Something was wrong. Where the familiar prickling warmth of his wig should have been, there was nothing but cold—cold and mushy sinking into his hair, cold and wet trickling down the back of his neck, cold and white and sticky-sweet smearing over his face, hands and uniform. Soaking inextricably into the inside of his hat. He pulled it off impatiently, and globs of white splatted against the ground.

James screamed. His wig was melting.

He woke up in bed, silent and shaking. He hadn't made a sound—he never did—but warm arms still tightened around him, his companion waking the moment he did.

"What is it, love?" Jack asked sleepily. "Skeletons again?"

"Worse. Much much worse." Ignoring the corner of his mind that insisted the nightmare was all Jack's fault—pirate-hang-him-don't-trust-danger—James snuggled deeper into the warm embrace. If he dreamed again, he didn't remember it, and if he screamed at all it was for a far different reason.