Men Must Work

Jack/James Series, Chapt. 1

Dreams and Desire

by

Gryphons Lair

"Not if you're the one doing the ambushing." He shifted to sit next to the Commodore, draping a hand oh-so-casually over the officer's shoulder. "I go in, I convince Barbossa to send his men out with their little boats." He shifted his fingers, caressing the blue cloth. "You and your mates return to the Dauntless and blast the bejesus out of them with your little cannons, eh?" He grinned and leaned closer. "What do you have to lose?"

Norrington raised his pistol and pushed the caressing hand away. "Nothing I'd lament being rid of."

He let his arm fall and stared at the Commodore's profile a moment. He considered, then rejected, draping his hand across that fine shoulder again. "Now, to be quite honest with you—"

At the word "honest", Norrington closed his eyes and his lips curled upwards in a sardonic smile.

"—what I really want... is to kiss you."

Norrington's head turned, green eyes meeting his own as the tight little smile turned into something much warmer. "What a splendid idea."

He pulled at the Commodore's shoulder, twisting him 'round until his mouth was within reach. As Norrington's arm circled his waist, pulling him forward, he shifted, straddling the man and pushing hat and wig away. Norrington's arms moved under his coat, gripping his arse and pulling him closer even as he deepened the kiss, rocking Norrington's head back and transferring his attention to that strong, pale throat. The Commodore's hands clenched tighter, pulling him backwards, and they were falling...

...onto the cot in his cabin aboard the Pearl. Norrington lay sprawled beneath him, shirt and coat pushed aside, hands gripping the cot's edge. He traced the planes of Norrington's chest with his fingers, wrenching a moan from the Commodore as he bent to mouth a nipple. Long, muscular legs were wrapping around him, pulling him down...

Bang!

Jack bolted upright, limbs tangling in the blankets. He stared muzzily down at the violently swinging cot, half expecting to see a mostly-naked Commodore sprawled there.

Another bang rattled the door on its hinges. "Jack!" Marty called from the other side, "Tortuga off the larboard bow!"

Jack wanted to curse the man. Instead, he shook his head and shouted back, "Right!" Marty was only following Jack's own orders; it wasn't his fault he'd interrupted the most pleasurable dream his captain had had this week.

Knowing that did nothing for the ache in his groin, though. Jack leaned back and closed his eyes, hand slipping downward as he pictured the Commodore moaning beneath him, eager, wanting...

Two minutes later yesterday's shirt landed on top of the rest of his washing, and Captain Sparrow strolled smiling onto the Pearl's deck.

They'd run down a French merchantman the previous afternoon, and spent most of the night guarding her crew as her cargo of silk and wine—and her guns, powder and shot—were transferred to the Black Pearl. They'd set her adrift with a disabled rudder-chain shortly before dawn, and Jack had ordered course set for Tortuga before retiring.

Now the sun was half-way to the horizon, the sky a cloudless blue, and Hispanola a long green line to windward. Cotton had the wheel, and as Jack climbed to the quarterdeck Cotton's parrot swooped down from the mainmast to perch on its master's shoulder. "Luff and touch her! Awk!"

"A fine day, yes." Jack pulled his spyglass from his pocket and surveyed Tortuga's anchorage. "We'll drop anchor between the point and the Kestrel, Mr. Cotton."

"Ready to sail! Ready to sail!" Cotton's parrot agreed.

Sparrow negotiated the sale of the Pearl's cargo with a Tortugan fence that same day. When the middleman had gone ashore, each crewmember received an equal share of their captured coin, claiming it in full sight of his mates as his name was checked off by the quartermaster. As the sun touched the horizon Gibbs laid the last share—Jack's—on the capstan-head, upended the money-bag to prove it empty.

Sparrow scooped the coins into his pocket and nodded to his first mate.

"Listen up, you swabs!" Anamaria cried. "Two to stand watch tonight, and all hands on board by the second dog-watch tomorrow for the final share-out." She pulled a small sack from inside her coat and poured a stream of round bone-markers into the money-bag Gibbs still held. "Red takes the watch."

The quartermaster shook the bag to mix the lots, and offered it to the captain.

Sparrow wiggled his fingers before plunging his hand into the bag. All the markers were chipped and nicked, but after a moment's fumbling he found the one with the particular gouge he wanted and withdrew it, concealed in his closed fist.

Anamaria next, and then the rest of the crew, with Gibbs claiming the final token.

All presented their hands at once, all opened them... and Tearloch cursed at the glint of color in his palm.

Sparrow flipped his own token high, catching the ochre-stained disc with a grin. "Enjoy your liberty, gentlemen," he said. "I'll see you in the dog-watch."

The crew raised a ragged cheer as they dispersed. Anamaria glanced sharply at Sparrow, then turned to take her place in one of the boats. Gibbs finished gathering up the tally, and his eyes narrowed as they met his captain's. "Bit o' bad luck, your drawing a red lot first off," he offered.

"Most unfortunate," Sparrow agreed, grin undiminished.

Gibbs' brows drew down, but he turned away and went below without another word.

When the last boat had left for shore, Sparrow returned to his cabin and pried the lid off one of the four cases lashed securely in one corner. He'd claimed the tawny port as soon as he'd seen it on the Frenchman's manifest, and he smiled as he pulled the first whitewash-splattered bottle out of its packing straw.

He filled a goblet and set it and the bottle on the room's central table. Sprawling into a chair, he propped both feet on the table's edge and held the glass up so that the light from the ceiling-hung lantern was reflected through the port.

"To the Black Pearl," he declared. "The finest pirate ship in all the Caribbean!"

The port was lovely, smooth and full-bodied, and the first mouthful left a trail of warmth behind. The warmth spread further with each swallow, and his thoughts drifted backwards, first to the capture yesterday—you couldn't rightly call it a battle, as the French captain had struck his colors the moment he realized what ship had him under her guns—and then over the eight months since he'd dived off the wall of the fort in Port Royal.

It had been a highly satisfactory eight months. His first concern had been to return to the Isla de Muerta and sink that damned stone chest fathoms-deep, putting the cursed Aztec gold forever out of reach. That accomplished, they'd stuffed the Pearl's hold with the choicest swag the cave had to offer and set sail for Tortuga.

