Merely Players

Act Two

by

Hippediva & Elessil

James nervously glanced over the audience, so few now, so few that he could see every single gaze trained on him, watching attentively; amused. None seemed to suspect he was no actor, on the contrary, the Governor had been so delighted by the last night's performance that their improvised theatre on the town square had been enlarged. Wonderful. More people to witness his utter humiliation.

That alone was bad enough, but the Commandante sat in the audience as well, staring curiously. James could see it in his gaze when Jack entered the stage and he turned to face him, silent for a moment.

Was this Jack Sparrow, or had the true Mariella returned? No, he recognised those eyes, the turn of the brow and the cheekbone, but he admit to admit that Sparrow gave an impressive show as woman. If only he would remember his lines as impressively! They had been barely given the time to read it once. James had been relieved to find it a Shakespearean text, with which he was familiar enough, terror following on its heels when he realised that Sparrow would certainly not have been raised with those texts.

That Sparrow would not know them could, with a blunder, destroy their cover, in front of the military and the civil commander of this port, no less. He inwardly cursed as Jack approached, wondering if he could mutter so softly that only Sparrow but no one else would overhear.

"Good morrow, Kate; for that's your name, I hear," he intoned loudly.

Jack swayed right to his face, staring up with resentful dark eyes.

"Well have you heard," He leaned forward to James' upstage ear and shouted, "BUT SOMEWHAT HARD OF HEARING."

He flounced away, and whirled, skirts flying, arms crossed. "They call me Katharina that do talk of me."

Despite his ringing ear, James breathed a sigh of relief. Sparrow had remembered at least a few of the lines. It would not be a complete disaster. Perhaps he could help with some of the others and certainly, the rest could be explained by fatigue, illness or any number of reasons.

He lifted one hand, stepping closer.

"You lie, in faith, for you are call'd plain Kate," He circled Sparrow, continuing his lines with each step. Then stopped, went to his knees in front of him.

"Hearing thy mildness praised in every town,
Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded,
Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs,
Myself am moved to woo thee for my wife. "

Jack listened, watching him sympathetically, slowly bringing forward a stool and gesturing to it with exaggerated kindness. James narrowly missed landing on his bottom when he kicked the stool out at "why, what's a moveable?".

The Governor was in heaven. The Commandante watched the Governor and Mariella with jealous eyes. Fernando grinned like Puck and D'Yves just smiled at the stacks of coins piling in his agile brain.

Answer followed answer, and it seemed almost natural, as though they had fallen back into their habit of countering each other's every word. James didn't like the glint in Sparrow's eyes at all.

"Good Kate; I am a gentleman." And yes, Sparrow, I am bloody serious about that and will not be made even more a fool in public.

Jack spun around, his face sugar and cherries in the blaze of the sunlight. He swayed forward, dark eyes seductive. "That I'll try," he purred, then raised his right hand and walloped James across the jaw.

There was an infuriating smile on his painted lips.

James itched to strike back, reflexively, but standing in front of him was a woman, and he would not. "I swear I'll cuff you, if you strike again." The glare in his eyes enforced the promised retribution.

"STOP! Sir! This is too much! You cannot strike her! I forbid it." Jack was staring up into James' eyes challengingly, then blinked and turned to look out into the audience.

The Commandante was striding up toward the stage.

"Sir! Theatre is art! You must not!" Solomon D'Yves fussed with his periwig and scowled.

Jack bit his lip.

Solomon's voice rose over the chatter of the officers and those backstage. "Quiet. Please, sir... I implore you. Oh God, will this be violent?"

James was torn out of the moment, reminded forcibly that there was more at risk, and that 'Kate' was a man who could be unmasked any second. He remembered the words from before, the reminder not to offend the noble visitors in any way. He rather thought that pointing out their ignorance was unacceptable for him in this position. Instead he smiled sweetly.

"Good Sir, I agree with you entirely. And what art demands, an artist must yield. If the poet bids my wife to strike, then she shall. And I, a gentleman in play and truth, shall at worst threaten to retort."

Jack, standing frozen beside him, clapped excitedly and rose up on his toes to kiss James' cheek. He smiled and turned on the brave soldier, his eyes becoming insolent.

"And what in heaven's sight, cause do you have to interrupt me. Would you like my Kate, sir? I am more than happy to oblige you."

He was stalking the tall man like a panther, then he stopped and looked. "Then again, I could forgive any man so moved by our performance."

He waited imperiously as Jaime Escobedos y Narantes hurried to kiss his outstretched hand.

James stepped beside him and slipped an arm around his waist, apparently gentle, but in truth to hold him back from any further insanities.

"You must forgive my wife, Sir. She immerses so deeply into a role that she may at times forget what is proper."

