Jjail

by Firesignwriter

Pairing: Jack/James
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Disney's. No money. Don't sue. Those that aren't Disney's (particularly Alondra and Sad Sam) are mine.Please be so kind as to leave them in my care unless you ask me first.
Archive: You like it? I give it to you.
Originally Posted: 2005?
Note: This is the complete version of Jjail, reposted because I know a number of people only read it through the rather depressing cliffhanger that hung around for a very long time. Feedback welcome in the comments or at gallowsbird at gmail dot com. I rarely get online these days, so answers aren't a sure thing (or even that likely, to be honest), but if you enjoy the fic, know that I'll enjoy hearing as much. Thank you kindly.
Summary: "This is just... a misunderstanding."

The burly guards (and did he really warrant two entire brutes all by his little lonesome?) flung him into the cell with enough force to dash him against the far wall for all his quick-footed efforts to stop his plunge. Ears ringing, he barely heard the jarring squeal of hinges and clank of the latch being shot home by that heavy skeleton key.

His head kept spinning for a little while after he slid to the floor. Probably the mescal. Nasty stuff, that. Were it not for the dusky beauty with the hair down to her backside pouring him mug after mug after mug...

Bah. Women. Trouble on legs, the lot of them.

Not that men actually had all that much going for them either.

Blinking blearily, he finally thought to survey the interior of this straw-strewn cell, lit now by late afternoon sunlight trickling in through the barred window. Depressingly dank, but he'd expected that. No sleeping pallet in sight—again no surprise. And look there: he wasn't alone. Someone whose fortunes looked to be even worse than his was currently huddled in apparent misery in the darkest corner available. He blinked a few more times, trying to clear his vision. Squinted. Peered. Otherwise made efforts to resolve a face from the pale blotch in the shadows.

"Yes, Sparrow," a dry voice finally said, drawling out the words, "it's me."

He'd actually gotten nowhere close to guessing an identity, but that heavy sarcasm couched in velvet clinched it immediately. He wavered to sit up straighter, eyes widening, and pointed a finger in accusation. "You. You're..." The finger stabbed furiously. "You're you."

"Indeed."

"How much d'I have to drink?"

"Too much, I'm sure."

Jack looked at the bars imprisoning them. Thought longingly of rum. Had he been drinking rum, none of this would've happened. He'd put money on it. Rum just wouldn't do this to a man.

It occurred to him after a moment that there was something very fundamentally wrong with this scenario. He glanced sidelong. "An' just what did you—" and he stabbed that finger again in indication "—do to get here, eh?" His eyes were adjusting to the gloom now. He could easily make out the aristocratic scowl twisting Norrington's features all out of symmetry.

"It's a misunderstanding," the commodore snapped. "And it will be settled soon." Or else, his steely voice promised.

Suddenly Jack was catching the whiff of Opportunity. He couldn't pinpoint it just yet, but that part of him that always watched, even when thoroughly fuddled, started tickling at an edge of his thoughts.

He settled down a bit. Tipped his hat forward to shadow his eyes, then crossed his arms comfortably. Eased into patient stillness and prepared to wait.

"What are you doing?"

An eye cracked open. "Eh?"

"What," Norrington said again, irritably, "are you doing?"

"Why?"

"You look as though you're planning to take a nap."

"Good eye," Jack said approvingly. "You notice things. I like that in a cellmate."

"I'm not your cellmate."

"Oh no?"

"This is just a misunderstanding."

A sage nod. "I know exactly what you mean." He laid a finger alongside his nose. "I'm here 'cause of a misunderstanding m'self."

"Is that so?" With enough supercilious doubt to sink a ship.

"Aye," Jack said, graciously ignoring his tone. "I misunderstood that a certain comely lass was in fact not a lass at all, but was in actuality the daughter of a very rich man with a very poor opinion of pirates, and most particularly pirates named Sparrow. Of which I am one. Of both. At once. Conjointly, as it were."

Norrington rolled his eyes. Managed to look rather haughty even huddled in a filthy corner, wigless, in civilian clothing. "That's called idiocy, Sparrow, not a misunderstanding."

Jack turned then, pulling his feet in to sit cross-legged, facing the man squarely in open challenge. "What's your story then?"

"They believe I'm Sad Man Samuel."

"The assassin?"

"One and the same."

A lengthy stare. Norrington met him look for look, a surprisingly calm expression of victory on his face.

"Well?" Jack prodded at last.

"Well what?"

"Are you?"

Comprehension together with exasperation. "No, Sparrow, I am not an assassin."

Thoughtfully, Jack stroked his beaded chin braids. "But then you'd have to say that, would you not?"

Norrington tipped his head back with a drawn-out sigh, staring upwards, arms dangling over his upraised knees. "That's what they said."

"Ahhh." One by one, Jack twisted his rings, thoughts turning with equal idleness. "Seems you're in a bit of a spot, mate. They don't wait so long to kill English assassins 'round here."

"Yes, thank you, I'm quite aware of that."

"Now if you were Spanish, mind, you'd have a couple of days, I'd imagine. Longer if you asked to see a priest a few times."

"As I am not Spanish, nor do I even speak Spanish, tell me what possible good that does me."

"Hm." He spun rings again, one by one. "D'you speak Portuguese?"

Slowly, methodically, Norrington began to thump his head back against the uneven stone of the corner. Jack stared, brow furrowing with some bemusement (and perhaps a little amusement as well). Lost interest in his rings and instead pulled his knees up, looping arms around, leaning in to watch the show.

All at once the thudding stopped. Jack leaned forward a bit more, expectantly.

"Ow," Norrington muttered.

"You don't say."

Eyes slitted on a hard, cold glare. "I do acknowledge the irony in this."

Jack gave him a bit of a grin, a bit of a leer. "I was hoping you would."

"You can stop staring at me now, Sparrow."

He rocked back, an arm sweeping at the unadorned dullness of the cell. "For once, Commodore, you're the most interesting thing around."

Really, he did anticipate a snappy rejoinder at that. So it was a bit disconcerting when instead Norrington looked away from him, past the bars, the tightness around his eyes hinting at some of the darker, more uneasy things that had to be stirring in his chest. "I wish I could say the same."

Eyes narrowing speculatively, Jack only grunted a non-answer.

***

Assassins, it seemed, received special treatment when in custody.

It was black outside the narrow window when they brought Norrington back. In truth Jack had wondered if they would; it had occurred to him when they came to haul the commodore to his feet and drag him from the cell that they might have decided to end the man sooner rather than later. Norrington had spoken to them in English they probably didn't understand, demanding to know their intentions, telling them they were making a very grave error. When the larger guardsman struck him a brutal, silencing blow to the gut, Jack had winced in sympathy. He'd been on that end of the stick more often than he liked to remember.

Norrington was managing to walk—sort of—but once they shoved him into the cell his feet gave out and he went hard to his knees, then his hands. The guards took the lamplight with them; only stars through bars illuminated their prison now. But Jack had seen enough of his face before the guards left. Not pretty.

Without speaking, he rose and moved to the downed man's flank, hands going to either side of his ribs, helping him back to that corner of his. Norrington slumped against one unfriendly wall with an indrawn hiss.

Jack, crouching beside him, snorted. "Ever the stalwart, eh?"

"What?" Ground out between tight-clenched teeth.

"Just admiring your manly refusal to whimper, mate."

A swollen eye peeped at him. Slid closed. "You... would do otherwise...?"

"I'd be whinin' and cursin' 'til your ears fell off. But then, I'm just a pirate, not an assassin. You lot must get special training."

Lips turned in an uneven grimace. He worked his jaw, a hand going to touch lightly at a swollen knot on the right side, all the way back at the hinge. "Is there any water?"

"No."

"Food?"

"You've not been in prison a whole lot, have you?" Jack eased down beside him, ignoring the brief, tired glower from the puffy face. Patted his knee companionably. "Now listen, first thing you've gotta do is stop actin' so bloody unbreakable. Nothin' gets these bastards hotter t' see a man cry than findin' one with a spine so stiff as yours, savvy?"

"When I need your advice, Sparrow..."

Jack arched his scarred eyebrow. Waited.

Sighing, Norrington squinted a look at him. "...I suppose you are the voice of experience here..."

"You might think to show a little gratitude, Norrington. You've not exactly endeared yourself to me in the past, you know."

"I know," the commodore said, a bit too fervently. "Which begs the question of... of why you're 'helping' now."

A single-shoulder shrug. He danced fingers at their barren cell again. "You're still more interesting than weaving straw." With a feeling of familiarity, he scooted closer and dropped a forearm over Norrington's nearest shoulder, sparking another faint hiss. "'sides, looks like you'll be dead soon enough. Never much liked holding grudges with dead men. It's a messy business, an' somehow ending it never feels quite so good as you imagine."

"I'm not going to die. This is just... a misunderstanding."

Jack drew back, gathering feet, his hand trailing over that tense shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Of course it is, Sad Man. I'm sure it'll all be straightened out soon."

***

Unsurprisingly, Norrington was having a bad night. Also unsurprisingly, Norrington's bad night was making Jack's evening similarly unenjoyable as the man's restlessness and muffled sounds of pain did their part to scour his nerves raw. He'd never been much of a fan of pain. Didn't relish causing it. Certainly didn't care for receiving it (though his flesh told the tale that he'd made its acquaintance often enough to know its shoe size). Listening to it ranked among his least favorite ways to spend an evening.

Sleep hadn't much of a chance with that quiet racket. Stretched out in the middle of the earthen floor, arms and legs akimbo, he blew out a loud, gusty breath and stared in the general direction of the ceiling (which he couldn't see at all, but was fairly certain it didn't warrant this amount of attention even when visible).

Norrington took the bait. Come to think of it, he always had, hadn't he? Not to mention dropped his own more than once, knowingly or instinctively. Baity little bastard.

"Don't tell me you're awake, Sparrow."

"I had no intention of telling you any such thing."

"Bad enough I'm imprisoned because of a—"

"Misunderstanding," Jack chimed in, saying it with him, though the commodore ignored him with aplomb.

"—and to have a pirate for a cellmate..."

"Thought we weren't cellmates, mate."

"...and now it seems there will be no sleep to be had. Marvelous."

Jack lifted his head from the straw-strewn dirt, looking to the corner with its miserable lump of naval officer. Norrington hadn't moved much since he'd finally settled there. By now he'd be stiffening up, making bruises and swellings and strains all the lovelier when he dared to breathe. "You've never been beat like that before, have you?"

A lengthy pause. He thought he could just make out the shuttering gleam of eyes blinking at him slowly.

"No," Norrington finally said, voice lacking any inflection.

Jack's head dropped. "Mm." He regarded the blackness above.

After a few breaths, the question came. "Have you?"

"I have."

"But you're not..." The scrape of cloth against stone, and a short breath. "You're not 'stiff-spined.'"

"No, I'm right bendy."

"You said..." Another shift. This time that breath caught on something not the least bit unlike a whimper. A curse followed, soft and fervid.

Jack sat up in a fluid motion, then kept right on flowing to his feet. Padded over. Norrington's head tipped up, his face failing to mask his discomfort, glaring a warning.

