch line to a lewd joke.

The small streak of cruelty made him snap, "Get undressed!" He was ashamed of the mean pleasure he felt at Sparrow's evident dismay.

But Sparrow recovered quickly enough, jangling his manacles at Norrington. "Not 'til you've taken off these pretty bracelets, Commodore," he said lightly. "Unless you'd care to take off the whole lot yourself, bit by bit? No?"

"No," said Norrington exasperatedly. "And Jack? If you try anything, I will kill you. I cannot afford to take chances."

"Maybe I can't afford not to," said Sparrow, looking him in the eye.

"Mr Sparrow," said Norrington heavily. He sighed and shook his head. "Jack. I thought you might welcome a bath, after ..." He had no idea of how to refer to the evening's events.

Sparrow was frowning at him, as though Norrington had suggested a walk on the strand, or a poetry reading. Norrington smiled, and unlocked the manacles.

Perhaps Sparrow's muscles were betraying him, or perhaps his earlier proximity to Jack had heightened his awareness of the other man's body. At any rate, Norrington was able to get his arm around Sparrow's neck before the pirate's violent contortion had freed him from the dual restraint of the manacles and the Commodore's hand.

This close, Sparrow reeked of sex, and the smell made Norrington want Jack properly underneath him again. The feel of Jack Sparrow twisting, mute and determined, in his hands reminded him all too vividly of how it had felt to hold him down with his whole body.

"Jack," he said between gritted teeth, "I warned you. Don't make me kill you. I don't want to kill you."

That last phrase came out rather desperately, but it stilled Jack Sparrow. Norrington did not loosen his grip. Tired or not, he would not trust Jack an inch. He said, very softly, against Jack's ear, "You can't leave just yet. And you're safe here."

He drew back far enough to look Sparrow in the eye. His eyes were so dark: a man might stare and stare and see nothing at all. Not even his own reflection.

"Thank you, Commodore," Jack said quietly, after a moment: and he stood passively while Norrington finished unlocking the irons.

"Mr Sparrow," he said, "the bath is over there. Rather chilly by now, I'd say, but it should serve." Norrington released the pirate and stepped back, taking the pistol from his pocket once more. There was a three-legged stool by the dresser, and he sat down and stretched his legs in front of him.

Sparrow was still watching him warily, and Norrington gestured with the barrel of the gun. He wanted to look away while the pirate undressed, but that would be dangerously foolish: instead, he made himself observe the other man as objectively as he could. Scars, tattoos, skin sun-dark above the waist and deliciously ... and paler below. Either Sparrow had decided that he was no threat, or he was too weary to care any more.

Norrington had seen statues, and paintings, and even living men who embodied masculine beauty: they had in common a cleanness of limb, the play of muscles under smooth skin, noble profiles and expressions of grave wisdom. Sparrow was nothing like any of them. His skin was sheened with sweat—and probably worse—and crowded with the marks, voluntary and otherwise, of a violent and dissolute life. That ridiculous mass of hair fell halfway down his back, glittering like a magpie's nest with tawdry ornaments. Earlier, the ripple of his back as he'd writhed under Norrington's ministrations had been entrancing. Now the care with which he stripped off each filthy garment made every movement look studied.

Norrington fought back the unreasonable arousal, and tried to keep his breath steady. This must be an after-effect of that infernal salve. Jack Sparrow was not beautiful, or desirable, and Norrington's own body was merely responding in some basal reflex. Like a sneeze.

But he ached to feel Jack's body against his once more.

For a moment he was horribly afraid that he'd spoken aloud, or sighed: Sparrow, quite naked, turned to look at him.

"Are you positive you wouldn't like me to come over there, Commodore?" he said softly. "I could show my ... appreciation."

There was no trace of embarrassment in his expression, only a wicked quirk of the lips, a lowering of the eyelids, as Norrington scowled.

So easy, to say, "Come here". To pull Sparrow down on top of himself, thrust up into him, make him writhe and cry out and spend himself in Norrington's hand, not just once but again and again as Norrington opened him up and went deeper into the heat and the swollen tightness, Jack's body adjusting to fit around him like a glove, Jack leaning back so that their mouths might meet: Jack kissing him.

That thought jolted him from the daydream. Jack Sparrow was watching him, and Norrington was sure that his own expression gave away every detail of his thoughts.

"Be a pleasure, Commodore," said Jack softly, without a trace of mockery.

"You're showing quite enough already, Sparrow," said Norrington. He smiled at the pirate, to soften the rebuff a little: an inexplicable urge, really, but nothing this evening made any sense. "The water's still warm: clean yourself up."