Jack's fingers lingered seductively on the smooth-shaven face as he let Norrington pull him away from the slavering Spaniard.

"Of course, love. Forgive us, sir. We ai-aren't used to being observed in rehearsal." His smile at James was uncanny, so genuine it was painful. His laugh was a delighted gurgle.

The Governor rose from his seat, clearly displeased at the attention the Commandante was getting.

"Now, Sir, you have heard her. Be a gentleman and do not interrupt the artists at work."

James could see both their glances linger on Jack, and he glared back possessively, demonstratively tightening his hold. He had already seen the Spaniard lift his arm, to touch Jack as if by coincidence, and he doubted the woolen bosom would stand much inspection.

James was immediately facing the black glare of death as the Commandante stood tall and bowed elaborately to Jack. "Madame. I beg you forgive me. You have driven me mad with envy. Sir." He saluted James elaborately. There was no mistaking the challenge in his eyes.

He returned to his seat beside the Governor and Jack turned, hands over his mouth, shoulders shaking.

James bent close as if to whisper some tenderness into his ear, but what came out was a hissed, "Idiot."

Jack giggled. "Ahhh. Me public."

But Katharina was running out of air. And rum. She seemed truly cowed and broken until her last speech, declaimed from where she knelt at Petruchio's feet.

"My hand is ready, may it do him ease."

His hand wavered in front of his face and his voice sounded odd and faraway. He blinked and swayed as Norrington got closer, then further, closer and he sighed.

James pulled him to his feet and put an arm around him, relieved that now, at least, the matter was over.

"Why, there's a wench!" They had touched and pushed often enough, but never had Sparrow been so limp in his arms.

"Come on, and kiss me, Kate." He was scowling, invisible to the audience and bent close, wary.

Sparrow didn't move. No infuriating grin, not as much as a blink. And still unmoving, unconscious. "Come on, and kiss me, Kate," he repeated. Still no reaction. "J—Mariella?"

Fernando, on stage as Hortensio, rushed closer when he realised the act was quite finished. "Oh dear!" he exclaimed.

James was painfully reminded of Elizabeth, lying there and gasping for breath on the docks, limp. With a sudden flinch, he realised the cause: the corset. He cursed. He could not well take it off here.

He pulled his 'wife' into his arms, lifted her, turning to apologise to the audience. "I beg your pardon, but my wife is unwell."

He stalked away, carrying Sparrow, as Fernando stepped in the way of Commandante and Governor when they threatened to follow.

Fernando smiled sweetly. "Our Mariella is in a delicate condition. Everything will be quite all right, she is in good hands with her husband, the proud father."

James had carried Jack to one of the wagons, drew the curtains and then yanked at the corset, kneeling worriedly beside him. The pirate's face was bloodless, rendered a dreadful shade of yellow under all the powder. His lashes quivered and his lips worked, breath coming in short, painful gasps. James' fingers fumbled with the laces as Jack cursed hoarsely.

"Easy now, easy." He held Sparrow fast as he coughed into his next breath, easing the hair from his face and finding the rum flask, almost empty now.

Jack sputtered and choked, sucked whatever was left of the rum like mother's milk and lay gasping in James' arms. "Good God." He blinked. "That's bloody torture!"

Outside the wagon, the guests were torn between the urge to applaud the scene or the blessed event anticipated. It certainly explained all those rumours of an elopement just after the troupe had landed. The Commandante looked fit to kill. D'Yves smiled beatifically at one and all and promised himself to send a bottle of Cuban rum to the newlyweds' wagon.

James, blissfully oblivious of the new addition to the rumour, lifted Sparrow again and carried him to the bed the moment he heard steps outside of the wagon. He quickly draped the blankets around him, holding the rum for him to sip from it, a hand brushing his hair from his face.

The curtain was drawn aside and the Governor entered, his face curling into a grimace of disgust, then he joined James by the bedside, fairly pushing him away and grabbing one of the dark hands, scrubbed clean by Fernando.

"Madame, what a shock! You must not overtax yourself." He turned to glare at James. "Really Sir, one should think that a responsible husband would be more careful of his wife, especially under such conditions."

Jack sat bolt upright, staring blankly at James. "Rum?" he queried before collapsing to blink at the stars sparkling just outside his sight. He decided that sitting up wasn't a good idea and forced his arm up around Norrington's neck. "My fault entirely," he gasped.

"Shhhh." James urged him down again, rearranging the blankets quickly under the scrutiny of the Governor, who was sneering.

"Now really, this is no place for an expecting mother. Madame, I insist that you must stay at my mansion." A short pause, then he eyed James. "With your husband, of course."

Jack raised his head. Anything would be better than sleeping in the blasted wagon and hopefully, the attentive Governor had rum. He held out one hand, smiling weakly. "Oh would you? I really don't think I can bear another night like this." He sank back to the pillows with a little sigh.