Jack rolled his eyes heavenward, then sinuously slid down, pushing and prodding the commodore forward to make room between man and stone.

"Just what do you think you're—"

"Am I not the voice of experience? Trust me." He squeezed in behind, legs straddling to either side even as Norrington hissed and cursed and made ineffectual efforts to pull away that just led to more hissing and cursing. "Be still, man, if you hope to sleep at all tonight."

"But what are you—"

Jack caught the dark-haired head between steepled fingers, holding gently but firmly, fingertips circling in tiny motions, and Norrington stilled abruptly.

"Relax," Jack said in a quiet voice of command.

No comment. No relaxation either, but that would come.

Thumbs rubbed down towards his neck. "Breathe, mate."

Unsteadily, he did so. The tension throughout his battered body was causing a constant little tremor that was no doubt tying his muscles up worse.

A hot bump beneath a questing forefinger warned him off the area just above the left ear. Carefully he mapped out other spots of ache, massaging where it would help, fingers teasing through unbound and thoroughly mussed mahogany hair.

Norrington's breathing steadied gradually as his body slowly, slowly slumped against Jack's rather-more-yielding-than-stone torso. That rigid spine of his loosened marginally, letting Jack roll his head forward to rub at the agonizing tension at the base of his skull, from side to side in order to stretch and ease neck muscles. There was only so much he could do, but distraction in the form of pleasurable contact had its uses, and if the man's overall tautness could be drained it would certainly lessen the pain. Right now those clenching, shivering muscles were their own worst enemies.

Finally Norrington gave up all efforts of holding himself away, sagging entirely against Jack with an almost-suppressed groan. Jack kept up the fingerwalking, his touch ever-shifting, craning his neck a bit to study the commodore's face. Norrington's brow was knitted and lined, eyes squeezed shut, lips curved slightly open around his shallow-if-level respiration. Ethereal starlight made his wounded features ghastly. His lower lip was split, blood crusting along its curve. That swollen eye had puffed and darkened in an ugly way. At the hinge of his jaw, the knot was a smudgy blotch that hurt to look at. And Jack didn't think he wanted to know what damage those civilian clothes were hiding.

"Stop staring at me," Norrington growled wearily, not opening an eye.

"Just seein' how pretty they left you."

"Ha," he said, dry-voiced, "ha."

"They ask you any questions or just take their jollies from your face?"

"Questions."

"What questions?"

"Spanish questions." Lips quirked in brief, bitter amusement. "It would seem Sad Man Samuel is expected to understand the language. I'm sure they're very impressed with my ability to keep my cover intact under duress."

"Hmm." His head tilted as he kept up his scrutiny of that captured, battered visage. "They left your nose in decent shape."

"I'll try to remember to thank them."

Most of that near-constant thrumming had left the body leaning into his. Jack let hands work down to Norrington's shoulders. A little awkward with the angle and no room to really get proper leverage, but he managed well enough. Norrington jerked when he thumbed a particularly sore spot. "Not there?"

"Not there."

He shifted hands. Glided thumbs in languorous strokes. "How's this?"

"That's... that's fine."

Jack smiled. Only a little evilly. "That's fine, eh? How I'm touching you?"

Eyes opened, the one wider than the other. The wariness was back. Given their current positions, Jack found it rather adorable.

"Can I trust that this is..." Norrington's tongue slipped out to moisten dry lips. Oh yes, baity little bastard, whether he meant to be or not. "...this is merely... kindness?"

"I prefer to think of it as shutting you up so I can get some sleep."

"But you're not... ah..."

Jack's smile curved lasciviously, cockeyed, baring gold. He dragged thumbs up the man's neck and back down, fingers pattering along his vulnerable throat.

Norrington swallowed. Tried to shift away, but gasped as the motion pulled again at complaining injuries that had just finally started to quiet.

Jack abandoned the leer, tugging his suddenly unresisting body back again. "I did tell you that sleep is the goal here, did I not? And I assure you, what you just had runnin' through your head isn't very conducive to that end. You're a nice armful, mate, an' I still say Elizabeth must've had the sense knocked out of that pretty head of hers not to see it, but I promise I'm perfectly capable of leavin' a body unravished when he doesn't wanna be ravished."

Norrington was blinking at him, squinty swollen eye and good eye both. "What?"

"What what?"

"What you just said."

"What part of what I just said? And what about it?"

Silence. Scrutiny. Norrington appeared to have a great many thoughts rambling around in his brain, and Jack was willing to bet a few of them were, willingly or otherwise, at least a little bit flattered. Which had been a tiny part of the point, of course. Jack wasn't about to let an officer of the King's Navy out-bait him. Even one who'd likely be dead in a day.

That last thought really did nothing good for him. Even if he hadn't found the man interesting enough to play with in the past—though he had, obviously, right up through their last encounter on the rampart—he held a certain measure of respect for those who attempted to live by some code that separated 'right' from the rest of it, and who consistently aimed for the former. By Norrington's code, Jack figured, stringing a pirate captain up on the gallowstree was right. Even when it was wrong. Stay true to the course, and damn the reefs in the way.

Fortunately for the commodore, Jack's own moral compass was a good bit more flexible about finding north. Sometimes it didn't even bother with north at all.

He smiled sardonically at those suspicious, searching eyes. "Save it, then. I suggest you try to get some sleep, Commodore. Tomorrow won't be an easy day for you, I'll wager."

A flash of what looked to be genuine fear crossed that mauled face and was gone almost before he noted it. Norrington nodded faintly. Reached a hand out and clutched a protruding stone along the wall, pulling away, expression betraying the pain of it despite the silence he managed to keep.

Jack let his hands slip from those shoulders but otherwise offered no assistance as Norrington eased down an arm-length away, body quite flinchy as he stretched out flat on hard-packed dirt. After a moment Jack flopped down in the opposite direction with a grunt, his head more or less alongside the other man's, hands going to fold beneath his skull.

Nothing much to listen to but breathing and his own heartbeat for a minute or two. Then, in a voice that had great composure and dignity for all its strained undercurrent, Norrington told him, "I thank you."

"For?"

"Your... considerateness. It was... unexpected."

He smirked at the black ceiling. "Aye, I s'pose it would be, for you."

"I'll endeavor to repay you in kind someday."

Jack's scarred eyebrow quirked upward. He turned his head slightly, glancing at the starlit profile, the puffy lip, the unbroken nose. Realization dawned. "You mean after this little 'misunderstanding' gets cleared up."

"Naturally."

Making half-assed plans for the future, just to keep telling himself it would come. Sad, really. One of the saddest things he'd heard in a good while, and all at once he did feel rather irritatingly sorry for the man, thrust here willy-nilly, wholly unprepared for it.

Jack adopted his wryest, most skeptical voice. "I'll believe it when I see it. Ten-to-one you forget all about this the second you're breathin' free air again."

"I'm a man of my word, Sparrow." Said with a little more confidence and that familiar haughty disdain.

"Must you call me that?"

"It is your name. Or so you claim."

"You say it all wrong." He mimicked the lordly, contemptuous tone of voice, spitting out the first syllable of his name with every repetition. "'Jack Sparrow, is it?' 'Mister Sparrow, do this,' 'Mister Sparrow, don't touch that'..."

"I don't say it that way." He actually sounded offended. A contemplative pause. "Sparrow."

Jack snorted loudly.

"Sparrow," Norrington continued, as if to himself. "Sparrow. Sparrow."

"Let it roll off your tongue, mate."

"Spare-rowww."

"No no no." A ring-heavy hand fluttered over, fingers tapping a waving pattern on one tight commodorial shoulder. "Soft 'sssss.' Less hard with the 'puh.' It's like a breath, aye? Ssspuh! Try that much."

"Sssparrow."

Jack considered, fingers still lightly drumming. Norrington, lying in silence, seemed content to await his judgment.

Finally he pat-patted that shoulder consolingly. "Probably you should just call me Jack."

***

Jack woke to a clawing feeling in his empty stomach and a vicious scowl on the face of the roundish little man peering at him through the bars.

"Sparrow."

With a faint, utterly unamused smile, he propped himself up to elbows, momentarily half-blinded by a shaft of sunlight stabbing through the window. Squinted a look beside him—empty. Behind him—there. Commodore, standing, looking absolutely hellish as he stared (mostly one-eyed) at Jack's well-attired visitor.

And speaking of the visitor... "Guv'ner," Jack greeted him dryly.

"Governor?" From Norrington, who seemed to suffer from the mistaken impression that he'd just discovered his own sliver of Opportunity. "Governor Santiago?"

The Guv'ner flitted a look of distaste over the commodore's mottled face, then ignored him with the ease of one who'd long ago learned to turn a deaf ear to supplicants. "Debo matarle."

Jack answered in English, understanding more Spanish than he spoke. "Now, Guv'ner, there's no call to go killing anyone. I had no idea she was your daughter. It's been years." His head tipped, eyes taunting, smile incongruously friendly. "Little Alondra certainly did grow into a fine woman. You must be so proud."

The Guv'ner gripped the bars with his pudgy, hard hands, face red. "Alejandra is a jewel amongst pebbles! You'd be blessed to grovel at her feet!"

Jack curved to sit, a knee drawing up, arm dangling atop it. "I'll do all the groveling you want, sir, if you'd be so kind as to open that door."

"I should hang you myself."

Jack's eyes slid to Norrington. He could certainly think of better audiences for what he was about to say. Back to the Guv'ner, putting a bit of an edge to his smile. "I'm too good for business, mate. You know it. I know it. Fair bet Alondra knows it."

"She knows it," the Guv'ner hissed. "She asks me for your life."

"A darling girl, really. You've done a fine job raising her."

"She promises me her wild days are done."

Pity, Jack thought. "Wonderful news," Jack said.

The Guv'ner bared a great many small, neat teeth. "And she will marry you."

Jack stared. Opened his mouth. Shut it. Stared.

"You will tame my daughter, Sparrow. And you will keep her in the riches and comfort to which she has become accustomed." More teeth showed. "You will make her a very. Very. Happy woman. Or I..." Fingers released the bars and mimed a very ominous shearing gesture—snip-snip. "...will make you a woman. ¿Comprende?"

Jack's eyes dropped to the area under threat. Flicked up. His lips twitched uncomfortably. "I always liked weddings."

The Guv'ner stepped back, glaring balefully. "I'll inform Alejandra of your proposal and her acceptance."

Gathering feet, Jack stood, brushing dirt absently from his backside. "One more thing, mate. This chap here..." He tipped his head at Norrington, not looking. "Seems there's a bit of a misunderstanding."

"Oh?"

"Aye. Ah, sí. He's not who you think he is."

"He is who I decide he is," the Guv'ner snapped, also not bothering to look the commodore's way. "The assassin is to be executed in the morning."

"I'm not an assassin," Norrington said firmly. "I am Commodore James Norrington of His Majesty's Royal Navy, and as such, I demand that you... hear..." But he trailed off rather sadly as the Guv'ner pivoted on a heel and walked away, uninterested.

