Sparrington Arc, Chapter 6.1

Compromises

by

The Stowaway

Once free of the great ship's looming shadow, he breathed easier as the last symbol of his former life dropped astern. He had crossed his Rubicon weeks ago—that afternoon at Somerset Plantation—and had been preparing for this final step ever since, but his actions in the 24 hours just past had, by making it public, cast his decision to resign in a stark light. What had come to seem natural and inevitable once again appeared momentous—almost outrageous. Were the whole truth of his intentions generally known (and only the Turners knew whither he was bound), he had no doubt that some would be in favor of clapping him up for his own protection, for surely he would be thought mad.

His interview with the Governor had been difficult. Swann was genuinely shocked. So distressed indeed was he that he had dropped his careful, diplomat's mask and spoken frankly and movingly against James's resignation. His fatherly concern, evidence of sincere regard, had touched James but could not move him. Their parting was painful.

Groves, on the other hand, had taken the news with aplomb. A slight widening of the eyes, an instant's pause, and he was offering his good wishes in the most unexceptionable fashion; refraining tactfully from questioning James on his plans for the future. They had spent much of the day together, attending to the myriad details of administration that would henceforth be Groves's responsibility. Once or twice, Groves, thinking himself unobserved, had watched James with an expression of thoughtful speculation. James wondered how much Groves knew—or suspected. They had not spoken of it, confining themselves to business. And, in the end, as James took his leave in time to dine with the Turners, they had clasped hands as friends.

Dinner with Will and Elizabeth had been bittersweet. Their honest joy at his news could not offset entirely the grief of a separation that might well outlast life itself. He thought of the sword—safely stowed in the cabin—that Will had made for Jack. It was a princely gift—Will's swordsmithing continued to improve and Jack's blade was superior even to his own, forged nearly six years ago. (How pleased Jack would be, James thought with a smile, and how quick to point out his advantage.) And so he had said goodbye to his dear friends and the last ties had been loosed.

Now, here he was, bridges burnt, on his way to an unknown future. James chuckled. In truth, he wondered if he were mad indeed. To throw over his whole career and his comfortable existence—to deem the world well lost for love—what was that save madness? And yet, no matter how fantastical or romantic or downright absurd this course, he could plot no other. Hope, so long chastened and restrained, had, six weeks ago, broken free of the stern guard he had set upon it and would no longer be denied. The desire, no, the need to be with Jack had grown from that day to this until it colored and informed his every waking moment—and most of his dreams.

The dawn breeze picked up, just as the ebb was losing force, and James raised the mainsail to supplement the jib he'd used in the harbor. The Gull leapt forward.

The sun rose, gilding the distant sand hills of Portland Head and making the waves sparkle. This was just such a day as the one, nearly five years ago now, on which he had first sailed the Gull this way, south and west. That time, too, he'd been on his way to meet Jack, although he hadn't known it until later. It was fitting, he reflected; his first voyage upon her and his last. His last. The thought cost him a pang. His beautiful Gull, how he would miss her; but he could hardly take her with him and so he must resign himself to still one more parting. But not quite yet; they would have a few more days together, for Jack had named as rendezvous the very group of islands in Black River Bay where they had spent time all those years ago. James grinned. Jack was the least sentimental of men, so the choice must have something to do with preparations for the journey. His smile faded as he wondered uneasily if he wanted to know what they were.

He thought about the letter he had received a week ago. It was hardly more than a note, couched in Jack's characteristic, laconic style. He had confirmed the rendezvous time and place in a sentence, told of careening the Black Pearl and some repairs that were in hand in another. Then: "Fancy being purser? Perhaps we'll be needing a supercargo as well. Jack"

James touched the breast of his coat, where the note rested in the same pocket as the pearl pin, and smiled. Never let it be said that Jack was over-generous with information. So chary was he, indeed, that often James was left guessing and grasping at clues to piece together his meaning. It was intentional, of course. Jack loved the role of puppet-master; pulling strings and watching everyone dance to his tune. And the less his puppets knew the more freedom he had to improvise, to embellish. It was astonishing, given the hare-brained recklessness of some of his schemes, how he always managed to escape with life and limb (more or less) intact. James believed that some of the complications Jack wove into his plots were put there for no other reason than to feed his appetite for trickery.

So, he thought, returning to the subject of the note; purser. That's plain enough, at least. He supposed that Jack—a most unconventional pirate, known to actually purchase supplies on occasion, as opposed to simply stealing them—would have need of someone honest to keep the ledger. The irony of being offered a desk job did not escape him—although he doubted his duties would take much of his time. He would still be a sailor far more than a clerk. And he would be an officer, albeit a very junior one. James grinned; yesterday, Commodore; next week, Purser of the Black Pearl. Some would consider it quite a come-down in the world; he found it both amusing and unsettling. Also, he was touched by this evidence that Jack had given thought to his place amongst the crew. Amongst the pirate crew of the most feared ship in the Caribbean.

He, James Norrington, former Commodore, Captain (retired) of the British Navy, second cousin (once removed) to the First Lord of the Admiralty, grandson (on the distaff side) of the tenth Earl of Wenham, was on his way to join a crew of pirates. Put that way, it sounded quite mad.

Were it not for the fact that Jack had, for several years, confined himself almost exclusively to preying on the Spanish... but no; that was mere quibbling. James could not evade his dilemma so easily as that, for Jack had taken undisguised delight in working considerable mischief upon the Navy, as well. His repeated taunting of Captain Gillette had become the stuff of popular legend. And poor Gillette could never resist rising to the bait, for all that he was no match for Jack. Well, the Pearl was bound for the Orient in a matter of days, depriving Gillette and his devoted coterie of junior officers of the source of their obsession. It was to be hoped—James's expression turned sardonic—that they would bear the disappointment tolerably well. But this was beside the point.

Turning his attention outward for a time, he altered course, bearing two points south of west, in order to leave Portland Head far to starboard. He had no desire to risk a chance encounter with another boat—acquaintances out pleasure-sailing, or fishermen, or traders—he was done with good-byes.

James thought again of the note in his pocket. "Perhaps we'll be needing a supercargo as well." What had Jack meant by that? Supercargoes were employed on most merchant vessels these days, to be sure, but what purpose could such an officer serve on a pirate ship? From what he knew of buccaneers and their ways, he very much doubted that such men would trust another with control of their loot. His understanding of the Code gave him to believe that all transactions involving plunder were, by custom, carried on in full view of, and with participation from, all crew members, most of whom were illiterate and, therefore, disinclined to trust written records. James snorted. Among such thieves and rogues, a supercargo would be regarded with deep suspicion. So why would Jack consider... unless he was thinking of turning to trade himself. Could that be true?

Trade. It was an occupation with many opportunities for the kind of sharp dealing and cozenage that was so dear to Jack's heart; for all that it was—more or less—on this side of the law. Perhaps Jack, in leaving the Caribbean, thought to leave outright piracy as well. James felt a little spirt of hope that reason could not quite suppress. He was not so lost to good sense as to believe that Jack would do such a thing for him, but, if it served his purposes, neither would he decline such a venture for fear of appearing complaisant.

The Gull heeled sharply as the breeze freshened and James left reflection and gave himself to sailing with a feeling of relief. In a few days time he would know more, but for now there was the exhilaration of flying before the wind, master of his little craft, master—for the first time in how long?—of his fate. His brow cleared and he laughed. Sufficient unto the day...

Three days later, he sailed into Black River Bay.

"Sail ho!"

Jack was engaged in chaffing Gibbs—who disapproved of Jack's continued use of black canvas. He broke off and sprang to the port shrouds, shading his eyes as he gazed northeast. He grinned. "Ah, that will be the new purser. Prompt as ever."

Climbing up beside him, Gibbs stared and stared again in disbelief at the elegant sloop bearing down on them. "Cap'n, isn't that...?"

"It is." Jack kept his eyes on the Gull, but his grin broadened at the consternation in the other's voice. "Come now, Mister Gibbs," he chuckled, his tone more than a bit smug, "surely you heard me say we were to take on a new man before we sailed."

"Aye," Gibbs growled, "but I never dreamed that this was who ye meant." Jack shot him a sidelong glance so full of mischief that Gibbs almost laughed. Shaking his head to cover his lapse, he muttered a curse. "Are ye mad? What's in your head, Jack?"

But Sparrow just chuckled again and jumped down. "If you can't guess, Josh, you're not the clever fellow I've always thought you."

Gibbs regained the deck and, looking forward, caught Anamaria's eye. With a jerk of his head, he indicated that she should join him as he followed Jack aft. "Oh, I can guess, right enough, ye daft fool," he grumbled, loud enough for Jack to hear, but not so loud that he was obliged to take notice, "but I'm damned if I see how you'll pull it off."

Cupping his hands, he shouted, "Ahoy, the Black Pearl!"

Jack called back, "Ahoy, the Gull!" James saw a ripple of agitation pass along the row of heads at the rail. Some, it seemed, were familiar with the name. As he passed into the lee of the great black ship, he dropped the jib and tossed a line. It was caught and made fast. He moved aft and tossed a second, this one caught by Gibbs himself, and the Gull was board on board with the Pearl.

James looked up as Jack came to the rail. For a moment they stared, not quite smiling. Then Jack winked and the corner of his mouth lifted before he pulled his face straight.

Taking the hint, James made his tone formal as he requested, "Permission to come aboard, Captain Sparrow?"

"Granted, Mister Norrington."

"Norrington!" The mutter ran round the ship. "It's bloody Norrington!"

James went lightly up the side and stood before Jack, who held out his hand. James took it with a slight smile.

"About damn time you got here," Jack said, grinning.

James raised an eyebrow. "I am punctual to the day appointed, I believe." His tone was serious but his eyes danced. His hand tightened on Jack's unconsciously and their eyes locked. They were recalled to a sense of their surroundings by Gibbs clearing his throat.

"Ah yes, let me introduce you to my other officers," Jack said, taking his elbow and turning to the two who stood at his shoulder. "Anamaria, Gibbs—allow me to present our new Purser, Mister Norrington. James, this is Anamaria, First Mate, and Mister Gibbs, Quartermaster."

"Purser!" the crew pressed around them, whispering and shoving, "Him, Purser on the Pearl?"

