Fathoms 20

You're Beautiful

by

Manic Intent

The wedding party was in full swing and into the second round of dances—brightly colored, expensively clothed bodies moved in twirling patterns on the dance floor that hurt his eyes to watch. Eye, in this case, since he had an embroidered eyepatch on which was proving to be very irritating indeed. James muttered under his breath and wished he had never agreed to dress up as a pirate for the Turners' masquerade party. Or if so, that he hadn't agreed to wear the damned eye patch. The affected vision was making him extremely cranky. On the other hand, some of his irritation likely showed on his face, because no blushing girl had as yet bothered him for a dance via approaching him and dropping barbed hints. Silver linings.

Despite the fairly ridiculous costume. The original clothes had included a checkered bandana for his hair, and a stuffed parrot. He'd opted (to the Turners' disappointment) to leave out those—settling instead for the elaborate pistol belt, a cutlass, large fake gem rings, lace-up shirt and oddly comfortable breeches in wide-topped boots. A tricorn hat, with a stitched skull and crossbones motif at the sides. And the damned eyepatch.

He went back for more punch, and noted that Elizabeth Turner, glowingly happy on William's arm, was pulling the blacksmith towards him. She was dressed, rather predictably, as a swan—a beautiful feathered mask over her lovely smile, carefully coiffed hair plaited with white ribbons and long feathers, the gown an artwork of plumes and pearls. Governor Swann had definitely outdone himself with the party—not that he could blame the man, remembering how (so much thinner, so much older-looking) he had actually broken down on the dock, when they returned to Port Royal, a month and a half back, safe and sound.

A white-gloved hand extended for a kiss, and he brushed her wrist with lips absently, remembering, in a brilliant flash of images, white-gloved hands bound to a black mainmast, and a male, purring voice encouraging him to do all manner of licentious acts. It was immediately followed by a dull hurt, which he clamped down on, forcing a smile. "Elizabeth. You look lovely."

William Turner was also dressed as a pirate, and, irritatingly, rather like a certain pirate of mutual acquaintance—tricorn hat, red scarf, fake beaded hair, even a sea-urchin spine. He grinned. "James. Thanks for coming." Over the voyage back home, and the past month and a half, the both of them had at least become friends.

"Of course I would," James said, then fingered his eye patch. "Though I regret agreeing to wear some of these trappings."

"But we had it specially made," Elizabeth said, pouting prettily. "Even Bootstrap said it was as fine an eyepatch as he'd ever seen."

The man in question was in a corner of the large ballroom, dressed as Baron Saturday. He still looked far older than he should be, especially next to Governor Swann, and there were still moments where he looked off into the distance, haunted, but other than that he seemed to be slowly recovering from his ordeal of servitude. At the moment, drink in hand, he seemed to be laughing with the bride's father over some joke.

"I'm sure he would," James said dryly. Bootstrap had been anxious to gain the approval of his son's bride-to-be, but even if that had not been the case, he had, like Turner the Younger, been very quickly charmed by Elizabeth's fire.

There was a brief silence, as both Turners looked at each other, and then at the display of artistic finger foods, as Elizabeth said in a small voice, "I thought Jack would come. I mean, I invited Tia too, and she didn't come, but at least she replied with an explanation. Jack... well, I thought he would. Or at least, see the ceremony."

"They have only just processed his Letter of Marque properly," James said mildly, having become practiced over the last month or so in hiding his pain. "Or perhaps he was held up by the weather."

Elizabeth looked up at James, then away again. I thought he'd come back for you. Unspoken. James took a deep swallow of his punch. He had thought so as well—or at least, entertained the thought in all seriousness. Claiming that he'd wanted to give James time to think things over, Jack had left only after a day of their return to Port Royal. The Lady Luck hadn't followed them all the way back—stopping at Tia's island. Barbossa had, to everybody's astonishment, wished the Turners (or at least, Bootstrap's whelp) well for their upcoming wedding (if gruffly, and almost inaudibly), and hadn't been heard of since, though James had heard reports of a ship matching the description heading in the direction of New Amsterdam.

The Black Pearl, however, had seemed to simply vanish off the face of the sea. James, however, had been too busy to start searching, on his return to Port Royal and having to deal with Beckett—who had been coldly angry after learning what they had done, but hadn't been able to do anything about it (though James had advised the Turners to keep a their weapons close as much as they could, just in case of assassin-secretaries). The man had finally, apparently quit the scene, possibly headed to Kingston, or back to England.