Jack glanced over. The man's expression of injured bafflement might've made him laugh, were he a tad crueler by nature. "I really wish you'd let me handle that."

Norrington gestured, fingers spread, reaching after the vanished man. "He's the governor! How can he dare risk English retribution like this?"

Now he did laugh, a quiet chuff, lips curling up to glint teeth. "He's not the governor. The governor is a poncey little puppet with a taste for opium. The 'Guv'ner' there's what you might call a... businessman of influence."

"A crimelord?"

"Or that. An' I'm afraid he's got about a million and one ways to make a body vanish." At the blank look that received, he smiled gently. "Yours, mate."

Norrington swore under his breath, turning away abruptly, an arm going to cradle his side as the motion jarred whatever injuries the guards had so unstintingly applied there. Falteringly, he stepped over to the window. Stared out with his jaw clenched achingly tight.

Jack scratched idly at his collarbone. "Heh."

"Something's funny, Sparrow?"

"Jack. And you have to admit, there's something rather laughable about all this."

His voice dripped ice. "Oh?"

"I'm gonna marry the Guv'ner's daughter, and you're gonna swing in the morning. It's like..." His hands flapped alternately skyward, earthward. "It's like somebody put God on the bottom."

The commodore tipped his temple against the hard stone of the window, and this time there was no disguising the muted, eloquent whimper that came from his throat.

***

Norrington's mood was rather depressingly glum as the morning crawled by. He spent a great deal of time standing at that window, perhaps finally comprehending what it meant to be caged, subject to the whims of others who claimed authority. Or at least Jack was enjoying imagining that particular understanding finally breaking over the commodore.

Two fist-sized chunks of hard, somewhat moldy bread were grudgingly tossed into their cell shortly after the Guv'ner's departure, and a mug of tepid water was brought before long as well. Even this unexpected bounty didn't seem enough to lift Norrington's spirits, however.

Jack indulged in a few good swallows from the mug before ambling over to his disconsolate companion. He felt unspeakably generous as he held it out in offering.

"What's the point," Norrington said bleakly.

Jack snorted laughter, which brought a burning, mismatched green glare his way. His effort at an appeasing grin didn't appear to win him any marks either. "You've a flair for the dramatic there, Mister Commodore James Norrington sir." He pressed the back of one hand to his forehead, swaying dramatically in a near-swoon. "Woe is me! They'll hang me on the morrow! However will I last the day?"

Face tight, Norrington took the mug. Tipped it up thirstily, but somehow, rather surprisingly, kept himself from draining the whole thing. He handed it back with several swallows remaining and turned his face again to the window.

Jack squeezed in beside him to look out, just on the off chance there might actually be something worth seeing there. Hm. Nope. He took another sip of water, holding it in his mouth to thoroughly saturate a tongue that still felt too dry. Held the mug out. It was ignored. With an eyeroll, he caught a hand and pressed the drink into it. "Buck up, man. You're not swinging yet."

Norrington slid him a glance, sidelong. Lifted the mug and drained it dry, watching him, frowning thoughtfulness bracketing his clear eye, twisting the skin a bit around the swollen one.

The mug came down. The eyes didn't shift away. "Is that how you do it, Jack?"

"Watch and wait. Be ready." Half a shrug. "All you can do."

Norrington's throat bobbed. "Until the noose goes 'round your neck."

He bared a few teeth in something not entirely like a smile. "Even then. Never know what might happen 'tween the drop and the stop."

"I have no William Turner at hand."

Jack leaned on his shoulder. Let him make what he would of the mocking tilt to his eyebrows. "Ahh, but I did. Be very nice to me, James Norrington, and you might yet benefit from the lad's good deed."

Norrington looked pointedly at the arm draping over him. Conspicuously raked eyes up the body half-melded to his own. Back to his face. "Why?" he asked bluntly. "Why even consider helping me?"

"Because I made it to my ship that day," Jack told him casually. "Because the fort's cannons stayed silent. Because you took your sweet time about comin' after us." Fingers flicked towards Norrington's face. "Had a good mate once, went by Bootstrap. One time he stood by an' let a shitty thing happen to his captain. You followin' me?"

"I am."

"Conscience got the better of 'im afterward. He tried to balance the scales, did a brave thing, an' he paid dearly for it."

"What does this have to do with me?"

"Pay attention," Jack said chidingly. "I've seen good and bad men both stand by and let the wrong thing happen. It's what a man does when the chance to set things to right comes around that decides which he really is." His free hand gestured towards the world beyond the window. "He sends away a cursed medallion to punish a mutinous crew." The hand swept in, pressing lightly at the center of Norrington's chest. "Holds back when duty tells him to strike."

"You intend to help me because you think me a... good man?"

"No," Jack said in a tone of amused exasperation. "I intend to try to help you so that I'll have a commodore of the Royal Navy owing me an extraordinarily large favor. Savvy?"

Norrington's mouth opened for words. Closed. That furrow in his brow looked to be becoming a permanent feature.

Then he cleared his throat, chin lifting a little. "Define what you mean by 'nice.'"

Jack began to grin.

***

Footsteps on the stairs in the middle of the afternoon had Norrington tensing markedly, rising to his feet, no doubt wondering if a little more assassin-bashing were in order. The curvaceous, sultry young woman—dark of hair and eye, tawny of skin, short enough to make Jack feel tall—who stormed into the corridor outside the cell seemed to take him by surprise.

Not so much Jack, who'd been rather expecting her.

She lit into him in rapid-fire Spanish that he almost couldn't follow at all. By the time he'd languorously stood, stretched, shaken straw from his hair, and finally made his way to the bars opposite her, she'd poured out more words than he thought he'd spoken himself in the past three days. And it looked to be going on a while longer.

Norrington, he noticed absently, was again being quite thoroughly ignored. This wouldn't do a thing for the man's confidence, honestly.

"Now Alondra, darling," he tried to interject when the torrent briefly slowed. Eyes flashing dangerously, she launched into an even more energetic flood that sounded to his somewhat overwhelmed ears to be part dressing down, part long-winded narrative, and possibly part joke (though she sure was taking her time getting to the punchline).

Resigned to patience, Jack propped a shoulder to the bars, crossed his arms and waited.

Eventually he managed to interject a few words in his faltering Spanish. She listened intently. Spoke sharply, and they went back and forth for what seemed a long time but probably wasn't, given the speed at which the woman spoke.

Jack's thumb jabbed over his shoulder at Norrington when they reached that part of the discussion. She deigned to glance. Frowned. Asked a question.

Jack jerked his head imperatively. "C'mere, James."

He did so, eyeing her with the uncertainty of a man who seldom met such a vociferous woman and worried that she might have fangs.

Alondra reached through the bars fearlessly and grabbed Norrington's jaw to pull his face down. He winced only a little. Tried a tight, mannerly smile. "Miss."

She paid no notice. Frowned more, then spoke tersely.

"Ahh," Jack said, "but you should see him cleaned up, love." Then, remembering that her English was nowhere near so reliable as her father's, he repeated it in the appropriate tongue.

"What are you saying, Sparrow?"

"Jack. And quiet, man. Can you not see I'm negotiating?"

Alondra released his face. Looked doubtfully at Jack. He put his hand over his heart. "Prometo, querida."

Her lips pursed thoughtfully. "Béselo."

Uh oh. Jack's eyes shifted back and forth, from commodore to, ah, fiancée. "¿Qué?"

A steady look of challenge from her deep chestnut eyes. "Béselo."

"¿Aquí? ¿Ahora?"

"Sí," she answered firmly.

Sighing, nodding, he turned to the commodore. Put a hand to his chest and nudged him back, back.

"Jack." Norrington—no, James, best think of him as James now—didn't appear particularly comfortable with his negotiating skills. "What the devil is going on?"

Jack pitched his voice low and intimate. "It's like this, mate: I've asked for you."

"What does that—"

"As a wedding gift."

Norrington—James—dropped his jaw. Stared.

Good. The less discussion here, the better chance Alondra would buy his tale. "He talks tough, but it seems the Guv'ner pretty much gives her what she wants. If she decides to let me have you, chances are you'll stay off the scaffold."

James didn't move. Not even to breathe.

"She thinks we're matelots. Lovers. Deeply, truly, profoundly in love." An uncomfortable smile. "And I have to kiss you to prove it."

There! Motion! A blink!

"But," James said. Hesitated. Took a breath. "But."

"This isn't really a good time for argument, James."

"But. She's a woman."

His lip curled appreciatively. "You have no idea."

"But. A woman certainly wouldn't want to... see..."

Jack smirked. "Haven't you led the sheltered life."

Green eyes flew to Alondra, waiting by the bars. Her stare was skeptical. Her right foot tapped impatiently. She held his gaze a moment, then upthrust her chin warningly.

"Kees heem."

James's jaw dropped again.

Unable to deny his enjoyment of this, Jack stepped closer. Closer still. Ran hands around the man's abused torso as carefully as he could. "Best make it look good, mate. Think of her as the magistrate. Here's where you make your case."

Eyes snapped to him. Even the puffy one managed to be wide and startled for this.

"Make it look good," Jack murmured again, reaching up to slide a hand behind his head, tugging firmly downward. "True love, mind."

Nervousness far too apparent, James let himself be drawn down. Arms moved awkwardly to enfold him, though James seemed to think he might be able to accomplish this act without actually touching him.

Jack closed his eyes as lips grazed his. Smiled just a little, breathing in, his mouth curving, opening slightly beneath the dry warmth of the hesitant caress.

But then Norrington—no no no, James—pulled back after that barest of contacts. Jack opened eyes to find the uneven green pair trying unsuccessfully to hide alarm behind guardedness.

"If that's how you kiss someone you love, mate," Jack said softly, "then no wonder she turned away from you."

Anger. Injury. Other things he couldn't name crossed distorted features, settling in the depths of dirty-ocean eyes.

Jack's other hand rose to glide along the undamaged side of his jaw, thumb stroking the tight muscle clamping it shut. Half-lidded, he gazed a quiet challenge of his own.

A hand ran swiftly up his spine, beneath his hair, tangling at the base of his skull. James dipped down, lips hovering over his. "Love?" he asked in an almost vicious undertone. "I'll give you 'love,' pirate."

And then his mouth came down, and suddenly all bets were off.

With that intro, Jack had expected something near violence. Force and heat and an oh-so-manly need to crush out the painful reminder of rejection and loss.

Instead he found force, yes, but fiercely controlled. Lips opened on his, dry then wet, the swollen heat of that lower one tasting of copper or iron or some other metal not already residing in his mouth. The hand not gripping his hair ranged instead along the curve of his spine to the small of his back, hitching him in snugly. The contact seemed to cause pain—James grunted with discomfort when Jack pressed against his ribs—but he didn't pull away, didn't ease back, and then his tongue surged forward with the confidence of an invading army, the surface of it rippling along the side of Jack's in a warm, wet, muscular wave. Coaxing. Tantalizing. Imperative.

Well, Elizabeth, in case you were wondering—the man can kiss. And then some.