Governor Zapatagorda kissed the limp hand and fumbled over his walking stick to stick his head out of the wagon, calling loudly for his carriage. His valet helped him down and he and Don Jaime spoke earnestly about the poor lady's sad condition.

They did so directly in front of the wagon, peering worriedly inside. James cursed silently.

"Are you completely insane? Do you want to pretend being a woman all day? A pregnant woman?," he hissed. He had a good idea who was responsible for that little addition to the tale. "I will blame this on the lack of air in your head."

He quickly gathered their personal belongings from the sprung chest, then stared at Jack again. He couldn't very well dress him in the corset again, but a thin shift with woolen breasts would not be fitting either. So he simply lifted Sparrow, wrapped artfully into the blankets, the corset tucked in at the side.

Jack batted at him. "Put me down an' lace that thing up again!" he snapped but he was still too woozy to walk. "Bring one of th' damned frocks, willya. An' me flask. Tell bloody Fernando t'get our things fast." He whispered urgently, still trying to squirm his way to his feet.

"Thank you, but I am well aware of these things. Unlike you, my dear expectant wife, I still seem to have retained the ability to think clearly. And now, if you would hold still."

He had the corset and the rum flask tucked under the blanket, a dress wrapped around it, carrying Sparrow out in a deathgrip that seemed tender and worried.

Fernando stood close by and he turned, snarling, "If you do not want to lose the ability to get your own children, I would suggest you bring our possessions quickly." Fernando went satisfyingly pale at the whispered threat and rushed away to collect the required booty.

Forcing the glare away with a smile, James turned to the waiting Governor, trying hard to ignore Don Jaime's murderous stares.

"Forgive my lack of gratitude before, Sir. I was most worried about my wife and I beg you to understand. We are both most grateful of your offer, and I thank you in both her name and mine."

Jack kept his face buried against James' shoulder, terrified he would start giggling and never be able to stop.

The carriage ride was an experience he would never forget, wedged between the Governor and James, bounced around like a ball. He was perfectly happy to let James carry him into the fine mansion. Then he peeked out from under his hair, eyes wide at the splendour of the hall and the length of the curving grand staircase.

"Put me down, f'fuck's sake," he whispered. "Ye'll never hoist me up 'em."

"You have not yet put on the weight of pregnancy, my dear. And you are in no condition to walk." In no state of dress rather, but it hardly mattered. Sparrow was perhaps a little heavier than most women, but he had more than once carried wounded comrades, men far heavier than the pirate. He focused on taking one step after the other, and eventually the Governor's maid showed them their guestroom.

Jack was dumped onto the sumptuous bed in a heap. He looked around at the crimson silk curtains and matching hanging around the bed, the fine carpets and spindly, gilded furnishings. "Looks like a Marseilles whorehouse."

"I am certain the good Governor has something similar in mind."

Much refreshed from the aid and a bit of air, 'Mariella' bounded to her feet. "Oh, bugger him. Willya look at this place!"

He prowled around, then went to the bed and pulled one of the fine woolen blankets around himself. Just in case. He peered through the curtains. "Good Lord, James, lookit this."

The French doors opened to a curved balcony overlooking a manicured lawn and garden.

Certainly, it was a finer place than a dirty, narrow wagon.

"I rather think that if at all, he will bugger you, but I do think his preferences run in another direction. Which is exactly the problem. I have to admit you are not bad at it, but do you really want to pretend to be a women all day? One look or touch at the wrong time and we are both as good as dead!"

"Stop worryin'. I can handle him." Jack was poking around the mirrored dressing table and held up a silver letter opener the length and sharpness of a stiletto. He pulled up the chemise and stuck it in the blue garter and considered the tactical brilliance of female undergarments.

"Now get me back inta that thing. Jus' don't lace it so damned tight. Besides," he stood with his back to James, holding the corset up, "no better place t'find out wot went wrong an' who's out fer yer neck. Or catch 'em."

"Bloody idiot. You still obviously do not have enough air in your head. Oh, and the good Governor bade us to join him for dinner if your condition permits."

James laced the corset again, as loosely as he could. It was a difficult procedure. While he had experience with opening it, to lace it evenly and loosely was a challenge. "There. Can you breathe properly?"

"Ya can haul it in a bit tighter down there. I'm awright long as me ribs don't feel crushed. Where's the frock?"

He turned and grinned at James. "Thanks fer not letting me suffocate. An' stop fussin'. It'll be awright. Let's see who's wif us, eh?"

The dark eyes were dancing with mischief as he pulled the velvet over his head and waited for James to lace it. He peered at himself in the mirror and fussed a bit with his hair, then retied the faded green ribbon and tarnished locket around his neck. "Awright, mate. I'm ready."