James removed his hat and bowed. Anamaria, her expression a blend of astonishment and outrage, glared with starting eyes from Jack to James and back again. She appeared incapable of speaking. Gibbs moved to fill the breach, holding out his hand.

"Good to see you again, sir," he said heartily, if with somewhat less than perfect truth.

James took the proffered hand with a grateful look. "It's been a long time, Mister Gibbs."

"It has indeed, sir. Nigh on fifteen year, I make it."

Gibbs stepped back and James turned again to Anamaria. He took her unresisting hand and raised it to his lips. "It is an honour to make your acquaintance, ma'am," he murmured, smiling into her eyes. Those dark eyes narrowed as she snatched her hand back with gasp. Casting a venomous look at Jack, she turned and stalked away, shoving gaping men out of her path and shouting orders that sent the crew scurrying about their neglected tasks. Gibbs shook his head.

Jack rubbed his hands together briskly, seemingly oblivious to this byplay. "Well now," he said, "let's get you settled. Your gear... ?"

"All packed," James replied. He turned slightly to keep Anamaria in the corner of his eye; watching without seeming to do so, as the crew jumped to obey her. And all the while they continued to eye him with uncertainty. There might be trouble, he thought, especially with the First Mate so clearly inimical to his presence. He glanced at Jack, who was looking at him with a somewhat smug grin. He didn't seem worried by the temper of the crew. James told himself to stay calm and follow Jack's lead; to give things time to sort themselves out.

Jack clapped Gibbs on the shoulder. "See about transferring Mister Norrington's chest to the empty cabin, Mister Gibbs. And take the Gull in tow. I want to be under way within the hour. You take the helm," he said. He lowered his voice. "I'll be in my cabin, ah, going over the accounts with Mister Norrington." This was accompanied by a wink that nearly upset the older man's gravity.

"Aye, Cap'n." Gibbs summoned a pair of sailors and sent them aboard the Gull. While Jack went forward to speak to Anamaria, James stopped Gibbs on his way over the rail. "A favour, Mister Gibbs," he said in a low voice.

"Mister Norrington?"

"There are several cases of wine and brandy aboard the Gull," James went on. "Have them stowed in the Captain's cabin, if you would be so obliging. And there is a long rosewood box as well. Please take charge of that yourself and bring it directly to me."

Gibbs nodded. "Trust me for that," he grinned. Noting the direction of James's gaze, his smile faded. For a moment they both watched Anamaria lean forward, her face inches from Jack's, as she snarled an answer to some question. "Aye, there's the heart of the problem," he said. James turned enquiring eyes to his. Tapping James's sleeve for emphasis with one blunt finger, Gibbs went on, "Just you watch your back, young fella. I don't know what possessed you two to go playin' this mad game, but it ain't going to be smooth sailing—leastways not at first. And not ever, unless you get Anamaria on your side. Mark my words." And, without waiting for an answer, he climbed down to the Gull and ducked into her cabin.

James turned to see Jack strolling aft, grinning as if he had not a care in the world. He took James's arm and steered him toward the great cabin. "Why so solemn, James? Gibbs prophesying disaster?"

Confused, James looked over his shoulder to where Anamaria stood in the bow, scowling at them. "But how did you see..." he began.

"Eyes in the back of me head," Jack laughed, "not that I'd need them to tell you that. Gibbs's passion for doom-saying has been my companion these many years. He's an old woman. Ignore his croaking; I always do."

James snorted. "That I can well believe," he said, as they entered the spacious, cluttered cabin that was Jack's domain.

"Finally," Jack muttered as he turned and slammed James up against the door. "Been wanting to do this since you came over the side." He fisted his hands in the breast of the other's coat and crushed their mouths together.

James groaned, open mouthed, into the kiss and yanked Jack's hips tight against his own. As they each drew a shaky breath, he murmured, "Well, well, Captain, is this how you greet new officers?"

Jack laughed softly and leaned in again. "Some of them..."

A heavy thump on the door at James's back startled them apart. "The wine!" he exclaimed, tugging his coat straight.

Jack looked blank. "The wine?"

"Yes," James said, as the door opened to admit a small procession of buccaneers carrying crates. "The last of my cellar—I saw no reason to leave it behind for my successor. Where do you want it?"

Bemused, Jack pointed, and the men stowed the crates neatly. They stumped out, and Gibbs entered, carrying the sword-case. James received it with a word of thanks.

Once the door shut behind Gibbs, James laid the box on a clear space on the desk. He undid the catches as Jack came to stand beside him. James looked up and smiled.

"The Turners send you their love, and" he said, gesturing to the box, "this."

Jack ran his fingers lightly over the satiny wood. "Do they now," he whispered. His eyes gleamed as he lifted the lid. "Ahhh... " It was a sigh of pure pleasure, for before him, on a bed of black velvet, rested Will Turner's masterpiece.

The graceful curve of the quillons was mirrored in the sweep of the double-barred guard. Swirling grooves in the rosewood grip, inlaid with gold wire, led the eye to the etched and fluted pommel, set with a small ruby. The hilt was a work of art. Jack's hand closed about the grip with the reverent familiarity of a lover and he drew the blade from the chased scabbard. He held it up, glinting, in the dancing light from the stern windows; felt the perfect balance as the sword moved in his hand like a living thing. Jack turned it this way and that, tested the edge with a careful thumb, and sighed again.

"Perfection," he breathed.

Taking up the scabbard, he sheathed the sword, hung it from his baldric, and settled it at his side. He rested his left hand on the pommel; caressing it the way James had seen him caress the wheel of the Pearl. Then Jack smirked and his eyes slid to the sword at James's hip.

"Mine's prettier," he drawled.

James burst out laughing. "Vain as any peacock," he gasped. "Will knew what he was about, I see."

Something very like a pout clouded Jack's visage. "Unsay that," he demanded.

"Very well, then," James grinned, leaning against the desk and folding his arms. "Mountebank."

Jack scowled. "Try again." He half-drew—a few inches of steel glittering as he stepped forward a pace.

"Bully?" James offered, still grinning. He flung his arms wide. "I am not afraid of you."

Jack's lips twitched. He released the hilt and took another step. The fingers of one hand curled around James's nape, drawing his head down until their lips touched. "Perhaps you should be," he growled.

"Tyrant."

"Captain."

"Captain, then," James chuckled, when he could speak again. "I didn't know you were such a stickler."

"There's a good deal you don't know about me," Jack said, tilting his head to allow James's tongue to trace a path along his jaw.

"And a great deal that I do," James whispered, as he found the sensitive spot behind Jack's ear and pressed with teeth and lips until he felt the pirate's knees buckle.

"I've never... oh God... denied it," Jack groaned. "However..." He seized James's head and brought their mouths together again, devouring him with a concentrated hunger that held nothing of subtlety—all heat and need and battling tongues. "We must to business," he said, breaking the kiss with a suddenness that sent James staggering. "Dalliance can wait, the tide won't." He circled the desk, sat, and leaned back with a roguish grin. James stood blinking, bewildered by the abrupt shift. Jack's smile took on a mocking cast. "Come, come, man. Sit yourself down and let us begin. I've a ship to run—haven't got all day."

James shook his head to clear it and took the indicated chair, frowning slightly, thwarted desire jangling his senses. He glanced up and caught an impish gleam in the dark eyes and was surprised into a laugh, as he realized he was already mired in one of Jack's maddening games. "Very well, you scoundrel," he said, with reluctant amusement, "What is it that's so dreadful you must throw me off-balance before you tell me?"

"It's not so very bad," Jack replied. "A formality, merely. If you're to be an officer on the Pearl, you must sign this." He pulled a parchment from beneath a stack of papers, dislodging Queen Mab, a large tortoiseshell cat, who had been sleeping atop it. She jumped down and stalked to the stern windows, where she sat in a patch of sunlight and began to wash. Jack slid the document across the desk.

Turning it, James read at the top of the page: Ship's Articles / The Black Pearl. At the bottom, he saw a welter of scrawled signatures and the marks made by those who could not write. Some few were crossed out, bearing succinct notations—'kilt in battel' or 'dyed of fevre'—next to them. Two read 'maroon'd'. One had been 'shot for stealing'.

He looked up to find Jack watching him, alert as a cat at a mouse-hole, eyes bright. "Well?" he asked.

"Let me at least read it first," James said, with a slight smile. "I am not such a fool as to sign my name without that."

Jack waved airily. "Read on." He put his feet up on the desk.

James picked up the document and sat back to peruse it. Not long, it consisted of ten brief clauses:

#1. Every Man shall obey civil Command; the Captain shall have two full Shares in all Prizes; the Quarter-Master, First Mate and Gunner shall have one Share and a half, and other Officers one Share and a Quarter.

#2. The Lights and Candles to be put out at eight o'Clock at Night: If any of the Crew, after that Hour, still remained inclin'd for Drinking, they were to do it on the open Deck.

#3. If any Man shall defraud the Company, in Plate, Jewels, Money, or game, to the Value of a Piece of Eight, he shall be Marroon'd or Shot.

#4. Every Man has equal title to the fresh Provisions, or strong Liquors, at any Time seized, and use of them at Pleasure, unless a Scarcity make it necessary, for the good of all, to Vote a Retrenchment.

#5. No Man shall strike another while these Articles are in force. Every Man's Quarrels to be ended on Shore, at Sword and Pistol.

#6. That Man that shall snap his Arms, or smoak Tobacco in the Hold, without a cap to his Pipe, or carry a Candle lighted without a Lanthorn, shall receive Moses's Law (that is 40 Stripes lacking one) on the bare Back.

#7. That Man that shall not keep his Arms clean, fit for an Engagement, or neglect his Business, shall be cut off from his Share, and suffer such other Punishment as the Captain and the Company shall think fit.

#8. If any Man shall lose a Joint in time of an Engagement, shall have 400 Pieces of Eight; if a limb, 800.

#9. If at any time you meet with a prudent Woman, that Man that offers to meddle with her, without her Consent, shall suffer present Death.

#10. If any man Desert the Ship, or his Quarters in Battle, he shall be Marroon'd or Shot.

He read them through quickly and then again more slowly. It was his first glimpse of the articles of an actual pirate ship—as opposed to the nonsense to be found in the fantastical and lurid tales of which Elizabeth had been so fond as a girl.