Sparrow nodded to him as though they were equals, and climbed into the bath. The cloudy water hid most of his body, which was a relief. Norrington watched his face as he sat back, eyes closed, letting the water—surely only tepid by now—relax each muscle. One hand emerged to sweep his hair back and over the side of the tub. He sighed silently, and was quite still. The water mirrored the candlelight, and the way that it gilded his skin until he looked like a pagan idol.

After a while, Norrington realised that he was asleep.

Staring at Jack Sparrow was unrewarding, now that the animation had gone out of him. The pirate's lips curved slightly, and Norrington wondered what he was dreaming about. The Black Pearl, no doubt, or Barbossa's hoard, or the nameless indignities he'd intended Will Turner to visit upon his bride. Norrington pushed away the thought, and the one that followed it: Elizabeth rushing up to him, barefoot, in her shift, and Jack Sparrow sauntering after her. They had been alone, together, on that small green island.

Why was it suddenly so important, all over again, that Elizabeth had declared herself unharmed, untouched, unviolated?

Norrington felt as though he was overbalancing, though the wooden stool did not even rock.

The candles were burning low, and these were night-thoughts come to plague him. "Sparrow!" he said sharply, sitting straighter.

Water splashed onto the tiled floor as Sparrow startled awake. He looked around him wildly for a moment, hands gripping the sides of the tub: then he saw Norrington, and the pistol, and relaxed.

"Aye?" he said, narrow-eyed.

"It's late," said Norrington. "Time to get out of the bath."

"Just let me ..." Sparrow finished washing himself, and Norrington padded over to the table and returned with the towel he'd used earlier. It was still slightly damp but Sparrow accepted it without comment. He stretched, wincing, and regarded the heap of soiled garments at his feet with evident dismay.

"They can be washed," offered Norrington, "if you'd—"

Sparrow shot him a suspicious look. "You've a mind to keep me, then."

"I'd sooner keep a snake," said Norrington. He sighed. "I meant what I said. You are free to go. But your clothes are filthy, and I thought you might appreciate the chance to rest and recover your strength."

Jack looked away, and Norrington could see that he was tempted.

"So you don't want me to stay?"

"Of course I—" Norrington began irritably: then he registered the shift in the question, and simultaneously realised that he was about to lie.

"What I want," he said instead, making himself meet Sparrow's eyes, "has nothing to do with it."

"In that case," said Jack eventually, still looking at him with that peculiar expression, "I think I'll sleep better on board the Pearl. But I'm grateful for your hospitality, James."

Norrington stared at Jack Sparrow, completely disarmed by the informality. As though they were friends: as if this was something that it could not be.

Sparrow turned away from him and began to dress, and Norrington watched him helplessly. He wanted to say something. He wanted to talk to Jack, but he had no idea what to say. He couldn't, after all, ask him to stay: he would not even let himself think of making Jack stay, sleeping next to him, waking him with a touch ... Caging him with kindness.

Jack seemed to have regained his swagger. He stepped up close to Norrington, and Norrington stopped himself, with difficulty, from stepping back.

"Well, Commodore."

"Sparrow," said Norrington, raising an eyebrow.

Jack leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, very lightly, and Norrington looked at him more helplessly than ever. The kiss had burnt. He began to raise a hand to the place where Jack's lips had touched him, but that would damn him utterly: instead, he brought his hand to Jack's shoulder.

"I wish it had ... I wish it could have been different," he said. And perhaps he was damned already: at any rate, it did not seem wrong to return the kiss, chastely, on Jack's mouth. He felt lips part beneath his own, but that would be too much: and so he drew back, stepping away.

"I am relying on you, Sparrow, not to make a liar of me," said Norrington, seeking refuge in formality. "I desire no more heroics, no more flamboyance: no stealing the hearts of impressionable romantics."

Jack shrugged, smiling, eyes wide with feigned innocence. Norrington chuckled.

"I mean it, Jack. You must vanish from Port Royal as completely as though I'd slit your throat and buried you at sea."

"Am I never to return?"

Norrington snorted. "As if I could stop you."

Jack smiled and steepled his hands, bowing like an Oriental, but a reckless smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

"You'd better take this," said Norrington, holding out his hand. The little brass pot was warm in his palm.

Jack straightened, eyebrows shooting up.

"Careful, Commodore," he said lightly. "Maybe I'll save it for next time we meet." He looked Norrington up and down with mocking, insolent appraisal.

Norrington imagined Jack Sparrow's hands on him in a dark room, their clothes fallen around them, and those clever fingers, slick with heavy-scented salve, pushing against him intimately. He was faintly appalled by the thought, and by the pulse of blood that answered it.

"Maybe that's what I want. To know how ... to know what I did." He rocked his palm slightly. "Take it."

Jack's fingers, still wrinkled from the bath, brushed his palm. The pot of aphrodisiac vanished into the folds of his faded sash.

"Interesting," he murmured: then, raising his eyes to Norrington's, "We'll see."