His control was iron and it rarely slipped. Even when he'd taken part in his first sea battle and been immersed in the fear and fury of six hundred men, he had not let their emotions touch him. No amount of wounded sailors could hit him with the power of a dying mother. He had been just six years old, but once he had regained consciousness, he knew he must never allow anyone to affect him like that again. He worked tirelessly, searching out the connections within himself—head, heart, soul; he'd never known precisely where they were anchored—and closing them off. He could never sever them, not entirely, but he could damp them down as he might bank the coals of a fire. Within a year, just as his father began to notice how he had withdrawn, he'd become proficient enough to leave the house again. The servants stopped eyeing him and went back to pitying him. Or at least he assumed so; he was no longer privy to their unease and suspicion.

There were mishaps in the ensuing years. Certain lovers—a girl when he was a midshipman, a captain when he was a lieutenant—slipped past his defenses. By the time he got to Jamaica, he had adapted to this sort of influence as well, and he suffered no further until the night of Elizabeth Swann's eighteenth birthday. When he danced with her, he tasted the champagne she had been drinking, sweet and cool, the same shade of pink as her flushed cheeks. Her feet ached, but she laughed in his arms and didn't care. By the time he had realized what was happening and shuttered his senses, it was too late.

And then there was the pirate.

It had never happened with a stranger before. The only reason he faltered was because he grew accustomed to a person, let his guard down, could guess what they were feeling well enough that he had trouble telling when he had gone wrong.

With Sparrow, from the first moment he rose to his feet at Norrington's sword, Norrington had had to concentrate fiercely to keep control. The effort made his head throb, his spine go rigid, made him snap at his officers. And Sparrow, damn him—he almost suspected Sparrow of knowing, of pressing him on purpose. Norrington knew it was impossible, but he couldn't shake the thought whenever he looked into the man's eyes.

He could not see those eyes now, hidden to the right of the cell as he was. The guard was asleep, snoring away, and the two recaptured prisoners across the way were likewise insensible. Sparrow was wide awake, humming to himself—softly, but loud enough to mask the footsteps approaching him.

Leaning against the stone wall, Norrington drew in a deep breath. It wasn't easy going back on twenty-five years of self-discipline. He wasn't at all sure that what he was about to do was wise. But he could not let Sparrow hang on the morrow without some idea of why he was so affected by this one man. Perhaps it was dangerous to open up; perhaps it would be more dangerous to not do so, to face the execution unprepared.

So Norrington closed his eyes and reached out.

Sparrow was thinking the way a trapped beast tried to find its way out of confinement. Norrington couldn't read the text, but he could feel Sparrow throwing himself at one idea, puff up with hope, and wilt with disappointment when he dismissed it. Then he would be off doing it again, over and over, until James was dizzy from the endless circling. He wanted to pace, but he dared not reveal his presence.

At last Sparrow seemed to run out of eventualities and began to grow pensive. James braced himself for the crushing despair and panic accompanying the acceptance of one's own imminent death. He had been protecting himself from this since he had joined the navy, and he was sure that with his odd awareness of this man, the impact would be enhanced tenfold.

It never happened. Sparrow was angry, true, and he was upset. But he wasn't fearful or regretful. There was even a sort of bitterly satisfied tone to his emotions, as if he'd done something that made it all worthwhile.

James tasted blood and unclenched his teeth, reaching up to rub at his bitten lip. Peace. The last thing he would have expected to find in Jack Sparrow's heart was peace.

While he stood against the wall, fighting his puzzlement, Sparrow's mind wandered away from matters of death. Norrington felt a great curiosity from him, a musing over somebody or something that sufficiently distracted Sparrow from his fate. The feeling warmed into sensation, grew heavier, sank from Norrington's mind to his blood, his bones, his cock.

Lust.

Even as his jaw dropped in shock, he felt Sparrow's thoughts throb like a heartbeat, slow and steady beneath his own. He held a hand over his mouth and dug his fingernails into mortar and brick.

If he strained his ears, he could hear it—Sparrow shifting on the hard floor, the faintest of gasps. From the way his desire suddenly spiked, he had to be touching himself. Norrington imagined him in the dark cell, head thrown back, teeth bared, hips bucking under his own caress.

Norrington had been careful never to let go in bed, and now he knew why. God, it was so strong, so much, and at the same time not enough—he needed—

He heard Sparrow moan as he slipped his hand down, beneath his coat, past his belt. He couldn't be bothered to undo his breeches so there was hardly enough room for movement—breeches tight around his hand around his cock, as tight as Sparrow's body might be. Norrington thought of hands held out to him, dark eyes canted up at him, promising both surrender now and defiance at some later date. He stroked harder.

Sparrow was lost in his fantasy, squirming, panting, his every response tugging on Norrington's nerves. In a corner of his mind Norrington wondered what Sparrow saw that was so inspiring, but mostly he concentrated on what he saw—a pirate golden-tongued and bronze-skinned spread before him, beneath him, voice breaking on his name. And he would be crying out too, groaning and hissing into a sinfully decadent mouth. He could taste the man, smell his salt and tar, feel his thighs tighten and spasm as climax struck hard and true. And Sparrow would say to him—

"Commodore," came the strained whisper from the cell, and Norrington's vision shattered into white.

Long after Sparrow resigned himself to sleep and to the morning, Norrington stood silently against the prison wall. He was there when the guard grunted himself awake. Nodding at the marine's frantic apologies, he walked circuits of the fort until the gawkers began to arrive.