He was struck by their straightforward and pragmatic simplicity in contrast to the voluminous statutes by which the Navy sought to regulate each smallest aspect of life aboard ship. Of course, he thought, the pirate ideal of discipline (he looked again at the references to drinking and smoking) was not quite up to Naval standards. But they ordered their society with a concern for the general welfare of its members (if not for society as a whole) that he found reassuring. It seemed there was indeed honour among thieves.

But they were thieves. The mention of 'prizes' made him shift uneasily; so like to the Navy's allusion to captures made in legitimate battle—for buccaneers were outlaws who considered themselves at war with all the world. Pirates contra mundum, in very truth.

James cast a thoughtful glance at Jack. The pirate was trimming his nails with the pen-knife, but James was not fooled. Jack was watching him closely, despite his show of careless ease.

"Tell me," James asked, "did this allotment of prizes," he tapped the parchment, "apply to the hoard in the cave on the Isla de Muerta?"

Jack nodded. "It did."

"Then your crew are rich men, compared to the generality of pirates."

"Those that were with me then, aye; most of them. One or two have gamed and whored away all their share. And we've a number of men joined since then, as well, who got no part of that treasure. Why do you ask?"

"It's a dangerous life," James shrugged.

"And you are wondering why they keep at it, eh?"

"The thought can't help but occur."

Jack's chuckle held no mirth. "A mite disingenuous of you, James. Fugitives, with the hand of every man raised against them, most especially those of your (former) friends—what other course is open?"

"That is true here, naturally, where they are known."

"Exactly!" Jack grinned. "Yet another reason to head out in search of 'fresh woods and pastures new', wouldn't you say?"

"To start over..."

"...with a clean slate. Aye."

James searched Jack's face, hardly daring to hope. "And a supercargo?"

Jack dropped his feet to the decking and sat up, still grinning. "All part of the plan, James." He stood and came round the desk, behind James's chair. Placing his hands lightly on James's shoulders, he leant down. "Well, love?" he whispered.

The warm breath against James's ear made him shudder, scattering his thoughts. He had known it would come to this when he set out and still he hesitated. He was about to become a pirate, if only by association. And yet, Jack had said a 'clean slate' was one reason for sailing to the East... Foolish to hang back, when he had come so far already.

Abruptly, he reached for the pen and dipped it. Placing the parchment on the desk, he found an open space at the foot of it and signed his name, small and clear. Throwing the pen down, he tipped his head back to look at Jack. "Done," he smiled.

Jack threaded his fingers into James's hair and smiled slowly. "Done indeed," he said. "And now," his grip tightened as he lowered his mouth to James's, "you are mine."

Gibbs had just climbed back aboard the Pearl, carrying the sword-box, when Anamaria grabbed his arm. "What does that daft idiot think he's doing?" she hissed.

"Meet me on the quarterdeck," he replied, indicating the box and slipping free to follow the last of the crates into the great cabin. In moments, he was back on deck and climbing to where they could talk in relative privacy. Anamaria was already pacing furiously, gripping the hilt of her sword and cursing under her breath in French. She glared at him.

"Well?"

Gibbs shrugged. "Looks like Norrington's coming with us."

"What?" her voice rose. "Never."

"You heard Jack, same as me. He said Norrington was the new purser. Must be meanin' join up."

Anamaria shook her head. "It's some kind of trick. The man is Navy, for the love of God."

"Not any more," Gibbs replied. "His kind don't run; so my guess is he's resigned his commission."

"But why?" She stopped pacing and looked at Gibbs. "You know something," she snarled, shaking her finger under his nose. "Out with it."

Gibbs rubbed the back of his neck. Damned, difficult woman. Well, if she hadn't guessed yet, she'd know soon enough anyway. "Think, Ana. Didn't you see the way they looked at each other just now? Why do you think he's here, with Jack fixing to head out for the other side of the world?"

Anamaria's eyes opened wide. "No," she breathed. "I don't believe it."

"It's true, right enough. You mean you never suspected? With Jack's visits to Port Royal and all?"

"But... I thought it was just to see Bootstrap's whelp and that high-born bitch he married." Her eyes narrowed. "How long have you known about this?"

"Oh, a good few years now. Not that they ain't been discreet—which must be Norrington's doing, since there's not a discreet bone in the Captain's body—but I got eyes. I knew there was someone before I figured out who it was."

"All this means nothing. Jack cannot do this," she replied. "The men will never stand for it."

Gibbs gave her a long look. "They might," he said slowly, "if they see you approve."

"No!" she exclaimed.

"Norrington will come with us, in the end. Why make this harder than it needs to be?"

"I will NOT help that mad bastard do this crazy thing!"

"Anamaria. Be reasonable. You've known Jack near as long as me." Gibbs said, "He'll have his way. We neither of us can stop him. Admit it, lass; even you have trouble saying him nay."

She slanted him a dangerous look. "How many times, you old fool," she muttered, "must I tell you not to call me that?"

He chuckled. "At least once more, darlin'. You don't scare me."

In an instant, Anamaria's forearm was clamped tight across his windpipe, the point of her dagger pricking below his ear. "I don't, eh?" she whispered, "Then you are stupider than I thought."

Gibbs swallowed and eased his hands up, gingerly pushing her knife away with one and tugging on the arm blocking his throat with the other. "Well, no more than's sensible let's say."

"Gah!" She flung away from him. "Idiots! You, Jack... everyone." And with that she was gone, storming forward and up into the shrouds like a fury.

Gibbs touched the scratch on his neck and watched her climb to the main top. Damned, difficult woman. He shook his head. Women on board were bad luck—hadn't he always said so? He could only hope that, when it came down to it, her loyalty to Jack would lead her to stand by him, no matter how much she disapproved.

Meanwhile, it was past time to get under way. Work on the new sails was done at last; now to try them out. He gave the order to weigh anchor and sent the topmen aloft. As the Pearl moved out of the channel, he set a course southeast.

They had been at sea an hour or more when his musings were interrupted by Duncan hailing him from the main deck. "Mister Gibbs, might we have a word with ye?"

Gibbs looked down at the faces of the men surrounding the Pearl's gunner and his heart sank. He cursed softly; here was trouble. "Why, of course, lads." He gave the wheel to Williams and descended to the main deck with a grin and what he hoped was a careless air. "And what word would that be?"

"That pirate-hunter. Norrington." Duncan looked grim. "Tearlach here," he indicated a hulking lout in the group, "tells me he heard the Captain call him the new purser. That true?"

"That's what the Captain said."

There was an angry stir among the little group, but Duncan held up a hand. "What he said, aye," he replied, "but what did he mean? Is this one of his tricks?"

"If it's a trick, he ain't told me," Gibbs shrugged. "All he said was a new man would meet us at yonder island and join up for the voyage."

"But the bastard is Navy," Duncan growled. There was another mutter from the men and Tearlach spat on the deck.

Gibbs thought he'd soon be weary of that word. "Former Navy," he said. "And Norrington'd not be the first to leave the Navy and take up with the other side, as you and me can bear witness, eh Duncan?"

"It ain't the same. We was pressed. No shame in escaping when we saw the chance. He's an officer."

"He's the bloody Commodore of the bloody Fleet," Tearlach burst out, furiously smashing his huge fist into his palm. "The one as hangs the pirates he takes and chains 'em up to rot."

"Aye, but never a man from the Pearl," Gibbs was quick to point out, "Not since he executed the mutinous scum as sailed with Barbossa—and they deserved killin'." He scanned the faces of the men clustered around Duncan and Tearlach, saw grudging acknowledgment on some of them. Good, he thought, pressing his advantage. "And why do you think that is, eh lads? Ever wonder? Could it be that the Captain's been using his influence with Norrington to keep the Navy off our backs?"

"But," muttered Duncan, "he's the Commodore."

"He was the Commodore," Gibbs said, "But if the Captain's brought him over to our side at last..."

"Or mebbe the Captain's gone over to their side," Tearlach sneered. "Mebbe he's in there right now, selling us out."

Several men growled at this, clenching their fists and nodding. "Aye." "What if it's a trap?" "He'll sell us out." "Leave us to hang."

Best get this lot won over before Jack gets wind of it, Gibbs thought, else there'll be Hell to pay. He shook his head and chuckled, grinning as if it were the best joke in the world, although his blood ran chill at the turn things were taking. "A touch of the sun, it must be. You sound heat-mad, the lot of ye. You can trust Jack Sparrow, gentlemen. When has he ever led you wrong?"

"You would say that, Gibbs. We all know you're his lapdog." Gibbs was not a small man, but Tearlach dwarfed him. He took a step forward and looked down at Gibbs. "Ain't never led us wrong, eh? Well, he sure ain't gonna start now," Tearlach cried. "I say we take the pirate-hunter hostage. That way, if this be a trap we're running into, we threaten to make him dance the hempen jig if the Navy fires a shot."

There was a shout of agreement from some of the crew. Others looked troubled, but held their tongues. Tearlach surveyed them all with a nasty grin. He felt they were with him and it made him reckless.

"And if it ain't a trap," he bawled, miming gruesomely, "nothin' to stop us hangin' him anyhow, right boys?" Crude laughter greeted this sally.

"Now see here, Tearlach, you're talking mutiny." Duncan grabbed the big man's arm but was shaken off.

"Ah, shut yer gob, you old woman," Tearlach's laugh was ugly. "You Navy tykes are all the same; no stomach for a bold venture. Go stand with your friend Gibbs there, if you don't fancy our way of doin' things."

"You'd sing a different tune if the Captain could hear you," Duncan said.

"Think so? Care to put it to the test?" Tearlach turned again to Gibbs and smirked. He made a clumsy, mocking bow. "Mister Gibbs, would you be so obliging as to ask your precious Captain Sparrow to join us on deck for spot of conversation?" His supporters guffawed.

Gibbs shook his head. "Don't do this, you fool."

"Get him out here. We'll see who's the fool."

"Could I have a word, Cap'n?"

Jack unfolded himself from the chaos on the floor. He grinned at James. "I'll be back in a moment, don't go anywhere."

James grimaced at the mess around them. "Take your time, I've plenty to do." Jack just laughed and joined Gibbs in the passage.

"What is it, Josh?"

"Trouble. Tearlach and some of his cronies want to talk to you. They don't like him," a jerk of the head, "bein' aboard."