James quickly washed his face, considered shaving the beard, but then Fernando might only think up worse rumours in vengeance. He ran his hand to Sparrow's hair, lingering in surprise at the soft texture, then arranged it to fall neatly over his collar, hiding the too-strong muscles there. He offered his arm as he would to a woman. "Shall we?"

Jack took his arm and they descended the stairs together, Jack's lips twitching every now and then. Below them, the Governor, D'Yves with Fernando in attendance and the Commandante waited. The rouged mouth twitched a little more.

"Governor, thank you so much. I am so sorry. My work does get so taxing!" He held out his hand, remembering at the last minute that he no longer had a mustache to hide his grin.

The Governor bowed and kissed it. "Madame, it is my pleasure. I do not understand how your husband can allow you such work in your condition. We were all so worried about you."

James smiled again as he inwardly fought against biting his tongue. "If you knew my wife, you would know that there is little I can do against her charms if she has set her mind on something."

Jack laughed airily. "Well, he hasn't had much practise yet, has he?"

He met the Commandante's gaze directly, laughing. "I'm really overcome with gratitude." Jack eyed the ruby in the Governor's cravat hungrily.

The Governor was still for a moment, one eyebrow marginally creeping up, his lips twitching into a smirk. "Now, if you would please follow me, I do believe dinner is ready. You must eat, Madame, to strengthen both yourself and your child."

Jack batted his eyes at James and took the Governor's arm, trying to remember if he was supposed to walk pigeon-toed or duck-foot to get the heavy skirt to swing. "You are too kind. And such a magnificent home."

Jack seemed to be managing the Governor perfectly.

The Commandante's jealous gaze wandered from James to the Governor.

Dinner was an utter catastrophe. Sparrow flirted through every course, chuckling in high-pitched delight and more than sipping the fine white wine that was served with it. James maintained polite conversation with whichever of the two was not entertained by 'Mariella', and hence proceeded to field thinly veiled insults into his direction, regarding what manners of luxuries he could not afford her.

As a gentleman, he was bred to ignore such matters and he managed as best he could, smiling politely until he thought his lips might split.

Mariella, for a woman who had so recently been so delicate, thoroughly enjoyed the meal, eating heartily until her husband kicked her under the table and she slowed down.

Jack was having far too much fun to notice that the wine was quite potent and the polite banter was starting to falter into less refined jokes. He giggled, he laughed, he glared, he pouted. In short, he did everything he usually did, only in a higher register. By the time the very delicious dessert was cleared away, he was amply full and ready for more fun.

But rum atop wine could be a dangerous combination, had Jack recalled his early lessons in the manly art of drinking.

"My dearest Mariella, are you not tired? I will not have you overtax yourself." James' tone was innocent and concerned, a harmless question, but the second kick under the table suggested that Mariella had better be tired and excuse herself from the company while she still could.

Jack winced and put his hand on James' arm, docile and smiling sweetly.

"I am terribly tired, sirs. It has been a long day. Commandante, perhaps, sir, we can arrange a paso doble and I might have the pleasure. Governor, you are an angel of mercy. I could never find words to thank you."

Jack hitched the decanter of rum he'd stashed under the skirt a little closer and dutifully let James lead him upstairs.

Governor and Commandante were most disappointed by her leave, but quickly covered it with declarations of agreement, wishing that she might recover quickly, and that her husband had better allow her a long period of rest.

Upstairs, James had to hold himself back from slamming the door closed and keep his voice low. "You despicable fool! Do you want to get us both hanged?"

Jack was gulping from the decanter and waved one hand. "Don't be ridiculous. An' stop kickin' me! " He put the decanter on the dressing table and started pulling the pins from his hair. "Jesus Christ, I swear they're all stickin' straight inta me skull!"

"No, that is your stupidity which hurts. I am glad that I am not the only victim."

James took the decanter and put it on top of a cupboard, too high for Sparrow to reach. "You've had enough of that."

He glared, trembling with a rage that was burning so high because it covered no little fear. "Are you in such a dire need of a thorough buggering that you behave like a cat in heat? You may have forgotten, but I doubt they will be very pleased to find woolen breasts instead of flesh."

Jack grinned at him, jumping to get at the decanter and hiccuped. "That's why you're here, luv. T'keep me safe from harm. Get that down dammit!"

He made another try, lost his balance and fell into James' arms, laughing helplessly. "Sorry. Sorry, jus' can't help it."

"Be glad that you are dressed as a woman, else I would not know what I would do," James warned, setting him on his feet again. "I am quite thoroughly sick of having to play the jealous husband."

Jack giggled and winked at him. "But y'make such a lovely jealous husband, all glowerin' and fierce." He hiccuped again and made another try for the decanter. "C'mon, luv. Don't be such a bloody tease!"