Once they dropped anchor, he'd set out to erase all trace of Barbossa's ten-year captaincy from his beloved lady. He'd been in no mood to haggle with the ship's chandlers in the port, and half the Black Pearl's cargo had gone to pay for a complete refit, best materials only and no expense spared. The dozen pirates who'd sailed with him on the Interceptor had all signed on for his next cruise, and were as eager as himself to see their new ship properly outfitted. Their shares in the remaining treasure had been generous enough that he'd had his pick of hands when the Pearl was ready to sail again.

They'd been in the midst of the refit when he'd heard Bootstrap's boy was to marry his Elizabeth. It had hardly been a surprise—the lass had made her preferences pellucidly clear the day of his aborted execution—but even as he arranged for an anonymous wedding gift to be delivered to the happy couple, Sparrow had found his thoughts turning to Miss Swann's other suitor, the proper-and-suitable Commodore Norrington.

He remembered the expression on Norrington's face when Elizabeth joined Will that day at the fort. It was a pity, really, that the man had set his heart on Elizabeth, who was herself heart-set on Will.

The bottle was empty. He plucked another from the case and carried it and the glass to the line of windows along the back of the cabin. Glass refilled, he pushed one of the panes open and leaned on the frame to listen to the screeches, pistol-shots, and yells that were the usual sounds of a Tortuga night.

Jack chuckled, remembering young Will's shocked reaction to being approached by a Tortuga whore. Quite pretty she'd been, in Jack's recollection. Well, the boy had his Elizabeth now, and she him. Likely they'd suit well enough, being young and in love as they so evidently were.

Norrington, now. Jack suspected Elizabeth had never properly appreciated what Norrington had to offer. Not the rank and all that went with it—it stood to reason she'd value that lightly, having always had it herself—but the possibilities implied by the controlled grace of his stride, the subtly-shifting expressions in his green eyes, that full lower lip.

Jack licked his own lips, remembering today's dream: Norrington writhing eagerly beneath his hands, wig and gold braid peeled away like a lobster's hard shell to reveal the sweet flesh beneath. From there he went on to replay other scenes from the dreams that had haunted his sleep these last eight months; dreams that had come more and more often, until he began to expect them, to feel vaguely cheated if more than a handful of nights passed without one.

He heaved the empty bottle through the open window to splash into the sea, and tacked slightly to reach the cases piled in the opposite corner. Fresh bottle in hand, he returned to the main table and spread his best chart on its surface. He took a gulp of the port before anchoring one corner of the chart with the bottle.

Tortuga was here, Port Royal there. If he borrowed a boat from one of the local fishermen...

Jack bent over the chart. Down the coast to the channel, yes. Turn before the strong current mid-channel caught the boat... what bearing was that? He checked the compass, scribbled it down. And he'd need to alter course before those shoals... another scribble... open sea all the way after that, but he'd best make landfall out of sight of the Port Royal battery. That meant altering course there... scribble... and he could land in that cove, leave the boat and walk along the beach. And then...

Then what a fine time he could have, introducing the Commodore to a whole range of pleasures the man had probably never even tasted. He drank again and smiled, imagining slipping his arms around the Commodore's shoulders, leaning in until his lips brushed his ear beneath a white curl of wig. "C'mon, luv," he murmured, "let me show y' what it's like. What've you got t' lose, eh?"

He remembered the cold feel of a pistol-barrel on his hand and the Commodore's cool, contemptuous voice: Nothing I'd lament being rid of.

Jack cursed and pushed away from the table. Leaning once again on the open stern-window, he tilted the bottle and drank deep.

"Bloody fool," he growled. As if a man like Norrington would ever consider a swab like him fit for anything but the noose. As if he'd not hang Jack outright, if their paths should cross again.

Probably the Commodore was courting some other lady already, one who'd realize what a fine thing was on offer and snatch him up at once.

And even if he wasn't...

Jack slumped to the deck, cradling the bottle against his chest.

Even if the man's fancy ran both ways... and he'd seen no sign of it, those days aboard the Dauntless... Norrington was an officer. A bloody gentleman. Jack knew what gentlemen like the Commodore thought of men like him, how they treated you when they'd got what they wanted.

He'd bloody well not risk his neck in Port Royal for that. He'd be double-buggered with a marlinspike first.

Sparrow drained the bottle to the dregs—

—and collapsed to the deck, unconscious.

The hail roused Sparrow from sleep. He groaned and levered himself upright, clutching his pounding head.

Staggering from the cabin, he thrust his head into the scuttlebutt. He emerged with a groan, flung his dripping locks over his shoulders, and pulled two pistols from a rack.

One of the Pearl's gunports slammed open; the bang went through Sparrow's head like a knife. Tearloch's bellowed, "Shear off, ya buggers, or I'll feed ya a bellyful o' grape!" echoed up from the gun-deck.

"Hold your fire!" Sparrow shouted, and hastened to the rail.

A bumboat was standing about two lengths off, oars shipped.

Sparrow raised both pistols and managed not to wince as the locks snicked back. "Declare your business, gentlemen."

"Offloadin' the cargo what you promised Mr. Fagin yesterday," the man at the rudder snarled, and Sparrow belatedly recognized him as one of the fence's regular assistants. "Unless you're plannin' to go back on yer word, mate?"

Sparrow didn't lower the pistols. "The agreement was for Mr. Fagin himself to supervise the transfer."

"So it were, Captain! So it were!" The basso bellow echoed over the water. A second bumboat drew near, Fagin in the bow. "And here I am, as you see, to keep our agreement." The fence waved his single arm in a broad sweep. "Now kindly let my lads aboard to start their work."

"Certainly." Sparrow lowered his pistols and called, "Tearloch, house the cannon!" before kicking the rope boarding-ladder over the side. "Permission to come aboard, gentlemen."

He retreated to the scuttlebutt and gulped down three gourdsful of water before Fagin's assistant reached the top of the ladder. The stevedores followed, and then Fagin himself, swarming up the side as handily as any of them.

Tearloch appeared on deck. Sparrow sent him for Gibbs' manifest and two noggins of rum, and handed the fence a close-written sheet of paper. "We'll be needin' these supplies."

Fagin studied the list, taking a seat on a convenient powder-keg. "Aye," he said, "I've what you need." They dickered a bit before settling on a final price.

"We've an accord, then," Sparrow said. "Deduct the price from the payment for this cargo."

Fagin made a note on the list and tucked it into his ledger.