Jack struck back, his tongue a flirtatious dancer between moving lips, fingers spidering gently, gently over marred features, tracing a cheekbone, the protruding ridge of brow, down again to cup the working jaw. His body moved in a roll, curving up and along James's, not quite grinding (not yet) but undeniably expressing interest, gauging same.

And finding it. Against the inside of his hip he felt a telltale stirring that made his heart suddenly thump quite a bit faster.

That was more than bait. That was a bloody promise, sure as he was Captain Jack Sparrow.

Lost in it, unthinking, he closed teeth over that bottom lip, tugging. The split opened, blood on his tongue, between their mouths, and he decided the flavor was definitely iron, yes. Salty, hot iron. And the harsh, indrawn gasp against his lips came from desire more than hurt, he was sure of it.

James pulled away jerkily, lips shiny with clear sheen and crimson. Didn't release him. Glared, panting, at the woman watching from outside the cell.

Feeling no little bit dazed, Jack turned his head. Alondra's eyes were wide, fascinated, and a sensual smile played over her lush lips. He grinned at her breathlessly.

"¿Bueno?" he asked.

"Oh, sí," she murmured. Then the dear girl actually leered at him. "Muy bueno."

"¿Y el gobernador?"

Her chin dipped in affirmation. She'd speak to her father. And from the excited gleam in her lovely dark eyes, he was fairly certain she'd be most insistent on the matter.

Alondra took her leave without delay. The moment she'd vanished up the stairs, James pulled back and turned swiftly away, his respiration still not much slowed. "Well?" he asked shortly.

Jack couldn't get rid of the grin. "She liked. She'll speak for you."

"And then?"

He shrugged limply, palms up. "Suppose we'll find out."

A curt nod. James didn't face him.

"You certainly know how to put on a good show, James."

"As do you." Tightly.

"I mean, I was convinced."

"Hm."

His lips curved more. "So d'you imagine you'll be turning around again anytime soon?"

"No," James said, "never."

"Never?"

"That is correct."

Jack rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to smooth away the grin. Failed. "Well. I believe I'm flattered, mate, truly."

"Hm," James said again, grimly.

With a near-heroic effort, Jack managed to keep his peace this time.

***

It's the second day when injuries really start to hurt, swelling muscles stiffening further, blood-bruising spreading beneath the skin. Or in James's case it was the second night. All the military training and tight-arse stoicism in the world couldn't keep him silent with any and every motion he made. He finally resettled in the corner, coiled carefully around himself, forearms on knees and forehead on arms, staying there motionless. Not-quite-quiet. Breathing shallowly.

Jack had been more or less trying to sleep (mostly less), but after a while, yet again, the sound of nearby suffering got to be too much to ignore. Not that he wanted to ignore it. Really, the only reason he even made the effort was because he suspected the man's discomfort with him might nearly match what injuries were putting him through.

"All you need do is ask, mate," he said to the darkness, reacquainting himself with the sight of the black ceiling, dwelling absently on the clamor of his mostly empty stomach.

The pause was much shorter than he'd expected—only a few breaths before that voice, strained yet still audile gold, spoke up awkwardly: "I would... greatly appreciate your assistance again."

Jack rolled up and over to knees. Shuffled to the corner without bothering to stand, once again putting hands to that tense back to prod for access. This time the contact caused an immediate, violent flinch.

"Gotten a tad sorer, I see."

"A tad," James said in a painful, wry voice, not raising his head. "Bloody hell, I'd like to have a few hours with those rotters when I'm not wearing irons..."

Jack settled in behind him, sliding hands lightly along shoulders, more firmly up his neck for another nice, distracting head-skritch. "Got a bit of a vengeful streak, have you?"

"Newly acquired." James's body seemed to remember its lesson from last night; very quickly he found the man easing against him, the tension lingering in muscles but leaving his spine.

"I'd think that'd be a liability in your line of work."

"My line of...?" A snort. "Of course, yes, we emotionless assassins."

Fingers ran slowly into hair, forward towards his face, in a long stroke that actually managed to draw an appreciative groan. "Breathe deep."

"It hurts."

"Don't care. Trust me. Slow and deep."

He made the effort. It sounded shaky, a little hitching, but it began to smooth as the minutes crawled by. Jack moved down to shoulders, probing lightly to find which spots needed avoiding. Worked fingers between those areas, coaxing the tightness out, bit by bit.

James was silent for a while. Initially Jack assumed it was the pain, or maybe the gradual slackening of it, that had the man's attention. Then he spoke up quietly and proved otherwise. "Does it mean anything that no one came to confirm I'll not be hanged in the morning?"

"I honestly couldn't tell you. There's no set procedure for these things that I'm aware of."

James nodded a little. Jerked forward with a sharp explosion of breath when Jack's hands, traveling down his spine, hit a spot to the left side of the small of his back. "Ahh—gently, gently there, please..."

On a suspicion, Jack tugged his shirt free of breeches and pulled it up enough to see. Even the dismal lighting couldn't totally obscure the great blotch of vaguely foot-shaped shadowy bruise spreading generously from spine to flank. Jack's face screwed up in unwanted empathy as he grazed his palm over the expanse of the mark, feeling smooth skin and the radiating warmth of injury. "What'd they do, stomp on you?"

A moment. "I'd really rather not discuss it."

Well, no. Helplessness was never particularly enjoyable to revisit. "You must've made them angry."

"So it would seem."

He quirked lips approvingly at the dry tone of that. Let the shirt fall and returned to rubbing higher on his back, fingertips digging, prodding the ache out. "Tell you, mate, you're good at a lotta things—always thought you were a damn fine commodore, able swordsman, smart hand at the helm... and now I know you're quite the excellent kisser—but you do make one lousy prisoner."

"I can think of worse failings for a man to have," James countered stiffly.

"Not in my line of work."

He could all but hear the man biting back his response to that. It made him chuckle softly, slightly wickedly, and almost without thinking about it he brought one of his straddling legs in oh-so-innocently to press closer to James's hip and thigh. Rolled thumbs beneath shoulderblades, firm and steady.

A few breaths later, with a rather endearing hesitance—"'Excellent'?"

Jack's lip drew up towards a lewd half-smile. "Mm-hmm." He was very pleased to note no renewal of tautness in the body he was working on.

Seconds passed. James cleared his throat. "I suspect you're perfectly well aware that you're rather... adept in that area yourself." A hand lifted in the dark. James touched his lower lip, words taking on that familiar sardonic tinge. "Even if you do bite."

Jack followed shoulderblades over to the curve of ribs. Briefly caught his own lip between his teeth, smiling, eyes slitted. "I could kiss it and make it better, if you like."

More seconds tripped by. His hands moved in what he no longer pretended were anything other than exploratory caresses, slipping around James's torso, gliding against the lay of ribs.

"If..." James paused. Swallowed audibly. "If your plan works..."

"Brilliant plan, if you please."

"If your brilliant plan works, how..." Another pause, then he firmed his tone and pushed on. "How far might this act have to go before there's opportunity for escape?"

"You mean what unspeakable acts of depravity would she be expecting us to perform for her entertainment?"

"Precisely that, yes."

"Hard to say. She's a very naughty girl." He leaned in enough to let the breath of his words heat the sensitive skin behind an ear. "Why? How far are you wanting to go?"

James was motionless against him. "I believe what you meant to ask was, how far am I willing to go."

A low chuckle. He treated himself to a nuzzle of that ear, rather enjoying the new tremor it caused through the man's body. "Whatever you need to tell yourself, mate." Fingers spread out over pectorals, feeling the scratch of hair beneath his shirt, the hard nubs of peaked nipples. "I was in on that kiss, same as you."

"Yes, I... seem to remember noticing that."

His voice dropped lower, huskier. Thumbs stroked tiny arcs across his chest. "I noticed you noticing."

James's throat jumped again. Words came desperately level. "I suppose in the interest of... verisimilitude... it would be a worthwhile exercise to, ah. To practice."

"To practice," Jack murmured delightedly. "Ooh, the things you say..."

Even in this light, he could see the flush that stole across the fair skin. "Well, if we're to make this convincing, it only makes sense."

Jack rubbed his chest slowly against James's back. Scooted up, body curving in closer, hands crawling down, down. "Good sense," he agreed. "Excellent sense."

James winced when he reached his short ribs, the motion coincidentally causing him to push back. Hard to say for certain, but Jack suspected the accompanying gasp had little if anything to do with pain. His own abruptly indrawn breath certainly didn't.

A hand found one of Jack's thighs. The other. Glided up to knees and halfway back, gripping. It was, he realized suddenly, the first time the commodore had voluntarily touched him since a long ago day when he'd turned a handshake into a trap.

"So tell me," Jack said nonchalantly, fingers setting to work on the buttons of his breeches, "am I to be the first man to get his hands on you?"

"I fail to see how that even begins to be your business."

"Heh." His tongue slipped out. Flicked the back of James's ear, to a gratifying, full-body shiver. "You're going to have to learn to play-act a bit better if you think to show Alondra that we're so..." He got the breeches open. "...very..." Lips grazing that ear. "...right for each other." James's fingers clamped down quite hard, his breathing quickening further. Jack grinned slowly as roving hands found that part of the man, at least, was very much into the spirit of the role. "Well now. Is all this for me?"

Suddenly those hands slipped beneath his thighs and tugged, pulling him firmly, very firmly into full and revealing contact. "I seem to have earned a response as well," James noted pointedly, not to be outdone.

"It's hardly the first time you've had me hard," Jack muttered against his neck, tongue taking a little taste.

James sucked in a breath through his teeth as Jack trailed up his shaft, just the outside edge of a forefinger touching, grazing. "What... what did you say...?"

"What with us bein' matelots and all, that is."

"I didn't hear—"

"Shh," Jack said, hand closing, stroking.

James quivered against him, jerking in his grip. Breathed unsteadily. Jack tightened on the upsweep. Feathered fingers out on the down. Wriggled closer against the temptation of the commodore's backside. Ohhh, for just a little friction now...

In his hand was soft skin, hot, veined and hard and oh-so-needing. Quite a fine piece, really. One that made him lick his lips in thought of the uses it might be put to, perhaps in the sanctity of Alondra's bed. Their bed? After their wedding.

Well, if he had to get married, at least he might get a nice consolation prize.

"Jesus," James choked out, too loudly.

Jack clamped a hand over his mouth before another word could follow. Hissed into his ear—"Guards, man." Not slowing his pumping hand, he held him mute, enjoying his quivering on more than one level.

James breathed raggedly through his nose. Fortunate that they'd left that in such good shape when they worked him over. His hands were squeezing, kneading at Jack's legs and his hips were trying to thrust and there were noises, muffled noises against Jack's covering palm.

Watching his moving hand, the blood-suffused flesh within his grasp, Jack rubbed in just a little—not enough, nowhere near enough—and nosed the commodore's neck by that speeding pulse. Felt James curve towards him, pressing into his mouth, and nipped reflexively. James pushed harder against him, shuddering.

"I knew you'd warm up to me," Jack whispered smugly.

James rocked his head back all the way to rest on Jack's shoulder, his neck arching in a bow that was lovely to see, eyes squeezed tight, face twisted in what was very probably as much pain as pleasure.