And James had heard that he was very likely to be promoted to Admiral, for outstanding service in the name of the Crown—the removal of a pirate threat and an illegal trading port in Cathay. He could almost hear Jack's drawl—so yer a bigger Navy toff now, are ye, Jamie-luv?—and he was aware, not for the first time that day, or indeed over the last month and a half, of how much he missed the damned pirate.

"You're scowling, James," Elizabeth said. He glanced at her. A wry grin on those full lips. "You don't hide it very well."

Will plucked at her sleeve anxiously. It was amusing how the blacksmith was so quick to try and stop his bride from accidentally prying open old wounds, when he didn't himself realize how his very costume was doing so. And then they were approached by the representative from Kingston and his wife, and swept away into the crowd.

Noting how, after the third dance, feminine eyes were speculatively eyeing him (as one of Port Royal's most eligible bachelors), James quickly secluded himself in the corner of the balustrade, with enough drink and finger food. He didn't feel much like dancing. Though he could see, out of the corner of his eye, Lord Norrington twirling a lady on the floor, and grinning mischievously. His father enjoyed parties nearly as much as he enjoyed pranks, and the wedding celebration and ceremony had been delayed until he'd shown up at Port Royal, a couple of days late, bearing wedding gifts of a pair of gorgeous black Araby stallions. Absolutely inappropriate for rocky Port Royal, but Elizabeth had been so pleased. Poseidon's Wrath, No Redemption and Last Dance currently dominated the harbor. Clearly here for some hunting, as well. James felt some apprehension over the fact, but then, the Black Pearl was clearly recognizable.

A politely cleared throat interrupted his reverie. James looked up to see Bootstrap in his black costume and cane, tipping his top hat. "Mr. Turner."

"Bootstrap," the man corrected, with a grin. "As I've tried tellin' ye already."

James managed to smile despite his poor mood. "All right."

Silence marked only by the sounds of drinking. The Bootstrap said, almost as an afterthought, "The thing 'bout old Jack, 'e's a wee bit like a girl."

"I beg your pardon?" James blinked, startled. He had been expecting a comment about Jack—just about everybody tended to talk about the legendary Captain Jack Sparrow, in his presence—but not in that vein.

"I mean 'e likes bein' chased," Bootstrap said, with a quick grin at James' expression. "But then, 'e also don't like commitment. If 'e think 'e's getting too close, 'e runs. An' expects t'be chased."

"Are you suggesting..." James began, and then shook his head slightly, taking a deep breath. "I couldn't have done that. I have a job."

"Aye, an' usually, 'e'd run fer a bit, see that he isn't chased, an' drink t'drown out th'pain," Bootstrap shrugged. "Ain't sayin' it's right, or even sane, just sayin' that's what I've seen. Last time."

James grimaced. "I... I see."

"Last time, I said," Bootstrap repeated, looking back up at James with a faint smile, his voice now pitched softly. "T'aint seen any gel or man 'e liked as much as ye. An' I definitely 'aven't seen anyone that 'e'd bring aboard th'Pearl —though he 'ad a few flings in the two, three years he 'ad her, at the beginnin'. Means she likes ye, doesn't she?"

"The Pearl?" James smiled wryly. This line of conversation was so very out of place in the midst of the civilized party. "Yes. She demanded to know why I wasn't going with Jack, when he was about to leave. Hasn't spoken to me since."

"Aye, Jack says she tends t'keep grudges fer a while, though she'd forgive eventually," Bootstrap chuckled. "She tried t'talk t'me before, many times, but it was always too... disturbin', I asked her t'stop. Jack said she was right pissed wi' me fer months. Figured, I kept accidentally knockin' into loose pulleys, or fallin' off the ship."

James dipped his head, his smile becoming forced as he tired of the constant reminders that fanned the pain in his heart. "What do you plan on doing now? That you're no longer... that you're..."

"Human again?" Bootstrap supplied, with a grin. "I think I'd stay 'ere fer a while, get t'know 'Lizabeth, get along better wi' William... see 'ow it goes. I'd like t'be a grandda' worthy o' any kid, but th'sea, she be a mistress ye can't avoid. An' I know no other craft but sailin'. An' now there be two cap'ns worth sailin' under, over th'sea, t'choose."