They sat drinking rum and swapping port gossip while crates, barrels, and bales emerged from the Pearl's hold. Before each item was loaded into the boats, Sparrow checked it off Gibbs' manifest and Fagin noted it down in his ledger. Tearloch climbed onto the bowsprit and went fishing as the bumboats plied busily between ship and shore. At mid-day Tearloch took his catch below, and soon the smell of frying fish was wafting upwards.

The first of the French cannons rose from the hold.

"I'm surprised you're selling the eighteen-pounders," Fagin commented. "When I saw them cannon yesterday, I figured you'd be keeping them for the Pearl. She ships twelve-pounders now, don't she?"

"Aye." Sparrow tossed a fishbone over the side. "Iron twelve-pounders. I've no use for cannon that melt when fired brisk, mate."

"Ah." Fagin helped himself to another piece of fish.

The final crate emerged from the hold at five bells. Fagin totaled up his figures and passed a note to his assistant. The bumboat returned with six large, clinking canvas sacks, and they settled up then and there.

"I'll have those supplies on the dock, ready to load as soon as you send word," Fagin said, passing his ledger to his assistant. "Pleasure doing business with you, Captain Sparrow."

"A very great pleasure, Mr. Fagin."

As soon as Fagin was seated the bumboat pulled for shore. Sparrow watched the bumboat out of sight, then headed for his cabin, giving the piled bags of coin a proprietary pat as he went.

The crew would be wanting time to spend their gold before setting sail again. Three weeks ought to be about right. Meantime, he could...

Sparrow stopped, staring at the chart spread on the central table. He bent over it, tracing the marks in his own hand.

He hadn't dreamt it. He'd charted the damned course.

This made three—no, four—times he'd made plans to meet Norrington while in his cups. Which would have been fine if he'd been figuring out how the Pearl could defeat the heavier-gunned Dauntless, or coming up with a clever plan to trick the Commodore into helping him defeat an old enemy, as he'd done with Barbossa. But this—

Damn it, he knew what to expect from the Commodore's sort. He'd learned that lesson well, long years ago.

He bent over the chart again, stared at the tiny, precise cross in a Jamaican cove.

Aye, he'd learned that lesson, right enough. But it seemed a part of him had forgotten.

Perhaps—his hand clenched into a fist—he needed to relearn that lesson. Perhaps, if he did, he could finally stop thinking about goddamn Commodore bloody Norrington.

A reminder, to drive the lesson home again, and then he'd be able to banish Norrington from his thoughts. He could go back to the way he'd been before, the way he'd always been.

His expression was grim as he stowed the chart.

"By remembering that I serve others, Mr. Sparrow, not only myself." He turned away before he could be tempted further by the pirate's golden tongue.

"Commodore, I beg you," Elizabeth cried, "please do this. For me. As a wedding gift."

He turned, unable to believe what he'd heard.

"Elizabeth!" Governor Swann said. "Are you accepting the Commodore's proposal?"

She looked up at him. "I am."

"A wedding!" Sparrow exclaimed. "I love weddings! Drinks all around!"

Elizabeth turned her face away. When she looked up at him again, he had to close his eyes briefly. He raised his head to glare at Sparrow.

The pirate's mischievous smile faded. He stepped back, those dark eyes sobered—

—and then Sparrow was stretching both hands towards him. "I know," he said, twisting his joined wrists, "Clap him in irons, right?" And then he smiled; not his usual arrogant smirk, but a sad, oddly hopeful grin.

He spared Elizabeth scarcely a glance as he passed her on the steps—reaching the bottom, he grasped the pirate's shirt and pulled.

Sparrow stumbled forward, eyes widening, and fell against his chest.

He twined his other hand in those chaotic locks and covered Sparrow's mouth with his own. He felt rather than heard him gasp, and then Sparrow was pressing that lean, lithe body against him as salt-chapped lips parted beneath his tongue...

"Commodore?" Someone was shaking his shoulder.

Norrington squinted through sleep-blurred eyes at the figure bending over him. "Gillette?" He sat up, suppressing a wince as his muscles protested. "What's the hour?"

"Just past eight, sir," Gillette said. "Murtogg told me you'd not come in yet."

"Well, and so I hadn't." Norrington smiled wryly. "One must leave before one can be said to have returned."

The lieutenant's mouth twitched. "Very true, sir. I'd intended to leave these," he indicated the papers in one hand, "for you before meeting Lt. Groves at the Copper Pot. Perhaps you'd care to join us?"

Norrington raised a hand to his chin and felt stubble rasp against his palm. "I'm scarcely fit for company, Lieutenant."

Gillette glanced toward the door, then spoke quietly. "Please join us, James. Theo won't mind." His mouth quirked up in a mirthless smile. "He's got a room over the Pot now, you know. You could borrow his razor, and a clean shirt." The smile turned bitter. "He'd probably be grateful to be the one doing a friend a favor for a change."

James' mouth thinned. "Yes, I'd heard he'd changed lodgings." Groves had been stranded ashore since the loss of the Interceptor, living on half-pay and his savings. James had been in that situation himself, and remembered how even the most tactful assistance started to gall after a time. He rose from his chair, straightening his coat. "Thank you, Andrew. A cup of coffee would be most welcome."

He retied his cravat, collected his hat, and preceded his first lieutenant out of the office, tossing an offhand, "I'll return within the hour, Mr. Murtogg," to the startled marine as he passed.

The Copper Pot was only a few minutes' walk from the fort. Theo was seated at a table near the back, scowling down at the steaming cup he held in both hands. He looked up when they approached, and as his eyes met Andrew's the scowl was replaced by a smile so warm James' breath caught at the sight. "You're late."

"Morning, Theo." Andrew's answering smile was more subdued, but his eyes lingered on the other man's face. "I've told James he can borrow your shaving-tackle and run off with one of your shirts." He smirked, glancing up at his commander as he dropped into a chair. "He fell asleep at his desk again and is, as you can see, in no fit state to be seen in public."

Theo's smile flickered. After the briefest hesitation, he said, "Yes, of course," and pulled a key from his pocket. "Second floor, last room on the left. Take anything you need."

"Thank you," James turned toward the stairs, key in hand. As he climbed the two narrow flights he wondered again how he could have been blind for so long to the attachment between the two. He'd certainly had opportunity to notice. They'd met when the Dauntless had set sail for Jamaica almost nine years ago. The three of them had served together, shared a cramped gunroom, gone carousing on leave together... and yet, until six months ago, he'd had no idea the two were more than ordinary friends. It seemed so obvious now; why hadn't he seen it before?