Jack groaned, raw and low, the sight and the feel of the squirming man in his lap far, far too stimulating. He hoped James gave half as good as he got, because he got just—beautifully.

Those hands on his thighs clenched tightly enough to make him hiss and James cried out against his hand, coming in spasms, Jack pressing kisses along his stubbly throat and saying, "shh, now, shhh," even though there was really not much point.

James trembled into stillness, fingers loosening their death-grip. Made no effort right away to pick his head up off Jack's shoulder, which gave the pirate all the excuse he needed to suck and lick and sample salt-wet flesh, his hand slipping from James's organ to broadly caress up beneath his shirt. The other hand slid from covering his lips, letting him gasp for air without obstruction, running down and up his arm to fully appreciate the lingering shivers in the muscles there.

"Now then," he said, quietly chastising, richly amused, "aren't you glad you didn't hang me?"

Voiceless laughter shook the man, his face tightening as his body protested all the movement. Quite an interesting display—hilarity and hurt painted over injury and a (quite stunningly sweet) smile. Jack found a perverse desire to tickle him, try to make him writhe more, just to watch that uncommon mingling play out again and again.

But of course there were other, somewhat more pressing perverse desires to consider at the moment...

Jack's fingers teased through the dusting of hair hidden beneath the shirt. James's chest still rose and fell rapidly and Jack could feel the thud-thudding of his racing heart under that wandering palm. He breathed up along the curved neck. Bit down on the hard line of jaw, lightly, tongue tapping at the hair-scratchy skin trapped between his teeth.

James rolled his face away. Before Jack could do more than start to wonder if there was a problem, his right hand came up, catching behind Jack's head and pulling him in as James turned back, pausing a fingerwidth from his lips. "No biting," he admonished, good eye as narrowed as the swollen one.

Jack bared teeth. "No promises." He reached for that mouth, but the hand closed on his hair, arresting his motion.

"Let me rephrase," James said calmly. "No. Biting."

Eyeroll. "Right, fine, leggo."

"Promise."

"I promise..." The grip loosened. "...on my honor as a scallywag..." Tightened brutally. "...that if you will please be kind enough to stop pulling my hair out..." Slight relaxing. Jack smiled lopsidedly and closed the distance to murmur right against a swollen lip, "I'll be good." Glide-kiss. "I'll be very good."

James opened for him, albeit hesitantly. Willing enough, clearly, but still not quite sure about this kissing business. True to his word, Jack was careful of that cut, laving it gently with his tongue, and the hand against his scalp slowly eased its clench in reward. He delved deeper. Shifted hips closer and soughed aching appreciation into James's mouth.

James pulled back, flushed, and his eyes searched Jack's once they opened. There was an odd solemnity in the night-darkened gaze. "What do you want, Jack?"

It took Jack a moment to gather thoughts, what with his body issuing its insistent proclamations and his blood not overly interested in wetting his brain just now. Intelligently he asked, "Eh?"

"Reciprocation," James said with marked composure. "What do you want?"

Involuntarily, Jack's eyes flickered down a smidge to linger on those reddened lips. He licked his own. Caught a breath against the instant images that flooded his mind.

He rocked forward, erection demanding notice against one nicely firm buttock. Pressed lips to James's again, forcibly gentle. Drew back a fraction. "Kiss it," he breathed, the softest of growls. Another featherlight caress. Underneath the shirt, his thumb dragged across a hard nipple. "Make it better."

A bit of a sigh as James drew back once more. "I had a hunch." He let go Jack's hair. Nudged legs away from his flanks. "You'll have to move."

Jack sat there a moment, blinking startlement at the equanimity of the response. "You mean you'll really—"

"I've faced half-decayed pirates from hell," James said mildly. "Surely this can't be much worse."

"...You might've just erased all your flattery points there, mate..."

James looked over his shoulder, a glint of eye through well-tousled dark hair. "How much are you enjoying the thought of having a senior naval officer go down on you?"

A great fucking deal. "'s not really about that." Entirely.

"Oh no?"

Jack's right eyebrow twitched up. He pointed exaggeratedly downward in indication. "It's about this." Pointed again, this time in a circuitous gesture that more or less found its way to signifying the open crotch of James's breeches. "Just as it was about that only moments ago, in case you've conveniently forgotten."

A hint of a headshake, the meaning indecipherable. James pushed at his leg again. "Move around."

Jack delayed a moment. "This continues to be in the interest of practice, aye?"

James refastened his breeches, stiff and slow. "For all I know, I still have a dawn appointment with the gallows. I've no intention of dying in your debt."

That wasn't exactly the eager participation Jack had been looking for. He pulled legs in. Twisted about until he was more or less beside the other, facing him, not finding much of a smile or a grin or a leer even though the thought of that mouth doing him still made his blood spark all along his veins and his cock throb in anticipation.

But his own hands were unhurried as he worked the buttons to free his erection. "Maybe you're missin' the point of this play-acting, mate..."

James took a breath. Shifted to knees, grimacing, then to hands and knees with an unsteady exhalation, braced between Jack's sprawled legs. "Maybe," he ground out, teeth tight-clenched.

Jack eyed him dubiously. "D'you know what you're doing?"

"How difficult can it be?"

Jack's hands flew protectively to cover the goods. "Now hold up just a second." Concern bled into his voice. "I'm really gonna need to hear your qualifications."

"Qualifications," James echoed flatly.

A firm nod. "Aye, qualifications. Experience."

The look that earned him was, no mistaking it, utterly offended. "I am a commodore of the Royal Navy. I've been falsely accused, unjustly imprisoned, subjected to flagitious abuses—"

"'Flagitious'?"

"Look it up," James said tersely. "As I was saying, I find myself in an unforgivably wrong situation, and now here I am, on my knees in a filthy cell—in considerable pain, no less—fully prepared to fulfill some twisted little fantasy you've no doubt been harboring for longer than I'd care to know..." Jack showed teeth at that one, confirming with a silent laugh. James looked upward exasperatedly as if seeking patience from above. "And you want my qualifications."

Jack considered. "Too much to ask?"

A tight smile with the flavor of a humorless smirk. "You might say."

"Ehm." Jack caught a bit of cheek between his teeth, frowning worriedly. "You'll at least promise—"

"Not to bite?"

His dismay at the very mention must have shown on his face. James cracked an ever-so-slightly wider smile, not the least bit reassuring. Sank back to sit on his heels and curved his hand in a beckoning motion. "Come here."

Holding his breeches up one-handedly, Jack rose to his knees. Shuffled cautiously nearer.

James sat there a moment, regarding his face with an inscrutable expression, motionless but for those evaluating eyes. Tilted his head thoughtfully. "Hm."

Jack's brow furrowed in annoyed perplexity. "What?"

"You're almost pretty."

A blink. Another. "Ah... huh."

"When you're not scowling or frowning or sneering, that is." He squinted a little. "Perhaps it's the light."

Jack scowled. Added a sneer for good measure. "Don't be mistaking me for a lass, James."

Arching an eyebrow, James dropped his gaze to the hand currently holding fabric closed over the fully evident hard-on. "Unlikely."

Jack started to ask if he was still amenable to this. Hesitated, wondering if the question would invite refusal. Pursed and twisted lips consideringly, studying the battered face, the distracted eyes, his mind bringing up unbidden the awareness of those numerous aches throughout the man's body.

He sighed. "Contrary to what you may believe, mate, being a pirate doesn't necessarily mean a man enjoys unwilling company. If this is too much for you..." Just a bloody hero these days, wasn't he? "...I'll not hold you to it."

"No?"

A grimace like a wince across his face as he said, "No." Feeling quite disgustingly honorable and truly despising the sensation.

Eyes lifted. Amusement played about that crooked smile. "I'm not unwilling; I'm sore, and trying to decide how best to go about this. Though that's..." A glint of teeth. "...very gentlemanly of you, Jack."

Jack's mood lifted immediately. Heroism had its rewards, didn't it?

James made that same beckoning motion. Jack leaned in obediently, fingers tightening in the cloth over his erection, not quite kneading as James's lips parted against his, an arm slipping around his waist to pull him nearer, the other hand...

...the other... hand...

Jack released his grip on the breeches. Moaned gratefully into the kiss at the sensation of fingers exploring his shaft, the touch careful but not faltering. James's hand was rough-skinned from sword-work, maybe from more than that. Did he ever sail for himself? Handle the rigging, sweat in the sun, do the work his rank said he didn't have to...?

Fingers closed 'round him. Drew along his length, slow and firm, and his knees weakened. He thrust his tongue into warm wetness, licking James's own.

Another easy pull. Another. Stoking his urgency, learning his response, feeling him out. The grip shifted, working foreskin back. A finger slid over his slit, making his pelvis buck eagerly, dragging a hungry little noise from deep in his throat. He held James's mauled face as carefully as he could remember to and kissed him with an enthusiasm just shy of furious. And either the commodore had decided to try play-acting after all or he'd discovered a little more interest within himself, because he was no idle participant this time; lips were a constant caress, and his tongue moved against Jack's in a slower, more deliberate rhythm that set a maddening counterpoint to his stroking hand.

The other hand moved to Jack's hip and squeezed for attention, James pulling back from his lips at the same time. Panting, blinking, Jack tried to focus on something other than the surge after surge after surge shooting through him from his groin. "Whazzuh...?"

"Stand up."

The jolt that rocked him made him sway, and he clutched at a shoulder for balance.

Fingers pinched his waist. James released his erection. "Up, Jack."

In a scramble, Jack stood, catching at his breeches to keep them from falling to bind his ankles. James gripped his hip again and pulled him in, rising up on knees, hand returning to his tumid organ, holding, fondling, guiding...

Jack staggered, nearly overcome by the sight as well as the sensation of the tongue that curved out to drag exploratively along the underside of his shaft. Edging forward, James nudged him rearward until jagged stone pressed into his back. Jack leaned to let the wall hold him up, eyes rapt on the pale, bruise-blotched face, a hand going to push James's hair back to better reveal what was happening.

James glanced up at his touch. Met his eyes for a heartbeat without expression, then returned his gaze to the task at hand without a word.

Air stuttered into Jack's lungs when that tongue found him again. Silken wet stroking, firm flick against the peeking crown of his cock. A pause. Considering taste? He threaded fingers into that untidy hair. Gripped a jutting stone of the wall with his left hand, fingernails scraping.

James looked up again suddenly. "Where do we live?"

Jack stared dumbly.

"If we're matelots, where do we live?"

"If... we..." He closed his eyes and took a breath. "You ask this now?"

"It just occurred to me. We should have our story clear."

Jack ground teeth. Gripped the rock. "On the Pearl."

"On the Pearl?"

"Yes, now would you—"

"So I'm a pirate, then."

"A pirate, a grand fine pirate, the terror of the Spanish Main, now won't you just—"

"But," James said, and Jack heard a little too much amusement purring beneath the words, "if we're both pirates on the Pearl and you're the captain, what does that make me?"

Jack's eyes opened on a blazing glare. "A teasing bastard, evidently."

