3. A Shift In The Wind

Pairing: J/N
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Property of Disney, Bruckheimer, et al. No infringement intended.
Originally Posted: 6/07/05
Beta: My thanks to commodorified and fairestcat, my ever-helpful betas, and to black_hound for permission to abuse her art to create the title icon.
Art: by Blackhound
Summary: Minor wig abuse

She whirled around, hand raised to slap—and stopped, scowl turning to simper as she caught sight of the coin in his hand.

He gave her his best lecherous grin and nudged the empty bottle. "Get us another, luv?"

"Anything y'like." She reached for the bottle, leaning so close her skirts brushed his thigh and he scarcely had to move to tuck the shilling between her breasts.

She turned away with a coy toss of her head, and Ladbroc chuckled. "Choosing a bedwarmer, Captain?"

"P'raps." Jack slumped against the wall of the alcove and drained half his rum in one gulp. Aye, the wench was willing if the price was right, she'd made that clear enough—but it had been the coin her eyes had followed. She'd scarcely glanced at him at all.

At the other end of the alcove, Quarteto shifted his lapful of squirming blonde so he could grin at Jack over her generous bosom. "She's good, that one. Clever with 'er tongue. I 'ad 'er last week."

The whore pouted and twined an arm around Quarteto's neck. "Her? She's nothin'." She caught his hand, thrust it between the breasts spilling from her half-laced bodice. "I'm better'n she is, at that and aught else." Her tongue flicked out, licking Quarteto's ear. "Take us upstairs, darlin', and I'll prove it to ya."

Quarteto grinned and pulled the whore down for a rough kiss as his hand plunged deeper into her bodice. "Excuse us, gents." He rose to his feet, arm slipping down to circle her waist.

Jack saluted the man, draining the last of his rum, and Ladbroc called out an obscene encouragement as the two wove their way toward the stairs.

Ladbroc, who was not as stupid as he could look, pushed his tankard over for Jack to fill without comment.

The bottle was more than half gone when the door to the tavern swung open to admit a trio of whores. They split up and the smallest, an ebony-skinned girl in a tawdry amber satin too big for her thin frame, approached their alcove. As she drew near her eyes tallied up their respective wealth: Jack's signet ring and the silver coins in his hair against his shabby coat, Ladbroc's gold wrist-cuff and ruby earring.

The whore caught the glance and turned to Jack, a smile on her lips that never reached her eyes. She leaned one hand on the table, tilting her shoulder so that the dress slipped down to reveal most of the breast beneath it. "Voulez-vous me baiser, m'sieu?"

Jack rolled his eyes; her French was worse than Gibbs's, a thing he'd not thought possible. "Not tonight, darlin'." He leaned back, cradling his cup in both hands. "Got a headache."

Ladbroc's hand shot out, catching the woman's wrist as she began to turn away, his eyes on the dark swell of her breast above the tarnished satin. "Combien, petite?" he demanded hoarsely.

Her smile returned, and she named a price. Ladbroc nodded and slid out of the alcove.

Jack watched them go without shifting out of his comfortable slouch. As the tavern door swung shut behind them, he took another mouthful of rum and considered his options.

He'd always had good luck finding pleasurable company in this tavern before; that was why he'd suggested it when he'd run into Ladbroc and Quarteto on the docks a few hours ago. But none of the whores who'd wandered through tonight had taken his fancy.

Sitting here all on his onesies didn't appeal, but he didn't want to stop drinking. So best be off, and find some other of his crew to drink with. There were bound to be some of them about, if he went looking.

Jack drained his cup, collected the half-empty bottle from the table, and strolled out into the street. He wove his way through the crowd with ease, stopping now and then to take a swig of rum.

He'd not gone a dozen steps before he was accosted by a whore he recognized from the Pearl's last stop in Tortuga. But the tall, wiry figure that had seemed so appealing before stirred no interest in him now, and he brushed her off with a word and a wave of his hand.

Another whore approached him at the street-crossing, a short, plump girl with breasts like ripe melons. She draped herself on his shoulder, murmuring suggestions in a husky whisper. Jack put a finger under her chin, lifted—and any stirring of interest vanished when he saw the bland indifference in her blue eyes.

When his bottle ran out Jack still hadn't found any of his crew. Tiring of the hunt, he turned his steps toward The Faithful Bride, a favorite haunt of his first mate and quartermaster.

He didn't see the figure that moved out of the cross-street to his left and followed him a half-dozen paces behind.

The Bride was crowded, as always. From his usual booth in the southwest corner, Gibbs saw Jack enter and waved a welcome.

Jack returned the wave with a tilt of his head and a saucy grin, but felt a sudden disinclination to join Gibbs. Instead he collected a tankard of rum from the bar and appropriated a small table near the fire when its previous occupant slipped out to relieve himself in the alley.

When the fellow returned he seemed quite put out, and demanded to know who Jack thought he was, to behave so.

Jack grinned as he propped both feet on the table. "Haven't you heard, mate?" He spread his arms wide. "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow!"

