Jack Sparrow waits for the inevitable remark.

He has received, over the years, reactions ranging between amazement, horror, laughter, envy, disgust, pity, awe and, once, near Singapore, professional interest (and after that, the only tattoo on his body not painted around a scar—the sparrow on his arm). Only the 'P' is unadorned. Unchanged. James stands too close, close enough for Jack to scent sweat, a sour reminder of the general lack of bathing facilities aboard the Pearl, and something appealingly masculine. Musk. Long fingers roughened by sword work and, lately, menial labor, trace the old blotched white scar low on his back (turned into a compass) with surprising gentleness.

Darkening sky, scents mingling with the too-sweet stench of refuse left in a corner of the alley, just off Tudor Street, Bridgetown, Barbados. Coat and shirt left haphazardly on a grimy, rotting barrel. Crumbling brick, and a wanted poster with an unflattering likeness and a name, which he takes pains to correct, to his companion's amusement.

James dips his head, fingers pulling away dreadlocks to bite, then suck at the skin where Jack's neck meets his shoulder, until the reddened spot is visible even on tanned flesh. Another bite, slightly lower. Jack purrs. James rubs his tongue over both marks and steps between Jack and the wall. Lips press against the curve of one shoulder. The beard prickles.

Still no comment.

Jack braces his left hand on the brick to steady himself, as a thigh is pushed between his legs. A hand creeps down towards the small of his back. James' eyes are closed. Fingers wrap the headscarf around dark hair, exposing the two new scars on his neck (will fade, in a day or two).

Jack's already wondering what he'd get over those. An inverted crown, perhaps, or a snake, curled around an apple.

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