Commodore Norrington sat at his desk in the fort of Port Royal and sweated. He was attempting to write his report regarding the recent resolution of the "pirate problem" involving Roberts and Sparrow, but was being more successful at sweating. He wanted a break; just a few minutes to himself to relax and loosen that blasted neckcloth.

This report was not coming easily and he wanted it done. Heaven knew he had written enough of them in his time in the Navy; he sometimes felt he was more of a bureaucrat than a sailor anymore. He wanted a ship. Oh, technically, he had several ships—that was the definition of "commodore" after all—but he wanted one of his own to command again. He was heartily tired of stepping aboard HMS Whateverhappenedtobethere and simultaneously stepping on the toes of its resident captain.

Back to the report that his quill refused to write. He suspected he knew why but didn't want to explore that too closely. Writing the fact would, somehow, make it even more real. He wanted shipping in his jurisdiction to be safe. It remained to be seen what Roberts intended, but any lessening of the threat from Roberts was the result of Jack agreeing to leave the Caribbean. Jack was gone. Damn. He hadn't meant to follow that thought.

James threw the quill down and stood, his chair scraping noisily across the floorboards. He stepped to the window and opened the sash. He wanted a breeze. Where were the vaunted tropical trade winds now, eh? The heat was never this bad aboard Black Pearl and it was, well, black, for the love of God. DAMN. Although, if he were entirely honest with himself, it did get rather steamy at times. Blast and damn.

He wanted to take off his wig. He'd gotten rather used to freedom from the hot, itchy contraption while aboard Pearl. DA... oh, what was the use. Of course, he'd gotten used to freedom from most of his clothes as well. Jack had seen to that. Jack moving toward the cot, shedding clothes like dull skin and finally revealing his lithe form. But he had returned to the proper confinement of his uniform, and he would again grow accustomed to the wig. Jack is probably naked right now. Oh damn...

James wanted a mug of rum. And since when had he become a drinking man? Since rum gave him the strength to relinquish control and offer his body to Jack. The heat of the pirate's belly against his buttocks as Jack reared behind him, the thick hardness prodding persistently, Jack's breath on the back of his neck the moment he was breached. He desperately wanted that rum.

The Commodore returned to his chair, ignoring as much as possible the tightness in his breeches, and faced the insufferable report. As he reached his quill toward the inkwell he noticed the cuff of his coat. His tailor had done a remarkable job repairing the damage sustained during his recent escapade, but still, a button was missing. Damn this too. He searched around the floor under his desk but soon gave up the quest as futile. There was no telling where the bloody thing had got off to. And just where was he going to get a replacement button in this God-forsaken corner of the Empire? He wanted his button.

James slumped in his chair in a rare lapse of discipline and gazed out the window at azure water and trembling palm fronds. The forgotten quill dripped ink like fat raindrops onto the unfinished report. He couldn't remember when he had felt so restless and agitated. He wanted... what? Breezes, ships, reports, no wigs, rum, buttons. What he wanted, he realized, was his pirate. Damn.

Read companion piece, Weaving Memories