The pirate's eyes widened. His mouth, opened for another bellow, snapped shut, and he turned away, muttering something about having had enough for one night, anyway.

Helping himself to a mouthful of rum, Jack reflected that the evening was looking up. He glanced toward Gibbs' corner, saw that Anamaria had joined him, and raised his tankard in salute.

The curtain over the stairs stirred and Giselle stepped through. She swept the crowd with an appraising glance, and smiled when she saw Jack.

Jack grinned back at her. He'd always liked Giselle. She never held a grudge; if she thought you'd wronged her, she'd take it out of your hide—Jack rubbed his cheek reminiscently—and then forget it.

"'Ullo, Jack." She leaned on his shoulder and smiled down at him. "'Aven't seen you in a bit."

Jack's arm snaked around her hips. "Been busy, that's all." He gave her a bit of a squeeze and grinned up at her.

Her fingers brushed the twin bullet-scars in his shoulder; Jack's smile vanished and he removed her hand gently. "Not tonight, luv, thanks all the same."

Giselle's eyebrows drew down for a moment. Then her smile returned as her hand fell back to his shoulder. "Buy a girl a drink, then?"

Jack pushed his nearly full tankard toward her. She stooped to claim it and dropped a kiss on his cheek. "See you about, Jack."

When the table's previous occupant returned and started shouting, she joined Gibbs in his corner. She had a feeling Jack wouldn't welcome her company right now.

The quartermaster greeted her with a nod, and the barmaid brought her ale without being asked. She'd not had time to taste it before Jack glanced in their direction.

"Smart fella, that one." Gibbs said as he returned Jack's salute. "Bad luck, pickin' a fight with a ship's captain."

"Hmmm." Anamaria nodded to Jack, then clasped both hands around her drink, pretending not to watch him over the rim.

Jack'd been acting odd ever since he came back from—wherever he'd gone, just after they dropped anchor. Anamaria glanced at Gibbs, wondering if she should say something. If the old sailor had noticed, too.

Jack had used to end his night's carouse—when he didn't start it—in some whore's bed. But she'd swear he'd not taken one of them since his return. Instead he'd been drinking himself senseless with whichever of the crew came first to hand; she'd seen him, night after night, sprawled in the bottom of the boat as he was rowed out to sleep it off in his cabin on the Pearl.

He seemed that drunk often enough before, but he always sobered up quick enough if a fight was on offer. But she'd wager her next share he wasn't faking now.

Anamaria made a bet with herself as Giselle approached Jack... and won it when Jack let her walk off with his rum, in exchange for no more than a kiss on the cheek.

She glanced at Gibbs, and caught a faint expression of surprise on his face. "That's the fourth," she said quietly.

She scowled at his too-loud voice and glanced across the room, but Jack didn't seem to have heard.

Gibbs dropped his head, frowning faintly. "He has seemed a bit off lately, hasn't he?"

"Aye." Anamaria'd hoped he'd shrug it off, tell her a tale of the last time Jack had acted like this. Gibbs had known him much longer than she.

Anamaria pretended to listen, but her attention was on Jack, hunched over another drink, his usual flamboyant good humour gone.

What had happened during those six days he'd been gone? She began to replay her meetings with Jack since his return to Tortuga, looking for clues.

Gibbs broke off mid-sentence and muttered, "Ah, this'll put him in a better mood."

Anamaria looked up without raising her head. The newcomer was a brawny, toffee-haired fellow she knew by sight, though she'd never heard his name. "Maybe so."

"Hmm." Anamaria had seen the man in Jack's company before. When the two met there'd be a brief conversation, they'd slip out to the alley behind the tavern, and Jack would return a quarter of an hour later looking like a cat that'd just finished a dish of cream.

Jack might have been looking for this fellow—but Anamaria didn't think so. She settled into her seat and watched the man with narrowed eyes.

They'd first met almost five years ago, when Dickon'd been cornered by a Tortugan street-gang and Jack had stepped in to even the odds. Dickon had insisted on buying Jack a drink afterward, and one thing had led to another...

They'd met a score of times since, and renewed their acquaintance each time to their mutual satisfaction. Yes, the evening was definitely looking up. Dickon was just what Jack was in the mood for.

"Evening, Dickon." Jack let his grin slide toward a leer as he leaned back, leaving his tankard on the table.

"Jack." Dickon picked up the tankard, drank. "Been a long time." He licked his lips.

Dickon raised an eyebrow and tilted his head toward the back of the tavern. Jack nodded. Without another word, they made their way to the narrow door leading to the alley.

The door had scarcely shut behind them when Dickon pulled Jack to him, kissing him hard. They stumbled down the alley; Jack lost his tricorn as he backed Dickon into a wide doorway they'd used before. Dickon's hands were undoing the placket on his trousers before his shoulders brushed the door.

Jack ran both hands down Dickon's shoulders, enjoying the play of muscles under his fingers, and bent his head to nip at the collarbone beneath his open shirt. Dickon's breath caught and he slid his hands under Jack's coat, cupping his arse and pulling him close. His prick pressed hard against Jack's thigh, and Jack's stiffened in response.