"No. You are quite drunk enough already. If I get to be the jealous husband who has to watch out for your nonexistent virtue, I can also be the husband to forbid you further indulging."

Jack pouted. Or was it Mariella? It was hard to tell and it made James' head spin a bit, that harsh voice emerging from the rouged and laughing lips. "Please. I'll be quiet, promise. Besides, I foun' sumpthin' out fer ya."

"What did you find out? Jack Sparrow with rouge is as much of a rogue as without? That the task of a wife is to needle her 'husband' to no end and whore herself out to every man at table?"

Jack swayed closer, beckoning. "If I tell ya, can I have the bloody bottle?" He waited until James was face to face, noses almost touching. "He's got 'nother English *hic*. English *hic*. Bloke comin'. Some merchant *hic*."

James' eyes shot up. He got the decanter, but still held it out of Sparrow's reach. "His name?"

"Thomas—Son? Tomthumb? Thompson? Thompson, tha' was it!" Jack made a grab for the decanter, hampered by the heavy velvet and the corset. He sulked quite prettily. "Yes, it were Thompson. That mean something t'you?"

James went quite thoroughly still, pressing the decanter into Sparrow's hand without another word, staring blankly while he guzzled. "When?" he eventually managed.

Jack wiped his mouth with his hand, his eyes suddenly quite clear and sharp. "T'morrow, maybe the day after. There's some fiesta happenin'. We'll be doin' Lucretia. Wot's wrong? James?" He left the decanter on the dressing table and watched Norrington cautiously.

James had sat down on the bed and was cursing silently, frantically thinking. "Thompson is the reason I am here."

Jack crouched at his feet, looking up at his face, white and strained. "Will he know you by sight?"

James shrugged. "I don't know. He could, but not necessarily. We have met twice, at bigger receptions. Likely not, without the wig and with the beard."

"Awright, then. Relax. James, breathe. It's not as bad as you think. If he's the reason yer here, y'might still get wot ya come for. Jus' sneaky-like." Jack sat on the carpet in a pool of faded green velvet. "I can keep him away from you, if it gets sticky. An' keep my ears open too."

James chuckled, strained. "For all that I know he might know that I am here already." He arched an eyebrow. "If by keeping him away you mean parading yourself as you do in front of the Commandante and the Governor, don't. I am already beginning to wonder if surrendering myself were not the better choice."

Jack grimaced. "Don't take no notice of it, mate. Jus' playin' 'em up a bit." His lips curved into a small, secret smile. "Used to watch it all the time. Hope he sees the show. He won't remember a thing 'bout James Norrington. Believe that."

Jack had crossed his legs and was looking at James intently, no sign of his former drunkenness evident. The Commodore was awfully pale and twitchy. "James, yer gonna get yerself killed." His voice was gentle. "I'm not here to cross ya. I'd rather help, if ye'll let me."

James peered down at him, blinking every now and then. The situation simply was too bizarre for words. "Why?"

"Because I gotta get clear myself, right? Since we jumped inta that wagon, I'd had a feelin' we were gonna have t'get ourselves outta this together. Now, I swear, on pain of death, I will tell you wotever you wanna know about my business here, because I got a hunch its related to yours." Jack's hands were spread, fingers moving as he spoke, the white shadows of his rings very evident in the light.

James groaned and rubbed his temples. It was obvious that in this, the Spanish were the worse enemies than Sparrow. Still, could he afford to pull the pirate further into this, to give up more information? "And how do I know you are not simply working together with the Spaniards and intend to sell me out at the first opportunity?"

Jack shook his head. "I come here t'sell goods, not buy. And was set upon by a pack o'hounds looking fer papers. Wot I got is a helluva lot heavier. Word's been out for weeks that there's something brewin' between the Spanish and the Dutch, an' the Dutch are appealing to England."

His fluttering fingers waved impatiently. "I manage t'get out of that mess and find meself in a wagon wif you, I gotta figger that the missin' papers, me own inhospitable reception, and you bein' chased by milita... well, luv, that don't sound like a coincidence t'me."

In lieu of an answer, James unbuttoned his breeches and pulled a thin packet of folded papers from his smallclothes, then stowed them away again. "One could say so. This, normally, is not my task at all. But we lost a lot of ships these past months, both British and Dutch, and our information on Spanish routes proved incorrect more often than not."

He paused. "Yes, a traitor," he hissed. "I came here to find proof. But he now knows that I have it."

Jack whistled through his teeth. "Y'know wot ship they were carried on? Was it the Archangelo?" His eyes were steady.

James eyed him suspiciously. "How do you know?"

Jack grinned. "That explains my reception. They must be a step behind you or...?" Jack's eyes widened. "Bloody hell, they think I picked 'em up for you! Neptune's nipples, that's a new one! Y'see, the Pearl took the Archangelo a week back." His eyes were challenging James to scold him.