"And what business is it of theirs?" Jack frowned. "How bad is it?"

"It's bad."

"Well, come on, then. Let's get it sorted."

"Tearlach," Jack nodded, voice level. "You wished to speak with me?"

"Aye," Tearlach replied, rocking back on his heels and hooking his thumbs in his belt. "We all do."

"Well, then," Jack said, "here I am." He turned to his right, found his way blocked by three of the crew. His eyebrows crept up. "If you please," he drawled. Under that cold gaze they drew back, abashed, and let him pass. He ran lightly up the steps and stood at the rail of the quarterdeck, hand resting on the pommel of his sword and looked down. He pitched his voice to carry. "What have you to say?"

Tearlach scowled, clearly displeased at being forced to look up. "Only this: what's your business with yon pirate-hunter?"

"Mister Norrington," Jack replied pointedly, "is a pirate-hunter no longer. He has resigned his commission."

"But what's he doing here?"

"He has accepted the office of purser. He sails with the Pearl now."

There was a confused roar as everyone spoke at once. Some shouted protests, others questions. The main deck was in chaos; groups collecting around the loudest speakers—breaking and reforming; with the knot of Tearlach and his followers at the very front. The noise rose. Shouts of "Liar!" "Traitor!" and "Take the pirate-hunter!" were heard.

This was mutiny. Jack felt a rage like madness growing. Not again, he thought, not ever again. It was coupled with an almost paralyzing fear. He prayed to all the gods there were that James would have the sense to stay out of sight. Leaning over the rail, he caught sight of Gibbs, with his back to the door to the cabins. Good man. He looked around for Anamaria, not finding her until, at last, he noticed the glances being cast aloft. She was staring down at him from the main top, expressionless. At his urgent gesture, she turned her face away and stayed put. No help there.

Jack turned to Williams, stolidly holding his post at the wheel. "Your pistol, man," he said, snatching it from his belt as he spoke. He fired into the air, drawing all eyes.

"Now," he said into the ensuing silence, "just what in the name of all the fucking hells do you think you are doing? Tearlach?"

"We want Norrington as hostage. If you run us into a trap, we can use him to save our skins."

Jack drew a breath, fighting to hide his shock. "And who," he asked, "will save your skins from me?"

Tearlach ignored him. "Norrington," he bawled, "Norrington! Show yourself, you coward."

"I am here."

James had heard the start of the uproar from his cabin, but, correctly interpreting the warning look he had received from Gibbs, had decided to remain where he was. Jack would not thank him for intruding on what must be a delicate business; that of persuading a crew of pirates to accept him. The shot, however, had brought him into the passage. And from there he heard Tearlach's summons. He felt for his sword, but both coat and sword had been shed earlier in the great cabin. There was no time to retrieve them. He put his hand to the door and stepped out on deck, coming to a halt a half-pace in front of Gibbs.

"I am here," he said.

"There he is, boys. It's the bloody Navy," Tearlach sneered.

James looked the ruffian up and down before sweeping his gaze across the faces of the mob gathered behind him. Mutinous dogs, he thought. There is something to be said for Naval discipline, at that. He did not see Jack; dared not turn to look up at the quarterdeck. He folded his hands behind his back and looked down his nose at Tearlach. "Your information is out of date," he said calmly. "I have but recently resigned my commission."

Daunted for a moment, despite himself, by the suddenly imposing officer before him, Tearlach made a quick recover. "I don't believe you," he blustered. Turning to the crew, he asked, "Why would he do that? It's a trap, I tell ye! Fixed up with Sparrow."

"Tearlach." The concentrated fury in Jack's tone drew all eyes to the quarterdeck. He gripped the rail and leant forward, "I tell you this once. There is no trap, save in your lunatic fancy."

"You would say that," Tearlach, harsh laughter braying. "So full of deceit as you are. You'd not know truth if it bit you. Well, I'm done with you and your trickery, see?"

There was a stirring among the men at that, as if Tearlach had gone too far. Ignoring them, he rounded once more on James. "I say you're here to spy on us. What do you say to that?"

"That you're a fool," James replied coolly. There was a collective gasp. His lips curled in a tiny, humorless smile. "I came here openly, under my own name. Would I have done so, had I intended treachery?"

"That's truth," said a voice from the back of the crowd. There was more uneasy shifting and doubt appeared on many faces.

"Shut up," Tearlach flung over his shoulder, never taking his eyes from James, who stood, to all appearances calmly, eyebrows somewhat raised. "So I am a fool, eh? Well, whatever your reasons may be, you are here. You're the fool. What's to stop us from cutting you down where you stand, you filthy, murdering Commodore?"

James shrugged. "It is my understanding that the ship's articles—which I signed barely more than an hour ago—prohibit the striking of a fellow crew member."

"You are no member of this crew, you lying bastard!" cried Tearlach, furiously.

Gibbs spoke up. "If he says he signed the articles, then he did." Every eye turned to him as he moved a pace forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with James. "Mister Norrington here don't lie, even when the truth is like to cost him dear. Fifteen year gone, I served with him and I've reason to know. He's our crewmate now, Tearlach."

The crew began to mutter. "Gibbs is right." "He signed on." "If Mister Gibbs speaks for 'im..." A gap opened in the crowd, leaving Tearlach and some half-dozen followers isolated as the others drew back.

"No!" Tearlach shouted, a note of desperation creeping into his voice. "Don't listen to him! We got us a safe-conduct out of the Caribbee, men! Are you blind? We take him and no man can touch us. Who's with me?"

No one moved. Trapped on the quarterdeck, Jack felt himself going mad. Mutiny. And that scum threatening James... His hand crept to his pistol.

"Crimp? Kursar? Come on!" Tearlach shouted hoarsely, "Johnson, you got no reason to love the Navy. Nor you neither, Duncan. What's stopping you?" He looked from face to face; those that met his eye stared back stonily. He had lost them. "Cowards! Cowards! The lot of ye!" he raged. "No matter what you do, I ain't sailing with him." With a speed surprising in so big a man, he whipped out his knife and threw it at James.

James felt a searing pain in his cheek as the knife flew past. The point buried itself in the bulkhead behind him with a solid chunk, followed instantly by the report of Jack's pistol. Tearlach crashed to the deck, shot clean through the heart.

No one moved. Jack lowered the still-smoking weapon. "Anyone else?" he asked, staring down at Tearlach's gang as they huddled together, mouths agape. To the rest of the crew, he said, "Lock that scum in the brig. I shall deal with them presently." As the mutineers were seized and hustled below decks, Jack came down and stood over the body of Tearlach. "No," he said softly, "you ain't sailing with him." He half-turned. "Mister Gibbs."

"Cap'n?"

"Heave this muck overboard."

Only then did Jack permit himself to look at James, who stood still in front of the cabin doors, blood welling through his fingers where they were pressed to his cheek. Jack was at his side in two strides. He took James's other arm and turned him toward the cabin. "Let's get you patched up."

"Jack, it's nothing; just a scratch."

"Shut up. A scratch doesn't bleed like that."

As they passed Tearlach's knife, buried an inch deep in the bulkhead, Jack snatched it free and threw it violently over the side.

Duncan, stepping forward to help with the body, watched them leave and turned to Gibbs, eyebrows raised in silent question. Gibbs laid his finger beside his nose and winked.

"Ah." Duncan looked again at the cabin doors. Slowly, he smiled. "That explains a good deal, don't it, Mister Gibbs?"

"It does at that, Mister Duncan," Gibbs replied. "Now, help me to clean up this mess, if you would."

"Don't argue," Jack snarled. "Do as I say."

James glanced up to meet Jack's furious gaze and wisely held his tongue. Instead he nodded slightly and raised the bottle to his lips; took a long swallow.

"Another."

"Jack..."

"That is an order, Mister Norrington."

James complied. He gasped a little as the rum burnt his throat, distracting him from the pain of the slice over his cheekbone. He closed his eyes. "I shall be drunk," he said, as heat began to spread from his belly outward. Insensibly, he relaxed; listened to Jack move about the cabin.

"Now," Jack said, returning to crouch beside his chair, "Let me see that cut."

James opened his eyes as Jack's fingers—surprisingly gentle, considering the rage still lingering in his expression—closed about his wrist. James's hand came away stickily and he felt a trickle of fresh blood on his cheek.

Jack dabbed carefully at the cut with a wet rag. James hissed and Jack's other hand came up to twist in his hair, holding him still. After a time Jack released him and sat back on his heels. "Not deep," he said, "Another inch and it'd've been your eye. But as it is, you'll have an interesting scar; no worse." He held out his hand. "The rum, if you please."

James gave it to him and he took a long pull. Standing, he bent over James and grinned. "One last thing," Jack said. Tugging on James's hair to tilt his head to the side; he tipped the bottle and poured a splash of rum directly into the cut. James yelped as the fiery pain spread over his cheek and he batted Jack's arm away.

"What the devil did you do that for?" he gasped.

Jack shrugged. "Gibbs swears it makes wounds heal cleaner. He may be right. Couldn't hurt, at any rate."

"I beg to differ," James replied, indignant.

Jack ignored him. He ducked out of the cabin, returning in moments with one of James's shirts. "Get cleaned up," he said, tossing it into James's lap and pointing toward the water pitcher in its stand. "You're a sight."

James stripped off his bloodied shirt and dampened the tails to use as a wash rag. He scrubbed cautiously at the stains on his face and more vigorously at his neck and shoulder. He could hear Jack pacing behind him, restless as a caged lion. He pulled the fresh shirt over his head and turned to watch as Jack strode up and down, brows drawn down in a thunderous scowl, staring at nothing. "Jack," he said, but got no response. He tried again, louder.

"What?" Jack stopped and focused on him with a palpable effort.

James looked down to button his cuffs, kept his voice neutral. "What are you going to do with them?" he asked.

"Hang them." Jack replied flatly.

"They mutinied," James agreed.

"Then why do I hear 'but' in your voice?" Jack's eyes narrowed. "Surely you—of all people—are not going to argue for mercy?" He was incredulous.

"Not mercy, precisely," James said, busying himself with tucking in his shirttails. "Something more in the nature of poetic justice." He went to the map table. "Where are we bound?"

"The archipelago. Pig Island," Jack's hand reached past him to point to a speck in the Leewards. "To take on fresh meat. Why?"