Dickon's mouth found Jack's neck, skittered down to the hollow between throat and shoulder; he hissed as Dickon's tongue found the right spot. He dropped to his knees and Dickon's hands cupped his shoulders lightly, steadying him.

Jack parted Dickon's shirt and leaned forward. Dickon's ribs were firm beneath his hands. Jack's tongue circled Dickon's navel, tasting sweat and sea-salt; the big man swore fervently.

One hand brushed roughness; Jack turned his head. A short, thick scar snaked across Dickon's hip, stark white in the dim light. Jack shifted, nuzzling the skin on that side of Dickon's belly as his thumb traced lightly over the ridged skin.

Curses turned to a sharp cry as Dickon's hips bucked. "Bloody get on wi' it." Dickon's hands closed hard on Jack's shoulders; his breathing had grown ragged.

Biting back a sigh, Jack shifted into a crouch, pinned Dickon's hips to the rough wood—

Dickon moaned as Jack's lips closed around him, cursed as Jack sucked him, cheeks hollowing. Jack was just falling into the rhythm of it when Dickon bit back a shout and arched away from the wall.

When his friend's body went limp beneath his hands Jack withdrew, rocking back on his heels and gasping for breath. Dickon leaned on his shoulders, trembling, and Jack clenched both hands in the big man's coat to ease him to the ground. "Braw... daft... bastard," Dickon gasped.

Jack's lips quirked upward as he wiped them on his sleeve. There was a crate in the doorway corner; he shifted to sit on it and began to unwind his sash, taking his time about it.

By the time he started on his breeches, Dickon was recovered enough to take note. He straightened a bit from his sprawl as Jack's hands tugged the cords loose and pushed aside the confining wool. Dickon looked from Jack's half-erect prick to his face...

Jack let go a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and murmured soft encouragement as Dickon's hand began to move. Dickon smiled lazily, head lolling forward, and Jack was suddenly reminded of Norrington's shy, unexpected smile.

He dismissed the memory at once. Norrington was nothing like Dickon. Norrington was a Navy officer, a man who'd hang Jack as soon as fuck him. Dickon was a friend, someone Jack could trust to guard his back. There was no comparing the two of them at all.

Dickon's hand stilled, withdrew, and the big man moved to kneel between his legs. Jack leaned back, shoulders against the rough brick, fingers curling over the edges of the crate. Then Dickon's hands were pressing Jack's legs apart as he leaned forward.

When had that been? He arched his hips. Two voyages ago? Three? After they'd taken that Spaniard with the cochineal, wasn't it?

Dickon's fingers dug into his thighs and Jack shuddered. What was he doing, thinking of plunder when he had a far rarer treasure here at hand? He let his head loll and closed his eyes...

Norrington knelt at his feet, watching Jack as his hands stroked up and down Jack's thighs, coaxing, urging, tempting Jack closer without a word. Jack's breath quickened. Norrington's eyes met Jack's as his tongue mapped the ridge of skin. Jack brought his hands together, right thumb rubbing the scar on his left. "Up..."

Jack's arms came down. His hips bucked and found no resistance, only a sweet, enveloping heat. He spent himself with a muffled cry, falling back against the rough brick of the wall when the spasms passed.

The warmth withdrew. Jack opened his eyes and felt a moment's confusion at seeing blue eyes instead of green, a thick light brown queue instead of a close-cropped dark poll. He shook his head, banishing the memories. This was Dickon, of course it was.

"Clever Dickon," he murmured, as he always did. Dickon smiled as he wiped Jack's seed from his lips and chin, and shifted to sit against the wall again.

Jack looked away, forcing his breathing to slow. He brought his hands up, flexing his fingers a few times to work out the ache where the rough wood had dug into his palms.

Jack began refastening his breeches and tucking his shirt. Dickon noticed, and began his own tidying-away.

Jack stood up to re-wrap his sash. Dickon retrieved the tricorn from where it had fallen, brushing the dust off before handing it to Jack. But instead of saying, "Until next time, then," as he always did, he said, "Buy you a drink, Jack?"

"Drydock." Dickon frowned into his drink. "We ran afoul of a French man-o-war; bastards snapped the mizzen topsail yard and knocked the rudder off its pintels before we could get out of range. Then we fouled on a reef before we could reship the rudder." The frown turned to a scowl. "They say it'll be at least a month before she's fit to sail."

Jack winced, imagining his Pearl in such straights. "Bad luck," he said, "but at least y'made it in, eh?"

"Aye, there is that." Dickon nodded. "What about you? When does the Pearl sail again?"

"Nine days," Jack said. "I'm thinkin' we'll go up Florida way, see what we can pick up in the Bermudas."

"Always good pickings there this time of year." Dickon drained his cup. "We had a good run while it lasted, Jack. Tell the fellow he's a damn lucky bastard for me, eh?" He got up and walked away.

Jack stared after Dickon, trying to make sense of his parting words. After a moment, he shrugged and took another pull at his rum.

Anamaria and Gibbs were still in the corner. Jack glanced that way—perhaps he'd join them after all—and caught Anamaria watching him.

