This is, without a doubt, the worst apology he's ever heard.

He pins this squarely on their utter lack of contrition.

***

"You...you...rum," Sparrow says, jabbing a finger into James mid-chest, mood black as his eyes, wild as his hair.

James maintains bland inscrutability purely for his own amusement. "I, I, rum," he agrees. When that snaps an edge of Sparrow's temper, James adds, "You, you, wig," helpfully.

And by "helpfully", he entirely means it inflammatory. It takes more effort than he's expected not to smirk when the reminder sours Sparrow's mood further.

"Rum," Sparrow repeats, as though his vocabulary has dwindled.

James may no longer technically be the pirate hunting commodore, but he knows still knows Sparrow better than anyone imagines he does. Thinks perhaps he knows Sparrow better than Sparrow knows himself, because in a moment's defiance, he's done more damage than a year's chase. Let's see Sparrow laugh this off, then.

"Rum." Different inflection this time, more whinge than rebuke. James stares patiently into the mad abyss. "Rum gone. Why?"

Correction. Madness in boots. Since he's apparently not to be run through—and he's considered this a possibility, for which he's armed himself and debated precisely where he'll strike should it be necessary—James can only assume the forced sobriety has affected Sparrow's judgment. Honestly, he had more reason at the noose.

"Wig," James says again, deducing short phrases are more likely to penetrate Sparrow's apparent fog of rumlessness. Then, because he can't help himself, "Calamitously disfigured wig."

Sparrow scowls. Clearly, he is disinclined to reality wherein it includes sincere challenge to his self-appointed authority. James is aware of pirate ships and their democracy, the likelihood that on some level, Sparrow's crew has all elected to allow this man leadership of their lives in some aspect, but he cannot believe it's a choice made sanely. How can they determine the worth of a man when they know so very little about how his admittedly complex mind works?

They stare. For long, long moments, there's only staring, Jack dancing motionless around the thought that some measure of equality is required, James unceasingly composed. His Majesty may no longer require James's service, but its legacy lives on in his unflappable self-mastery.

Jack looks away first, but he does so by spinning on one ridiculously heeled boot and storming off in fluttery fury.

James watches him go with the same disaffection he's maintained throughout the exchange, and when Wee—Marty, James knows, but he'll be Wee until he stops calling James Turncoat and not a moment before—says, "Well, that went well," with a snort of disgust, James looks down at him—way, way down, Wee is far too accurate, it's disgraceful, how laughable this crew is—and says, "So it would seem," with that bland drawl which so enrages his new shipmates.

Sir—Anamaria, James knows her name, he knows all their bloody names, even if he's steadfastly refusing to use them—Sir stares at him longest, and he's aware of her regard even before he returns it. Silent, scathing staring, which is but one reason he so enjoys his encounters with Sir. If there's one person aboard this accursed wreck who might figure him out before Sparrow does, it's Sir and sometimes, when he's consumed by the need to shove Sparrow overboard "accidentally", James isn't sure which of them he'd rather trust.

She stares so long he thinks she might be having something of an epiphany, but when she speaks, it's to squawk, "Back t' work, y' lazy dogs," at the rest of the crew, who dutifully scramble to it. She scowls, too, but it's not as pretty as Sparrow's.

***

At some point, it will cease to entertain, how very often he's underestimated.

At some point in the very, very distant future, he thinks, and assumes inscrutiably bland mien while Sparrow's crew makes their appeal.

He doesn't blame them; he wouldn't want to work under the man sober, either.

This affects his lack of contrition not a whit.

***

"If ye'd just apologize f'r the rum," Gibbs says, all mournful entreaty. "Terrible thing, stealing a man's drink, aye?" He swigs from his canteen as though James's swill-thievery to date is but the start of a rash of such thefts.

James swallows the impulse to point out that sober Sparrow's such a delight only a complete and utter twit would want to incur another inadvertently teetotalling pirate on this ship. "Certainly," James agrees, eminently reasonable. "Almost as terrible as defacing a man's dignity."

Gibbs, who has mistaken reasonableness for agreement, sours then. Deflates so swiftly, James thinks he sees the man's hope escaping. "The wig?"