He unlocked the door and stepped inside. A single glance was enough to explain Theo's hesitation in handing over the key. The lieutenant had previously lodged with a linen-draper's widow in a house that overlooked the harbour. Theo's rooms had been spacious, comfortably furnished, and well lighted. Now—

The single room was up under the eaves, its only window a narrow, none-too-clean dormer. The floorboards sported a small, faded rag rug, and the narrow bed an equally faded coverlet. Theo's sea-chest was tucked along the opposite wall. A wash-stand and single wooden chair completed the furnishings.

Theo's razor, soap and shaving-brush were on the washstand. James opened the chest, extracted a shirt and cravat, and laid both over the chair before lifting the water pitcher.

A quarter of an hour later he finished knotting the clean cravat and shrugged into his waistcoat. As he reclaimed his coat from the bed, he found himself picturing Theo and Andrew—

James turned his back on the bed, cheeks burning. Had he lost all sense of decency? Or—God forbid—he couldn't be jealous of them, could he?

He stood there, breathing in great, ragged gasps and examining his conscience.

No. He'd never wish them any less happy. He just... wanted what they had. What everyone but him, it sometimes seemed, had.

He shrugged into his coat and locked the room's door behind him.

As he descended the last few steps James glanced toward the back table. Andrew was leaning forward, dark eyes flashing as he emphasizing whatever point he was making with both hands. Theo made some reply, and Andrew's lips drew up in that oddly charming smirk as his retort made Theo laugh.

Coin-poor and shipless he might be, James thought, but Theo Groves was a very lucky man.

They both looked up as he approached the table.

"James, there you are at last! I was about to send out a search party!" Andrew said. "Ho, there! Waiter! A fresh pot for the Commodore!"

James smiled as he pushed the key across the table. "Thank you, Theo." He ran his hand over his now-smooth jaw as he took his seat. "I feel quite the new man."

"You're welcome." Theo slipped the key into his pocket. "But you're working too hard, James. Andrew tells me he's found you asleep at your desk three times this month."

"Yes, and you know what they say," Andrew added, smirking, "All work and no play—"

—make Jack a dull boy. As if in answer, a dream-fragment flashed across his mind: Sparrow's body pressing eagerly against him as the pirate's lips parted beneath his own...

The waiter arrived at that moment, and James wrenched his thoughts back to the subject at hand. "I assure you," his tone was carefully bland, "I have quite a sufficient number of social engagements."

"No doubt," Andrew retorted, "but we aren't talking about a formal dinner with the Governor or some planter's tedious soiree. We're talking about something you'll actually enjoy doing."

James' mouth twitched. "The Governor " he pointed out mildly, "keeps an excellent cook."

"So do you." Theo leaned forward. "James, Andrew and I are going to make a night of it. Come with us. It'll do you good."

He set his cup down and stared into it, thinking of this morning's dream, of his thoughts in Theo's room a few moments ago. "No, I think not."

"James—"

He looked up, and they fell silent. "I do appreciate your concern," he said, "but I have a... previous engagement." He forced a smile. "Next time, perhaps."

Their answering smiles looked as false as his own. "Of course," Theo said.

Norrington drained his cup and rose from his seat. "Thank you for the coffee. I think it time I returned to the fort." Gillette started to stand, but he raised his hand and the lieutenant subsided. "Enjoy your breakfast, gentlemen. Good day to you."

Instead of returning to his office and the work awaiting him there, he climbed up the battlements, to the sun-filled courtyard where the gallows stood.

The courtyard where, eight months ago, he had watched one Jack Sparrow, convicted and unrepentant pirate, escape the fate he had unquestionably earned—and thanked God for it.

He had, as he'd told Will Turner, expected some attempt to free Sparrow, and had planned accordingly. The men on duty that day had been carefully chosen: all, without exception, had survived the Isla de Muerta. Which meant that all of them, every one, owed his life to Sparrow.

Norrington remembered Elizabeth's blatantly contrived faint, the marines' extraordinary and unprecedented clumsiness, Lt. Groves tripping over his own feet to fall against a civilian who unexpectedly drew a pistol from his coat... and smiled.

He turned outward, his eyes seeking the spot where the Black Pearl's sails had slipped below the horizon that day. She'd not been sighted in British waters since, though his network of informants brought word of her occasionally.

Remembering Sparrow's fall down the cliff-face invariably reminded him of Elizabeth's earlier plunge. Her fall had started the affair, as Sparrow's had ended it.

Norrington stared down at the dock where the Interceptor had moored, recalling his first sight of Sparrow, dripping wet, with Elizabeth slung over his shoulder as if she were a sack of grain.

He'd badly underestimated Sparrow that day—a fact he'd realized as soon as the pirate had turned his shackles into a weapon. He'd often remembered that scene, and it played out clearly in his mind's eye now: the chain pulling tight against Elizabeth's slender throat, the pirate's fierce demands, the taunting leer on the man's face as Elizabeth's arms had reluctantly circled his waist, her hair brushing his cheek...

Sparrow's lavicous grin had infuriated him then. The memory of it aroused him now.

Norrington kept his hands clasped firmly behind his back as he turned away from the sea and re-entered the cool, shadowed hallways of the fort. He forced himself to review the duty-roster, mentally reciting each man's rank, posting, current assignment, disciplinary status—all the dull but necessary minutiae that kept fort and squadron running smoothly.

By the time the Commodore reached his office the tightness in his breeches had decreased to a bearable level and he was able to bend his mind to the tasks awaiting him with a tolerable imitation of his usual composure.

He worked steadily, moving without pause from one task to another, not stopping even when the church bells rang their noon peal over the town.

The door swung open. Norrington raised his head from the dispatch in his hand.

A figure approached the desk, head and shoulders silhouetted against the bright light from the windows. A slight frame, flowing elf-locks, the faint jingle of bells as the head tilted...

Norrington bolted to his feet, eyes wide, hand moving instinctively to his sword—

The figure shrank away, a hand before its face. "No, sir, please!"

It was a woman's voice; his hand fell away from the sword-hilt an instant before Mullroy burst into the room.

The marine, musket at the ready, stared in evident puzzlement from the cringing woman to the white-faced and rigid Commodore. "Sir?"

Norrington wrenched his eyes away from the cowering slave and forced his voice into some semblance of its normal tones. "Who is this young person, Mr. Mullroy?"

"She, ah, said she was from the Four Bells, sir."

The Four Bells. Of course. Norrington closed his eyes briefly. "Thank you, Mr. Mullroy."

