A conveniently placed trellis overflowing with light-gold flowers of Jamaican honeysuckle provided Jack with an easy route to the Commodore's bedroom window, and, he thought, he could hardly be expected to resist that, could he? The handcarved sign on the windowsill seemed to imply that yes, he should resist, but he regarded it with amused disdain. His eyes settled, drawn irresistibly to James, where he lay half-curled on his bed, his pale skin washed of all colour by the moonlight. Pretty. Grinning delightedly, he bent his attention to prying the window open.


James awoke to a stream of outraged, and outrageous, curses coming from the garden below. Ah. It seemed Sparrow had discovered the water-trap he'd set up in case of pirates. One pirate in particular, of course. He stuck his head out the now open window and admired his handiwork. The pirate dripped at him, sulkily, and stopping swearing.

"Really, Sparrow," he said dryly, without giggling, "I would have thought 'pirates prohibited' was reasonably clear, even to you."

Soaked to the bone, Jack glared up at him in silent indignation. "You dropped a bucket on me," he said flatly. "Of water."

"You tried to break into my home," James replied equably. "Besides, it was clean water."

"That's almost worse."

"Use the door, Jack."

"Fine."


James spent the rest of the night teasing his lover out of his sulk, out of his wet clothes, and out of his mind. Such as he had, anyway.


Jack never did learn to use the door.