"The wig, Mr. Gibbs." And James smiles slightly, but he knows it's horrible even before Gibbs flinches.

***

The crew determines there's only one plausible course of action, which doesn't surprise James in the slightest. Nor, given that they hold highest their mythic Code, does the form said action assumes.

***

"What's this, then? Come t' beg m' forgiveness?" Sparrow is brittle. Bitter. He waits at his table, boots crossed at the ankle atop it, hands steepled in thought. James wonders if he's meant to be threatened by the pose, which reeks of malicious mad pirate. If he is, the attempt is unsuccessful.

Oh, he knows Sparrow too well. Every last button.

He's almost certain Sparrow remains unaware of their present circumstance. James hopes so; he's sure it will prove endless entertainment, watching Sparrow figure out his crew's mutinied again.

"I shall ignore that, Captain, as it's beneath you to so utterly miss the point," he says. Sparrow glares. Again. Honestly, the things that scowl does to him are, if nothing else, specific sins, plural.

"Well, Norrie," and here Sparrow slurs the name, makes it curse and insult, though intensely personal in its construction. "If you're not here t' beg m' forgiveness for your reckless endangerment of m' drink, there's really no point in your being here at all, is there?"

And yes, James has also formed a rather unnatural fixation on that sneer, too. He imagines it somewhat related to Sparrow's inclusion of the man who's tried to hang him—repeatedly—to his coddled crew.

"I must say, Captain," and yes, James means to make a mockery of that title, and he's so very pleased when Jack flinches at the blatant slur. "I'm rather surprised you haven't already realized what I'm doing here. I've come to expect more from your particular brand of mad leadership."

"Get out." Sparrow growls. James fights the urge to shiver.

"Much as I'd enjoy departing your lamentable presence—" and yes, that hits home, too; James is on a roll—"I'm afraid that's quite impossible. I believe they mean to keep us in here until we're finished our negotiations, as it were."

Jack spits nothing, just screws up his face in overly expressive disgust. Pity about that, really. So very pretty, so very drink-addled. James foresees years of disgusted sniping in his future before Sparrow finally acquires a clue. Then Jack spits words and James feels his world right itself with the return of his favoured adversary. "Parlay," Jack says, evidently as unenthused as James himself.

"Parlay," James agrees. "Apparently, your captaincy while under the influence of sobriety leaves much to be desired. To that end, I believe they felt us coming to terms might improve the situation."

Sparrow snarls. James beams invisibly.

***

The resulting concessions could only be possible in dealing with a madman. Honestly, for all he's heard of Sparrow's deft twisting of the parlay standard, James feels somewhat shortchanged by the encounter. Yes, Sparrow can safely restock his ship—and there's no end to James's glee that Sparrow feels compelled to make this his requirement, as though ordinary midshipmen have such authority over the dealings of their commanders—and yes, James promises to leave any such stock unharmed—Sparrow's word, as though the rum is capable of sustaining injury, though on this particular vessel, James concedes the rum may actually be on the crew manifest—provided.

Ah, provided.

"I have t' be nice to you?" Sparrow squints. James stares. It's oh-so-familiar, comfortable ground.

"You do."

"Why?"

James wants to lick that suspicious dismay clear off the man's face. "Because I'm a human being, part of your crew, no less, and I deserve to be treated with some measure of respect and/or dignity?" he tries, though he doesn't bother injecting optimism in it.

"Try again, mate," Sparrow says, but something about the exchange has revived that contrary bastard who's so obsessed him. "You destroyed me rum. M'not a flogging captain normally, but..."

Could he be any more obvious? Or ridiculously overwrought by this rum affair? The day Jack Sparrow becomes a flogging captain will be the day James endures childbirth.

"Because you left me unwatched for less than an hour, then, and I imagine by now you've realized the extent of my thoroughness." To this, he adds a mildly lifted brow, which he feels fills in what Sparrow appears to have neglected. Consider the facts, you obstinate bastard. He watches Sparrow's realization, the slow dawn that James is nigh-criminally focused when he chooses. Yes, he's ruined the rum below decks, the whole crew knows that much, but he imagines it less common knowledge that he's meticulously picked off Sparrow's secret stashes, too.

Overkill, thy name is Commodore.