"Barbossa?" James blinked. "But..."

"Still a good cap'n, one o' th'best," Bootstrap shrugged, "An' 'tis th'way o' pirates. I knew what was goin' t'happen t'me when I objected t'the mutiny. Welcomed it, even. I was sick at heart, t'see what had happened to the friendship. None o' us knew at that time that we were cursed. 'Sides, t'aint Barbossa that gets people into th'oddest scrapes."

James sighed, about to excuse himself, then he noticed Bootstrap frown—then the worn face broke out into a delighted laugh. He was facing the door. James turned on his heel, so quickly that he'd had to hold on to his hat.

Masquerade costume could have disguised Gibbs and Cotton—dressed as a rather portly Spanish conquistador with his squire—but it would have been hard to conceal the ebony skinned Anamaria, in her dress themed exotically on jaguars, with the spotted fur trim on the pale orange dress, and the vicious-looking mask. And it definitely wouldn't have helped Marty, who was unselfconsciously dressed as a (very short) native official of Cathay—bright robes, fake pigtail and all.

And there was Jack.

James knew his jaw was hanging open. Jack was wearing a very, very good replica of his own Commodore dress uniform, fitted to his slighter size, sashaying in cheekily to tip the large blue hat at Governor Swann. Thankfully the party was already well under way, and nobody noticed or gave much comment over the new arrivals. But, oh God, Jack looked sexy in gold brocade, dark blue coat, cravat, (dreadlocks combed out again, James noticed, though the kohl was still there), tight white breeches... even with that damned ridiculous wig...

"Ye 'ave t'breathe, man," Bootstrap said somewhere behind him, sounding amused.

"Please excuse me," James said hurriedly, not waiting to see if there was an acknowledgement, and moved into the crowd.

Jack was in the midst of apologizing to the Turners, his white-gloved hands fluttering agitatedly. "I would'a come fer the weddin', I would, we were plannin' t'come three days beforehand, in fact, but there was a bad storm near Havana an' we 'ad t'stop fer repairs t'the foremast..." And he paused, when James approached them, out of breath, and grinned. "James." A quick once over. "Lookin' good, mate."

"Elizabeth. William. I beg your pardon," James turned to the Turners.

Elizabeth chuckled. "Jack, I forgive you. James, you're welcome."

"Have fun," Will ventured, as Jack was dragged away to the garden. There was a faint "Nice togs, Will!" just as the two men disappeared from view.

When they were far enough from the house, in the pavilion shaded by trees, James pushed Jack up against one of the white struts that held up the domed roof, and kissed him savagely, pouring a month and a half's worth of frustration, heartbreak, despair and exasperation into it. Jack's gloved fingers clutched briefly at James' coat, then wrapped behind his head, growling as he kissed him back, wrapping his legs around James' waist. The forgotten stands with discarded music scripts still cluttered the newly-constructed, circular building—really just a roof held up on white struts over a ring-shaped cushion bench, with a large lantern illuminating the place at the apex.

When they broke for air, James shifted Jack up onto the bench, half-kneeling on it himself, half-standing on the ground. A wayward, long leg pushed over one of the music stands with a clatter, but neither cared. Jack smiled breathlessly, large hat already lopsided on his head, pulling at his cravat. "Missed ye too."

James balanced himself with his hands on either side of Jack, taking deep, slow breaths until his mouth agreed to work, yanking off the eyepatch and discarding it, then the cutlass. "Did you have to take so long?"

Jack pouted. "I said we 'ad some trouble over near Havana, didn't I?"

"It's been a month and a half, Jack," James growled.

"Oh." Jack blinked. "Well, thought ye'd want some time. Think things over. An' ye didn't exactly start chasin' me."

A deep sigh, as Bootstrap's words came back to haunt him. James plucked at the white, flat collar of the blue Commodorial coat. "Do you have any idea what wearing this uniform means, Jack?"

"Means ye 'ave t'have some sort o' internal heat control method, 'cos it's killin' me," Jack deadpanned, with a smirk. "An' th'wig itches."

"I meant in terms of responsibility," James said patiently. "And the wig looks silly on you."

"Aye, aye. Responsibility," Jack said dryly, removing the offending wig and dumping it on the bench next to him, before replacing the large hat. "Very important. S'posed t'be taken seriously, instead o' runnin' about like yer da', whom I saw dancin' wi' a gel younger than ye, back there."