The marine withdrew, still looking confused.

The woman hadn't moved, save to lower her hand. She was dressed in faded calico and her hair hung in a multitude of braids tipped with small copper bells. Her eyes showed white-rimmed in her thin, dark, pox-scarred face, and she had both arms wrapped tight around a covered basket.

His luncheon, delivered per standing instructions when he failed to arrive at the tavern before one.

Norrington swallowed the thick wash of shame that seemed to clog his throat and spoke quietly. "I fear I was woolgathering." He gestured at the corner of his desk. "Put it there."

She approached warily, head down and shoulders hunched.

Norrington retrieved a shilling from his pocket. As the slave released the basket, he slid the coin across the desk to her. It was a poor apology for his behavior, but should reassure her, at least, that she was not to be punished for God knew what real or imagined offence.

She snatched it up, bobbed a curtsy, and hurried out.

As the latch clicked home Norrington collapsed into his chair and buried his face in his hands.

The decision he'd made in the coffeehouse this morning hardened to resolution. Things could not continue as they were. He could not continue as things were. He had to do something, and he had to do it tonight, before the situation could grow any worse.

Before he went completely mad.

He cast his mind back to the beginning of this—he might as well be honest with himself—impossible infatuation with Jack Sparrow. The first dream had come, ironically enough, the night after his invitation to the Turner-Swann wedding had arrived. The dream itself—its erotic nature—had not particularly surprised him. He'd had such dreams before, formed irrational attachments to utterly unsuitable persons before. But in the past, if he refused to dwell upon the feelings such dreams aroused—especially if he received no encouragement from the object of his misplaced affection—the attachment would fade in a matter of weeks, or at most months, and the dreams with it.

And yet... he hadn't seen Sparrow since the man's plunge from the cliff, eight months ago. He'd not allowed himself to dwell on the dreams, or the reactions they invariably aroused in him. But despite this the dreams had grown more frequent, more vivid, rather than less, and his mind had developed a distressing tendency to wander into thoughts of Sparrow with little or no provocation.

He'd tried every stratagem he'd developed over the years to free himself of this infatuation; all had failed. In desperation, two months ago, he'd begun to consider another, more drastic method of ending this—obsession.

He shrank from it still; the idea disgusted him. But he'd exhausted all other options.

Tonight, he promised himself silently. Tonight.

The footman placed the tray with the brandy on the table at his elbow, then turned to his dressing table.

Norrington closed the book, marking his place with a finger. "Thank you, Isaac," he said firmly.

The footman paused in the act of tidying, and straightened. He collected the Commodore's coat and hat, bent a reproachful look on the space where his shoes should be, and left without a word.

Norrington leaned back into the wing-chair, listening until he heard the door to the adjoining study close and the man's footsteps descend the stairs. Only then did he reach for the brandy, pouring himself a generous measure.

He rolled the liquor on his tongue and inhaled the bouquet, savoured the warmth it spread as it slid down his throat. He made it last as long as he could, until only a scant mouthful remained. Cradling the nearly-empty glass in both hands, he stared into it, unmoving.

The clock in the study chimed eleven. Norrington lifted his head, listened intently.

The house was silent, the servants all abed. It was time.

He tossed back the last of the brandy and retrieved a bundle tied with string from the very back of the wardrobe. The brown paper crackled as he folded it back.

The contents were just as he'd left them. He shook the garments to loosen the creases before laying them out on the bed. Fawn breeches, chocolate-coloured waistcoat, long russet coat—slightly shabby, all of them, and ten years behind the fashion, but respectable still.

His lips curved mirthlessly. Respectability had very little to do with his destination.

He removed his stiff horsehair wig—as much the mark of a naval officer as the uniform—undid his cravat, and changed quickly into the faded civilian clothing.

The mirror over the washbasin threw back his reflection. He'd worn these garments several times before, but it still seemed strange to see his face over the warm colours and soft open collar of a civilian instead of the cool blue and white of his uniform.

He fastened his sword-belt about his waist, transferred a handful of articles from the dressing table to his pockets, and circled the room snuffing the candles, ending at the chair in the corner. The candle was next to the brandy decanter. He hesitated a moment... then snuffed the candle and turned away, closing his eyes to speed their adjustment to the darkness.

The task he'd set himself tonight would not be made easier by drink.

After a few minutes he opened his eyes. He passed through the bedroom into the study, easing the door into the hallway open a few inches.

Silence.

He crossed to the carpet that ran down the center of the hall in a single stride, and moved quickly to a narrow door at the far end of the hall.

No sound echoed up the steep, dark staircase: not a voice, not a footstep. He descended carefully, finding each step by feel, keeping one hand on the wall, until he reached the main floor. The stairway opened into a tiny vestibule filled with baskets and boots.

He slid back the night-bolt and slipped outside, letting the latch click shut behind him.

The sky was overcast, wind rattling the branches of the trees. Norrington took the shortest route to the gate in the vine-covered fence that circled the garden. He unlocked the gate and it swung open, letting him into the narrow side-street beyond.

Relocking the gate, he allowed himself a moment to lean back against the gate-post, bare head cushioned by the thick twists of creeper, while some of the tension drained from his shoulders. He was off the grounds, and the servants none the wiser. If he returned before they awakened, they'd never know he'd left.

He drew a breath and straightened, brushing bits of clinging vine from his coat. He walked to the main street and turned harbourward. A light rain began to fall as he entered a narrow passageway a few blocks later. The passageway led to an alley, and it to another. He threaded his way without hesitation, one hand on his sword hilt.

He came at last to a narrow side-street, made narrower by the overhanging upper stories which provided partial protection from the rain. He stopped opposite a small house, no different at first glance from its neighbors. There was no sign over the faded door, but its windows were aglow despite the hour and a faint murmur of sound could be heard from the street.

Schooling his face to blankness, Norrington crossed the street, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

The place was as he remembered it: low-ceilinged, ill-lit, and odiferous. The corner table was empty; he started toward it. As he crossed the taproom he realized something had changed since his last visit, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was.

He was still puzzling over it when he took his seat in the corner, back to the wall.

A slim, nut-brown youth appeared, tray balanced on one hip. "The usual, sir?" he asked with a smile.

Norrington froze an instant, then nodded.

The boy strolled off, swaying provocatively.

That was what had changed. Always before, when he'd entered the taproom, there'd been a subtle pause as the inhabitants noted his arrival. Today the conversation had flowed unimpeded.