"Touch it again, any of it, and there'll be no stopping me," Jack says, and James allows himself the silent use of the man's given name because when threats run this darkly solemn, they are immensely personal.

He looks away in case he can't quite smother the victory Jack's provoked. "It's as well we've reached no formal agreement as yet, captain, as that's hardly nice by anyone's definition."

Jack's silence is captivating. Obviously the man's mulling something, likely plotting out the situation with new, mad logic. "And what's to stop me from leaving you behind?"

"Because you're not a fool," James thinks, but says, "Whatever stops you from running me through or shoving me overboard."

He gives Jack a moment to let that sink in, then looks back, tightly controlled once more.

***

Jack demands proof of sincerity, a goodwill gesture, and he purposely picks something impossible while they're at sea. Perhaps he feels requiring James to disembark the Pearl will afford an opportunity to make sail without him. Frankly, James likes to think the man plans better than that, but he is, he knows, dealing with madness.

"You're certain?"

Jack smirks slow and toothy. "Aye. One Baked Article, commodore. Surely that's not too trying for a man of your talents, savvy?"

"And have you a preference for said Baked Article?" If he's going on some ridiculous mission to an unknown baker to appease Jack, he may as well acquire something the man enjoys.

Enjoyment, after all, being a main feature in this game.

"Pie," Sparrow says, as though he's gone out of his way to choose something implausible.

"Pie?"

"Aye. Pie."

"Any particular sort of pie?"

"Surprise me."

"Very well, captain, when next we make port, you shall have your pie. On one condition."

He can bloody feel Jack's pause.

***

Jack argues with him over said condition because it's Jack, who wouldn't know how to strike a fair bargain without trying to skew things in his favour, and because it's Jack, who's so very obvious in his skewing, James wins. Next to indefatigable reason calmly delivered, James imagines madness terribly hard to continuously wield.

And really, is dinner so much to ask? If he's procuring Jack pie, the least Jack can do is share.

***

She's loath to leave them alone, which ordinarily James would find tremendously entertaining—Anamaria mothering him, really, it's quite ridiculous—but on this particular trip through port, James finds it merely intrusive. He suspects her suspicion, knows the rest of the crew wouldn't pay attention to what he's bought so long as no weapons are involved, but she will, which means that while she marches at his side, his moments are not opportune.

"I won't poison him," James says as he eyes the street's uninspiring choice of taverns. Four of them, perhaps five if he's reading that wordless clapboard correctly, and as their signage lacks written description, he's reduced to selection by pictogram. Anchors and crowns and roses and something he thinks may be intended canine; the tavern keepers here—wherever the blazes "here" is, not that he particularly cares—have outdone themselves on creative nomenclature. "Really, there's no need to watch me."

She snorts. "You're up to something, don't think I don't know you are."

"Madam, I'm wounded." He smirks. Lets her see it, then settles on the sign furthest from shore. The Rose and Mutt? Charming. "Your lack of faith is most dismaying."

When he glances back, she's rolling her eyes. "Dismayin'? You'd maul each other soon as look at each other, I think." She gives him a once-over which speaks volumes. He's impressed. "Not half so proper as you seem, either, and don't think I don't notice."

"You neglect the obvious, Sir—were I so inclined, I could have put paid to something besides his drink." She preens a bit at the name, which is but part of why he uses it, and he thinks perhaps they've stumbled into an accord of sorts on their own. If she's mentioning his latent impropriety, they almost certainly have. "That one, you think?" He points at the Rose and Mutt.

She laughs, high and clear and genuine. "Oh, aye, take him to a brothel. That's just what you need."

Well, at least now he knows where to acquire the rest of his necessities.

***

When he asks, she promises to do what she can to keep the rest of the crew elsewhere, at least long enough to get them both established for their dinner. There's no way she can control the drunken wanderings of a ship's worth of crew, not for the whole night, but she can give him time, which is all he requires.

She offers a boy coin to keep watch over them, though, and he's not surprised at all that she's arranged it. Too suspicious by far, but it's well-meant and protective of Jack, so James will hardly argue.

Still, he has to ask. "He'll find you if there's blood, then?"

"If there's screaming."

"If there's screaming, I can assure you, it will be mutual."