"Just curious. Are any of them navigators?"

Jack snorted. "That lot? The dregs, barely useful save in a fight. Can't hardly call them sailors at all."

"Ah. So, if they found themselves alone in a boat, all they could do is run before the wind?"

Jack nodded. "What are you thinking?"

"We are here," James tapped the chart. "In waters heavily patrolled by the Navy. Jamaica is upwind. And all that lies downwind is..."

"The Main." Jack finished. "Interesting. Go on."

"What if you put them on the Gull with, say, two days' food and water and cut them loose?"

"Their only choice would be to run for land," Jack gave a crack of delighted laughter. "Three days downwind; into the arms of the Spaniards."

James permitted himself a tiny smile. "Precisely. They'll get exactly what Tearlach so dreaded."

Jack's grin was feral. "Poetic justice indeed. But," Serious again, he took James's arm and pulled him round. "The Gull, man. You'd give her up like this?"

James shrugged. "One way or another, I would have had to dispose of her before we sailed." He looked away, afraid Jack would read too much in his eyes. "I doubt those louts will keep her long, one way or another. With luck, her next master will be someone who can appreciate her."

Jack shook his arm. "Look at me. You're sure?"

"Yes," James smiled a little sadly, "else I'd not have offered." He shrugged again. "It's a fair trade."

"Very well, then," Jack replied at last. "That's settled." He picked up his hat. "No time like the present. Let us be done with the matter." He paused at the door. "Come. I want you there."

James donned his coat and picked up his sword belt; buckled it round his waist. "Lead on, Captain Sparrow," he said.

Jack raised his hand, gathered all eyes, and began to speak. "Gentlemen, the late, unlamented Tearlach" uneasy chuckles sounded "led six of his mates into mutiny. We are gathered to deal with them as they deserve. Mister Duncan, fetch them out to hear their sentence."

There was a pause while the prisoners where brought on deck. They came up into the sunlight blinking and cringing, their irons clanking as they were shoved forward to stand directly below Jack. He looked down at them for a long moment, until they began to shift nervously.

"You," he said, "stand condemned as mutineers. The penalty is death. I had intended to hang you, but Mister Norrington had a better idea." Jack bared his teeth. "This is your punishment. You will be placed aboard the Gull, along with food and water sufficient for two days, and set loose."

"Loose?" someone cried, "You are setting them free?" The prisoners brightened and stood straighter.

Jack chuckled. "I said 'loose', mates, not 'free'. With two days' provisions and no navigator, what will their choices be, eh? Tortuga is six days from here—first through waters patrolled by the British and then past Cuba and the guarda. That's if they could find their way—which they can't." He hooked his thumbs in his sash and rocked on his heels, grinning down at the mutineers unpleasantly. "So, Tortuga is out of reach; Jamaica is crawling with the Navy. The only thing to do is to turn and run downwind." He looked up at the crew—some of whom had begun to grin. "Aye, you see it, don't you, men? Three days run downwind and—about the time they get to feeling a mite hungry and thirsty—they'll make land... on the Spanish Main." Laughter began to ripple through the crowd; Jack raised his voice and spoke over it. "Where, if the savages don't get them, the Dons will."

"You're a hard man, Captain," someone shouted, "but a bloody clever one!" The laughter swelled, amid shouts of "Aye, that he is."

Jack swung his arms wide. "Bloody clever, and don't you forget it," he laughed back at them, "but, still and all, this notion is of Mister Norrington's devising. And, what's more, he's giving up his boat to give these dogs their chance, albeit a small one." He indicated the prisoners, who appeared dismayed by the turn of events.

Scattered cheers erupted; someone shouted "Good man!" James smiled and nodded.

Jack stood for a moment longer, watching as the crew began to taunt the mutineers, threatening them with everything from cannibal savages to the Inquisition. Fickle bastards, he thought. They were with him now, but he knew they could just as easily have turned against him. So few he could trust—which reminded him of his other problem. He looked over his shoulder. "Anamaria, a word, if you please. Gentlemen, give us leave. And Gibbs, see to provisioning the Gull."

When the others had gone, Jack turned and leaned against the railing. He folded his arms and regarded Anamaria somberly. "Well?" he asked. Her chin rose and she glared at him. "Can you give me any reason why I shouldn't put you aboard that sloop with the other mutineers?"

"What?" she gasped. "You must be daft."

"Not even a little."

"How dare you," she cried, scowling "I am no mutineer!"

"What would you call it, then?" he replied, deadly serious. He wanted to strike someone, anyone. He crossed his arms more tightly, hands fisted until they cramped. "You disobeyed a direct order in time of battle."

"It wasn't..." she began, but he cut her off.

"It was battle," he snapped. "As dangerous as any action we've seen. Your refusal to act aided the enemy. What was that but mutiny?"

Nonplused, she stared at him. "Jack, I..."

He held his rage in check and waited, uncharacteristically still; eyes cold and mouth set.

"I never meant..." she faltered at last.

"Did you not? How am I to believe you, Anamaria? You saw what was afoot, and yet you stayed aloft, when your place, as my first officer, was here with me."

"I was angry. I didn't think."

"No, you didn't think," Jack barked, his own wrath breaking free at last. "How long have you sailed as my first mate? Six years? And you didn't think to stand by me." Suddenly uncoiling, he stood over her, vibrating with fury. "He did," one finger stabbed at the deck in the direction of the great cabin. "Aboard barely an hour, and he faced them—unarmed."

"Jack," There was a pleading note in her voice. "You know me. We..."

"You're not the first to have shared my bed and betrayed me, Anamaria, but by God you'll be the last."

She recoiled as if he had slapped her. "That was unworthy."

Abruptly, Jack's rage collapsed. He turned his back on her; stood staring forward at the horizon. There was a long silence.

"I wouldn't betray you."

He sighed. "I know that."

"Then I can stay?"

"Yes, yes, of course you can stay," he growled. "Just get out of my sight."

When Anamaria left him, Jack stood for some time, stroking the rail with open palms and staring out over the ship. His ship. Still his.

He dismissed the helmsman. "I'll take her for a space, lad."

In minutes, she had worked her magic on him; soothing, calming. He felt the pulse through his boot heels, as she responded to his touch. The rigging sang. The wheel was warm as, impulsively, he pressed his lips to the sleek curve of it. "You and me, old girl," he whispered over and over, "you and me," and felt peace flow outward.

Gibbs, coming up shortly thereafter, saw the fey look in his eye and went away again without speaking.

The mutineers had been sent off, with jeers and catcalls, that afternoon. The crew had, apparently, been as pleased to see the last of them as their captain had been. And still Jack paced, frowning, lost in thought.

The next time Jack passed his chair, James stopped him with a hand on his sleeve. Jack looked down at him abstractedly.

"I do not think myself a conceited man," James said, with a faint smile, "but I must confess that this was not how I imagined my first evening aboard the Pearl."

Jack's brows rose. "Are you accusing me of inattention?"

"Something very like it, yes," James replied, eyes dancing.

"Well now, can't have that," Jack drawled, pulling James to his feet and kissing him with leisurely thoroughness—tongue exploring, invading, stroking and gliding with familiarity and concentration. At last he leant back slightly, not coincidentally pressing his hips against James's in the process. "Better?" he grinned.

James nodded. "A little," he said, and chuckled at Jack's answering scowl. "You've been ignoring me for the past hour," he went on, "surely you can't expect me to be satisfied with one kiss."

Jack's expression grew dark and he turned away to pour himself a glass of wine. The set of his shoulders made James ache to touch him, but he restrained himself. Not yet.

He cleared his throat and spoke cautiously, choosing his words with care. "They are still with you, you know. They are yours."

Jack drank and then shook his head. "How can you be sure of that? You don't know them."

"Perhaps not, but I can feel their temper and I say again, they are with you." He took a step closer, still not touching. "Do you know when Tearlach lost their sympathy? When he turned on you. Before that, they were content to follow his lead, for he was voicing fears that many of them no doubt shared. They have no cause to love me. But when he declared himself done with you, the men—your men, Jack—began to draw back from him."

"I didn't see that." A shrug.

"You were watching Tearlach. I was watching the crew," James replied.

At last Jack turned round. The corner of his mouth lifted. "And that," he said, finger flicking James's cheek, "is how you got this." His smile widened. "Didn't they teach you to duck in the Navy?"

James smiled back. "Apparently not." He hooked his fingers in Jack's sash and backed two steps to the chair, pulling Jack after him. "They did, however, teach us about knots," he murmured as he drew Jack to stand between his knees.

"Did they now?"

James nodded, fingers busy. In moments he was unwinding the sash.

"Very nimble," Jack approved. "You get high marks for... ahhhhhh," he gasped as James's hand, making short work of the intervening buttons, closed firmly round his cock.

James grinned. "You were saying, Captain?"

Jack steadied himself with a hand to James's shoulder then staggered again as James slipped to his knees. "You... um... I... oh God," Jack stammered as James's tongue swiped along the underside of his erection. He looked down to watch as James took the head between his lips, tongue swirling wetly, and his hips bucked involuntarily. He would never, he thought, get enough of that mouth. James took him deeper and he fought the urge to fist his hands in James's hair and let himself go. It was tempting, but tonight he wanted something else even more.

He slid down until they were face to face, one hand still on James's shoulder, the other working its way into his breeches. James's head rolled back as Jack bit his throat.

"Lovely as that is," Jack whispered between nips, "I've a better idea." He nuzzled soft linen aside to nibble at James's collarbone, meanwhile passing his hand—heel, palm and fingers—across the prick that leapt at his touch.

"Wha... what is that?" James asked, clutching at Jack's arms.

"I want you to come apart for me," Jack growled, biting harder. "Will you do that?"

"I will." James made a curious noise—half moan, half breathless laugh. "Sooner rather than later if you ...Jack!... keep doing that."

"Then I suggest we move this to the bed," said Jack, removing his hand from James's breeches, and grinning at the whine thus evoked, "for I've no intention of hurrying."

Jack rose, pulling James up with him and they stumbled to the bed, shedding clothes as they went. Jack, despite his boots, was done first and turned to helping James, which he did by the simple expedient of pushing him backwards into the bed—which swayed wildly—and yanking his breeches down and off, carrying stockings and shoes with them.

"Finesse," James chuckled, as Jack stretched out on top of him, "is not your strong suit."