I appear to have become part of the milieu. An accepted member of the club. It was a thought at once bitter and oddly comforting.

He'd first come here two months ago, when even working himself to exhaustion had failed to keep the dreams away. He'd barely stayed long enough to finish his drink. Yet he'd been drawn back, again and again. Because for all its squalor, this place gave him something he found nowhere else.

Here he could stop pretending. Here he could find a kind of peace with himself, if only for a few hours.

A blue eyed youth with sun-bleached hair leaned on the table as he set down a tankard, shirt falling open to reveal golden-tanned skin.

James slid the price of the drink across the table and the boy snatched it, departing with a wink.

He tasted the ale. It was flat, as usual. But at least the staff had stopped openly propositioning him.

He leaned forward, both hands clasped around his tankard, and considered his fellow-patrons.

There were a dozen men seated about the room, a cross-section of Port Royal society: gentlemen in periwigs, sailors with pigtails, artisans, labourers... and two naval officers out of uniform. Quite junior officers, as he couldn't help but know.

The Dauntless's fourth lieutenant—currently lounging against the mantlepiece—met his eyes a moment, then tilted his head, smiling slightly. James' mouth tightened and he looked away, wanting no repeat of the lieutenant's offer on a previous occasion.

He'd declined it, as he'd refused all such offers before and since. He'd resolved to break that pattern tonight, but an officer in his own chain of command was hardly an appropriate choice for what he intended.

And there was no need for haste. The place would only grow busier as the night wore on. He could wait, watch the crowd, consider his options at length before... making his choice.

But make it he must, and it must be tonight. This afternoon's incident must not be repeated.

He had tried everything else; there were no other options left.

James drained the tankard to its dregs and signaled the boy for another.

A quick strike, that was the plan. Go in, get what he needed, and be on his way well before dawn. Back to Tortuga and the Pearl, never to think about the Commodore again, unless and until the Dauntless's sails hove over his horizon.

Sparrow resettled his hat on his head and strode across the street.

He let the door bang shut behind him and grinned a challenge into the silence it brought. After a moment the heads that had jerked up all around the taproom were lowered and conversations resumed. Sparrow swayed his way to an empty spot at the end of the bar.

"Rum," he said, and the tavernkeeper nodded and filled a tankard.

Drink in hand, he turned to face the room, propping both elbows on the bar and surveying the crowd openly.

Officers of His Majesty's Navy were easy to spot; their close-cropped hair gave them away. There were four—no, five of them. Two youngsters shared a table near the door. They whispered to each other and darted curious glances his way between pulls at their tankards. A fair haired, slim shouldered fellow in his early twenties leaned on the mantlepiece while chatting up a clerkish looking man in a threadbare suit. A stocky man with grey in his hair and a scar down one cheek puffed on a long clay pipe and conversed in desultory fashion with the other men—sailors all—gathered 'round his table, pointedly not looking in Sparrow's direction. The fifth—

The fifth man sat alone, at a small table in the darkest corner of the room. His elbows rested on the table and he held his tankard in both hands, obscuring the lower part of his face. His dark head was bowed slightly, his eyes fixed on his drink... but there was an itch at the base of Sparrow's skull that said the man in the corner was watching him.

He took a pull at the rum—he'd drunk worse, which wasn't saying much—then swaggered across the taproom, taking his time about it.

He stopped in front of the fireplace, hands spread to the blaze. When the fair-haired lieutenant glanced his way, Jack gave him his best lecherous leer, raking the lad from head to toe with his eyes.

The officer's expression changed from polite disinterest to faint disgust, and he turned away, taking the clerk with him to an empty table nearby.

No, Jack thought, nothing had changed. Officers were still officers, and always would be.

He faced the room again, glancing sidelong at the man in the corner... and saw a flicker of movement, a slight shift as the man lowered his eyes before he could be caught watching.

Jack rocked onto one heel, throwing his head back to drink. The tankard came down empty, and as he licked the last trace of rum from his upper lip the man in the corner's head dropped sharply.

He strolled back to the bar, putting a little extra twitch in his hips for the benefit of the man in the corner, and collected another rum.

He'd not believed his eyes when Sparrow had appeared. If he'd not seen every other man in the room react to the pirate's presence, he'd have been convinced he was drunk, mad—or dreaming.

James could think of no reason for Sparrow to risk his neck by appearing here tonight—surely Tortuga boasted such places as well?—but he was certain the man's presence here had nothing to do with him.

But oh, God, that he should appear here, tonight of all nights.

He opened his eyes, not raising his head.

Sparrow was just turning away from the bar. He ambled across the room, waving his tankard without spilling a drop. If James had never met the man before, he'd be convinced Sparrow was oblivious to all about him.

Sparrow turned on his heel, crossing the distance between them in one long stride. James braced himself for an attack, but the man only leaned forward, fingertips resting lightly on the edge of the table.

"Fancy some company, mate?"

The breath caught in James' throat. This is not happening. He pushed the chair opposite him out a few inches with his foot.

He was still sitting as he'd been since Jack first saw him. The tankard he held masked the lower part of his face, and his eyes were a white gleam behind half-closed lids. There was something familiar in the shape of the man's brow and cheekbone, the line of his nose. One of the Dauntless's officers, perhaps?

"So," he said, "y' got a name, mate?"

The man's eyes closed for an instant, setting a faint alarm clanging in the back of Jack's mind. Then the close-cropped head rose as the tankard descended, and Jack found himself staring into the cool green eyes of Commodore Norrington.

Sweet fucking Christ. His prick reacted enthusiastically; the rest of him was considerably more ambivalent. "Right." He smiled, hoping he looked less panicked than he felt. "No names, then."

The corners of Norrington's mouth quirked. "No." He drank, never taking his eyes from Jack's face, then leaned back in his chair as he lowered his tankard to the table.

Jack fingered the silver medallion on the end of his braid, thinking furiously.

This changed nothing, really. He'd come looking for an officer of the King's navy; Norrington was certainly that. It needn't alter his plan in the least. Jack glanced over at Norrington from under half-closed lids. No, one small change; improvement, really. He'd have no doubts, when it was over. He'd know, to the marrow of his bones, that Norrington was just like all the rest.

That was good. That would set him up right and proper. He'd be able to walk away without so much as a second thought.

That was what he wanted, wasn't it?