Another of those smirky, rather-too-superior smiles. As if in afterthought, James stroked him again, firmly, and Jack slumped against the wall with an oath. James leaned in. Breathed hot, moist breath over his cockhead and then—

Paused again. "I could be the captain of a consort ship," he mused. "Or even a pirate commodore, actually, couldn't I?"

Jack's fingers tightened in his hair in sheer frustration, though he had better sense than to try to use that grip, particularly with someone who would, hopefully, maybe imminently be nursing on his cock, with teeth perilously present and no known aversion to using them. But he was so. Very. Hard, and needed that mouth so. Very. Badly, and James was just... just so close to doing it...

Trembling a bit, head to toe, he took a short breath and said, "Please," gazing down with eyes as desperately imploring as he could make them.

James looked at him sharply. Seemed taken unawares by the plea, then momentarily caught up in his expression, something akin to bemused wonder chasing the superciliousness from his injury-mottled face.

Then a quick flash of contrition. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "That was unfair." And he took Jack into his mouth without further delay.

Jack's head dropped back to thud against the wall and his mouth opened on a hungry moan and he was very glad of the stone behind him because Commodore James Norrington was sucking his cock and it really just wasn't the sort of thing a man could stand unassisted for. The hand on his hip held him steady as that scorching, engulfing mouth worked partway down his length, tongue flexing and rolling in agonizingly wonderful ways, and James had been on him for all of three seconds and already his breathing came in shuddery gasps.

His fingers shifted on the wall. Encountered a larger, more jagged stone and clutched it tightly. He found his right hand moving over James's head, stroking, petting with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the clawing of his left.

The sounds of moist movement and his own uneven respiration reverberated through his blood. He lifted from the wall and blinked dazedly at the head swaying on his organ, the abused, aristocratic face, cheeks indented with suction, eyes closed almost peacefully and feathery eyelashes curving against skin. As he watched, James slid his right hand to the wall by Jack's thigh, bracing himself. Released Jack's hip and shifted that hand, too, for support against cold stone, freeing the pirate to move as he would.

An unexpected gift. He used it carefully, thrusting slowly into that welcoming mouth, drawing back before he went too deep, entranced by the permission as much as the act. James's tongue curved to his shaft as he sank in; probed the head when he pulled back, teasing under foreskin, taking advantage of his easy pace to stimulate him thoroughly.

Jack wanted to melt. Thought he just might. Whether in the spirit of the role or for some other unknowable reason, James was devoting far more consideration and care to this than he could've expected. Suddenly he was wondering, worrying over the pain of that split lip, concerned for the soreness of the man's jaw. But then there was that expression of calm, nearly... pleasance... as Jack pistoned a lento tempo in and out, god, in and out and in...

"You do know what you're doing," he breathed softly, unsteadily, hand gliding over hair.

Lids fluttered. Eyes gleamed at him, and something was said in that look that he almost made sense of, almost could read...

James closed his eyes and bobbed in to meet him on his next thrust, taking him deeper, faster, and Jack bit his lip hard to restrain an outcry. He was aware suddenly of the tremors in those arms flanking him, the discomfort that holding this position had to be causing.

Enough savoring. He let go of the rock and caught James's head in both hands, careful of bumps and lumps and knots he'd already become acquainted with, giving in to his body's urging to go faster. The weighty fall of charmed hair swung sweepingly, medallion offering its musical contribution to the sounds of shallow panting and restrained groans and the saliva-slicked slide of his shaft between tight lips. James's tongue lashed and stroked, but otherwise he let Jack run the show, moving his head as guided by increasingly controlling hands, his shut eyes now tense with some response Jack couldn't name.

Sweat blurred his vision. Pressure coiled in his loins. He blinked 'til he could see clearly, then touched a hand to James's cheek. The man looked up—met his eyes just as he sank in deeply, nudging the back of his throat, and Jack lost it. Growled behind his teeth as two, three, four frenzied thrusts crested him, broke him, and then he was pulsing far back in James's mouth and gripping his head hard and shivering deliciously as his body gave itself over.

Quaking throughout, it took him a moment to notice the hands on his hips, pushing as James pulled back. He released him immediately, softening organ slipping free. James coughed a few times. Pressed the back of a hand to his lips and came away with a smear of red.

"All right?" Jack asked raggedly, relying again on the stability of the wall while he caught his breath.

James thumbed his lower lip. Sucked it gingerly into his mouth, then let it go and gave him a twisted quirk of a wry smile. "This won't have the opportunity to heal until I'm quit of you, it seems."

"But you're all right?"

Those lines of faint puzzlement creased his brow as he propped a hand in the dirt, cautiously shifting, bringing legs around to sit. "I'm fine, Jack."

Jack caught his breeches up and fastened them absently, traces of euphoria still dancing through his veins. "You've done this before."

"Have I?"

"You're good."

An appeal to the pride, apparently, was just the thing once again; James smiled with a trace of warmth. "It's been a while." He worked his jaw around and winced as an angle aggravated that one side. "A long while."

"Youthful indiscretions, eh?"

"Something like that." Eyebrows arched. "I trust you're satisfied?"

A broad, bright grin. He rolled his shoulders to the wall until he could sag languorously against it, both hands going to lightly grip protruding stone ridges for support.

That smile curved more. Truly, it was an unforeseeably darling thing, revealing a boyish sort of charm he doubted the man let out much. "Sordid little fantasy achieved then?"

"One of 'em." A cheerfully wicked leer. "If we pretend you were shackled to the wall when I took care of you before, that's two."

James sent a look heavenward again. "I did not need to hear that." He shifted again, gradually stretching out. Sighed lengthily. "Well, Jack, it's been... informative."

Braced on the wall, grin lingering, Jack regarded him. Several long breaths passed.

"Jack." Without looking up. "You're staring again."

"That I am."

"Why are you staring again?"

He pushed off the stones. Stalked softly. "It's my considered opinion that we need more practice."

James lifted his head. Awkwardly propped up on elbows, watching his approach with an openly dubious expression. "Is that so."

"Oh, aye." He folded smoothly down to a knee, the other, straddling the commodore's outstretched legs. Contentedly, he noted the immediate acceleration of breathing, the probably unconscious licking of lips. "I've not yet even had a proper taste of you."

James's mouth formed a lopsided little 'o' of surprise. "You... think that could matter?"

A serious nod. "This verisiwhatitude thing is all about details, really." Fingers skittered up tense thighs—danced across the renewing hardness beneath buttons. "Ah, I see you're in agreement."

"I'm not sure I can be held accountable for that at this point."

Jack snorted. "We should at least take care of this before sleep, wouldn't you say? I did, after all, promise to be very good to you."

"You..." A grunt as the first button was teased open. "You don't have to..."

Jack bent. Used fingers, lips and teeth to nudge the second button free. "I want to," he murmured against swelling heat. "Just go with it, mate. I don't do this for many men."

"Then why—"

"Let's call it another of my sordid fantasies."

"Am I chained in this one?"

Jack pulled clothing aside. Nuzzled, inhaling his unmistakably masculine scent, mustache tickling over that so-sensitive flesh. "D'you wanna be?"

No answer, and when he glanced up he saw James's head tipped back, his propped arms trembling, his chest rising and falling faster by the heartbeat.

Smiling, Jack bent back to his work.

***

Lacking any proper art supplies, Jack borrowed from the masters of old and experimented with the principle medium available in the distressingly bare cell. With James again at his window (and oh, it was indeed his window, with no sharing in mind, no no), morning sunlight streaming in to light his face in strange ways, Jack worked on a portrait drawn in dirt with straw and fingertip.

At first James ignored him. He'd been ignoring him pretty much since waking. La-la-la, no pirate in the cell, only us assassins here, la-la-la... Jack didn't much hold it against him; really, it had to have felt like quite a leap to go from trying to hang a man to doing thoroughly depraved and wonderful things to his most favorite anatomical landmark.

Jack grinned with sanguine cheer at the lanky Brit. Thoughtfully selected a different straw to draw in eyebrows.

"Very well, Jack, I'll bite."

Dark eyes flicked up. "Eh? Am I still forbidden then?"

A cold, slantwise glare. His eyes were more towards the same size and shape this morning, which improved the effectiveness of that frigid look tremendously. "What. Are. You. Doing?"

"Portrait art."

"Portrait art."

"Portrait art."

"In dirt."

"There's a distinct lack of quality canvass in the room, mate." Teeth flashed. "Barring your fine commodorial skin, which I don't see you willingly offering up. 'sides, those ham-handed guards already scrawled all over you."

An eyebrow quirked. "So I'm ruined for fine art. Is that what you're saying?"

"Not as the subject, you're not." He feathered the drawing's hair out in wild disarray, fingers battling with straw for dominance. "You're quite the inspiration this morning."

Against his will, James was feeling flattered again. Jack could tell. Jack was good at reading subtleties like that, upon which his life had sometimes depended. "You're actually drawing me?"

"I am."

It was enough to make the man leave the sanctified window. He strolled over with pretended casualness that only a fool would ever be fooled by. Cocked his head. Perused the piece.

"Jack."

"Aye?"

"That is a stick figure. With a smiley face."

Jack regarded him solemnly. "Art's about interpretation, really."

A few blinks. James studied the drawing again.

"I interpret that to be a stick figure. With a smiley face. If you can call that little line a smile."

Jack gracefully swept away the tiny curve. Exactingly drew in another, larger, deeper, far more expressive. "This is you after you've been sucked dry." He bared teeth. "By me."

An eyeroll. Exasperated moue. "It passes understanding why any man would wish you to marry his daughter, honestly. Even a crimelord. Even a Spanish crimelord."

Another elegant erasure, then Jack went with his new inspiration and frantically scribbled in a jagged, angry line for the mouth. Considered a moment. Added bunched up, scowling eyebrows over the little dots of eyes. "This is you when you're resenting that you're in a place where I have clout, and you're just a little nothing assassin who doesn't even know how to beg in the right language."

James crouched, slowly but determinedly, and swiftly fingered his own stick figure into being. From the (quite exaggerated) mop of hair he stuck atop the thing's head, presumably it was meant to be Jack. "This is you..." And he drew little X's for eyes, a sadly squiggly line for a mouth. "...after you push the assassin too far."

Frowning critically, Jack cocked his head and examined the piece. "I don't see the resemblance."

A long, pale finger jabbed towards James's own portrait. "I do not have spikes growing from my head, Jack."

"That's hair!"

"Hair falls down!"

Jack leered. "Not when you're all sprawled out on your back." Swiftly, he smeared away the angry face and redrew the overlarge smile. "Goofy happy with your not-so-little little man taken care of. By—and I feel the need to mention this again—li'l ol' me."

Standing, scowling, James kicked stick-Jack out of existence. "Yes, well. It seems a man will do much to survive."

"It seems a man will enjoy much in the interest of survival." He reached over. Patted a knee companionably. "Notice nobody came to drag you to the gallows this morning."

No answer. James stepped around his friendly hand and made his way back to the window.

Jack added dimples to the goofy happy smile. Did cute things with the eyebrows, arching them gently down towards the outside of the face, enhancing the expression of joy.

"We treated you better than this," James said at length. "In Port Royal. Didn't we?"

