It was simple enough to row to the dark ship by the light of the moon, and to climb onto her deserted decks. He had no problem finding the warm glow coming from the captain's cabin. Where James was running into trouble was getting hold of the captain himself. For the third time in ten minutes, Jack evaded him—head tilted coyly away, hands refusing to settle where he wanted them, mouth curved in a smirk at James' irritation.

"Bastard," James muttered, pinning Jack to the wall, but he wriggled his shoulders and darted away.

"Now that's just untrue," said Jack, waggling his finger and backing up to sit on his chart table. "I oughta be insulted. I'll have you know my mother was a saint."

James followed, his temper and his ardor cooling somewhat. "Was she?" he murmured a bit thoughtlessly, most of his interest occupied by Jack letting his knees fall open until they were parallel to his shoulders.

"Aye," said Jack, pretending not to notice James slowly prying his legs further apart. "My da, now, he's another story, but she tried to do right by me, right up till the day she died."

Though he was now safely ensconced between lean pirate thighs, James paused with his hands on Jack's ribs. The cage of bone and flesh moved beneath his fingers, expanding and contracting with Jack's steady breaths. He thought of what sort of woman could be mother to a man like this, what sort of child he'd been, the games he'd played and the sweets he'd stolen and the old white scars on his body. He thought of the Turners' chubby little baby saddled with Jack's wild mane and shrewd eyes.

Jack tugged on the queue of his hair, pouting, and James smiled. "What did she look like?"

"Dark like me," said Jack, fingers cupped loosely around the back of his neck. "Folk turned their noses up when he married her. Guess that was part of the problem. Got a picture here somewhere..." He twisted, rummaging in a drawer to his left. James seized the opportunity to nibble at his exposed neck. Growing curiosity about Jack's past kept his hands firmly planted on the either side of his hips.

"Aha," said Jack, coming up with a small leather frame. He bumped his forehead against James' as he handed him the miniature painting. It showed a solemn, lovely young woman in a dark dress, with an odd yellowish cast to her face. It was easy to imagine Jack's skin fading to that color if he'd never gone to sea.

"She's beautiful," he murmured, touching the worn leather carefully. There was a small boy sitting on her lap, four years old at the most, and he was grinning at the portraitist, proudly displaying a missing front tooth. The woman held him tightly, as if she feared he'd slip away. James was certainly familiar with that feeling.

But this well-groomed child, this well-dressed woman—the portrait alone would have been costly—"Jack, is this..."

When he glanced up, he found that Jack was studying him as intently as he'd been studying the painting. "Thought I'd grown up amongst the rats in Cheapside, eh?" His voice was light, betraying no emotion that James could discern.

"Well, I'd assumed—" He broke off, shaking his head at the water-stained memory in his hands.

Jack gently plucked the portrait from him, turning aside to place it back in its drawer, his hair swinging forward to hide his face. "Chains come in all shapes and sizes, mate." He still spoke mildly, but this time James could hear the doors closing, solid shelter against whatever questions he might ask.

He considered it still, even as Jack turned his face up and nuzzled ticklishly at James' cheek. Then he considered the chances of Jack tossing him off the Pearl for good if he pressed further. It was part of what they had, keeping the balance, prodding here and relenting there, but he wasn't prepared to find out what might change if he pushed where Jack was not willing to give.

Reaching up, he found his hands caught and held. Jack gazed at him with wary eyes. "Letting that one go?"

"Yes," said James simply, leaning heavily against him. Jack's mustache twitched once before his face cleared and he yielded, stretching across the rich oak surface and tugging James down with him. He'd let that go, James thought, because he couldn't bear to let this—oh, this, yes...

"James," Jack murmured, breath coming in short, harsh pants already, legs tightening around James' waist. "Jamie—Jamie—"

He couldn't have everything, but what he could have, he intended to take.