She looked away at once, pretending interest in whatever Gibbs was saying, but Jack couldn't mistake her expression.

It was the same one Giselle had had, just before she'd asked him to buy her a drink. The same look, now he thought on it, Dickon had had in the alley, after.

Jack was suddenly tired of the noise, the smoke, the raucous revelry that swirled around him. He wanted air, and room to move.

The street was nearly as crowded as the tavern. Cursing under his breath, Jack took the shortest route to the docks.

The familiar rhythm of the oars soothed him as he rowed to the Pearl. Greeting the two men on night-watch with a cheery, "Good evening, gentlemen!", Jack strode to the great cabin.

The rum clattered as he pulled it from the cupboard, knocking another bottle on its side. Jack stared at the whitewash-streaked shape rocking gently to and fro—then kicked the door closed and turned away.

The liquor was warm comfort in his throat. Jack sprawled into one of the chairs around the central table.

What the devil was wrong with everyone tonight? He chewed the question a moment, then washed it down with a swig of rum. Tortuga had always been a welcoming sort of place—if a man had coin in his pocket—but even the most enthusiastic welcome began to pall after a time.

What he needed was a change of pace. Something out of his usual round. But what?

Another long drink to lubricate his thinking, and as he set the bottle on the table the hilt of Jack's sword dug into his ribs. He looked down at the blade, and smiled.

Of course! Just the thing! He'd pay a visit to young Mr. Turner and his lovely bride. He owed it to his old friend Bootstrap to see the boy well settled.

The Pearl wouldn't sail for nine days—plenty of time to journey to Port Royal and back before then. And he'd not had his wedding-gift acknowledged, so he obviously needed to confirm for himself that it'd been received.

Elizabeth turned her head to muffle a yawn in Will's shoulder just as her husband swallowed a yawn of his own. Will fixed an expression of fascinated interest on his face a moment later, but Jack wasn't fooled. He ended the tale much more quickly than he'd intended.

"And now," he brought both hands down on the table, "I think it's time I took m'self off."

"You're not staying the night?" Will protested, waking up a bit. "But you just got here!"

Elizabeth roused herself to nodded agreement. "Yes, Jack, do stay," she said, around another yawn. "I've already made up Will's old room for you."

"And how were you planning to explain my presence when Brown returns in the morning?" Jack countered.

Elizabeth grimaced. "I suppose you're right. But you will take care, won't you, Jack? If you're recognized by one of the shore patrols—"

"Take this with you," Will said, handing him the bottle. "We don't keep strong spirits in the house as a rule; Mr. Brown would be sure to notice." As Jack took the rum, Will added, "Elizabeth's right, Jack. The order for your execution is still in force. If you fell into Norrington's hands—"

"I do have a bit of experience in these matters," Jack reminded him. "As for the good Commodore," he grinned, "I can think of worse men to have me in their grasp."

Elizabeth's eyes narrowed and Will's head tilted to one side; Jack said his farewells and ducked out the door before his young hosts could gather their wits to argue.

The church clock had struck eleven some time since, and most of the houses around him were dark. Even the Three Angels tavern was shut, which struck Jack as unnatural.

Jack strolled onward, contemplating his options. It was no use going back to the boat he'd left in the cove west of town. Even if he'd been inclined to leave, the tide wouldn't turn for some hours yet.

He could find a whore; there were sure to be plenty of them down by the docks. The problem was, the shore patrol was sure to be down there, too. Jack didn't fancy having his negotiations interrupted by some over-conscientious Marine.

Or—Jack took a mouthful of rum—he could find a tavern and have a nice, quiet drink or three. Except his rather spectacular escape from the noose nine months ago made it all too likely one of Jack's fellow patrons would recognize him and raise the hue and cry.

No, there was only one place in Port Royal, aside from the Turners', where he could be certain no one would raise an alarm—because the patrons didn't dare let it become known they frequented the establishment themselves. Jack took his bearings and charted a new course.

He'd just negotiated an unusually well-lit section of street and gained the safety of an alley when a familiar sound reached his ears.

Well, now. Jack had never been one to let an opportune moment slip through is fingers. If some fine gentleman had so misjudged his capacity as to render himself helpless, Captain Jack Sparrow had a clear duty to drive home what a very foolish action that was by depriving the man of any valuables he happened to have about his person.

The retching had slowed by the time he had the figure in sight. This was no fat burgher, but a slim youth who clung unsteadily to a barrel. The boy half-straightened, then double over as another spasm caught him.

Jack had taken his first step toward the huddled figure when a shape detached itself from the opposite wall.

Norrington. Jack froze, his eyes darting between the—midshipman, he must be—and the Commodore.

The boy straightened, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and nodded. "Yes, sir. I—I'll be all right in a moment, sir." He fumbled at his coat with a shaking hand.

The midshipman accepted it with an embarrassed murmur and wiped his mouth. He took a step away from the barrel and staggered. Norrington caught him, slipping an arm around the slim shoulders. "Steady on, Mr. Crawford."