James forced himself to look away from that caressing hand, fixing his eyes on his own tankard. It seemed an impossible stroke of good fortune, that Sparrow should single him out. How better to exorcise his obsession, than with the man himself? A more palatable option, by far, than the disgusting pretense he'd steeled himself to perpetrate tonight.

James glanced across the table again; Sparrow didn't look up.

He should say something, he supposed. But what? He could scarcely ask after Sparrow's latest voyage.

The silence grew palpable. Finally, James said, "It still rains, I take it." It sounded inane, and he regretted the words as soon as they were spoken.

Half-closed eyes snapped open, meeting his own. "Aye." Sparrow dropped his hand, but added nothing further.

Damn the man. He might attempt to keep up his end of the conversation. After another awkward pause, James said, "I dare say it will turn to fog by morning."

Sparrow tilted his head back and studied James out of half-closed eyes. "Listen, mate," he drawled, "I didn't come here lookin' for a game o' whist. Savvy?"

James' breath caught as heat flooded his face. He looked away, cursing himself for a fool.

"So what say we finish our little drinks," Sparrow suited action to words, draining his tankard to the dregs, "and go somewhere a bit more private, eh?"

James reached for his own drink, hesitated... and pushed the foul brew away as he rose to his feet.

A part of Jack wanted to do just that—to walk out of this place and never return—but he'd be damned if he'd back down now, with the end in sight.

Jack heard voices as he reached the turn of the stairs, and glanced up. Norrington was at the top of the flight, his way blocked by a burly, scar-faced fellow. Norrington fumbled in his pocket for a coin, and the doorkeeper jerked his thumb at one of the doors before returning to his seat in the corner.

Dear God, that he had sunk to this! He turned away in disgust...

...and there was Sparrow, staring at him with those dark, dark eyes.

To that, yes... and to this.

I didn't come here lookin' for a game o' whist.

The door thudded shut as he pushed the pirate against it, crushing the man's mouth beneath his own, tasting gold and rum on his tongue as he wrenched at the lapels of Sparrow's coat.

Norrington's hands tugged at Jack's shoulders and the pirate answered with a low growl, pushing the man hard against the wall, ravaging his mouth with teeth and tongue. Norrington's hands rose to twine almost painfully in Jack's hair; he raked his nails hard down Norrington's torso, felt his grip loosen as Norrington moaned and his head fell back to loll against the rough wall.

Jack took immediate advantage, teeth scraping over Norrington's throat in his haste to explore the newly-exposed territory. Norrington moaned, holding hard to Jack, offering no resistance as Jack nipped his way down to taste the hollow between neck and shoulder, meanwhile sliding his hands down the buttons of Norrington's waistcoat.

As Jack coaxed the bottom two buttons free, Norrington's hand fell away and a shudder wracked his quiescent frame. Jack began working his way downward, fingers popping the buttons of Norrington's breeches free, one by one.

The confining cloth fell away. He felt hands hard on his hips, softness against his belly, and then wet, engulfing heat.

The lamp was a dim, smokey flicker, but it still threw a shadow. Jack shifted, keeping his back to the light, until he could see Norrington's face clearly.

Then he settled in, forearms on thighs, and waited. Waited for the half-closed eyes to turn cold with contempt, the bruised and bitten mouth to curve into a sneer.

Waited for the Commodore to come back to himself.

The only sound in the room was Norrington's ragged breathing. Jack listened to it steady as a knot slowly grew in his gut, welcome counterpoint to the nagging ache lower down.

Finally, Norrington's head came up, green eyes meeting Jack's own—and turning away the next moment, Norrington grimacing as if he'd bitten into bitter fruit.

Jack's gut wrenched. Right. His hands curled into fists. Now get up, you bastard, and walk away.

Norrington just sat there, eyes closed, head down, mouth pressed into a thin, flat line.

Go on, damn you. Leave.

He didn't move.

Just. Fucking. Go.

Norrington's eyes opened, raised to meet his own—and his mouth curved into a faint, shy smile.

Sparrow squatted before him, silhouetted against the light. James looked into his shadowed face and turned away, unable to meet his eyes.

Dear God, had he gone mad? He remembered, searingly clear, that first hard kiss, the look on Sparrow's face as he pulled away. And yet... Oh, God.

He'd always prided himself on being a considerate lover. His last partner had teased him about it, even claiming the bruises James left on him healed faster than the ordinary sort. And now...

He pressed his lips together. How could he have allowed himself to lose control so completely? He'd never—not with a man he barely knew, a near-stranger.

But he had, and Sparrow had been... most accomodating. Surprisingly so, considering how little reason James had given him to expect more than perfunctory reciprocation.

It would be decidedly pleasant, James decided, to be the one upsetting the pirate's expectations for a change.

If, that is, Sparrow would give him the opportunity to do so.

Feeling suddenly, absurdly shy, he forced himself to meet Sparrow's eyes, which widened as the man choked back an odd, startled sound.

Not the reaction he'd expected at all. James studying Sparrow more closely.

He'd never seen the man so still. He always thought of Sparrow as being in constant motion: hands fluttering, body swaying, head tilting to call chimes from those ridiculous bangles while he proposed some impossible scheme.

Now there was only silence, and stillness, and a tension that was more felt than seen.

Sparrow's eyes narrowed as James shifted, bringing his legs under him, weight on his heels and head level with Sparrow's shoulders.

James kept his gaze steady as he raised a hand slowly to the man's knee. He slid his hand forward, feeling the tension in the long muscles. He brought his other hand up to echo the first, slid both back until his fingertips brushed Sparrow's sleeves.

Sparrow's expression was still wary, but his lips had parted and he was breathing faster. Good.

He turned his hands, tugged gently.

Sparrow straightened, tilted his head slightly.

James's eyes moved slowly down Sparrow's lean form as he drew both hands down his thighs. Sparrow's hands dangled between his knees, and James' breathing quickened as he remembered how they'd felt against his skin. Pushing the memory firmly away—he would not lose control again—he reversed his hands' motion and raised his eyes slowly to Sparrow's shadowed ones.

As their eyes met James quite deliberately licked his upper lip, and was answered by a hiss of indrawn breath.

He curved his hands around Sparrow's thighs, tightened, pulled.

Sparrow almost collapsed forward, his knees hitting the floor, his hands grasping James' shoulders with enough force to rock him back on his heels and jolt the breath from his lungs.

Sparrow's hands withdrew at once, moving to the knot of his sash. By the time James had caught his balance the length of fabric was falling about their knees as Sparrow reached for the placket of his breeches.