"Yes, it should be," James said, determined not to lose the line of conversation, difficult when talking to Jack. Especially when he was sitting like that, legs open, leaning against the strut, tugging out the cravat while trying to adjust the hat at the same time. How could one creature be so infuriating, yet so desirable and adorable? James dipped his head again, acknowledging that he was, quite possibly, about to be defeated. "Jack."

"Made up yer mind yet, Jamie-luv?" Jack asked, quietly.

James smiled, thinly. "What about you, Jack?"

"I've kept to th'Letter, 'aven't I. M'now a privateer fer good, fer King an' bloody Country." A soft chuckle. "'Sides, I got a close look at some o' th'new ships in th'harbor, not just yer da's. Very interestin' fer any pirates left in these parts."

"Sea Hawk just arrived from London," James nodded, with some pride. "Beautiful ship." The new warship wasn't a replacement or consolation for the Dauntless in his heart, but then, she wasn't meant to be.

As expected, Jack replied instantly, irritably, "T'aint as bonny as me Pearl. She's still mad at ye, by th'way."

"I'm sure her Captain can be prevailed on to explain to her the nature of responsibility," James said dryly, shifting them again so that Jack was in his lap, while he sat on the bench, one ankle crossed over a knee, one boot on the ground. The pirate purred and wriggled a little as he felt evidence that James had definitely missed him.

"Depends. Ye 'aven't told me what ye've decided."

James sighed, and pulled Jack close, resting his forehead on the other man's chest, over his heart, ignoring his need for the moment. And listened, while nimble fingers removed his hat and ran through his hair, patting, playing, examining the fine strands. And thought, again, over the same questions that had plagued him, night after night, when the Black Pearl had left. "I think I'd like to be Admiral."

A sigh, muffled by his hair. Fingers stilled. "Aye. An' ye'd look nice in those togs, m'think."

"For perhaps... oh... maybe a year and a day."

The slighter body tensed. "An'... an' then?"

James looked up to see worried, bright eyes, lined with kohl. And smiled softly, glancing away. "Well. That depends on whether I feel... appreciated, by my lover, up until then." No long, mysterious absences. No using Port Royal as merely a port of call. No gallivanting all over the world without your say-so. And definitely no cheating.

"Appreciated," Jack repeated thoughtfully, showing that he'd grasped instantly all the connotations. "If so?"

James chuckled. "Then perhaps I may find the position of Admiral too stressful, and take an honorable discharge to something with more... breathing space. Such as, perhaps, an ambassadorial position in the East India Company, that involves much travel, on a ship of my choice. Something like that. I'm sure my father will be able to come up with something."

"I see. An' yer ship o' choice?"

"It depends, entirely, on whether I feel that the ship's captain," a brief kiss over brocade, "Is amenable to my needs."

Jack trembled, and then he began to laugh, quietly, the chuckles muted by chocolate-brown hair. "You're very sharp, Commodore Norrington."

"Only when I have to be," James said dryly, inserting just the faintest hint of reproach into his voice. Jack leaned down, and kissed his forehead, gently.

Silence, then, very quietly, "M'love ye."

James let out a breath, and found he couldn't arrange the motor control required to smile, lips faltering. His throat clenched, with a choked sound, and he closed his eyes for a moment, pulling Jack more tightly against him. Finally, still unable to smooth the tremor from his voice, he muttered against white fabric edged with gold brocade, "Did... did you have to wait, all this while, to tell me that?"

"Sorry," Jack was nuzzling his ear distractingly. "I needed t'think, too."

"And?"

"M'think that right now, I should be makin' a fair bid, fer yer attentions, James Norrington," Jack smirked, and moved his hips. James gasped, his own hips jerking involuntarily.

"Not here, Jack," he managed to say, gripping the pirate's waist. "Stop."

Jack pouted. "We've 'ad our... games, in public, before."

"At night on the Pearl, at the docks of Tortuga with the rest of the crew on shore leave, is not the same, Jack," James grit his teeth at another salacious wriggle. "I mean it."

"Awlright. Then where'd ye s'pose we go?"

"I have a horse carriage close by that can take us to my home."

He could hear the horses' snorting and soft whickering as they pawed at the ground, obviously somewhat confused as to why they had stopped, right outside the Norrington residence, but he didn't much care, all but yanking Jack's shirt open to roughly explore the heaving, tanned chest with his tongue and teeth. "Damned flirt," he snarled, leaning up and biting down on a shoulder.