A faint smile, utterly lacking in humor. "Not so much. The dog is a particularly cruel touch, mate, I have to say."

Shoulders tightened noticeably. "Grey Tam. I hate that dog."

"Too harsh for you, putting freedom so impossibly close to us poor, doomed souls?"

His head turned. Eyes revealed little. "It bit me once."

Jack snorted eloquently.

"I have the scars. Which I suspect you'll discover soon enough, if your plan—"

"Brilliant plan."

"—works as intended."

Jack tipped his head, medallion chiming. "Just where are these scars of yours?"

A wan smile. "Let's just say, Grey Tam was encouraged to discourage escape attempts in the most brutal way imaginable. And if I were slightly slower, your Alondra wouldn't have anywhere near as much to be... interested in."

"Oooooh," Jack breathed in pained enlightenment. "That dirty, dirty dog."

"Quite."

"Maybe you should—" But heavy footsteps on the stairs interrupted. Jack left his stick figure commodore and gained feet, trodding over it without much attention as he moved to the bars, waiting.

Familiar guards—a pair of them. The smaller unlocked the door, muttering, "Usted debe acompañarnos."

Jack smiled graciously. Glanced at James. "Time to go then."

He took a step from the window. The heftier of the guards advanced with menace and James faltered uncertainly, something dark and furious and chary springing to life in his eyes. Jack began to feel the first tickling of misgiving.

"Él viene también," Jack said, putting confidence he suddenly didn't own into the words. "Órdenes de Alondra."

"La ejecución del asesino ocurrirá en el mediodía," the smaller guard replied levelly. "Por orden del gobernador."

He kept all response from his face. Played it close to the vest. "¿Él debe todavía ser ejecutado?"

"Sí. Él morirá hoy." With satisfaction.

Jack sent a look to the window. James's eyes slid from the threatening guard to meet his. There was dawning comprehension on his face, and crumbling hope, and helpless anger. Something dead and cold crept into that wordless gaze as Jack watched.

"They plan to hang you at midday," Jack told him.

James said nothing. Stared unflinchingly. The commodore's jaw was clenched tightly enough to make muscles along it stand out in sharp ridges.

Jack forced a tough-luck smile. "My sympathies, mate."

That wasn't betrayal in his eyes, Jack decided; James probably hadn't put enough faith in him for that. But hope was a thing that died in agony, under protest, and the officer had nurtured enough of that to feel its death-throes keenly. Nurtured hope, trusted a pirate, put his body into the hands of that pirate in the interest of a 'plan' that now fell through...

A slow blink. "Congratulations on your engagement," James said flatly.

The guards ushered him out then. He felt the weight of despairing green eyes against his back long after he'd left the man's sight.

***

Jack pulled at his new, unnervingly clean clothing: a shirt of some deep crimson cloth softer than fine linen, black waistcoat bordered with gold thread, red and black sash and trim black breeches and even unwelcome new boots dyed to ebony, stiff and chafing and an inch too long in the toe. He tugged dourly at the heaviness of just-washed elflocks, which as always were taking much longer to dry than the rest of his hair. Ran a hand over his neatened mustache, trimmed and re-braided beard, the smoothly shaved skin around both. He looked rather barbarian-princely, really: an exotic pirate son-in-law for the region's most powerful figure. Marrying Alondra might not be such a bad career move when all was said and done, if it earned him royal treatment and an ever-safe harbor here. Already he was being offered a citywide celebration to welcome him to the family.

But when would people learn that a hanging was a decidedly inauspicious way to inaugurate an engagement?

At his side, lovely in shades of rose and gold, Alondra fumed. Right ticked off at su padre, she was, for cheating her out of actualization of her own sordid fantasies. She'd been all blazing eyes and raging words when he'd first gone to her after his release; now this stony silence. The anger of a spoiled princess, it seemed, denied a coveted toy.

The courtyard was packed. Word of the looming execution had drawn disreputables to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with honest townsfolk. The death of an assassin—an English assassin—was something everyone could get excited about.

Jack wriggled uncomfortably inside his clothes. Flexed toes in his big, shiny boots, missing the worn flexibility of the old. Far, far too clean.

Booming voices of guards parted the crowd. James appeared, wrists in irons, arms held tightly by the thickset men to either side of him. Despite their attempts to jostle him, make him look ignobly graceless with dread of his fate, he managed to keep his head up, though his shoulders sloped with weariness and the weight of shackles, and his long legs were hobbled to crimped steps by their fetters. His beaten face was marbled granite. Jack imagined he could see the rage crashing against the man's chest on the inside, over and over and over, trying to wear down that stolidity.

He didn't look about much. Only when he glimpsed the dais with its brightly garbed watchers did his head turn away from the gallows, their way. Jack's way. And then he stared.

Jack glared back, suddenly angry. It's not my fault you went and convinced them you're an assassin, he thought. And—You got your share of pleasure out of our little prison games, so don't act like I took unfair advantage. And also, a bit more fervently—Sod it all, but it's a terrible thing to let a cocksucker like that go to waste.

What the situation really needed was a William Turner, Jr. But this day sorely lacked anyone so blindly committed to righteous honor. All it had was a power-greedy Spaniard, his rebellious and lustful daughter, and one titivated pirate with wet-dog hair who missed his hat awfully and really truly wanted a little more time to explore the perversions of a particular commodore.

Really. Truly. He'd had plans. With choreography and everything.

What to do, what to do...

Like most of Jack's especially brilliant notions, the idea came to him spontaneously, half-formed, depending on too many variables to possibly count on and yet already captivating him with its elegance. Details would work themselves out in the doing. It would succeed. And if it didn't, something else would come up. Something always occasionally mostly sometimes did.

He leaned down to Alondra's ear. Whispered feverishly. The look she turned on him was sharp, questioning, suspicious.

"Por favor, querida," he murmured, pouring desperation into the words, his expression as pathetically soft as it would go. "Él me es... importante."

Her eyes narrowed.

Jack glanced towards James, nearing the scaffold amidst the bustling, jeering crowd. He dropped the sugary drivel and went for what he knew interested her. "Él es un gran amante. El mejor. Lo prometo."

A frown. She looked between them, Jack to captive James, her lush lips curving downward in consideration. "¿Lo amas encerio?"

What was this? A soft spot after all? He tried very hard to sound lovesick. Probably he sounded more just plain ill, but Alondra didn't strike him as the sort to know the difference. "Sí. Verdaderamente lo amo."

Without another word, she pulled away from him to speak to her father, her words too low and hurried for him to even begin to follow.

James ascended to the scaffold with glowering, arrogant dignity. A lousy prisoner, oh yes. Took it all so very seriously.

An intent look on her face, Alondra turned back to him and took his arm as the Guv'ner, shooting him an impatient glare, spoke up. His daughter's fiancé wished a word with the condemned assassin, he told the crowd. Alejandra herself wanted to tell the fiend who'd sought to murder her father just what hell she would see him descend to. Kicking a man while he was down, letting a curvy slip of a girl spit in his eye—now there was sport to please a bloodthirsty mob. Less dignified than the English, perhaps, but far more dramatic.

Alondra led the way through the rapidly splitting audience. She strode with bigger strides than such a tiny figure should be able to achieve, her fine chin elevated, her bearing as regal as the princess Jack had imagined her. Even snootier than a certain legitimate governor's daughter he could name.

He was momentarily distracted by thoughts of introducing the girls, bypassing all inconveniences of language and nationality and lack of prior acquaintance and somehow tempting them into bed together. The instant image that came to mind made his eyes go glassy and caused him to stumble over his own feet, marring the mood of the moment, though he recovered quickly. He could always blame the boots.

The guards had left the scaffold. Only the hooded hangman—a Brit affectation, that—shared the platform with James now, and he stepped back with exaggerated respect as Alondra shoved herself in James's face, subjecting him to an instant and heated litany of abuse that sounded worthy of note-taking, really, if Jack had only had time and paper.

But James was watching him. Near as they were, that marble façade couldn't hold; feral desperation filled those maddened eyes.

"God," Jack said, meaningfully, "is on the bottom."

A lip curled. "You've come to rub it in? At the last you're truly a pirate. How reassuring."

Ringed hands gestured, illustrative. "Old Roger's on top."

"And night is day and the sun's the moon." Quite impatient he was, for a man whose only pressing engagement was with the noose. "Your point?"

Jack blew out a breath. Alondra continued her rant, striding about before the condemned man, gesturing with real theatrical talent. "You are in my place. Savvy?"

"I already told you I appreciate the irony. If you've nothing useful to say, Sparrow—"

"Jack."

"—you might as well just leave me to die without the added humiliation of your gloating."

"It's always such drama with you, James." He took half a step back as Alondra paced her raging way past him, her words holding the crowd, holding her father, holding the hangman. "The world's upside down." Slowly now, distinctly. "That woman there? Why, she's the Guv'ner's daughter. And you, mate, are the black-hearted gallows bird fixing to swing." He raised a finger. "For an entirely unfair and unjust reason, let me add. Bear that in mind."

Eyes narrowing, James flicked a glance from him to the gesticulating Alondra.

Jack smiled satisfaction, gaze going half-lidded. "There's a good pirate."

And then the man was in motion, fast as he'd named Grey Tam on the attack, the slightly-too-short chain of his irons whipping 'round Alondra's dusky neck in the blink of an eye.

Of course, he did somewhat spoil the effect by telling her, in as sincere a voice as a man had ever uttered to a maid, "I'm so sorry about this, Miss."

Ah well. At least only he and Alondra (and perhaps the executioner, standing there with both hands clasped over his cloth-covered mouth in impotent shock) heard that.

"¡Madre de dios!" Jack flailed in distress, trying to block the aim of the nearest soldiers. The Guv'ner appeared disgustingly certain of his authority, anyway; his minions here were lightly armed next to Port Royal's contingent. "¡Alondra, mi amor!"

She let loose a torrent of words a proper governor's daughter probably wouldn't know in any language. James was backing swiftly to the edge of the scaffold, turning and turning to keep from presenting a motionless target, his face that of a cornered animal.

The Guv'ner shouted disjointed commands. James and Alondra disappeared over the edge of the platform, dropping to the ground. Jack hopped down after them with a flourish.

"...really sorry," James was saying.

"She doesn't speak much English, you realize." A headtilt at the crowd, stunned and milling. "Nor do they."

"Tell them to move aside. Wait!" He whirled Alondra, facing the guards who'd ushered him to the noose. "The key!"

"The key?"

"To the irons, you fool."

Jack blinked. Kicked himself, mentally, three dozen times. "The key."

"The key, Jack!"

He issued the demand to the guards. There was hesitation, the sense that they wanted to look to the Guv'ner, but Jack barked it out with every appearance of frightened insistence and future-son-in-law-of-their-own-little-tyrant leaderliness, and abruptly the scrap of iron was shoved into his hands.

"Unlock them!"

"You needn't bark at me. This is my rescue, if you care to remember."

"Now!"