"Yes, sir." He leaned on Norrington, face crimson. One arm circled the older man's waist. "I'm sorry I've made such a muck of things, sir."

"There was no harm done, I think." Norrington said. "But you must learn discretion, if you wish your career to prosper. Your lodgings are in Church Street, are they not?"

"Yes, sir." His expression was a mixture of chagrin and gratitude. "I—I will be more careful in future, sir."

Jack's lip curled. So Norrington was that sort, was he? Well, it was an old story, often told, and if the boy chose to earn promotion on his knees, it was no concern of Jack's.

They turned a corner. Jack followed, keeping well back, moving from shadow to shadow.

There was a brief pause at the door to the lodging-house while Crawford found his latch-key. Jack stepped into an alley and extracted the bottle from his pocket. The rum warmed his throat as he watched a light mount to a corner room on the second floor.

Settling against the alley wall, Jack took another mouthful, waiting for Norrington to put the light out. Wouldn't want shadows on the curtain to give your game away, would you, Commodore?

But the light left the boy's room and started downward. A moment later, Norrington descended the steps, his expression one of weary distaste. He pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "Bloody young fool."

Jack moved deeper into the shadows as Norrington straightened. The bottle, forgotten in his grasp, scraped against the rough wall.

Norrington's head snapped 'round as he reached for his sword-hilt. "Who's there?"

Jack dropped the bottle—it was all but empty anyway—and stepped into the street, keeping his hands well clear of sword and pistol.

Jack folded his arms and grinned. "Evening, Commodore." He paused to allow a response, but none came. "Seemed to me the young gentleman was more than a bit in 'is cups. Kind of you see 'im home." His grin broadened. "No telling what kind of scoundrel he might've fallen foul of else, eh?"

Norrington's eyes tallied Jack's weapons and the shadows at his back; one eyebrow quirked upward. "Quite." His hand fell away from his sword. "Although I could wish Mr. Crawford's timing were rather better. Being in loco parentis, as it were, I found myself obliged to abandon an unusually good hand of whist."

"Ah, card party, was it?" Jack tilted his head to one side. "I expect you'll be wanting to get back to it, then?"

Norrington wet his lips as his eyes moved slowly up Jack's body. By the time their eyes met, Jack was finding it hard to breathe.

The tightness in Jack's chest was echoed in his groin. Norrington started toward him. He backed slowly, eyes never leaving Norrington's face.

They were both in the shadows now. Jack could smell starch, sweat, the faint scent of wine on Norrington's breath.

Jack's hand found the back of Norrington's neck and pulled his mouth into reach. Norrington moaned into the kiss. Jack felt arms circle his shoulders, a hand tangle in his hair. He tasted claret and Commodore as his arm slipped under the fine blue coat, pulling them close. They stumbled deeper into the shadows, a sweet, heady tangle of hands and lips and teeth and tongues.

"No, wait." Norrington's hands found Jack's shoulders and pushed him away. "Shouldn't we go somewhere—" he looked past Jack, toward the street—"a bit more private?"

Too good to trade favours in an alley, are we? Jack stepped back. "I don't go anywhere with a man as won't trust me with his name, mate."

Norrington stared at him blankly a moment. Then his eyebrows rose and his mouth formed a silent "O". He bowed his head. "I beg your pardon." His mouth curved in the faint, shy smile Jack had half-convinced himself he'd only imagined. "I thought you knew it." He raised his head, green eyes meeting Jack's without hesitation. "James."

James. Jack swallowed against the sudden constriction in his chest and smiled, tilting his head to one side. "Lead on, then."

He'd expected they'd seek the house where they'd met before. But instead of heading east, Nor—James turned south, toward the harbour. Excellent choice. Plenty of dockside taverns would rent a man a room for an hour with no questions asked.

As they passed the midshipman's lodging-house, Jack said, "Young gentleman give you a bit of trouble, does he?"

"No more than most lads his age." He frowned faintly. "Though if he continues in this vein, he may find his career ended before it can be properly said to have begun."

"You'd hold the boy's youthful indulgence against 'im? So he had one too many. Where's the harm? Dare say you did the same yourself on occasion, eh?" Jack grinned and swung his elbow in a sly nudge.

"I cannot claim to have shown any extraordinary virtue in my youth," Norrigton's tone was dry, "but there is a time and a place for everything. To indulge in that particular excess in front of the ranking officer on station is exceptionally imprudent."

"You may be correct." They turned a corner. "But as it happens, I was speaking of the Admiral."

"Ah." They were going west now. Not the docks, then. What's northwest of the docks? Warehouses, wasn't it? Useful places, warehouses. Quiet, cool, sure to be deserted at this hour. And you could often find lovely things lying about, after. Yes, a warehouse will do nicely. "So, it won't be you spiking the lad's career, then?"

Norrington didn't answer for the length of a street. "Mr. Crawford is a competent young officer, but if he does not learn to control his tendency toward self-indulgence, he will rise no higher on any ship under my command."