Gloved hands cupped his head gently, even as Jack writhed and laughed. "Pirate!"

"The only pirate I've... known, to do that," James replied harshly, grinding his very apparent need against white breeches. "So what does that make you?"

"Th'best pirate ye've ever seen?" Jack suggested wickedly, gloved fingers having problems removing James' costume. He pouted, and began to pull one off, stilled quickly by James.

"Don't."

"Kinky, mate, kinky," Jack chided with a smirk, but left them on, tugging insistently at the coat instead, even as James was working on the white breeches, growling at the laces.

"I don't remember mine being... this troublesome," James muttered, even as Jack gave up on the coat and reached down to rub the bulge in the Commodore's pants through the fabric. James moaned, instantly thrusting into the touch, fingers fumbling, then cursed, pushing Jack's hands away. "It's already bloody hard to concentrate, Jack."

"Why not ye remove yer shirt fer Jack, first?" Jack suggested, licking his upper lip. "Then mebbe I'd 'ave somethin' t'do instead o' fondlin' th'goods."

James rolled his eyes at the salacious suggestion, but acquiesced, nimbly removing belts, shirt, allowing them to fall into a heap at the bottom of the carriage. Jack purred appreciatively, running his gloved hands over broad shoulders—the feel of fine leather making James shiver.

Finally, with an oath, he gave up on the knots, pressing kisses instead over Jack's bared chest, nibbling over the heaving chest, then settling for pressing sucking love bites in a neat trail down to Jack's navel. Gloved hands pulled at his hair, Jack letting out a string of curses in Spanish. "James..."

"Serve you right for getting these pants," James muttered, nuzzling the obvious erection in the fabric, glancing at the slowly growing wet circle. Another smirk up at Jack, and he lowered his head, sucking at it, at the hard flesh below it. Jack wailed, bucking frantically. Starched fabric, and salt.

When he looked up again, Jack's eyes were glassy under the off-balance hat, his mouth opening and closing for breath, and then they focused sharply. "I'm this close t'removin' th'gloves an' helpin' ye, Jamie-luv," he growled, ragged words.

James snorted, but managed finally to navigate the laces, tugging down the breeches to Jack's knees, then muttered as he started on the boots. Thankfully, they were far easier—and boots, stained breeches joined the pile of clothing on the ground. James applied himself to the rosy shaft with enthusiasm, lapping his way up from the base to the tip, then kissing a path down, nosing the curls at the base, swirling his tongue around hot flesh. Another smirk, then he lapped his way up again, and swallowed, purring. Gloved fingers in his hair, on his shoulders, against his back, fluttering, squeezing, caressing. Hips bucked, and this time, James didn't restrain him, his own hands merely resting on thighs, allowing Jack to claim his mouth as he suckled. A pulse in his throat, then James dimly felt leather-clad fingers pulling at his shoulders.

"Wait, wait," Jack said breathlessly. "Stop."

"Stop?" James pulled back, puzzled, watching as Jack hissed and wriggled a little when warm breath ghosted over the tip.

"First time in too long. Want ye inside me," Jack somehow managed to say, then plucked at his open coat. "Pocket."

James nodded in understanding, pulling down his own breeches to his knees to free his own throbbing erection, and taking out the vial, trembling hands spilling some over the upholstery. He lowered his head again to nuzzle the musky shaft, even as he pushed two fingers into Jack to spread him. A lick, and Jack was tugging at his hair, again. "No, don't. Too close."

"Too many demands, Jack," James said, his voice strained, as he carefully spread the other man, though his wrist was caught in a leathery grip when he attempted to add another finger.

"Now. Now!" Jack gasped, hands going up to tug on James' shoulders, writhing on the maroon velvet upholstery, hat tumbling off his head to join the discarded clothes.

James nodded tightly, pulling one leg up on his shoulder, turning Jack onto his side, then slid in, his breathing hissing out between clenched teeth as he fought for control, a slow glide to the hilt, tight heat. Jack's face was pressed against the fabric of the carriage seat, gloved hands splayed next to him, then fingers curled. "Oh God..." A breathless gasp, and another incoherent obscenity. "Too long."

