There was a time when James Norrington had thought of himself as stealthy. A quiet, serious boy, it had not been uncommon for him to spend hours reading in some hidden nook. His mother could always find him when she needed him, but after her death he found it easier to slip away from the bustle of three chattering sisters and one older brother who had been born seeking every available scrap of attention in the house. Indeed, his father often took a stroll through the garden and passed right under James' favorite tree, heedless of his son's presence as he was of his absence. When he went away to sea, this ability to fade from consciousness served him well on bad crews; however, he soon realized that, if he truly aspired to a position higher than family honor demanded, he would have to be noticed.

So James had taken to command with a will. Surprising though it was to those who had always known him to guard his tongue and modulate his tone, no one could argue he was unsuccessful. After all, men who could not effect a stern eye, a carrying voice, and a spine stiffened by duty were not likely to be made commodore at the age of thirty. He was proud of his professional accomplishments, despite the fact that attempts to likewise invigorate his private life had failed somewhat miserably not long after the promotion. He tamped down the various doubts raised by the incident with the governor's daughter and the Black Pearl, choosing instead to take comfort in his station, where he always knew the direction of the wind and the angle of the sun.

As he discovered down a ragged alley in Port Royal, it was somewhat more difficult to tread lightly after all these years than it had been to learn to march in time.

James was peering into the gloom where Jack Sparrow had disappeared when a familiar voice drawled, "You haven't much aptitude for deceitful pursuit, Commodore."

He turned smartly on his heel, glaring at the man who had somehow circled back behind him. It was humiliating to be outpaced on one's own home streets—no matter that he'd spent the better part of the past month onboard ship. And no matter that Sparrow had had reason to familiarize himself with the town in the half-year since it had nearly seen him hanged. "You would know, I suppose." He'd meant it to be cutting, but Sparrow grinned insouciantly at what he obviously perceived to be a compliment. James's fingers curled around the hilt of his sword.

"Now that's hardly polite," said Sparrow with a wounded expression, though his hand lay casually upon the butt of his pistol. "I could've got the jump on you at any point during this little expedition."

"Doubtful," James snapped. His stomach tightened at the sight of a mocking half-smile, and he was not certain if the sensation was pleasant or unpleasant. His discomfort must have shown on his face, for Sparrow's mouth twisted into a leer.

"Why, James, I thought you'd be pleased to see me after last time! I brought your wig back," he added helpfully, reaching into his coat with his free hand and plucking the bedraggled thing out. James closed his eyes, control slipping as he was assaulted by memories of when he'd seen that wig last. Rum and gold in his mouth, lean muscle beneath his hands, clever fingers between his thighs, pale shaft of moonlight across shoulders stained with sun, ink, and distant cruelty. He'd never touched marks left by the lash before—

He swallowed hard and bit out, "What do you want?" Surely the best way to disabuse Sparrow of the notion that he would revisit such a sin was to deny it had indeed ever happened.

James expected more winking and nudging, but Sparrow seemed distracted. He glanced over his shoulder at the street down which they had come—empty now, though a few muffled shouts and curses suggested a disagreement nearby. It would serve him right if it were some of his marines in a scrap, and here he was following a drunken scoundrel instead of supervising their first evening of leave in weeks. Groves was a good sort, but he could not always be counted on to maintain decorum; Gillette was laid up with a broken arm, and Whaley was a boy of nineteen. With Sparrow's crew in port, there was no telling what sort of mischief the men might find at the bottom of a tankard.

"I'd best show you, and anyways ought t' be getting back before someone kicks up a fuss." He tucked the wig away again, absently, as if he'd forgotten the reason he held it.

If only he had waggled his dark eyebrows, minced across the street, drew a fingertip along that absurd mustache, suggested they retire to a small dusty room like the one in which they'd somehow ended up after James had caught him slipping from Turner's smithy like a shabby ghost...anything untoward and James would have sniffed in disdain and returned to his men. Possibly even arrested the blackguard, although so far he hadn't been able to make it stick.

Instead he followed the quick, light footsteps around the corner.

"'M havin' some cargo troubles," Sparrow explained, sighing when James snorted in disbelief. "Spanish cargo, never you fear—an' it was even bought legal. Or at least, bits of it were."

James scowled at him as they ducked inside a doorway with a broken hinge, which Sparrow had to fiddle with to get it to open. "What could possibly make you think I'd be of help to you in such a situation?" He was relieved to hear that the reports were accurate and the Black Pearl had not been going after English ships. He was more relieved not to have to think about what he'd do if she had.

"Your father had a cattle farm in Northamptonshire, din't he?"

"An estate, where he bred prize-winning livestock after he retired from service, and how did you know—" James broke off abruptly, sniffing the air inside the drab little building.

Sparrow made a faint, uncertain noise as he lifted a lantern off a hook by the door. As it flared to life, James took a step back, then automatically checked the bottom of his shoe.

Colonel Norrington had been the sort of man who preferred the company of cattle to that of his children, but even he had never brought home creatures such as the ones backing away from them. There were approximately the size of a small pony, but in appearance they reminded him of nothing so much as the camel he had once seen in a duke's menagerie; he was quite certain, however, that camels in the wild did not grow long matted hanks of hair like a poorly groomed sheepdog. He could scarcely see the creatures' eyes beneath it.

