"I can see why you say nobody will recognize me here," James said dubiously, as a stooped, whiskery man with a faded checkered headband motioned them to a set of comfortable leather sofas set around a low dark wood table, handing a set of menus to Gillette.

"It's new," Groves sank with relief into a chair, rubbing his eyes and yawning. "Opened just a couple of months back. Best fish and chips I've had."

James settled into a chair, eyeing the establishment skeptically. "Fish and chips?"

The Black Pearl was a bar off a side street from North End—the front was flamboyantly noticeable—a gold concentric pattern picked out on smoky glass, flowing script etched below that proclaiming the name of the place. The door was a horror of mock iron, in its almost Boschian surrealism of gargoyles. Inside, however, the Pearl managed to seem oddly elegant, yet decadent—dark leather sofas and settees were arranged around rich wood tables over warm oak paneling. Gilt-framed paintings of seascapes and various mythical creatures hung on the walls. The bar occupied the center of the room—polished mahogany, presided over by a pretty black woman in a long-sleeved cream blouse, currently deftly mixing a cocktail.

"And any sort of seafood. The cook is great," Gillette assured him, picking through the laminated menu. "And, well, if the service is erratic, and the owner a little odd, it's a nice place to relax after hours."

James made a neutral sound, instead glancing over at the other patrons— there were some sharp suits in a corner, straight-backed in their chairs, discussing something in low tones; three giggling girls, student-age, clustered together on a settee and sharing finger foods and cocktails; a silent, morose man of indeterminate age and frayed clothing, nursing a beer at the counter; a group of Chinese of mixed genders and ages, speaking in their dialect as they gestured at each other's dishes. He was glad he had agreed to follow the two Captains out for lunch—the office had been so busy this past month that he hadn't been aware how much he had needed a break (even something this small, and short) until he had taken it. Being Commodore in the Naval base of Portsmouth could be so demanding.

They ordered various fruit cocktails and three servings of fish and chips from a fresh-faced, handsome lad who fumbled a little with his notepad, and then James asked, "What do you mean, odd?"

"Oh. The owner?" Groves shrugged. "Strange guy. Moves funny. Talks with an odd accent."

"Calls himself Captain Jack Sparrow," Gillette continued, with a faint grin and a finger gesture around his temple. Crazy.

"Who's crazy?" drawled an amiable voice, somewhere above James' head. James twisted around, with a startled oath, and looked up into kohl-painted, amused dark eyes. A rumpled red headscarf kept dark brown dreadlocks minimally in check over a tired, half-open blue shirt with an untidy collar. The man grinned, flashing gold fillings, at the Naval officers' expressions of shock—he had crept up on them unseen and unheard.

Groves was the first to recover, turning to James, as though people creeping up on them to break into their conversations was absolutely natural. "That's Mister Sparrow."

"Captain Sparrow," Sparrow corrected absently, leaning his chin on the high-backed sofa chair. "But ye can call me Jack."

"Andrew," Gillette said, a little hesitantly, as he introduced himself.

"Theodore." Groves was more forthcoming—and he grinned.

"James," James said, as wary as Gillette, but for different reasons. Sparrow was staring thoughtfully at him, in a way that was distinctly disconcerting and almost... queer. His skin prickled.

"Pleased t'meet ye all," Sparrow said, in his not-quite-Cockney accent, straightening up, suddenly, and throwing them a mock salute. "Hope ye enjoy yer stay on the Pearl, officers."

Once the man had sauntered away, Gillette frowned, and asked, "Did we tell him who we were?"

Groves shook his head, and shrugged. "Strange guy."

The fish and chips were indeed extremely good.


--


James found himself becoming a regular at the Pearl. It was relaxing to have a place where no one recognized him as the Commodore at Portsmouth, the fruit cocktails were all good, and so far he hadn't tried a dish which had left him unsatisfied. Or so he would say, if pressed.

The fact was, however, that he loved watching Jack Sparrow with his exquisitely elfish features swagger around the bar, occasionally taking orders from customers or serving, but more often than not simply plopping himself down at a table and entering conversations, uninvited but not unwelcome. It was hypnotic.


--


The bar was full on the one Friday night that he came for drinks. James watched the cleared floor with its swaying bodies for a moment, disoriented by the roving lights and the suspect music (some sort of strange fusion between New Age and jazz, the slow beat jarring) bought a cold beer at the bar and settled in one of the chairs that had been pushed up against a wall, the thick back a symbolic buffer between himself and the rest of the bar, all but curling up and purring at the blissful malty taste.

After the third beer (thankfully, he didn't have to leave the chair—the black woman, today in a figure-hugging red dress, walked around with a heavy-looking tray of drink, apparently used to the few clientele who simply wished to hide out in pockets of comfortable leather and drink quietly), the world was becoming nicely fuzzy. His body relaxed, as his mind gave up the backlog of stress that the week's diplomatic issues had been building within him, and he wondered what would happen if he simply fell asleep in the chair.

The mental picture of the Commodore of Portsmouth, thrown out in the A.M., for oversleeping his welcome, made him laugh, as he started on the fourth beer, and he blinked as a warm weight slipped onto his lap. "Jack?"

Jack nodded, curling up, knees over the plush arm rest, drinking his own beer. Not beer. Strange smell. Rum. James' brow furrowed. "What are you doing?"

