The even rush of the waves, humid night air settling like an unmoving blanket—it is the calm before the storm. Dark clouds shroud the pale moon, heavy with water but not yet unleashing their elemental force.

After his meeting with Admiral Boyle, Norrington feels rejuvenated: a commendation of his success rather than reproach for losing the Interceptor. The promise of a new ship heightens his spirits and he longs for a shifting deck beneath his feet and the taste of salt on his face. Landbound by weather, and restless by nature, he paces the moonlit alleys.

Kingston is a respectable English settlement, but no port in the Caribbean is so respectable that, once the sun sets, there is no sound of brawl and drunken laughter in the streets, that there are no shadows lurking in dark corners. The shadow he sees now is swaying and belongs to a disreputable scoundrel who has no place, even in the vilest parts of the town. Norrington's steps gain purpose, his fingers slide to the sword's cold hilt as he follows into a narrow alley, so plain as not to warrant even a tavern.

A sound to his left catches him unawares, but while he spins around, his sword is only halfway out of the scabbard when he is shoved into the wall, a dagger levelled at his throat. Sparrow, so quick from prey to predator, is flaunting his infuriating grin at him.

"Sparrow." Norrington hisses through clenched teeth. It is the worst oath he can think of.

The grin vanishes, the blade presses closer to his skin. "I know you can do better than that, Commodore."

He swallows but keeps silent until he feels a warm drop slide down his throat. "Captain Sparrow."

The pirate does not mind the dripping disdain in Norrington's voice, and the grin slips back into place as the dagger withdraws a little. "Wasn't that difficult, now was it? Just a bit of respect for good ol' Jack."

"That would imply that I held any respect for you in the first place, pirate," Norrington points out.

"Really, Commodore, I'm disappointed. You let yourself be caught by a man you don't even respect? Thought higher of your skills than that." Sparrow's voice fakes indignation, mocks.

"Save your flattery for someone who is impressed by it."

The tone grows petulant. "Now that wouldn't be interesting in the least! No challenge at all!"

"A challenge? Do you mean if I acted to be impressed by your antics, you will leave me alone? I dare not hope."

"If I unnerve you that much, why follow me?"

"To see you brought to justice." A statement of the obvious.

"See, it's you having that unpleasant obsession not to leave me alone. Not my fault at all, mate."

"Then what in the blazes are you doing?" Norrington's voice has lost all trace of patience now.

"Should be obvious, Commodore. Holding a dagger to your lovely throat."

"Spare your breath and my nerves and tell me what you want."

Sparrow cocks his head, brown eyes twinkling in amusement. "What I want? My Pearl, a good, strong drink or two, pleasant company. Not all that much if you come to think of it, really."

Norrington is well aware that Sparrow isn't as stupid as he pretends to be in order to goad him. "What do you want from me?"

"Exactly what makes you think I don't just want to slit your throat, bloodthirsty pirate that I am?" The blade touches the skin just above his cravat, then slices through the linen, the white fabric falling to the dirty ground.

The Commodore stares back, unflinching. "If you did, I would be dead already."

Eyes narrow, Sparrow's face turns serious. "Sharp. Very well, Norrington. I demand a forfeit."

"Which manner of forfeit?"

Sparrow looks contemplative, as if ticking off a list in his head. At the last one, his grin widens, but his mouth remains uncharacteristically shut. The silence hangs between them, thick and heavy like the damp air, until Norrington's voice cuts through it, dripping with disdain.

"Lost for words, Sparrow?"

"You know better than that. Just thinking about showing you. Takes less of your precious time." With that, Norrington feels chapped lips pressed to his. Then Sparrow's tongue slides forward, wet and fast, and the Commodore retaliates as he does to everything out of the pirate's mouth, scraping teeth along its underside as he lets it entwine with his own.

Pride protests, is stronger than the heat curling in his groin, and Norrington pulls his head away. "I am not a whore, Sparrow!" he spits out. The blade is still dangerously close to his throat, but he will not barter for his life with his body.

