The water is warm, stale even, but all James feels as it touches his skin is clean. Water is powerful; it can rip a ship apart, in a heartbeat, kill leagues of men, but in this very moment, it is the most soothing thing he knows. Perhaps, he thinks, it is merely powerful.

The soapy lather is whispering soft on his skin and slowly slides its way through the filth, suds turning grey, leaving white skin behind. He sighs softly as he takes the washcloth, rubbing hard, almost viciously, breaking the peace. The soap is coarse, but its rough scent smells of absolution.

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His hands tremble as he wrings out the cloth, washes it until the ragged linen is nearly white, and when he brings it to his skin again, he closes his eyes and his fingers tighten. He scrubs long after he is clean, but he won't let go of the soap, clutching it like the most precious treasure. He has not used any in so long, he needs to know what it means to be clean again, to truly appreciate it.

The suds catch in his hair and he grins at them, watching them gleam in the light of the guttering lantern. The ship sways softly, and suddenly, all seems right again.




Jack has tossed himself into a chair, smirking at the stench Norrington had brought with him into the cabin. Now, all he can smell is lye soap. He thinks he's let a genie out of a bottle, watching Norrington's eyes close, his delight in the suds beaming from a smile that makes Jack stare. That genie possesses lovely skin, strong-muscled and pale as the sheets of the fine bed in which he never sleeps. Norrington's reflection in the foggy mirror is softened around the edges, his lashes scraps of satin, hiding dark circles.

Jack's eyes follow small rivers of water, chasing soapsuds down the curve of his spine, and he shifts restlessly. His gaze lingers, hungry to burst one faint rainbow bubble, clinging just where the man's waist dips to rounder flesh.

His hand strays to his lips, motionless as he thinks, wondering if he would taste soap, skin, or something else entirely. It is an appetite Jack isn't at all certain he wants to quell. Looking is safer to be sure. The expression of private delight on Norrington's face is as delicious as the mercury-trails of water coursing down his shoulders: the one ghostly in the glass, the other temptingly clear. Jack wonders if safer isn't cowardice, if danger had ever looked quite so safe, and if it wouldn't be a lovely thing, for one moment, to be a rag, dragged across satin skin in a sea of soap.