She spares him a weather eye. "Think of where you are, James, and where we found him. You don't believe he'll know the difference between killing and the other?"

"Why, sir, that almost sounds like permission."

"Let's find your pie."

***

She rubs his face, thumb grating over bristled jaw. "Ye need a shave."

"I need a bath, s'more what I need."

"Try yer Rose an' Mutt, then."

Strangely, he can't let her go so easily. "Thank you. For...for your help."

She guards her pleasure. "Make it right with the captain or don't come back." He begins to protest, but her hands lift for silence and he finds himself agreeing. "I know you've come to some agreement and I won't ask what. That's between you and him and I don't need to know. But James... You and Jack, you'll do what you do, and you're both used to doing as you please, aye? But you're not the only ones on that ship, and don't think it don't affect the rest of us, because it does. We've left you alone, both of you, to sort it out for yourselves, but we won't wait forever. You understand?"

He thinks about serving under a sober, sulking Jack Sparrow, which is hardly new, but this time, he thinks about it for its own sake. As she's lived it, perhaps, and not as a step in his scheme.

And he does understand.

"Thank you," he says again.

She brushes his collar. Fusses. He lets her, and he's not sure which of them is more surprised by it. "It'll be nothing, or it'll be something. For your sake, I hope it's something, but if it's nothing..."

"Then it's been a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

But knowing Jack as he does, James can't believe that's the case.

***

Jack looks about the room, no doubt seeking out the threat. James takes it as a good sign the man's evidently decided it's not James.

"S'a fine room you've got, Norrington," Jack says slowly. "Shall I assume you've reconsidered our accord in light of some fairer company? Not a bad idea, that. Could do with a bit of company meself, aye? So I'll just be taking me pie, then, and leave you to it."

"You are my company," James says. Jack stills unnaturally, fingers poised mid-curl, lips parted in moue. Jack's eyes, when James can meet them, hold more questions than even Anamaria's managed, and James battles down uncertainty. "I'll not have our conversation interrupted by drunken louts."

"Oh."

He's foolishly let Anamaria's understanding colour what he knows of Jack Sparrow, then, because James almost flinches at that strange, flat sound.

"Dinner and relatively calm conversation, Captain. And pie, as requested. Or do you find yourself incapable?" A muscle twitches in his jaw.

"Not incapable."

"Just not willing?"

"No. Aye. S' complicated."

When, James thinks, is Sparrow anything less?

***

Jack prods at his plate as though the mutton risks flight when left unattended. He doesn't eat, doesn't speak, just stares at his meal and breathes hard in frustration. James knows it's frustration, not anger, because there's no speaking, which there would undoubtedly be were something enraging the man. And, he suspects, James knows what's causing said frustration.

"Shall I assume your disinterest in pie?"

Jack looks up, startled out of his own head. This is likely for the best. "You're not speaking."

"I just did."

"Yes, but you're not—" Jack cuts himself off, clamps down and looks away.

"By all means, Sparrow, finish."

"What do you want?"

"What every man does, I suppose. Somewhere to call home, someone to call mine, others to call friends. Nothing—"

"From me, I mean."

"I know what you mean."

"Then why...What do you want with me, Commodore?"

"Not a single thing I could do as Commodore."

***

Jack stares hard, like it's James being difficult.

***

"S'a mite suggestive, aye, you doin' all this?" Jack's fingers dip and twirl, a waggle of gesture that says quite clearly Jack's still accustoming himself to the room. James finds it unfortunate the man wouldn't expect at least some measure of consideration in this, but then, he has no idea what passes for pirate courtship these days. For the sake of his own temerity, he prays the word "plunder" mere suggestion.

"And yet, you appear resoundly unmotivated. Perhaps something more... efficient... is required?"

"For what?" That's honest frustration, then, tinged angry enough to seep through the man's plotting. James is heartened to see it, he's certain they might well have spent their night trapped in that suspicious civility. Then Jack snaps, "For bloody what?" so bloody hostile it jerks on James's pride, and when it looks like Jack's going to snarl again, James growls, "For pie, you insufferable bastard," and that's the hell that.

***

He has, in this moment, Jack's complete attention.

***

"I do not believe, Mr. Sparrow, that you have been behaved enough for pie."