James didn't. His eyes were far too wide, and again there was that almost hysterical laughter. "Bloody hell!"

Jack chuckled. "Heard from some of the crew that they'd dropped off two passengers at Guyana a day b'fore we took her. Nice little cargo, no fuss. Then I get here t'make some business arrangements wif it, an' end up hidin' in a wagon." He held up one hand. "Don't tell me wot they are, James. Better if I don't know at th' moment."

"Better if you don't know at all." James straightened. "I will get these to Port Royal. I must." Insane as it might seem to him, he had to accept even Jack Sparrow's help. It was paramount he fulfil his mission. "Very well then. So each helps the other to retain his masquerade?"

"Right. Now y'know this miscreant t'be a traitor how? He's in bed wif the Spanish, that's obvious. Wot's he tradin' in that some all-fired..." Jack stopped, his mouth open and stared at James. "Fired. The cannons. They're new designs. Mother o' God, I got forty of 'em loaded onta the Pearl." He started to laugh and sat down with the decanter between his crossed legs, grinning like a madman. Or woman. "Looks like we're happily married, Commodore." He raised the bottle.

James groaned, took the bottle and drank.

Jack could not stop grinning. He had tingled before setting out in a borrowed little boat from the Pearl. His palms itched, his toes were twitchy and the right corner of his mouth had insisted on smiling. That always meant an adventure of some sort. This was priceless and he swished to his feet and sat on James' knee, taking a sip. "I told ya I loved weddin's."

"Forgive me if I say that I had not imagined mine quite like this." James was still staring blankly.

The thrill of a challenge was one thing, but this was more than just unexpected. He clenched his chin. Well, then, so it was. He would deal with it, and if that required being an actor both on and off stage, he would.

Jack stretched and turned his back. "Could ya unlace me so we can sleep? I mean, it's a lot o' bother!" He smiled back over his shoulder.

"Of course," James answered reflexively, brushing Sparrow's hair aside so he could reach the laces. Again he was surprised by how soft it was, like a woman's, fitting to the figure Jack cut in the corset, lithe, graceful, feminine. Strange to know a dangerous pirate lurked beneath this helpless facade.

Jack wriggled out of the gown and the corset with a sigh of relief as he pulled the long chemise out of the ridges carved into his skin. He was about to make some inane remark when he saw Norrington's eyes, fixed on his, dark green and no, not dangerous. Desiring. It was Jack's turn to go blank.

James swallowed, then turned away with a start. He had watched all the time, now suddenly there was the same embarrassment he would feel watching a woman undress. "A quite convincing deception," he stuttered.

Jack had a strange sensation of being two people at once, one who was moving towards Norrington, aware of every sensation; the other, watching them both and laughing himself pissless. There was a thrill in being desired and Jack was no man's martyr. He was close enough to recognise the scent of James' skin from last night, the faint cloud of verbena sharpening it. His head tilted up.

"Is it?"

James swallowed hard again, but no matter what he did, his mouth remained quite dry. "Yes, even knowing I find myself wondering at times if I am facing Jack Sparrow or Mariella." This was embarrassing and ridiculous. "But then, the Governor's and Commandante's reaction are obvious enough."

Jack's eye floated up at him under lazy lashes. "Ridiculous. I know it is, mate. But very effective." He was a chameleon, drifting between seductive female to predatory male until they were indistinguishable from one another. He watched James' lips, tongue snaking out unconsciously, and smiled.

"Quite so." James' eyes were dark, assessing, and he wondered if the golden skin would feel smooth or callused to his touch, soft flesh or hard muscle. Whether the lips would be as soft as their bow promised, or hard and weather-beaten from a life at sea. He inched yet closer, then dropped his hand with a start and took a step back.

Jack stalked him, backing him up, step by step, almost dizzy, watching himself reflected in James' eyes.

He made it a point of honour to never deny himself anything he wanted if he thought he could get away with it. He pushed James onto the bed, leaned down and kissed him.

James always closed his eyes when kissed. It was a habit that he had never shed. They just slid close when something happened, be that cannonfire or a kiss. What this was, he wasn't quite certain. His rational part knew this was Jack Sparrow, and that cannonfire was the better comparison, but with his eyes closed it was difficult to support that statement. Certainly, the hands that held him down on the bed were strong, but the fingers thin, delicate. The hair that tickled his open collar was long, curled, soft. There was the scent of the heavy perfume Fernando had used, and the rustle of a skirt.

And though the lips were active, took, they, too, were soft, yielding, parting ever so pleased when he moaned softly.

They tasted of white wine, rum, something sharper, the tang of metal; the smell of powder tickling in his nose; then a throaty sigh startled him back to awareness, and he broke the kiss. "What...?"