"In moderation, no." A faint line appeared between Norrington's brows. "But an officer who cannot rule himself will never earn the respect of his men." He clasped his hands behind his back; his lips thinned. "In my experience, if an officer has not his men's respect, he finds it necessary to compel obedience by threats and, ultimately, force. Should he rise to independent command, such an officer becomes, by his very nature, the worst sort of tyrant—dissolute and brutal." He shook his head. "I have seen the harm such commanders do; the effect they have on the men and officers who serve under them. I will never knowingly encourage an officer I think capable of such conduct to continue in the Service."

A pity more of his sort didn't feel the same. "Think Crawford's one of that lot, do you?"

"I don't know. I hope not." James turned a corner into a square. "Only time will tell."

The clock chimed the quarter-hour as they reached the square. A faint hiss was all the warning Jack had before Norrington pushed him flat against the wall, where the shadow lay deepest. He put his own back to the wall as well, and Jack's protest died unvoiced when he heard footsteps approaching.

Two Marines came into sight, muskets held loosely in their hands. Shore patrol. Jack tensed, ready to run—but James didn't call to his men. He stood very still at Jack's side, breathing lightly through parted lips as his eyes tracked the Marines across the square. He didn't move until the last echo of their footsteps had died away.

They took the east road out of the square, then two more turns in quick succession, and stopped.

James slipped his key into the lock, then hesitated. He glanced at Jack, then away. "I think it would be best not to speak until we are upstairs. It could be—awkward, if my servants heard voices and came to investigate."

"Right..." The rest of Jack's reply died unspoken as Norrington's exact wording registered. My servants? But that would mean—

The key turned in the lock, the door swung open... and Jack stepped into what was, unmistakable, a private dwelling.

The square was silent. He stepped out of the shadows; Jack followed without speaking.

They were nearly to the house. He'd given the servants the night off, not expecting the card party to end until near dawn. They should all be asleep by now and if they weren't, his study was far enough from their quarters to make it unlikely they'd hear anything.

He had his latch-key in the lock before it occurred to James that a warning might be in order. He spoke slowly, trying to phrase the matter tactfully. "I think it would be best not to speak until we are upstairs. It could be—" deadly—"awkward, if my servants heard voices and came to investigate."

Jack agreed, and James led the way into the hall. He'd removed his hat and was reaching for the waiting candle when he realized the door to the street was still open.

Jack stood just inside the doorway, eyes wide in the dim light. He was very still.

Second thoughts? James' stomach knotted, but he said nothing. They must both want this, both choose it freely, or it were better not done at all.

James lit his candle at the night-lamp and led the way up the stairs, Jack at his side before he reached the third step. James watched him obliquely as they climbed: the sway of his lithe, wiry body, the odd stillness of his hands in the candle's flickering light.

By the time they reached the landing, James' mouth was dry. He pushed the door at the top of the stairs open and stepped inside.

The curtains were drawn, the room dark. James lit the candles on the mantlepiece, loosening his cravat with his free hand. A gust of cooler air on his cheek set the candles guttering. An open window in the next room?

Norrington turned toward the bedroom, and Jack snarled silently. If that arrogant bastard thinks...

Swinging the door shut as he passed it, Norrington set the candle on the desk. He snuffed the flame neatly while his free hand undid the line of buttons down his waistcoat.

In a hurry? Well, Jack had no objections. He swaggered forward, sending his tricorn spinning onto a convenient chair with a flip of the wrist.

The tight-leashed hunger in James' eyes stole Jack's breath. He covered the shock with a smile, head atilt, and let his eyes caress that long, lovely torso. Shrugging out of his coat, Jack let it fall to the floor.

James straightened. His eyes held Jack's as he peeled out of his fancy gold-crusted coat, folded it, and lay it over the back of the chair at his side. He dropped both hands to the sword-belt at his waist, undoing the buckle and lifting it, blade and all, to lay across the chair's arms.

The baldric slipped easily over Jack's head; his cutlass clattered to the floor. James stepped around the desk, and Jack moved to meet him. When they were an arm's length apart, Jack drew his pistol—James tensed, eyes suddenly wary—flipped it to catch by the barrel, and slid it across the gleaming surface of the desk.

The tension in James' shoulders eased, his sigh almost too soft to hear. His hand curved briefly around Jack's wrist, then moved upward, coming to rest over the pulse-point in his throat. James' lips parted, his head tilted forward...

The kiss began slowly, exploration rather than skirmish. As it deepened Jack slid a hand up James' chest, captured a loop of his loosened neckcloth, and pulled.

The cravat slipped free; James set to work on Jack's sash; Jack broke off the kiss to step back half a pace, kicking the tangle of cloth to one side.

James' eyes never left Jack's face as they both shrugged out of their waistcoats.

Jack raised a hand, traced the line of James' jaw upward... and when he closed his eyes, leaning into the caress, Jack grabbed the bloody wig and pulled.

James' eyes flew open. Jack grinned and swung the wig from a finger. "Doesn't suit you, mate." He tossed it over his shoulder, then smothered James' indignant sputter with a kiss.

James resisted for an instant; then his hands tightened on Jack's waist as his teeth captured Jack's lower lip.