"No, that you aren't, mate. You're enjoying it without further incentive." the pirate observes far too truthfully as he presses full-length to the trapped Naval officer. "But have it as you like." The blade caresses Norrington's skin, slides up to his ear before it withdraws completely.

Norrington growls low in his throat, and suddenly, threat gone, their positions are reversed as he shoves Sparrow into the cold brick wall. "I will take that as an invitation," he whispers, his breath hot on the pirate's ear as he grinds their hips together.

"Oh, I was hoping you would," Sparrow attempts to cover up his gasp of surprise and lust as he lets his hands slide under the white wig, pushing it to the ground unheeded and tangling in the short brown hair beneath. Norrington kisses him again, hot and hungry, quickly divests him of waistcoat and shirt while Sparrow returns the favour.

When the pirate's grimy hands, grey in the pale light, wander across his pectorals, Norrington half expects them to feel cold on his exposed skin. Instead Sparrow's hands are warm; as hot and exciting as he remembers this to be; and he groans when they twist and pinch one of his nipples.

Nimble fingers move to unbutton his breeches and he arches into the touch despite the mocking chuckle. Norrington grabs the narrow hips, spins them around and presses Sparrow into the wall, bronze arms bracing the lithe body when he yanks down the worn breeches. Firm buttocks grind against Norrington's crotch and he bites down where neck meets shoulder, impatiently pushing two fingers into the tight opening.

The sky breaks then, the wind picks up and showers them in Caribbean rain, dense and warm and wet. Norrington throws his head back and laughs at the dark clouds. Sparrow arches under his touch, bares his teeth in a wild grin before he pushes back, brings Norrington's own hand in contact with his painfully hard erection.

"Sparrow," he growls, voice throaty and full of desire, without the usual scorn, and then he presses inside, the water cascading down the line of Sparrow's spine and into the cleft of his buttocks easing his entry.

"More than welcome to call me Jack, Norrington," A harsh gasp, the question lingering unspoken until Norrington relents and gives up "James," as he draws back and pushes in again.

"James," Jack repeats huskily, then groans as the pace quickens. He calls out the name again, a strangled oath wrung forth with another thrust. James grabs his hips, pulls them in on his next surge forward, and the next. The pouring rain slaps against their bared skin, mingles with their sweat, runs down their bodies in bright streams. He pushes the mat of hair, heavy with water, away; and when he latches his teeth to Jack's neck, James tastes the sea, wild and free and salty.

He thrusts with restless energy, grip nearly bruising around sharp hipbones pressing into his palms until he relinquishes his hold with one, curling it around Jack's prick, stroking roughly in counterpoint to their coupling as he feels the body under him shudder and writhe.

The sky douses them with rain, a curtain of water swallows their gasps and growls of pleasure, swallows Jack's scream, hot liquid spilling over James's fist as Jack's inner muscles clench in wild abandon.

Restlessness and lust, longing and release, James cries it out to the turbulent sky above as he spends himself, as he staggers forward, as he presses both of them breathless against the cold bricks. For a brief moment, there is only the sound of the rain pouring down and their uneven respiration.

Jack is the first to stir, to hurriedly put on his breeches and move out from under pinning arms. James winds them around him again, the suddenly tensing muscles relaxing when lips meet in another kiss, when tongues slide alongside another in the aftermath of pleasure. After they draw apart, James pulls on his own breeches and by the time he has picked up his drenched shirt, Jack is completely dressed, a few steps away and eyeing him cautiously.

When Norrington makes no move towards his sword, Jack uses the wary truce to seize another sloppy kiss. As he pulls back, he bites down on his swollen lower lip.

Norrington draws it into his mouth, tastes the faint tang of blood before a grin spreads on his face. "I believe I can always remember this as the day I finally caught Captain Jack Sparrow."

Jack grins back at him and shrugs, "If you want. And you're welcome to catch me again if you promise not to bring your irons with you, at least not for unpleasant purposes. Ta for now." With that, he disappears into the shadows.

Norrington's laugh is carried away in the wind that tears soaked strands of hair from his forehead.

The chase never ends. Even when the rules change.