Jack backed away, smiling. "Jus' checkin'," he laughed and stood, half-turned towards the candles, his face in darkness.

What a bloody lark! And he'd wanted to do that ever since their first meeting. He hadn't expected to be doing it in a frock, true. Nevertheless, it was lovely and he wanted more. That wasn't going to keep him from playing cat and mouse a bit longer. Jack was too mired in the stews of his birth not to have learned very early that prizes too easily caught lose their value.

"A husbandly kiss, indeed, but not Tarquin, surely?" he teased in Mariella's soft voice.

James sat on the bed, forcing his breath to calm; wiping the red colour from his lips. This was Jack Sparrow, he reminded himself. No matter how pretty, feminine or even helpless he might look, he was a pirate. Not the most bloodthirsty perhaps, but all the more dangerous.

James went very still at the last words, then said stiffly, "Certainly not. Even if you have little in common with Lucrece, I do not take where it is not offered."

"Ah, but as your wife, I need not offer wot was freely given in that most holy of bonds. An' it does seem that I kissed you. Or, " Jack wheeled around from the shadows by the wardrobe, yards of crimson satin billowing around him. He swayed back into the light, pulling the dressing gown closed with a flutter of lace. "Are you one o'those who're shy an' need some coaxing." The dark eyes were teasing.

James remained silent, keeping his gaze even and focused on Sparrow, betraying nothing. This was embarrassing enough already, and he would not let the pirate make yet more of a fool of him, flirting and goading only to laugh about it later. "You know very well, Sparrow, that we are not truly married, and at any rate, you parade yourself more like a whore than a wife."

"Oh! So that's wot you're wantin'. Could be arranged, too." He moved differently without the boots.

In truth, he was different, stripped of his pirate finery, gaudy at best, tawdry all over. This gown was a rich women's robe, probably never seen by any but her lovers and her maids. Its English back fell straight to trail behind him as he moved, rustling wavelets of deep ruby.

He poured two glasses from the decanter and swayed closer to hand one to James. "Wife, whore. Is there a difference in th' dark?"

"Any number of differences, Sparrow." James' breath was slightly rough, and he wondered where in this Sparrow lay. His damnable allure was like that of a costly whore, playing every bodily attribute to best advantage, but at the same time there was something so very personal about this man, entirely different from a dalliance with a drab. And he was a man, which only added to the fascination. Perhaps it was only the shared danger that made him think of long-ago moments in a narrow hold with a dear shipmate.

Jack caught at the dressing table, wavering. He decided he was bewitched by candlelight, green eyes and red satin. The combination was delicious and so was the masquerade. Hiding places within hiding places, a little voice inside him sneered.

He laughed at it. "Well, James, luv. If it's the whore you want." He pulled Norrington up to his feet, guiding his arms around his waist. "Kiss me."

"First, a man would never kiss a whore."

And still James did, his lips insistent and rough, far rougher than he would ever be with his wife, perhaps a concession to his knowledge that Sparrow was a man, after all. "He would not do this," he whispered, his lips trailing a soft, wet path along Jack's throat, warm breath into his ear.

The sleeves whispered along Sparrow's arms as they wound around Norrington's neck, falling back to expose sinew and hard muscle, tattoos, that brand. But neither of them was paying the slightest bit of attention. Jack's back arched under James' hands, letting himself be backed against the wall, framing them ridiculously in an arbour of wallpaper flowers.

"Nor would he do this." James voice was almost a whisper as he brushed Jack's hair aside, lingering in its softness, thumb caressing from the cheek outwards, following the strongly defined bone, smearing a bit of the rouge, like a blush fading to strange places.

"Yet, on the other hand, to his wife, he would never ever do this." Suddenly his voice was sharper, stricter, that strange tenderness gone as he pushed Jack hard against the wall, hand slipping down to tangle in the red fabric, hitching it up one golden leg.

Jack gasped under the touch, surprised at the fine, white hands that hoisted the skirt and chemise. He was just a little afraid of sinking into this strange mire of sparkling wine and dark rum, of fingers reaching beneath clothing and his own delight in the game. He locked that leg around James' hip, breathing a sigh and he let himself drift. The air on his half-exposed leg was chilly and he wondered if that's why women always balked.

"Don't think a proper wife would... oh... say 'take ya standin' fer ha'pence,' either."

"So you do admit that, even in the dark, there is a difference?" James whispered against Jack's ear, a mischievous half-smile on his face as he hoisted them both further sideways, until he could reach for the dressing table. There was an oil used to make hair seem soft and glinting, and he grabbed it.