Jack's lip curls. "Is that a threat, Commodore?"

"Should the absence of your Baked Article be profound enough to adversely effect you, then yes, Captain, you may take that as a threat. Personally, I would hope one might take that as reason to change. But then—" he thumps ham-handed punctuation on the table's edge and leans forward, that threat Jack's claimed in the promised clash of temper. "—I'm not Captain Jack Sparrow, I'm just one of his crew. Savvy?"

When James's gaze meets his at long bloody last, the intensity of it seizes Jack's throat. He swallows. Hard.

***

"Have you any idea, Mr. Sparrow, why I remain so attached to my wig?"

Jack can't help but mumble about hidin' the pretty hair. He wants to think James snorts.

"No officers, English or non, would believe a Commodore of His Majesty's Service would make an appearance without proper attire. Even for diplomatic purposes."

"But you're not," Jack thinks then. "You're not the bloody king's, you're bloody..."

But he can't think the rest.

***

"You neglected to request a particular flavour of Baked Article," James says, and Jack's mouth waters at that very formal posturing over pastry, the way he can see spit and polish under the growth of new beard and the days at sea. "I assumed, in that absence, you find yourself inclined to pie of all sorts? That your tastes, perhaps, are not so set as all that, and may even, under amiable circumstances, run to the adventurous?"

The arch of that brow looks maddeningly tasty.

"You know me, Commodore. James." Jack smiles his correction, a flirting lift of lips. "Always up for an adventure, aye?"

"Good. I was rather hoping you'd say that." And James breaks a finger through that golden crust.

***

Jack's adventure, it appears, requires use of his mouth but not of his hands.

"Lay them behind you and hold your position," James says, eyes belying the idle command. "You've ruined one uniform on me, I'll not let you ruin another."

Jack means to argue, as he's no taste for being bound by anything but his own will, until he realizes two things concurrently.

The first is that James appears to guard his pirate garb as zealously as he mothered that naval prig's gear. Jack's no expert on cracked former navy, but he thinks there might've been some transferring of ownership implied in there somewhere.

The next is that without a physical construct trapping him in place, all he has to hold him is will. Escape right there, ever-so-easy, and t' get what he's promised, he has to want to stay.

The Commodore, Jack thinks, is a mindfuck all his own.

"Didn't know you swung this way, Commodore."

"James," James corrects. "And I gather, Jack, there's rather a lot about me you don't know."

"Always liked a bit of surprise."

***

"Is apple to your liking, Sparrow?" James holds pie-coated finger before him, twitching it in thought. "I realize it's rather mundane, as flavours go, but I'm afraid I was rather pressed for choice."

"S'fine, luv." Jack's on razor's edge to keep from leaning forward, licking a taste of his own, and when James does it for him, Jack chokes on his own swallowed breath.

"Not bad," James opines. Smacks his lips. "Sweet, yet tart. I wondered. It's so very hard to meet expectations in unfamiliar territory, I find; one never knows what sort of dross they'll be passing off as pie."

That last bit, that has nothing to do with pie and Jack knows it, and Christ, he shifts himself against his binds because he's desperate to prove it. All still mental, the binding, but there's heat in the commodore's eyes what promise disappearing 'pastry' if he moves.

Then James touches pie-slicked finger to Jack's face, drags a smear from mid-cheek to chin by way of his mouth. It's warm at first, cools quickly in the patient breeze of James's breath, and James watches the shine of sweetness just under Jack's lip as though it's fascinating. Smells right, sweet and spiced and fresh, and Jack can't help but taste, tongue darting in full, thick sweep.

He can't get all of it, a thing he thinks James has done on purpose, but he can get some, most if he's nimble, and as he flexes and squirms to taste what he can on his cheek, Jack's gaze stays fixed on James's, those low-tide eyes captivated by Jack's ever quivering flick.

"Good?" James asks, voice thick, and Jack's eyelashes flutter to half-mast in sympathetic comfort. "More?"

James's finger, fresh-slicked, hovers over Jack's mouth, temptingly close but an obvious reach away. No sneaking this, Jack thinks, and when he looks up he's certain James stares back.

All the permission Jack needs and more, aye?