"You think not?" Jack smiled a slow and dangerous smile and was delighted to feel James shiver. "I'll wager I can make you change your mind."

"You are welcome to try," James replied.

His defiance, Jack thought, sounded a touch hollow, given the helpless way his hips snapped upward as Jack stroked his cock. Throwing a leg over the long thighs to hold them still, Jack bent his head and dragged his tongue across James's nipple, while continuing his attentions lower down. No finesse, eh? thought Jack, we'll just see about that. Using a feather-light touch, he stroked upward slowly, so slowly. Every few strokes he would twist his wrist and give it a flick that arched James's spine. He ran the fingers of his free hand through the silky dark strands of James's hair (God, how he loved the feel of it), pulling it loose from its ribbon and wrapping it around his fingers. He nibbled along James's jaw, licked teasingly at his lips before kissing his gasping mouth. James sucked frantically at his tongue, moaning softly.

Jack moved up and tongued James's ear, tracing each curve with devoted attention, grinning as he drew long shudders from his lover. He licked and nibbled his way back down, across the chest, which stuttered as James's breath caught, over the flat stomach, to the hip bone, where he nipped sharply before moving lower still. All this time, his hand had kept up the light and maddening stroking—too slow and gentle to bring relief—of James's cock. Now, he breathed, open-mouthed, over the head, then touched the very tip of his tongue to it in the merest delicate tease. The response was gratifying.

James cried out wordlessly and convulsed, head thrown back and eyes tight shut. After a panting pause, his voice hoarse, he said, "Jack!"

"Mmm?" Jack nudged James's legs apart and trailed his fingers up the inside of one thigh.

"Are you going to make me beg?"

Jack chuckled. Oh, this was too easy, but far too enjoyable to stop. His fingers found the smooth skin behind James's balls and rubbed gently. "In a word: yes."

"Bastard," James ground out.

"Or, I could just stop," Jack offered.

James gasped. "I'd kill you."

"You're welcome to try." There, Jack thought, hoist with your own petard.

Another pause, filled with bitten-off sighs as Jack's questing fingers moved farther back and pressed teasingly, not entering—yet.

"Jack, please."

"Care to elaborate?" Jack grinned.

"Fuck me, Jack. Please. Before I go mad."

Music to his ears, Jack thought. "How could I refuse, when you ask so prettily," he said. "Just hand me the oil, love. It's under the pillow."

"Wha...?" James blinked for a moment, then fished the flask out and threw it at Jack, who caught it with a laugh and poured the oil into his hand.

"Patience, James." He slicked himself and then rubbed again with slippery fingers behind James's balls.

"Patience be damned," James growled. "Just get on with it, you teasing son of a... nnnnngh." His voice trailed off in a strangled moan as Jack entered him with two fingers at once, working and twisting, slow and thorough. "Please..." he whimpered, rolling his head from side to side, hands fisted in the sheets.

"Turn over," Jack whispered, withdrawing his fingers.

James obeyed, lying face down; hands gripping the edge of the bed above his head, legs sprawled invitingly.

Wanton, Jack thought, and beautiful. And all for him. He kissed the small of James's back before taking his place between the wide-spread thighs and—gripping James's hips—he entered; inch by intoxicating inch, until he was sheathed balls deep in tight, exquisite, searing heat. His groan echoed James's and he paused, feeling the body beneath him opening to him, adjusting to his presence.

Biting his lip, he nudged his hips forward...again... and again. Tiny motions, meant to tease, to draw out the pleasure. Bump, bump, bump. Through the roaring in his ears he could hear James whimpering.

He pulled out almost all the way and back in. Slow, controlled, exhilarating torture. He bent down and bit James's nape. The taste of his skin, sweaty and hot, almost broke Jack's control. He sped up.

"Please, oh God please..." James panted.

"Not yet, love," Jack whispered, voice tight. "Not until I say so."

James whimpered again. "Jack... need... please."

The desperation of the plea nearly undid him. He sped up yet again; pounding hard and heedless into James's twisting body. Slipping his hand beneath James, he growled, "Come apart for me... now. And he clamped his hand tight around James's cock.

James cried out and came instantly; shuddering into his hand, body clenching around his cock. Swept along, Jack groaned and spent himself in turn, forehead pressed to James's spine, before collapsing atop him.

Several minutes he stayed there, waiting for heart and breathing to slow, while James lay beneath him like one dead, save for his sighing breaths and the thudding of his heart against Jack's cheek.

At last Jack stirred, lifting himself off. He reached out and pulled James into his arms, settling them spoon fashion and kissing his shoulder. James nestled against him with a sigh. No words were spoken; none needed. Jack pulled the sheet over them and they drifted into sleep.

"Tous les matins du monde, James, remember?" Jack's voice was sleepy and amused. "No more sneaking away before dawn to avoid scandal."

James turned and grinned, a little sheepishly. "I had forgotten."

"We have all the time in the world." Jack stretched, arms above his head, and yawned. Then he smiled, eyes heavy-lidded yet with sleep. James thought he had never seen a more alluringly debauched sight.

James lay down half on top of him, slid his hands up to pin Jack's wrists amongst the pillows above them, and bent his head until their mouths touched. "All the time in the world, you say. In that case..."

Jack's lips curled against his. "What did you have in mind?" he murmured. "A repeat of last night sounds good to me."

James grinned back and kissed him again. "No... I think not."

Jack nudged with his hip. "Sore, are you?" he asked.

"A little," James conceded. In truth he was very sore indeed, but had no intention of admitting as much to Jack, who was looking entirely too pleased with himself as it was.

"Worth it, though, wasn't it?" Jack flexed his wrists against James's hands, testing.

James firmed his grip; he wasn't about to give up his advantage so easily. "Smug bastard," he chuckled, nibbling at Jack's throat.

"What, then?" Jack asked, wriggling a little as James's mouth worked its way along his jaw. "I am all... ahhh... ears," he added as teeth closed on his earlobe.

"I thought I might return the favour," James spoke without letting go of Jack's ear.

Jack's voice was satisfyingly breathless as he replied, "You did, eh?"

"I did."

"And if I'm disinclined to grant your request?"

"Request?" James lifted his head and looked down at Jack with brows raised. "You mistake. I was merely providing notice of my intentions."

"Courteous," Jack replied. He shifted his hips until their stiffening cocks brushed together. "So, I've no choice in the matter?"

James gasped. "Very little."

"As in none?"

"So perceptive, as ever. Not just another pretty face," James grinned.

Jack's eyebrows twitched. "When you went to sea, the world lost a great diplomat."

"Flattery won't save you," was the laughing reply. Jack was so easy to bait.

"Always supposing I want to be saved." Nimbly, Jack wrapped his legs around James's waist and thrust upward.

James, leaning to nip Jack's mouth even as he returned the pressure, made them both groan. "What do you want?"

"You need to ask?" It was Jack's turn to grin.

"Want to hear you say it."

"Very well, then," Jack arched his back, brushing his chest against James's. "I want you," he tightened the clasp of his thighs. "Inside me," he tilted his hips and James's eyes fluttered closed. "Now." Jack twisted his hands free of James's loosened grip, retrieved the oil flask, nudged again with his hips. "Well, mate?"

James opened his eyes, blinked. "Now who's impatient?" he smiled. "Over."

Jack stretched out beside him as he tipped some oil into his cupped palm and dribbled it over himself. He poured what remained into the cleft of Jack's buttocks, admiring the play of muscle and sinew under the sweat-sheened golden skin. Jack wore all his scars on the front of his body; his back was as smooth as a boy's.

He rubbed at the oil, pressing his fingers in slowly, taking his time. Jack pushed back against his hand and James grinned. "Good?" he asked.

"Good," Jack nodded, "but not nearly enough, damn your eyes."

Chuckling, James covered him; bearing down, gasping as sensation battered at reason and he lost himself in the sleekly writhing body beneath his. Time stopped as he reached around to stroke Jack in rhythm with his own thrusts. And then he was coming with a shuddering groan, driven by Jack's muffled cries and the sticky heat spilling over his hand.

When he could think again, he rolled onto his back, eyes closed, breathing hard. Jack stirred and draped an arm across James's chest.

"Not bad," he mumbled, "I think I'll keep you."

James's lips quirked. "Indeed."

"If I am to go over your ledgers," he said, dryly, "it won't do to begin the day half-sprung."

James was aware of the eyes that followed them as they made their way forward to the galley. With the habit of command, he tried, discreetly, to gauge the temper of the crew and was encouraged by what he saw and felt. The anger and fear of the day before seemed largely gone, replaced by ease and a cautious good cheer. The looks he encountered were curious for the most part, and guarded, but not hostile. Gibbs nodded to him, as well as one or two others he couldn't yet name.

He tried to locate Anamaria but did not see her on deck. He sent a quick glance aloft as well. He supposed she was below and wondered how the crew would have acted had she been there to see him and, perhaps, sway them with her scowls. He feared that, despite Jack's cheerful scoffing at Gibbs, the old sailor was right; she was the key to smooth sailing.

After they had eaten, Jack introduced him to the—somewhat unconventional, he supposed—monetary arrangements by which the Pearl was provisioned and maintained.

"Food and drink, shot and powder," Jack explained, "are purchased from this fund. That is, what we don't take in raids," he added, grinning sidelong at James. "Each man contributes according to his entitled share of plunder. Chandlery likewise—for any repairs and refurbishing of the Pearl—is dealt with this way."

James looked at the account-book, written for the most part in Jack's hand, with occasional entries in a careful, childish scrawl that Jack identified as Gibbs's. "And these figures?" he asked, pointing to a page of names and amounts.

"If a man's new, or has frittered away all his money, his debt is recorded here—you see where they have made their marks—until it can be paid."

After Jack had gone on deck ("I'll just leave you to it, shall I?"), James was struck by the mundane ordinariness of his task. These records were not, after all, so very different from the Naval accounts he'd reviewed and approved—or rejected—for years. He shook his head, ran fingers through his hair, and grinned. Once again he was no more than a glorified clerk—but, this time... ah, this time, he was at sea. And the sooner he was done with this, the sooner he'd be on deck again.

James removed his coat and waistcoat and set to work in his shirtsleeves—reading, checking sums, correcting—and the hours flew by. When at last he put down his pen and flexed cramped fingers, it was late afternoon. Enough. He stood and stretched. Time to get out into the light and air.