Jack smiled, and when he spoke, the smell of rum mixed not unpleasantly with that of beer. "Mm. Haven't had enough beer not to care, Commodore?"

James frowned, and carefully put the beer down on the nearest table in reach. "To care?"

The manager and owner of the Pearl placed his own drink down, next to James', and purred, "You've been watching me." He was dressed in a white leather trench that came up to his knees, a soft black shirt unbuttoned all the way to his silver belt buckle, jeans torn at the knees and tucked into bucket-topped boots that had likely gone out of fashion centuries ago.

James managed not to flinch or stare at the tanned flesh—he smiled tightly instead. "Lots of people watch you, I'm sure. You're... noticeably different."

"I act strange, ye mean," Jack wriggled as he moved to straddle James' lap. His self-control eroded somewhat by the amount of alcohol he had just imbibed, James' moan was badly stifled, and he could feel brown dress pants becoming uncomfortable.

"Jack," James hissed, "We're in public." When that came out from his throat, James noted, a little distantly, how 'What are you doing?' or 'Stop' would have been far more appropriate. What he just said only seemed like... only seemed... he moaned again, this time a little more loudly, as Jack rolled his hips, grinding down on the definite bulge.

He was the Commodore of Portsmouth. He couldn't do this. Wouldn't. Even with anti-discrimination laws, any hint of scandal, especially this sort of scandal, would... But he arched, when Jack mouthed his neck, and murmured, "Nobody will see," in his ear, breathily. "Everybody's dancin', an' the music's pretty loud."

James blamed the buzz of alcohol and the slow beat of music; the thrum of dancing bodies and the muted light for the sudden spike of lust; he growled, shifted Sparrow in his lap, and licked a long, wet trail from abdomen to neck, one hand squeezing the pert rump, then sliding in front to briefly cup the obvious erection—Sparrow gasped, as teeth pulled at a nipple, and he slid down James' shirt, to rub insistently against his hips, fingers dancing impatiently over his belt. That made James shake himself out of the lust-alcohol stupor for a moment, his eyes focusing. "I can't. We're in public, and..." And this needed more trust than he could afford to give. Or so he wanted to say, but studying the decadence offered so blatantly before him, was unable to.

Sparrow tilted his head. "Bathroom?" The question was self-deprecatory—there was a faint twist to his lip.

James hesitated, then nodded, tightly.


--


Elizabeth, on her way to the Pearl's unisex washroom to freshen up for a second shift at the bar, frowned at William when he held up a hand, just outside the ornate oak door with the gilt knob. "What?"

William grinned, and put a finger to his lips. Arching an eyebrow, Elizabeth complied. The bathroom was down a narrow corridor from the bar proper, and the sounds of dancing and laughter were muted, save for the beat of the music.

No, wait. That wasn't the music.

Elizabeth colored, and her breath hissed out in irritation. "I'll get Bo'sun to eject whoever those are."

"It's better that you don't," William said, dryly, "Listen."

Elizabeth opened her mouth to snap at William and accuse him of being a lecher, when, very distinctly, even through the oak door, she heard Jack Sparrow say, in a low, throaty purr, "Fuck."

And a very male voice, slightly breathy and strained, moaned in response. Elizabeth opened her mouth, closed it, then dragged William firmly away.


--


Motels, the Pearl's storeroom, the floor of Jack's apartment above the bar, and once, with Jack stretched over the counter, after closing. Almost always hard, nearly brutal, at times, merely lust, and so, so good it had to be unholy.


--


The night that Sparrow curled up against him, instead of pulling back to clean up, in a remote motel just off the outskirts of Portsmouth, James came to the realization that, at least for half of the party to their mutual and unspoken arrangement, it was slowly no longer becoming 'just sex'. The thought scared him, and he tensed—that made Sparrow frown, and look up, only to grimace and glance away, rolling out of bed to walk a little stiffly to the shower. James propped himself up against the headboard of the cheap bed and closed his eyes.

The arrangement couldn't continue, he knew, not at this point—either it turned into something he didn't feel he could handle, not with his reputation and career at stake, or they shut it down altogether. Homosexuality might be politically correct, nowadays, but it was only surface—he might never be promoted, not easily, and his public and private life, from the point of discovery onwards, would be scrutinized to a degree that he would find intolerable. And all for the owner of a bar with enchanting kohl-painted dark eyes. He wanted to tell himself it could be worthwhile—he knew it would be worthwhile—but he couldn't.

Which meant the other choice...

When Sparrow padded out, smelling of cheap motel shampoo and soap, dressing slowly on the pieces of discarded clothes strewn on the ground, he smiled, at the door, as he pulled James' longer, blue-striped collared shirt over his white tee, then zipped up faded jeans. He inclined his head, and left, without looking back.

James stood in the shower for a long time, feeling the warm water turn cold over his shoulders.

-fin-


Note
Ideas stick too easily into my mind, and I was contemplating doing a modern Sparrington AU a while back, after reading Summer. On October 17th I walked past a gorgeous bar/lounge/café place on Brunswick Street, Fitzroy, Melbourne, called 'Black Pearl'. :O Then I saw this review (after a brief google search):

"i don't usually go to the bars on B st but, oh well, it's pretty inside and they make interesting good cocktails with all sorts of fresh fruits and the bar staff were a bit uncool and the patronage was a real mix."

And so, the AU was born. XD Personally, I love reading AU stories (outside of the high school sort).