The back-lacing of James' breeches was under Jack's fingers. He pulled, twisting his hips as the space between them vanished. James' hands slid downward, cupping Jack's arse; Jack signalled his approval with a nip at James' collarbone.

Suddenly Jack's feet were off the ground. He scarce had time to grip the waist of James' breeches before he felt a hard surface under his bum—and realized he no longer had to look up to meet James' eyes.

James' mouth brushed his fleetingly, then his lips were at Jack's jaw, nuzzling upward. James' hand in his hair, his teeth closing on Jack's earlobe. Lips and tongue worked slowly down Jack's neck while hands eased his shirt free at the waist. One of Jack's hands found the small of James' back; the other rose to cup the close-cropped head as Jack swore fervently.

Bare hands on his back, tracing the line of his spine. Teeth scraping against his collarbone, tongue soothing after. Jack's curses became more disjointed, mixed with half-spoken encouragement and low groans.

The hands withdrew; the mouth stilled. A small protest escaped before Jack could catch it back.

Then James' hands were busy with the lacing of Jack's breeches as he moved downward, lips and tongue trailing fire in their wake. Bracing both arms behind him, Jack let his head loll. The rough wool fell away. Lips on belly, hands on his legs, pushing them wide. Sleek-rough scrape of hair against inner thigh.

Jack's hips bucked at the touch; he started to slide off the desk. James' hands tightened, pushed—and Jack was back on his perch.

Their eyes met again. James was looking far too pleased. The bastard expected this?

Jack's snarl turned to a moan as James' mouth closed around him. He fought the urge to do more than arch his back, cursing under his breath as James worked slowly down his length with teeth and lips and tongue. A pause, a flicker of tongue that left him gasping, then an inquiring hum that sent shudders through Jack's belly. "Get on with it, damn you!" he snarled.

The expression in those green eyes was unbearably smug—but his response convinced Jack to let it pass. Jack was vaguely aware of hands sliding up to his hips, forearms bracing his thighs—then he was thrusting against the pinioning grip, crying out as he spilled into wet, welcoming warmth.

As he leaned against the deep embrasure, James surveyed what he had wrought with considerable satisfaction: Jack, sprawled sated over the desk, eyes half-shut, breathing ragged.

Jack's tongue crept out to wet his lips. The nagging ache in James' groin spiked; his breath hissed through clenched teeth. Patience, he reminded himself. Only a little more patience, and then...

A half dozen deep, slow breaths chased the leaden feeling from Jack's limbs. He tugged his breeches back into place and slid off the desk with a thump, landing hands on hips and head high. James' eyes widened a fraction; Jack heard him gasp.

The pirate stopped; his dangling shirt-tail brushed James' knees. His hand reached past James to the curtained window at his back as he leaned in...

Jack's hand clamped down on his shoulder, slamming him against the angle of wall as his knee forced James' legs apart. James cried out an instant before Jack's tongue found his mouth. James choked, shifted, kissed him back with equal ferocity as his hands gripped Jack's hips. He thrust against the exquisite pressure between his legs once, twice—and then Jack was pulling away, his hands pressing James' wrists to the seat, his smile gone suddenly fierce and feral.

James stared into his dark eyes a moment. Then he let his shoulders slump, his head rest against the cool plaster at his back—and waited.

It was a trick; it must be. James' breathing was ragged, his face flushed, his eyes fever-bright. Yet he sat perfectly still, making no attempt to either escape Jack's hold or draw him closer.

Jack kissed him; James kissed him back. Jack broke off the kiss, backed away again. James opened his eyes; his tongue traced the impression Jack's teeth had made in his lower lip.

A trick. Has to be. He was playing possum, that was it. Waiting to catch Jack off guard. But just how long is the good Commodore prepared to wait?

Jack's leg nudged James' thigh, pushing it back until there was room for his knee on the bench. He half-crouched, letting the knee take his weight, and loosened his grip on James' wrists slightly.

He still didn't move. Jack kissed him again, quick and hard, then bent to his throat. Gasping, James tilted his head away. Jack took immediate advantage, nuzzling the taut column of muscle, tasting sweat on the pale skin. There was a small red blotch on James' collarbone; he suckled at it, pulling the soft skin in to catch between his teeth—and James moaned. Jack smiled and licked the reddened skin. Another moan. He did it again; James arched slightly upward into the caress. Good.

He released James' wrist, half-expecting him to twist away—but the long body remained quiescent. Jack's hand pulled the neck of James' shirt aside, clearing the way as his teeth nipped along the sweep of collarbone. A straight, puckered line ran across the top of James' shoulder. Jack ran his thumb lightly across the scar, and James' breath caught.

Jack bent to the mark, mapping it with his tongue—and was rewarded with a low, guttural moan. He kept up the distraction while his hands loosed the buttons on James' breeches. It took no time at all to work the fine linen shirt loose. As his hands clenched in the fabric James shifted—

—and arched away from the wall, freeing the shirt to slide upward under Jack's hands, revealing a taut, muscular belly, pale as ivory.