James' hands darted forward to capture Sparrow's wrists, pull them away from the lacing-cord. He felt the muscles under his hands tense and bent his head, pressing a kiss onto one whipcord wrist before Sparrow could pull away.

The slight resistance ceased; James' other hand found Sparrow's hip, cupping it lightly for balance. He watched the half-shadowed face for reaction as his mouth teased the cradled wrist: tonguing, sucking, biting. He raked his teeth over the tender skin, nipping at the fleshy pad below the thumb; Sparrow gasped.

James tilted his head, watching Sparrow's wariness turn to something much more satisfying as he ran the tip of his tongue up the captured thumb. Yes. His tongue spiraled slowly down again, and as his mouth closed over the whole Sparrow's tongue crept out to wet his lips. James smiled around the thumb, sucking gently as his tongue caressed the joints, then more strongly as he withdrew, teeth scraping lightly over the calloused skin.

Sparrow groaned, head lolling, as his thumb broke free with an audible pop.

James brushed his lips against the cradled palm—drew away. Looked down...

A thin white scar crossed Sparrow's palm, twin to the one on Will Turner's hand, and on Elizabeth's.

When James looked up again, he found a trace of wariness returned to Sparrow's eyes. Without looking away, he traced the rough white ridge with his tongue.

Sparrow shivered.

He did it again, and Sparrow 's breathing stuttered.

His other hand moved caressingly upward as his tongue traced a slow spiral on the scarred palm. Sparrow threw back his head with a sound that was half-gasp, half-moan. James transferred his attentions to Sparrow's throat.

Sparrow's hair was soft, oddly resilient, his hair-bangles cool against James' cheek as he nuzzled his neck, nipped his way down the sweat-salty flesh from ear to collarbone.

Sparrow's hand fumbled at his shoulder, found his nape just as James' tongue probed the soft hollow between throat and shoulder.

Sparrow's hand bit into his neck. "Oh, sweet Christ..."

Tongue and lips stilled, withdrew.

Jack's eyes flew open. No! If the bastard stopped now he'd kill him, and to hell with the consequences!

Not, perhaps, by snapping his neck—Jack forced himself to relax his clenching fingers, dropping them to smooth the broadcloth stretched taut over Norrington's shoulders.

Norrington's lips were warm against his throat and his tongue resumed its caress as his hands slid inside Jack's shirt.

Jack choked another Please into a groan as Norrington's teeth nipped across the skin over his collarbone and his rough palms caressed Jack's sweat-slick ribs.

Norrington's fingers brushed briefly against the two bullet-scars in Jack's right shoulder, then slid away. His mouth traced a path downward, finding the first scar just as his thumbs brushed Jack's nipples.

"Bloody putain batard..." Words tumbled from Jack's tongue, blocking what he wouldn't say. "...whoreson..." Norrington's fingers pinched, rubbed. "...cigala salaud..." His mouth traced a path down to the second scar. "...raandi baajer..." His tongue circled, probed maddeningly. "...hijo de diablo..."

Teeth raked lightly over his skin and Jack shivered, curses blurring to a throat-aching moan as Norrington's hands slid down at last—oh, please—to his waist.

Norrington's fingers stroked lightly along the edge of his breeches, cupping his hips. His tormenting mouth pulled away, and Norrington's eyes rose to meet Jack's. The hunger was there, but controlled, leashed, overlaid by a fierce concentration that made Jack's breath catch in his throat.

"Up."

The hoarse, whispered word took a moment to register. Then Jack was scrambling to his feet, eyes never leaving Norrington's face, letting Norrington's hands guide him until he felt the wall against his back.

Those hands captured Jack's wrists, pinning them lightly to the wall as Norrington leaned forward, catching the tie to Jack's breeches in his teeth. A quick tug, another, and the knot was undone. He leaned in and nuzzled the rough wool, loosening the crossed cords with tongue and teeth. Jack bit back a sob, arching into the pressure for a few blissful seconds before the lacing grew slack and Norrington rocked back onto his heels.

Jack pushed away from the wall, twisted his hips, moaning in relief as the coarse wool slithered downward, freeing his aching prick at last.

Norrington's eyes flicked up to meet his and his tongue crept out to wet his lips, his breath as ragged as Jack's own. Jack let his head fall back, eyes closing as Norrington leaned forward again.

Jack's hips bucked at the first touch. Norrington's hands shifted to pin him firmly to the wall as his tongue tasted, stroked, caressed, tasted again...

Jack moaned, writhed, panted, hands searching for a hold as warmth encompassed him, withdrew, swallowed him again.

He felt broadcloth under his hands and clenching them tight, pulling. The pressure on his hips eased and Jack thrust into welcoming, enveloping warmth, crying out as release came at last in sharp, swift, crashing waves.

James eased his grip on the narrow hips and the man's knees gave way. He broke Sparrow's fall, wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close. They were both shaking as if struck by the ague, he noted idly. Sparrow's arms circled his waist loosely and his head dipped to rest on James' shoulder. James tightened his hold, tilted his head to feel once again those absurdly soft locks against his cheek.

They sat silently as their breathing slowed and their limbs steadied.

At length, Sparrow raised his head slightly; the bangles in his hair jingled. "I should go," he murmured huskily.

"Yes." James' own voice sounded odd and hoarse in his ears.

They separated, turning away as they refastened buttons, tucked in shirts.

James turned back to find Sparrow shrugging into his coat. The pirate straightened, eyed him warily.

"I—" James looked away, swallowed, tried again. "It would be wise, I think, if you were out of Port Royal before dawn."

Those dark eyes narrowed a moment. Then Sparrow tossed his head, hair bangles chiming, and his teeth flashed in a broad, gold-glinting grin. "Then I'd best on my way, hadn't I?"

James tried to think of something else to say, came up blank, and forced an awkward smile instead.

Sparrow's grin faltered an instant. Then he plucked his tricorne from the floor and swept James an exaggerated bow. "Well, ta, then."

James nodded.

Sparrow clapped his hat to his head and whirled out the door, letting it swing shut behind him.

James waited five minutes before making his own way down the stairs. The rain had given way to a fine white mist over the empty street.

"Fair winds, Captain," James said quietly, and turned for home.

He didn't see the dark shape that separated from the doorway at the other end of the alley.

Leave a Comment
(If you're commenting about a specific chapter, please mention that.)

Read Comments
(Warning: May contain spoilers!)