It was the first dog watch and most of the crew were on deck, taking their ease. Some were occupied with mending clothing or other domestic tasks, some played at dice; from forward he heard the scrape of a fiddle. Looking up, he saw that Gibbs was at the wheel. James blessed his good fortune; he had wished to speak with the man privately but doubted the opportunity would arise. He mounted to the quarterdeck, taking a stand, as of habit, to windward of the helm.

Gibbs nodded. "Mister Norrington."

"Mister Gibbs."

There was a pause. James scanned the horizon and relished the breeze blowing his—still unbound—hair into his eyes. There was most certainly something to be said for the informality of pirate ways, he thought. He glanced at Gibbs, considering what he would say; choosing at last the most direct approach.

"Mister Gibbs... about yesterday," he said, "I stand in your debt."

Gibbs shook his grizzled head. "No sir, that you don't," he replied promptly. It was clear he'd expected this. "It's me who was in your debt, but now we're square."

"What do you mean?" James asked, mystified.

"It was you, speakin' up at my court martial, as saved me from hangin'."

Ah, James thought; he had almost forgotten that long-ago trial aboard the Dauntless. He smiled. "I think perhaps you give my testimony too much weight."

"With the Captain dead set on seeing me swing? Not likely," Gibbs chuckled. "And he were none too pleased with your meddlin', was he?"

The unthinking urge to defend a fellow officer, to present a united front before the men, prompted James to begin, "Captain Golding..." but he stopped, confounded.

"Was a right black-hearted bastard with a short temper and a mean streak," Gibbs finished for him.

James frowned slightly. "Hardly how I would describe him."

"'S'truth, just the same." Gibbs eyed him shrewdly. "He held it against ye, didn't he?"

James gave up. The long-dead Golding had been a petty-minded, vengeful martinet, to whose memory nothing was owed. He looked down and then up to meet the twinkling eyes of the old salt beside him. He shrugged. "To a degree, yes."

Gibbs nodded approval of the admission. "Aye, any man not a fool could have seen that he would." James drew himself up at the impertinence, until he remembered that—here and now—Gibbs outranked him. It was an extraordinary sensation. Gibbs continued, "Why did you do it?"

"Speak for you?" James asked, with genuine surprise. "Because the charges against you were false. I could not, in honour, remain silent and see you hanged for what you never did."

"And that's just what I told the Captain you'd say." Gibbs chuckled again and clapped him on the shoulder. "'Tis no wonder you made Commodore by thirty."

Embarrassed, James began to disclaim, "Mister Gibbs..."

"Ah now, none o' that," Gibbs said, holding out his hand. "My friends call me Josh."

James took the broad, square hand in his own. "Thank you, Josh," he smiled. "And I am James."

"James it is." Gibbs grinned back at him until the sound of boot heels on the deck made them turn to see Jack strolling toward them, a half-smile glinting.

"Good to see my officers getting on," Jack remarked. He looked up at the sails and then, pointedly, at James. He raised one eyebrow. "If you please, sir."

"What? Oh!" James flushed and hastily stepped back. "My apologies, Captain." He moved several paces to leeward, cursing himself for thoughtlessness. He must be more careful in future. He drew a deep breath and glanced over his shoulder. Jack was watching him; thumbs tucked into his sash. He smiled—not entirely pleasantly—and rocked on his heels. James flushed again and looked away; out to sea, up at the sky—anywhere but at the smirk on the Captain's face.

His eye was caught by a slender figure climbing the ratlines. Absently at first, then with growing interest, he watched Anamaria scramble agilely to the main top and sit with her back to the mast. She pulled an object—it was too small for James to see what it was—from her waistband and busied herself with it. He thought perhaps she was whittling something. She made a pretty picture against the blue of the sky, with her white shirt billowing in the fresh breeze and dark hair blowing. She was a handsome woman, he thought, or she would be, were she less often scowling and furious. He didn't realize he was staring until she looked up from her work and glared at him, whereupon he quickly looked away.

Uncomfortable suddenly, he descended to the main deck and went to his cabin. Finding it well lit, thanks to a deck prism over his cot that caught the afternoon sun admirably, he selected a book and stretched out to read. Queen Mab appeared and lay down on his chest, purring. It seemed she had taken a fancy to him; he scratched her ears. He was still reading when, two hours later, Jack summoned him to dinner in the great cabin.

The meal, which was taken in company with Gibbs, Anamaria, and the Gunner, Duncan, was a curious affair. Jack declared it 'the officers mess', but it was clear to James that no such custom had existed on the Pearl until the present occasion. Conversation, what there was of it, was strained and awkward. Anamaria did not want to be there, and Duncan was hardly more at ease than she. They excused themselves almost before they were done eating. Gibbs, who had, it seemed, dined with Jack more often than the others, stayed, chatting amiably. After a time, the sound of a fiddle being tuned penetrated the cabin. Gibbs drained his glass and stood.

"It sounds like Tommy's fixin' to favour us with a tune or two," he said. "So I'll just be on me way. Will ye be joinin' us Captain? Mister Norrington?"

James smiled, intending to decline, when Jack spoke up, forestalling him. "To be sure we will, Josh," he said, gesturing with his unfinished wine, "we'll be along presently."

When Gibbs had gone, Jack chuckled to himself, fingers tapping the table. His eyes glittered in the lamplight as if he were savoring a particularly good jest, but he said nothing. James watched him a little uneasily, fidgeting with his own glass, until Jack rose from his chair.

"Come along, James," Jack looked over at him and again James caught the glint of some secret mischief. "Wouldn't do to seem above your company, you know." James nodded and followed Jack out onto the deck just as the fiddle struck up a rollicking dance.

Jack hid a smirk as he led the way. It was going to be an amusing evening, after all. We'll just see what Mister Bloody Norrington makes of this, he thought. He glanced around; nearly the whole crew was gathered, as he'd expected. Leaving James to find his own place, he waded into the crowd and seated himself on an upturned cask. Someone offered him a flagon; he drank and passed it along.

Several men sprang to their feet and began to perform a rather respectable hornpipe. Jack joined in the shouts of encouragement, clapping along as those not dancing took up the beat, pounding out time with their palms against the deck, the bulkheads, the mast—anything in reach. At the end of the tune, the dancers sat down and others took their places as Tommy played again. After that, someone produced a pipe and played a sweet and mournful air.

The rum was circulating freely. Jack could see that even James, where he sat against the windward rail, was drinking. As the piper fell silent, someone called out "A song!" and the cry was taken up by a dozen voices. Shouts of "Crimp! Sing for us, mate!" were heard.

Crimp, a lanky, weatherbeaten man, stood, cleared his throat, and sang—in an astonishing, incongruous baritone voice—a comic song about the woes of a landsman aboard ship; each verse more absurd than the last. The crew roared out the chorus with great vigor and cheered at the end.

There was a short pause and Jack grinned to himself. Here it comes, he thought. Right on cue, a voice rose above the others, "Mister Norrington, sir, how about a song?" James choked on a swallow of rum. All round men were nodding and grinning. "The new man, aye. Time to pay 'is dues."

James shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said looking around with an almost shy smile. "I don't sing."

Jack spoke up. "Oh, but you do." James's head whipped about and he glared at Jack, who almost laughed. "What about the time me and some of the lads taught you the Pirate Song, eh?"

A burst of raucous laughter greeted this. "Aye, I were there," Giddings piped up. "So was I." cried another. "And I!" shouted a third, "You were in fine voice that night, sir, and no mistake."

James looked away and took another swallow of rum. Ah, Jack thought, let him have a taste of how we treat new officers aboard my ship. He raised his flagon to his lips and grinned.

James drew a deep breath; then he chuckled and shook his head. "Might I point out," he said, looking first at Giddings but including them all in his glance, "that the singing to which you refer was that of a hapless prisoner, forced against his will, after having been lured into a trap and captured," he paused dramatically, not quite grinning, "by Captain Jack Sparrow and his crew of bloodthirsty buccaneers?"

There was more laughter, but this time James laughed with them. "Oh, aye, that's us, ain't it?" they chortled. "Bloodthirsty we are. Not a single man killed in that whole venture. But we caught you, didn't we?"

"Yes, indeed," James answered ruefully, "You caught me. Not my finest hour, I must say. In fact, it is painful to remember, so I trust you will be so kind as to excuse me. Perhaps another time."

Old Giddings chuckled. "If ye won't sing, ye won't. We won't force ye. But that being so, we claim a forfeit from you as our newest man."

"Aye, fair's fair." "A forfeit."

James smiled, the very image of easy amusement. Jack had to admit he'd rarely seen it done better. "What sort of forfeit?" James asked.

"We ask you three questions and you are bound to answer. Truthfully, mind."

After a moment's consideration, during which, Jack noted, James very deliberately did not look at him, he leaned back with another, fainter smile. "Very well. Ask away."

"Told you he was a right one," someone said.

There was a short pause as the men whispered together. Finally, Duncan stood. "Why did you join the Navy?" he asked.

"I am the third son," James replied. "My father gave me a choice: the Navy or the church. Which would you have chosen?" Many chuckled at that. He continued, "I didn't fancy life in a parsonage, not when I could have the sea."

Understanding nods and murmurs of agreement came from all sides. Then Crimp spoke up. "Your Dauntless never caught up with the Pearl. Why is that?"

"Because the Pearl's nigh uncatchable!" a man shouted and they all laughed, James along with the rest.

"Well," he said, with a droll look, "Captain Gillette was so eager to be the one to capture you, that I left the task in his... er... capable hands."

There was a pleased roar. "Capable hands! Oh that's rich!" they cried. "He were the biggest dupe." "How many times did we board him?" "Oh aye, quite the pirate-hunter, that one."

As the laughter abated, Crimp shook his head. "That ain't the whole answer, Mister Norrington," he said shrewdly.

James looked at him consideringly. Jack wondered what was coming and was as surprised as any when James tipped his head back against the rail and said, "You are correct, it's not. The truth is I didn't try very hard." He looked at Jack. "In part because you had the good sense to stick to raiding Spanish towns." Jack grinned and James smiled back. "When you weren't tormenting poor Gillette, that is."