He bobs his head forward, swipes his tongue up James's finger like it's something else, something more substantial. James's noise is low and pretty.

Jack likes that noise, so he takes said finger in said mischievous mouth and sucks again, loves it and laves it and bloody well coddles it like it's something far more sensitive than a tanned, tiny substitute, all so James makes his Jack noise again.

He doesn't, but the one he makes is better.

***

James moves in. Licks at Jack's mouth, at the skin below his lip, at the point of his chin and back again, trolling the pie path sucking for sweetness.

It's taken too long to get here, this tactilely-special place of theirs, but now they've arrived, Jack can't believe how long they've held out.

He blames James for this appalling display of self-control.

***

He waits because he's promised he will, leaves it at nothing but stretching kisses and hands on Jack's face until he feels Jack groan against his mouth, at which point James assures himself there's permission of sorts, and from there, he's insatiable.

***

"I will agree you are somewhat deserving, Mr. Sparrow, if you will agree you are somewhat overdressed for its consumption."

"Then we have an accord."

***

"You were most unkind to my wig." James speaks as he trails new pie smears down Jack's chest. Settles a chunk of apple over Jack's' scars, on the unbroken space between two black pits. "I shall require a replacement as soon as possible, before your next madcap adventure, if you please."

His tone, his look, says Jack's not to mind, even if he does. Jack holds off protesting until James is focused on apple-scented pirate and that sharp tongue's otherwise occupied.

"Hate that wig," Jack murmurs. Wishes he could touch the man properly, but with his arms caught behind him, that's pure fantasy, aye? "Not right, what it does to a man."

"Is that so?" James flicks his tongue over Jack's nipple, keeps flicking long after the pie must be gone. Jack's breath catches like his lip between his teeth when James employs his own. "And what, pray tell, has the wig ever done to you?"

"You wear it like it's dignity, even when it's not. And...and..." James eats the apple in a drag of teeth and deliberate bloody tease. Jack's fists clench behind his back as his mind clears of everything but James for a long, lovely moment. "And s'all bloody stiff and hanging, savvy? S'not right."

"I couldn't have come for you without it, you realize."

Aye, Jack's considered that. Makes fair sense, he supposes, James playing commodore to rescue him from that Spanish cell, but there's nothing what says he has to like it. "And I can't touch you in it," Jack says, more honest than he means.

"Privateer," James counters. "And you weren't touching me, anyway, were you?"

"Scared off by the wig."

***

James laughs. "Lean back," he says, and Jack does, hips and arse sliding forward to put himself at an angle to suit James's mood.

"Better?"

"Much." And James crumbles pastry over Jack like breadcrumbs and licks his way out of the woods.

***

He can't help himself with Jack. His calmness vanishes, leaves only burning need to touch, kiss, lick, suck, anything, just he needs, god, to mark every inch of the man with his teeth.

He kisses long and wary, aware any second could spell the end, equally aware he'll snap if they stop. Jack feels so good in his hands, that lying mouth feels so perfectly imperfect under his, that James can't imagine anything ending this but Armageddon, but it's Jack Sparrow, for whom calamity and chaos are guardian angels. Faithful as dogs, them.

***

"James, let me... touch... M'a handsy bastard, aye?" Jack growls. Strains and squirms, thighs spread wide in lewd display just for James. God himself would've touched back by then, s'been hell itself keeping from it, and it's nigh bloody criminal he has to remind Commodore bloody Hands-Off how very fucking tactile Jack is.

Hanging offense, really.

***

James's hands don't stop moving. Neither does Jack, who's not quite naked but near enough to count. Shirt open and torn, exposing scars and skin and lovely flat nipples which stand to attention under James's tongue. At least one part of Sparrow responds on command, James thinks, though the hard, leaking cock freed from his breeches does much the same. James takes him in hand, fingers curled on the shaft, and flicks his thumbnail over Jack's tip, catching on the ridge of flesh before smearing himself with Jack's juice.

James swabs his thumb there, collecting the fluid, watching Jack's eyes widen awareness as he does. The man protests in squawk when James lets him go, but neither moves until James sucks his thumb.

Jack gapes like a cod, which is pleasantly cheering.

"Do that, Commodore, and it's your own fault if I let go, aye? A man's got his limits and you're getting close to mine."