"Blame yourself," James said, unmercifully, as he began to thrust, one hand supporting the leg, the angle a little awkward given the confined space, but with some shifting, and the other hand going under a hip, they settled into a hard, fast rhythm scored with breathless, harsh cries. Writhing heat, a raw voice gasping his name, his fingers rough on a weeping shaft, and release seemed too fast from the both of them, driven by need edged from separation. The yowl from Jack as he found completion startled the horses, which whinnied anxiously, stamping.

James pulled out, and all but collapsed on top of Jack, his arms shaking, holding himself up by his elbows, breath against the pirate's collar, listening to the other man's own ragged pants. They stayed that way for a while, the night quiet except for the impatience of the horses, then Jack began to chuckle. "Who cleans yer carriage?"

James hung his head, closing his eyes. "Oh, God."

Barbossa looked out over the bustling port of North Carolina, eating a green apple. It seemed an interesting enough port from which to operate, although he had been told that New Amsterdam would likely be more profitable for a British privateer. With some modifications, Lady Luck was fast becoming the terror of Spanish and Dutch ships about the region, and he'd come to North Carolina laden with the spoils of war on the sea.

He smirked, shifting his shoulders a little, as he took another bite, the monkey chattering into his ear. Life was good.

"Handsome," she told Jack, "But possessive. Don't like."

Jack wisely kept his opinions about possessive lovers and how fun they could be (in bed, at least) to himself.

Marty grew a little too fond of the Oriental costume, until Jack took him aside and explained how it was creeping him out.

Cotton's parrot learned a new phrase, which it tended to say at the oddest times (such as in the middle of a gale, with the water lashing at the working crew). "Pretty Commodores. Pretty Commodores."

Carefully, he put the quill on the table, and got to his feet, with a grace that gave lie to a hammering heart. Walked to the door. Leaned with his back against it, and said, dryly, "It doesn't get any funnier, Henry."

Soft laughter.

As always, she turns a blind eye to his thievery.

"I'm sure we can keep an eye on him," Elizabeth had said, primly, glowing with joy even though bedridden for the moment. It had been a difficult birth.

"Aye, t'be sure," Sparrow had replied, cheekily. "But just so, I'd be givin' him a pistol fer his sixteenth birthday."

"Do you have children of your own, Jack?" William had asked, so seriously that Sparrow hadn't given it another thought.

"Not that I know of, why?"

"So, does that mean our Jack inherits your Pearl?" William's face had been absolutely straight, as was Elizabeth's, when Sparrow gawped at them. Then they began to laugh.

"Very, very funny."

Bootstrap Bill Turner left for the sea a month or so after the wedding, on the Black Pearl. Jack's frequent visits back to Port Royal—always about at least twice a month—suited him fine, especially when the child was born. He could often be found peering over the cradle, bemused, as if disbelieving his luck, though could not be relied on to babysit, having no willpower to enforce any sort of rules with his gurgling grandson.

After some fine examples of piracy—sorry, privateering—and trade, Bootstrap took his cut of the profit, and retired comfortably in Port Royal. Sometimes the sea still calls to him, but not as loudly.

A year and a day.

Deliberately slowly, he dressed himself in the garb of a common sailor—if with finely made, comfortable clothes and a feathered hat, and packed his worldly possessions into a trunk. Some books, another pistol, spare clothes, and a necessary costume for his new position in trade relations. The world was changing, and diplomacy was currently in fashion. He was really now no more than a highly paid, glorified messenger with a nose out for corruption, but he felt only relief as he folded his Admiral's coat on the desk and placed the large Admiral's hat atop it.

Then he picked up the trunk, and made his way to the harbor in a leisurely stroll.

The Black Pearl was the first to greet him, joyful, amused at his new coat, welcoming him back to her decks. Mine, she told him, firmly. He tipped his feathered hat at the black hull with a wry smile.

Gibbs wordlessly took the trunk with a grin, jerked his thumb up at the bridge, and then disappeared up the gangplank, towards the captain's cabin.

Jack, beautiful, wild Jack, watched him from behind the wheel, his fingers trailing over dark wood absently. He smiled when James walked up to him and pressed a kiss to the back of one nut-brown hand, and cocked his head, beads and dreadlocks shifting. "Where to?"

A heartbreakingly sweet smile, as one aristocratic hand blanketed the ringed fingers over the helm. "The far horizon, Jack. The far horizon."

[-fin-]

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