"Fire!"

"We're out of range, sir!"

"I said fire!"

Shots fall short of the Black Pearl's vulnerable stern, turned as if in mockery and gaining speed, away from HMS Dauntless.

"Sir, with all due respect, our cannons can't touch her now." There's hope in Theodore's voice as he shouts above the noise of the ship and turns to look up to the commodore on the poop deck, who only frowns and grips the railing so tightly as if to crush it would mean to sink the Black Pearl.

"Hell and damnation," James growls through clenched teeth. "Then by God make sure you catch him this time." He storms down the steps and down the hatchway in a flurry of white, gold and blue.

Theodore gives the necessary orders and goes below as well, where he avoids the stare of Lieutenant Gillette before he follows the commodore.

Inside the cabin, the sounds from above are slightly muffled, easier to ignore. He finds James at his desk, cluttered with charts, the charts scribbled on over and over in different colours, the frustration at trying to predict Sparrow's next course apparent.

James does not seem to notice Theodore, nor anything else. His hat and wig are by his side at the table, his head in his left hand, the right holds a glass of shiny amber liquid. Theodore is not sure whether perhaps he can hear sobs.

"Sir?" he asks, gently, as much as he can use the voice he usually uses to speak to newly posted and frightened midshipmen whilst speaking to his superior.

James' shoulders tense and the sobs—Theodore is sure they were sobs now—die down, but he doesn't answer.

"Sir, I must speak with you," Theodore tries again and again silence seems to be his only reward. He is nervous, unsure whether the attitude toward his old friend is still appropriate, whether his insistance might earn him a flogging.

But James, although he does not stir, finally speaks. "Then by all means do."

Theodore silently exhales in relief, before tensing again. He must make this count. "Sir, the crew are exhausted, and we have every reason to believe there is a storm brewing. To continue on this errand would be—forgive my saying so but I must speak plainly—it would be madness. Sir," he adds, unsure whether he has gone too far.

James has turned slightly now and smiles, that wry smile Theodore has so come to fear. "Our enemy is mad, lieutenant Groves."

Theodore clenches his teeth in frustration. "Yes, sir. But, sir, do we have to follow suit?"

Again, James sinks into silence, as if those few words had already exhausted him. Theodore looks at him in the light of the stern window and sees hollow cheeks brushed with two days' stubble, hair falling out of his ponytail and around his face, dark shadows under the eyes, so empty of anything but one weak, faded memory. He watches as James downs the liquid Theodore knows to be brandy but believes to be rum, then notes the empty bottle at the commodore's side.

He recalls a conversation with Gillette from the previous night, spoken in hushed voices by lamplight before turning in.

"You could have him declared unfit, you know."

Theodore only glared at him as he unbuckled his swordbelt, but Gillette pursued.

"I mean it. He's out of his wits. He will be the death of us all. This pursuit went beyond duty weeks ago, and now there's a storm bearing down on us." The ship creaked, voices chattered in the background, but none of the men heard of this mutinous talk, thank goodness. Though Theordore knew they probably had their own versions of it. "We must do something, and you're the senior. If we declare him mad—"

"I'll hear no more of this, Gillette," he heard himself say, as he should, "If you must persist with this kind of talk, you know the penalty." With that, he left Gillette frowning and climbed into his hammock and pretended to sleep, though the rolling of shot at night kept him restless. He did not know what else to do.

"I know the men have considered mutiny against me," says James, pulling Theodore out of his thoughts with a mournful twist to his voice that was not there before. Mournful, but beyond caring. "I cannot blame them."

Theodore takes a breath and steps forward; this has suddenly become private and confidential enough for him to speak to his old friend, not the commodore.

"James," he begins and waits for correction, but none follows, so he continues. "As I said, they are exhausted. They have used up all their strength, and for what?" Another pause follows, and Theodore is once more infuriated by the apathy with which James opens a desk-drawer to produce another dark golden bottle, this time to take a swig from the thing itself. When he speaks again, Theodore's voice reaches a different pitch, more insistant than before.

"James, the lives of nigh two-hundred men are at stake here, as is your own." Still no reaction, and insistance rises to open anger. "We have sailed for how long? Thirteen, fourteen years?" No answer. "You have been my idol since I was but seventeen and now I am to watch you ruin your life? I'm sorry James, but I can't do that."

That smile again, so beautiful despite the wreck the man has become. Theodore wishes those thoughts could go away, the situation is too dire to think of his feelings for the commodore. Again, he speaks, his voice quiet but roughened by alcohol.

"The man who ruined my life is Jack Sparrow," James says, "and I will see that he hangs for it."

"James, you can't afford to make it personal—"

"It bloody is personal!"

Suddenly James is standing, towering over Theodore even under the low ceiling, swaying with the roll of the ship. The bottle of rum is in his hand, hanging limply by his side. Theodore is now sure it is rum, he can smell it on James' breath as he stands his ground and looks straight at him.

"This man—Sparrow—he comes swaggering into my life and takes out of it everything worth living for." James gestures with his free hand, laying down his life on the cabin floor, bare for Theodore to see. Then he lifts a finger and points, looking at him but losing focus, scowling all the while, almost comically—almost like Jack Sparrow. "It's personal," he says as a finish, and sits again, slumped in his chair, exhausted and unable to continue holding himself up.

Theodore is silent for seconds, then takes a breath and continues again, ignoring the obvious drunkenness of his superior, which in itself would already enable him to consider going through with lieutenant Gillette's suggestion. To be drunk on duty is unthinkable, especially for a commodore. But what to actually do in this situation? One more appeal to James; the old James who was ambitious and sober, is Theodore's last possible weapon before he has to resort to new, unknown ones.

"If you will not think of our lives, James, think of your career—all our careers. We have not reported at Gibraltar, we have no orders to be here. We do not need to be here. If the Admiralty hears of this, of us wasting—"

"Fuck the Admiralty!"

The bottle of rum hits the side of the ship and the crew, apprehensive but loud until now, goes deadly quiet as the entire ship hears this outburst. Theodore stares at his superior, his friend, his role-model, as he stands panting and destroyed, before he straightens and regains some poor imitation of his former composure.

"Fuck them," he repeats, and looks lost without a bottle to cling to. "I will not let these anarchists run away with my life. I will die before I do that." He is ranting now, quietly, with an air of control but utterly lacking it. "I do not care what happens to me or this ship or this crew, but I will see them hang from the yardarm. Do you understand me?"

Theodore gulps and bites the inside of his lip to avoid an argument that will undoubtedly get him hanged. He finally nods, unable to continue the discussion. "Yes, sir. I understand. I beg pardon, sir."

James nods oddly, then sits again and stares out the window. Theodore thinks that if he were James, he would wish to fly out to unknown shores and never return. He thinks he might be wishing to do that anyway.

He says James' name as he leaves the cabin, unsure why, perhaps as a reminder of why he once loved this man and why it is so vital that he takes action while he still can; while they're still alive.

That night as he relieves Gillette from his watch he wishes he could put the end of a pistol to the man's face, who's expression reads "I told you so."