"That," he said quietly, "is the ugliest cargo I have ever seen."

"This is an ancient and noble beast!" Sparrow protested. James noticed that he didn't move any closer, nor did the creatures seem inclined to welcome him as their keeper.

James shook his head, old habit taking over and irritation temporarily forgotten. He held out a hand to the nearest animal, whose coat was a rather nice russet color. "What are they?"

"Called alpacas—they were like sheep to the Incas. Highly prized," said Sparrow defensively, watching the exchange with some alarm. In James's opinion the red alpaca was simply considering his approach with equanimity, but Sparrow apparently saw something more sinister in its pricked ears. "Careful, that one's got a nasty habit of—"

As he was speaking, the beast turned and promptly spit in his face.

James withdrew his hand to his mouth, not bothering to stifle his laughter overmuch. The alpaca seemed placated, for it made the strange, low humming sound that he had mistakenly attributed elsewhere, gazing at him with limpid black eyes. He kept his movements slow and deliberate as he drew a handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket.

"Many thanks," Sparrow muttered, swiping his cheeks. He now wore a hangdog expression not unlike the alpaca's. In fact, its heavy wool bore a strong resemblance to Sparrow's own black locks. It must be just as unpleasant in the heat. James reached out tentatively to pat its neck.

"It's soft," he said with some surprise.

"Well, o'course it's soft, else why would people twist it up and make fashionable things out of it?" Jack regarded his possession with resentment. "Or rather, that's what they're supposed t' be for. I can't find a merchant who'll take the bloody things off my hands, though the little fellow tending them swore they'd fetch a fine price in the Indies."

The alpaca tolerated the attention, prompting the others to sidle forward. Twitching its nose, it uttered the soft noise again, less interrogative this time.

"Is it...humming?" he asked, fascinated.

"Aye, they do that when they're not screamin' their fool heads off," Jack replied, wrinkling his nose. "Someday I'd like t' meet the man who first looked at one o' these and said, 'Surely there is a creature what was given us by the gods on high.'"

James chuckled, rubbing the alpaca beneath its chin. "Has it occurred to you that the problem lies with your animal husbandry skills, not with the beasts themselves?" He had to admit, at least they appeared to be well fed. The stone floor was strewn quite comfortably with fresh straw, and some of the alpacas had grown settled enough to drink from the water trough to Sparrow's right.

"See, that's why I knew you wouldn't clap me in irons this time. What charges should you bring against me? Nicking a herd of obstreperous humming sheep from an enemy of England?"

The reminder of their natural opposition was unwelcome, and James remembered his place. "I still don't see why I should help you—even if I could. You may be overestimating the ambition of the average sheep farmer, Jack."

He hadn't noticed the use of Sparrow's Christian name until it slipped out—but he did notice the wicked gleam it put back in the man's eye, and groaned inwardly.

"I'd make it worth your while," Jack—damn him—offered in a warm tone.

Color rushed to James's cheeks. This was a thread of conversation that must be snipped immediately, yet he could not seem to summon the ire that should merit. The alpaca hummed again, a curiously reassuring noise. He stroked its soft nose and said, with an attempt at levity, "Surely you aren't suggesting that my—my passions are roused by a heathen breed of livestock."

The attempt failed. His voice went dangerously low on the word "passions"—a word, he was quite certain, he had never uttered in his life. He rolled his shoulders to ease the sudden tension.

A laugh burst out of Jack's pursed lips, startling the alpacas. "Why, Commodore, I would suggest no such thing—nor would I need a camelid intercessor to rouse you." He sidled closer, running his thumb over the buttons on James' borrowed brown coat. "Or don't you remember, eh?"

His knees were threatening to shake. James pushed Jack's arm aside and sat down on the edge of the water trough, dropping his face into one hand. Jack followed him, but at least he was finally quiet.

"I thought—once," he said hoarsely, disgusted with himself and suddenly tired of it. "Once and I'd never think of it again. Once and you'd consider the challenge met, the commodore vanquished. That we could be done with it, then."

Jack dropped to his knees, leaning on James' shoulder for support. The alpacas shifted and hummed behind him. James expected to see more merry torment on that elfin face, but Jack looked almost sober.

"I thought the same." He offered a wry smile, touching James's cuff, then the skin of his wrist. Gently, where before he had been bold as brass. "Perhaps you're more devious than I gave you credit for, James."

James felt that this—sentiment and too-familiar name both—should give him considerable pause; but he only dropped his gaze, and turned Jack's palm over to lace their fingers together.

"If you—" he began, haltingly.

But Jack leaned in, quick like he expected denial still. Just as quickly, James hopped awkwardly to the side, so that in his eagerness Jack landed face-down in the full trough.

"Easy," said James to the grumbling alpacas, and again to a spluttering Jack. He shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I was about to say, if you'd be so good as to wash the alpaca spittle off your face, we might leave the animals in peace for the night."

Jack's mouth, hanging open with indignation, now snapped comically shut. He hauled himself to his feet with a grip on James's waist, which he somehow forgot to release once standing.

"Down, Jamie," he said sternly to the russet alpaca as he spun them around to the door. James rolled his eyes and tugged him out into the alley before the beast could mark him again.