Resisting an eyeroll, Jack moved to comply: leg-irons first, then hands. He lowered his voice; for the moment Alondra was contenting herself with bared teeth and the darkest glower he'd ever seen from a woman (discounting Anamaria, who was, he'd long ago decided, a shorn Gorgon anyway). "We make for the harbor." He surreptitiously slipped a dagger from his palm to James's as he worked at the wrist-cuffs. "You just stole that from me. She must look to be in imminent danger if you don't want someone to try shooting you on the way."

James let go a shaky breath as the cuffs were unlocked. Distastefully pressed the blade to Alondra's throat, his left arm snugly circling her waist. "So very sorry about this..."

"Digale al idiota que se calle que haga lo que tiene que hacer," she hissed.

"What did she say?"

Jack's mouth notched up one-sidedly. "Get on with it already."

James pulled Alondra closer and glared fiercely at the crowd. At that moment, disheveled, furious and scared and oh-so-very determined, he looked every bit the criminal bent on escape at any and all cost. Jack couldn't recall when he'd felt prouder in his life.

"Tell them to move."

Jack told them, loudly, ad-libbing a dire threat to Alondra's well-being. The assembled scavengers spread like a two-pence whore's thighs on payday. For good measure he suggested a few dreadful things that might happen if anyone dared take a shot.

"What did you say?" James was all but carrying the girl along in his long-strided dash to get out of the square.

"Nothing much."

"Tell me."

"Just try to look like a cannibal." Jack darted in front of James and prisoner, waving his arms at a dimwitted young soldiery type taking aim. "¡No le tire! ¡La matará!"

James dashed through an archway leading from the square to the warren of market shops and carts outside. Hardly anyone had remained here with the prospect of a hanging to lure them off, and now James moved swiftly, his injuries forgotten. He'd pay for that later.

He might even be begging for a thorough massage by nightfall...

Jack tripped over his own feet again. Regained balance just in time to save himself a fall. Bloody boots.

James spun amongst the maze of booths and false alleys, Alondra a scowling, impatient doll in his arms. Just as Jack was opening his mouth to suggest a course, James was off again, running, not giving him so much as a glance.

Just who did he think was in charge here?

Jack chased after, eyes constantly roving to mark the disorganized pursuit. Every so often he shouted a distracting command in broken Spanish to any fleet-footed hothead who got too close. The ploy wouldn't work for long, once the Guv'ner got the men in hand again; that mini-despot had been in power too long and withstood too many enemies to be entirely a fool.

He caught up with James where the festival-day market gave way to more specialized shops, taverns, that one little whorehouse with unusually clean girls who hardly ever took it in their heads to hit a fellow unless he asked... James seemed disoriented; finally he had the good sense to look to Jack, questioning.

Shouts from behind, too close. Alondra's head jerked around. The knife, Jack was embarrassed to note, was nowhere near her throat.

Her eyes caught his. "El burdel."

"¿Estás seguro?"

"¡No me discuto!" she snapped. "¿Quien, tú piensas, está el jefe aquí?"

She would make, he decided then, an unbearably irksome wife. Scowling, he shoved James in the direction of the brothel.

It turned out Alondra knew of what she spoke: the handful of whores lounging in the common room seemed more curious than alarmed after the initial shock of their entrance. Alondra shrugged free of James once inside and rattled off something swift and harsh to the women—it went far too fast to be sure, but Jack thought he caught a gist of, "Say nothing or I'll have you all murdered very much"—then led the way in a sprint through the building to another exit. The stench of kitchen rubbish greeted them from a bin outside the door.

They crept up to the corner of the building. With the initial rush fading James was feeling his body; his arm cradled ribs in pained protectiveness and his breathing came shorter, more ragged than the flight alone could account for. He leaned visibly away from his right leg, flinching rather more than pride should allow if it wasn't significant.

Jack pitched his voice to an undertone. Let Alondra think he murmured intimacies. "Will it bear weight?"

James looked at him, panting. Didn't answer.

"It's a fair ways yet to the docks."

Green eyes turned toward the corner of the building, the street beyond. "Take her and go back. You'll be a hero."

"Ready to try bein' a fugitive on your own already, eh?" Jack arched a brow. "You're an ambitious one."

More quietly still: "I've hunted pirates for a decade. You think I don't know the code?"

Alondra, after peering 'round the corner, glanced at them over her shoulder. Jack edged in closer, voice dropping to bare audibility. "I wouldn't be reminding me of either of those things right now, were I in your place."

"I'm not going to bargain on your generosity. Don't expect me to stake my life on whatever whim drives you."

"Are you somehow under the impression that I broke faith with you?" He understood a little, he supposed, though it angered him nonetheless, and he spoke coldly for that. "You didn't whore yourself out for nothing. I'd think that obvious."

Eyes shifted to his. They were hard, tired-mad-scared, not searching. "It profits you nothing to aid me now."

Jack showed his pricey teeth. "You might notice you're not bouncing on a line at the moment. Explain that to me, then."

"I can't."

"Sure you can. You're practically walking in me boots already, to hear you tell it. Go on."

"I can't."

Jack drew back, disapproval heavy on his face, shaking his head solemnly. "You disappoint me, James. Truly. All I want to do..." He jabbed a finger towards Alondra. "...is make one girl's dream come true. And you, with your..." A hand did a furious, eloquent whirl at him. "...your selfishness..."

"You have got to be joking," James hissed, doing that Looming thing even on just the one leg. "What sort of imbecile do you take me for, to think—"

He was interrupted by a slap from a slim, dusky-gold hand. Alondra had moved like a kite, swooping in, striking, quick and violent and efficient. James's head bumped the wall. He blinked, startled, working his jaw.

Jack sneered. "See, that's why you have to—"

She slapped him too. Harder, he thought. And glared at them both. "No más luchando."

Jack rubbed his cheek and glowered.

"Besan y resolven," she commanded, with a regal flick of that slapping hand.

Jack's finger poked James's chest. "He doesn't care to."

"Do not presume to speak for me. What don't I care to do?"

She crossed her arms. "Besan y resolven—o yo voy a chillar."

"What did she say?"

A sigh. "She'll scream if you don't kiss me right now."

James looked at Jack. Looked at Alondra.

"Listen, mate, let's just—"

A rough, long-fingered hand caught the back of his head, tugged him forward, and James kissed him.

Ohhh, did James kiss him.

For safety's sake, Jack grabbed the wall and held on. He grabbed James too, clutching without thought at the arm pulling him in, recalling that arm and its brother spanning his hips during the night, the mouth currently sucking his tongue busy with more urgent business, and the dangerous flicker of green eyes up at his face, just when... ohh yes, just when...

James shoved him away, breathing hard again, and limped for the junction of whorehouse and street without looking back.

Good thing Alondra was there in an instant to gnaw on his earlobe and restore some perspective, rubbing up and down against his side, purring her barely comprehensible wants into his ear with more fervency than he'd drawn from her the night they shared a bed.

Jack gave her a good grope, as much for his own comfort as her titillation. Smacked her rear and followed James.

They made their way through poorly laid out streets, ducking and dodging, James limping and sweating and Jack tripping and swearing. The pursuit hadn't gotten any more organized; if anything, less. Focusing on another part of town? But the Guv'ner was a canny one... he should have had the sense to fan the men out, radiate and then circle the patrols, control the city's main exits... James would certainly have done so...

James had the lead when they finally ran right into a pair of soldiers. With no hostage before him, no shield, he stood exposed in the narrow back street for what seemed an endlessly long time, though it couldn't have been more than a few hurriedly pumping heartbeats or else someone would have shot, shouted, done something...

Jack's instincts, as a pirate who'd been more often outgunned than not, suggested that he run and duck and rely on Fortuna. James—ever the Navy man, ever spurred by the pride and arrogance of a spreading empire—chose attack.

The soldier tried to spear him with the bayonet rather than firing the musket. James twisted aside in a whip-like motion, lame leg nearly but not quite giving out before he lunged diagonally forward. Jack saw the gleam of the dagger he'd slipped him, silver-bright and then—not.

Then Jack was engaged with the second soldier and had no more time to think.

Hand-to-hand. He hated hand-to-hand. That was the entire point of stocking his ship with large and aggressive brutes whose mothers hadn't loved them: one glimpse of their vengeful faces made even the dullest merchant captains surrender their arms so that it never came to this ungainly weaponless scramble, this straining-cursing-hating embrace, with no clean kill in sight.

He succeeded in knocking the musket to skitter across the uneven road, but then the soldier, longer and lankier of build, caught him with a sweeping blow that he would have seen coming if not for his bandana-lacking hair turning traitor and blinding him. He swung back around and dove for a tackle, figuring that at least if he got the man on the ground there'd be less punching. The big boots intervened—tripped him up and sent him down. He had the presence of mind to roll, but the soldier had the clever notion of falling down atop him, wrestling or... engaging in foreplay or... well, he really had no idea, except that there was no technique to speak of and he wasn't enjoying it even a little and as much as he usually appreciated his lithe muscularity he was really wishing right at the moment that Mum had found some friendly, meaty ogre to sire him...

The man he fought slammed his skull against the street hard enough to show him the cosmos. He struggled against throttling hands, his thumbs trying to find purchase to gouge out furious eyes.

And then the soldier went rigid. A slim blade sprouted from the side of his neck, buried deep. One hand left Jack's throat to clutch there as the man rolled sideways, back, jarring the knife in its place so the blood poured free.

He died with disbelief just beginning to reshape his mouth.

Jack didn't move except to breathe.

Some unknowable instant later he heard a hoarse cough nearby. Uneven steps, ragged respiration. "Jack." James's voice. "Are you—"

"Don't move," he said. "Be silent." Then repeated it in Spanish for Alondra, enunciating carefully.

No one moved. No one spoke. After a few breaths Jack sat up and searched the narrow street and then, upon considering the way the soldier had been hit, the nearby rooftops. A man in a brown cloak balanced on the edge of one, crouched and calm, seeming unreasonably at ease on the perilous tiling of the Spanish roof.

Seconds ticked toward a minute. The man dropped down, landing neatly and then straightening to be swallowed by the cloak. His face was thin and severe and forgettable, his hair straight and brown and dull, and his eyes had the color and warmth of grave dirt.

Long, measured strides took the cloaked man to Jack's downed soldier. A crouch, reminiscent of a spider, then a wrench as the oddly shaped blade was retrieved, cleaned casually on the dead man's shirt and finally taken back within the cloak like a tooth behind a dog's dropped lip. Grey Tam, maybe, ever-ready to unman.

He stood again. Swept eyes over Jack, over gape-mouthed Alondra, then settled his regard on James's bruised face and red-stained hands. He studied the disheveled officer at length before lips turned in a bare smile—as if he'd just met the punchline of an unfunny joke.

Only when the man turned to stroll unhurriedly away, vanishing from sight, did Jack take another breath. And that was softly done.

"Well," James said, with the composure of one making a monumental effort to sound unflustered. "There you have it."

Jack stood. "What do I have?"

Musket in hand, James limped to his side. "Proof." Around the exhaustion and the startlement, the blood and the lumps and the pain, he was managing to look a bit pleased. Vindicated. "As I said all along, it was a misunderstanding."

~finis~

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