"Which leaves just one question, Jack. Do you prefer being the wife," he pressed another kiss to those red lips, gentle, almost but not quite chaste, "or," he shifted, his voice dropping into a growl, "the whore?" His one hand hefted Jack's leg securely in place, the other had slipped lower to open his breeches, and now his slicked prick nudged against Jack's thigh.

Jack gulped and panted against his chest. "A proper wife knows when 'tis time t'play the whore." His head was spinning, his cock hard as bone and he was more than addled. James' fingers were driving him mad, twisting along that excruciating place just behind his balls. "Oh, GOD!" he buried his face in the broadcloth as they found their mark.

"While it is necessary for a wife to be obedient, there is no need to call her husband God," James chided, hitching Jack's leg up even higher, until he could brush his prick against Jack's opening, just barely, holding himself back out of a sense of superiority, tempering his hunger.

The skirt rustled when he did push, a strange, constant sound as he eased himself inside, mingling with the sultry moan Jack breathed into his ear.

Jack wavered, poised on one foot, then gripped James' shoulders hard and hopped up to lock both legs around his waist, his back pressed against the wall. He curled forward a little, then more and slammed his head back with a choked whimper. "There ya go, luv. All tucked in nice... an' ...oh good God, just fuck me!" He was hanging on to James' shoulders, trusting that the Commodore wasn't going to pitch him to the floor.

It would be theatrical but most disappointing if he did, but James didn't seem to be pitching anywhere except inside of him.

There was many a flicker in James' eyes, and not all of them were caused by the two lonely lamps, and just like that, his fingers tightened and loosened on Jack's hips.

"As you wish," he hissed, pistoning forward, using his hold to pull Jack in to meet his thrusts, groaning as he did. The satin moved, tickled his thighs, and in the dark, Jack's face was thrust into shadows, the hollow beneath his cheekbones, the fine lines of his face; framed by the dark hair. And still, he knew, he felt that he was fucking a man, perhaps even an equal, and so his one hand slipped inside, unseen under the skirt, to grab a hold of Jack's prick.

Sparrow groaned deep from his gut and pushed down against James, as they fumbled for a rhythm, finally discovering that if James steadied him with one hand under his backside, he could use his thigh muscles while James stroked him.

He was most vocal; moaning, sometimes crying out softly, curses and endearments dripping from his lips against James' shoulder. His legs tightened, the warring sensations driving him at breakneck pace until he gasped, "That's done it!" and spilled himself over the teasing fingers, still impaled and moving restlessly.

Where he was loud, James was silent, there were no more words, no curses, only harsh gasps when he could not contain them, then a stifled sigh as he finished. The warmth on his palm reminded him that this was no woman, but still he carefully set Jack down, wordlessly straightening the skirt.

Jack held on for a moment, stumbling the half-step back to the wall and pressing both palms against it to steady himself. His face was dusky, eyes clouded and half-hidden under his lashes. In that moment, he completely agreed with everyone: he was mad. He was absolutely insane to even have thought this, much less done it. He looked up warily, still panting.

James was a strange mirror-image, standing there, tall, straight; his chest heaving, but his gaze was confused, as if now that desire and hunger had faded, he could not quite understand what had driven him to this wild frenzy. Not as much regret as lack of understanding. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again.

Jack had one of his more inspired moments in the next seconds. He laughed softly, his legs wobbling and the wetness between them sliding like syrup down his thigh. Then he surged forward and pulled James into another kiss, backing him once more to the bed.

"I could get used t'bein' married." He pushed Norrington down and tossed himself into the silken coverlet.

James stared wide-eyed at him. Closed his eyes, but no, the weight next to him definitely still was Jack Sparrow. Only that obviously his madness was in fact a contagious disease.

He laughed softly. "But I am not certain whether I could get used to you being at sea for so long." There, joke as if it had never happened, that was how intimacy with a man was handled.

Jack giggled, picked up one of the glasses and drained it. He felt dizzier than just before he fainted, without the nausea and sweating. "Tell 'em Mariella needs a bath in the mornin'." He curled up against James in a flurry of crimson satin and hoped he would fall asleep before his head spun into space. "Such a lov'ly husband."

James lay there, still, with wide, shocked eyes. Surely, Jack could not mean to... "I do believe it is not quite as cold here, and the bed is larger, too."

It didn't help. The pirate had curled against his shoulder, snoring loudly already, the smell of rum drifting into James' nose with each breath. It was a heady smell, as heady as his lust before but only a meagre excuse for it. Why could Sparrow not retreat to his side of the bed and pretend nothing had happened? That was how such a situation ought to be addressed, after all.

He nudged against the sleeping form, but Sparrow only muttered something and curled even closer. Bloody hell.

Held still in one place, with little chance to move if he did not want pirate hands everywhere again, he could only stay awake to glare at the ceiling for so long. Eventually, his soft snores joined Jack's.

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