As Jack pushed the shirt up the last few inches, his thumb brushed a nipple; James gasped. "Dear—bloody bastard."

Jack buried his face in James' throat, tonguing the hollow where neck met shoulder, rubbing James' nipples pebble-hard beneath his fingers.

The curses faded to moans as Jack dropped to his knees. He tasted the planes of James' belly as his fingers tugged, clumsy with haste, at the placket of his breeches.

The fabric fell away at last. As Jack pulled back, a thick lock of his hair brushed across the opening.

"Bloody whoreson—" James gasped—"devil—" his hands clenched on Jack's shoulders—"buggering bastard." His voice broke on the last word, fingers biting into Jack's shoulders.

James blinked the world back into focus and realized the warmth was Jack. The pirate had one arm draped over a bent knee. His eyes were half-closed, his head pillowed on James' thigh. James' foot was tucked into the crease of his hip.

James had obviously lost his shoes at some point, but he couldn't be bothered to wonder when or how. He was awash in a pleasant lassitude, a feeling not one whit diminished by the sight of Jack sprawled at his feet.

James' other leg was going numb. He drew it up, propping his heel on the edge of the window seat. The movement shifted Jack slightly. He murmured indistinctly as he resettled himself, never opening his eyes. The gesture put James in mind of a particularly contented cat.

The clock on the mantle chimed the half-hour. Jack's eyes flew open; he looked sidelong at the clock, then tilted his head slightly to look up at James.

Stay, James thought. But that was impossible; James knew it was. Their eyes met, held for a moment—a faint line appeared between Jack's brows, and he looked away.

Jack's hand found a grip on the seat and he started to stand. James' foot slipped off Jack's hip, throwing him off balance. He caught himself on Jack's shoulder. Jack lurched at the sudden weight, his knee hit James' other foot, and they were falling—

Instinct twisted James' shoulders, and they tumbled down in a tangle of limbs. James' head struck the floor hard an instant before Jack landed atop him, driving the breath from his body.

Jack scrambled to his elbows. James pulled air into his starving lungs, blinking spots away as Jack hovered over him, eyes wide.

The utter absurdity of it all struck James suddenly, and he laughed. His hands fitted themselves to Jack's waist, and James smiled up at him.

Jack's eyes widened even further—and then he was scrambling to his feet. He crammed his tricorn onto his head and snatched his coat.

Jack slung his cutlass over one shoulder and thrust his pistol into the waist of his breeches. "Time I was going." He didn't look at James as he bundled his waistcoat and the tangle of sash into the coat.

Jack stepped over James' legs without looking at him. "I can find m' own way." He knelt in the windowseat, swung the casement open, and tossed the bundle of clothes through.

When Jack all but threw himself after the bundle, James scrambled to his feet, heart pounding, imagining Jack's body sprawled on the flagstone path below—

—and watched as Jack Sparrow pelted across the garden, clambered over the fence, and disappeared into the night.

He stood, staring over the garden, until the last echo of his flight faded into the night. Only then did he close the window and turn away.

James poured himself a generous measure of brandy. The import of Sparrow's actions was entirely clear. His reasons—he could see no benefit in dwelling on that. "I need," he said into the silence, "to get very, very drunk." He drained the glass and reached for the decanter.

He slowed to a walk, hand pressed to his side. He should've known, should've never trusted that bastard Norrington. The stitch eased and he shrugged into his waistcoat, buttoning it partway so he could stuff the twisted mess of his sash inside. Norrington was just like all the others. The bloody officer thought he could make a pet of Jack, tame him to hand with a few caresses. He pulled on his coat and turned down a path. Well, Jack was onto the man's game; he'd not be caught out as easily as that. And he'd be damned if he'd give the Commodore another chance to try his tricks on Captain Jack Sparrow.

The path ended at the beach; a glance confirmed the tide was on the ebb. Jack pushed the boat out until it floated free and scrambled aboard.

Jack set to the oars, pointing the little boat at the cove's mouth, where she could catch the shore-breeze. He'd been away from the Pearl too long. He needed to get back to her, to feel her deck beneath his feet again. As for Port Royal—he could think of no reason to come back here again. Will and Elizabeth were well settled. The lad had told him Brown'd made him a partner, and the business was prospering. And the former Miss Swann seemed to have found her feet as Mrs. Turner, and took a fierce pride in seeing her man well-fed and properly looked after. Jack'd been a bit surprised at that, truth to tell. The girl had had it easy all her life, until Barbossa sailed the Pearl into the bay, and Jack had known more than one as found themselves unable to bear the loss of their soft life, no matter the compensations.

But then, if she'd valued comfort above following her heart, she'd never have thrown over Norrington for Will.

Jack shipped the oars and loosed the sail. As the canvas spread to the wind, he remembered the way James had smiled at him, there at the end. The man must've never looked at Elizabeth like that. The girl wasn't stupid. A woman'd have to be daft, or blind, to walk away from a fellow who looked at her like that.

Men Must Work

Jack/James Series, Chapt. 3

A Shift In The Wind