James samples again, drags his tongue over his thumb like Jack's leaking filling. "You taste nothing like pie," he says.

Jack swears. "Commodore..."

When he holds this new-smeared finger to Jack's mouth, James isn't certain what will result. Jack sucks it in, laves again with that tongue, gaze dark and gleaming and focused on him.

And when Jack pulls back, lets that finger slip from his mouth, James finds himself watched by a wanton's eyes.

"What about you, luv?" Jack's eyes dip, a coquette's flutter of lash, a courtesan's lascivious smirk tugging at the corners of that filthy, lying mouth. James is hard already, wants more than anything to rub himself off on some part of Sparrow's lithe form, but when he realizes what's caught Jack's attention, he groans with his need and rubs himself through his breeches. "S'not fair, you tastin' me and me tastin' me and none of us tastin' you."

Fuck, James just wants to fuck him, drive into that body hard and fast until Jack's but a limp thing beneath him mewling ownership from flat on his back. The violence of this need, the speed with which it overtakes him, is surprising but not ill-done. At some point, they'll settle for a reasonable arrangement, but in the meantime, he anticipates hard and fast and violent.

"That's all you want, then? Just a taste?"

"If I could move me hands, I'd take it meself." Jack's smile provokes the unholy urges pulling at his better sense; it's hopeful and promising and tentative. Sincerely guiling. "Savvy?"

***

When James smears his own slick over Jack's face, he follows that torturous path of pie. Jack's tongue sweeps out after it, a slow, liver-pink trail, and when he's done, Jack says, "Very nice, Commodore, but can we try it without the hands yet? S'not fair, you using yours and me not using mine." His voice sounds like a purr and he smiles like a demon cat content to toy with its meal.

As the meal in question, James feels that toying most opportune.

"What did you have in mind?" And Jack tells him, and Lord, James isn't going to last, there's no way he'll win this contest of theirs, his best hope is to drive Sparrow to similar extremes. Judging by the purring, he's well on his way.

It's no small feat, angling them properly. Jack's inclined to wriggle, and that's amusing while he's seated on his own bench, mostly dressed, but it's ohgodyesmore when he's a lapful of naked.

"No hands, Jack, let me," James tells those wild bangles as he aligns their pricks, pulls them off with one hand, knuckles banging into bared bellies between them, breath harsh and choppy even to his own ears.

Jack leans into him. Moves his hips, a purposeful flex, and in lieu of using his hands, he appears to be employing maliciously salacious use of hips. James growls as much, hears Jack's startled bleat of laughter, and breaks that sound with an unexpected twist of his fist.

"Want to see you, want..." Jack says, and James bows himself when Jack rests his forehead on James's collarbone. James curls the hand at Jack's hip, holding him steady and flexing a squeeze, and Jack makes these noises James can't identify, some sweet, needy thing between grunts and whimpers.

***

When James says Jack can use his hands, a pair of helpless fist balls and lodges at James's spine, locking him there as though there's some question James might pull back. Wetness floods between them, heralded by lewd profanity and the bite of fingernails into soft skin.

***

He's not expecting Jack to take his hand, to lift it up to that nimble mouth for a messy press of kisses, but James finds himself enthralled by it all the same.

***

Jack's mouth is wholly sinful, and when he leans forward to take James's own in come-flavoured kiss, James lets him. When it ends, James rests his forehead on Jack's, noses aligned and mouths all too close. Says, "Was that to your satisfaction, then?", words breathy ghosts over Jack's skin.

"Better than pie."

***

"You were most unkind to me rum," Jack says when he thinks of it, a pie and a pint and several spills later.

"A last resort, I'm afraid. There are only so many ways to keep you out of trouble, at least until I could be suitably equipped to deal with the situation, should it arise."

"And is it working, this last resort of yours?"

Jack's not the only one with a wicked, wicked smile, and he looks forward to proving that every chance he can. "So it would seem."

***

"And how do commodores define 'nice', I wonder," Jack says in a smoky muse. "Followin' orders, or is it something more...adventurous?"

"Nice, Captain Sparrow, is what you make it."

***

This is, without a doubt, the best apology he's ever heard.

He pins this squarely on their utter lack of contrition.