There was a few moments' silence. Jack could see, out of the corner of his eye, how men were looking from him to James and back. He held James's eye, took another mouthful of rum and winked.

"That's two," Giddings said. "Who's third? Ladbroc?"

A stocky sailor at the back rose and coughed nervously. "Mister Norrington, sir..." He waited until James looked at him, then went on, "Are you and the Captain...?" A gesture supplied the rest of the question.

James flushed scarlet. Very slowly he nodded. "We are," he said.

There were one or two muffled exclamations. Jack, looking around, saw smiles growing. He stood, strode across the deck, and pulled James to his feet. "We are, indeed," he said, and kissed him. The deck erupted in cheers.

Jack took his time, holding James tightly until he felt some of the stiffness go out of his spine. When James began to kiss him back (and thank the gods for the effects of rum, Jack thought) he leaned back and looked around, grinning. "Quite a catch, eh lads?"

There was laughter and a few more cheers. Jack swung around to wave one arm grandly, while the other kept James clasped firmly to his side. "And on that note, gentlemen, we shall leave you. I have... ah... things to discuss with me new purser." He winked broadly. "Carry on," he said, and swept James aft and into the main cabin on a third round of cheers. Behind them, they could hear Tommy begin to play.

"That went rather well, I'd say," Jack smirked, as the door closed, shutting out some of the noise of the carousal once again in full swing on deck. He patted James on the arse as he crossed to the table in search of the rum.

James ignored the caress. "You knew what was going to happen," he said, folding his arms and leaning against the map table. He watched Jack pour a wineglass full and drain it off.

"I did," Jack replied, "that or something very like it. They demand a forfeit of every new man." He peered at James owlishly. "Have some rum."

"I've had quite enough, I thank you," James said, thinking that Jack had had more than his share, as well, but knowing better than to say so. He must have been drinking for most of the afternoon. "And you let me walk out there unsuspecting."

Jack laughed softly. "I couldn't resist, mate. Can you blame me?" He reached to set his glass down and staggered. Turning with more care to face James, he leered genially. "Come here."

James raised one eyebrow. "High handed tonight, aren't we?" Nevertheless, he did as he was bid, snugging them together against the table.

"Of course. 'M the Captain," Jack replied, "Everyone does what I say."

"Do they?" James murmured as he slid Jack's coat down his arms.

"Yes, or else I make 'em walk the plank."

"A ruthless pirate in very truth," James chuckled.

Jack frowned. "I am. And don't you forget it, mate."

Still chuckling, James pushed him into a chair. "Take off your boots, O Pirate King."

"Pirate King," Jack repeated, as he pulled off one boot and then the other. "I like the sound of that."

"Somehow, I am not surprised," James replied, as he stripped to his breeches.

Jack was on his feet again, tugging his shirt over his head. "And if I'm King, what're you? Prime Minister?" he asked. He laughed. "I know," he said, as he tripped James and fell with him into the cot. "First Lord of the Bedchamber."

"You're ridiculous," James laughed. "Go to sleep."

Jack threw an arm and a leg over James and nuzzled his neck. "Good idea, First Lord," he mumbled and began almost immediately to snore.

James pulled the sheet over them both and lay for awhile, thinking. There were few secrets aboard any ship, and he had never thought that he and Jack would go unnoticed. But to have their connection so publicly avowed... it had been somewhat startling, to put it no stronger. The crew certainly seemed to approve, at any rate. He felt himself blushing again. And yet, he supposed, it was better this way—less room for rumors and misunderstandings to take root. Ah well, it was done. He slept.

When James came on deck a few minutes later, Gibbs and Jack were conferring on the quarterdeck. Anamaria was giving orders to bring down the t'gallantmasts. James joined the crew on the foremast—going aloft as surefooted as any—to their surprise. In the end, they were glad of his help, for a block jammed with the mast half way to the deck. It took all of them, and some very clever handling of the halyards, to get it the rest of the way down without mishap.

"Where'd you learn to do that, Mister Norrington?" one of them asked him as they stowed the mast.

"Well..." James said, looking a question.

"Jenkins, sir," the young sailor replied, smiling shyly.

"Well, Jenkins," James smiled back, "when I was a midshipman I sailed 'round the Horn. We had something like that happen with the wind rising and ice forming on the yards and rigging. Our bo's'n was as canny an old bastard as ever sailed. He got the mast—and us—back to the deck in one piece by doing exactly what we just did. I am pleased to have remembered the knack it, after all these years."

"Lucky for us that you did."

"Indeed. Almost enough to make you think well of the Navy, eh?" James grinned.

They all laughed. "Now, let's not go too far, sir," Crimp replied, as they moved on to the next task and James headed aft.

From her perch atop the fo'c's'le, Anamaria watched him walk away and frowned, impressed in spite of herself. That had been a neat piece of work. It seemed he'd not been merely a clerk in a fancy uniform, then. And he didn't act as if he meant to make much of his standing with Jack, either. Perhaps she had him figured wrong, after all. "Too soon to tell," she muttered to herself. "Give him some more rope and see what he does with it." She looked at the still cloudless sky. With a blow coming, there'd be plenty of chance for him to show his quality. "Then we'll see," she said.

James, meanwhile, had sought out Gibbs where he was overseeing the securing of the cockboat. Gibbs smiled and joined him on his way to the quarterdeck. "As I recall, Josh, you've some skill as a weather prophet," James said. "What's your guess on this storm?"

"Short, I'm thinking, and none too strong," Gibbs replied.

James nodded. "Not a hurricane, then? We're well into the season."

Gibbs shrugged. "Not this time, unless I miss my guess, James. The glass ain't low enough for one thing. And it just feels different, if you take my meaning."

James nodded again, and then stopped—while Gibbs went on—to speak to the men rigging a new block to replace the one that had jammed. They were cheerful and seemed untroubled by the coming blow. James left them with a smile and word, and mounted to the quarterdeck. Taking a stand carefully downwind of the helm, he watched Jack—who was at the wheel—for a while in silence. Gibbs had gone forward again to check that all in the galley was battened down, and they were alone.

Jack slanted him a look. "You've been mighty busy on deck this morning, Mister Purser Norrington," he said, irascibly.

James gaped for a moment, taken aback by the tone of the remark. "Surely you don't mean to say you object to me helping when I see the chance?" he asked.

Jack merely shrugged and scowled at nothing.

After a pause, James went on, "My duties as purser will hardly take up all my time, you know. And I would wish to be useful. It's no more than that."

Jack flicked his fingers dismissively. "You will suit yourself, of course. Just remember your place."

James fell silent, mortified and somewhat annoyed. He wondered what he had done that Jack could possibly take as overstepping the bounds of shipboard etiquette. He told himself that Jack could be an unaccountably fanciful creature when the mood took him and that this was likely a mere passing irritation of nerves. Perhaps the dropping glass had him on edge—it took some men that way. He said no more for some time.

"How does she go in a storm?" he asked at last.

"Like the queen she is," Jack replied, stroking the wheel fondly, good humour apparently restored. "You couldn't ask for a better. She can take almost anything with her topsails reefed. Only once were we reduced to running with bare poles. And Josh tells me this storm is a small one. No worries."

James looked up at the mainsail and then back down. "When will you take in sail?"

"Not until we're forced to," Jack shrugged. "I've men with the sharpest eyes on lookout, two to a watch. We'll have plenty of warning."

After another short silence, Duncan came to report all secure on the gun deck. When he had gone, Jack offered James the helm, promising to have him relieved before things got 'interesting' and James accepted with pleasure. He guessed this might be Jack's way of apologizing for his stinging words earlier. After seeing him settled, Jack went forward and James was left alone with the Pearl. She was, he found,—as Jack had so often told him—sweet to the hand. She didn't fight the helm, the way some ships did, and he felt a curious sense of peace enfold him, despite the excitement of having once again, a ship's wheel in his hands. How long had it been? Far too long, he thought, smiling.

Meanwhile Jack, making his way forward, encountered Anamaria by the foremast and stopped to speak with her. She looked aft and frowned. "You let him have the wheel?" she asked.

"Why not?" Jack replied, "He knows what he's doing."

She nodded. "He does."

Jack looked at her, curious. "But...?"

"But," she paused, "he's been a captain too long."

Ha! Jack thought; trust Ana to cut to the heart of the matter. Woman was as sharp as her own knives.

Grinning, he winked and slipped an arm around her waist. "Well, he ain't captain of the Pearl, love. And I'll see to it that he don't forget that." Mischievously, he leant to kiss her.

She shoved him away without ceremony. "Save that shit for someone who cares, Sparrow," she hissed. "And see you keep your word—no good will come of having two captains."

The voice of the lookout interrupted them. "Captain!" he shouted, pointing northeast.

Jack grinned at the squall line racing down on them. "At last," he said. "I hate waiting. Gibbs! Ah, there you are. You two know what to do; furl the mainsails and reef the topsails. Move!"

He left them shouting orders and ran aft. "James! Hold her steady!" he called, in passing, barely pausing to hear his "Aye, Captain" before he was in the cabin. He stripped off his boots and bundled them into his sea-chest. Tossing his hat on the bed, he noticed that Gibbs had had someone tidy away the loose clutter on desk and table. Good man.

Back on deck, he lent a hand on the lines, getting the mainsail furled just as the breeze freshened. Leaving them to it, he ran up to the quarterdeck, where James was grinning and clinging to the wheel. "It'll be a two-man job in a minute," Jack shouted above the rising wind and the hauling chants of the sail handlers. He leaned over the rail. "Kursar, Harding, to me!" he bellowed, and turned to help James.

When the sailors he had summoned reached the quarterdeck, Jack turned the helm over to them. Jack winked at James and said, "These two have never failed me. They're big enough to handle most anything." And indeed, they looked it; Kursar was a big man, half a head taller than James and half again as wide, but Harding was bigger still. James grinned back, bright-eyed.

A few moments later, the lookouts came racing down the backstays just as the squall hit and Pearl heeled sharply.

James's memories of the next few hours were a confusion of wind, rain, spray, roaring and wild motion. Jack's boast was true; the Pearl took the storm in her stride. Jack, of course, held to his post throughout, shouting orders and giving a convincing impression of a man having the time of his life. James stayed with him until Kursar slipped and broke his arm. Gibbs helped James get him below. Gibbs could not set the arm until after the storm ceased tossing them about, so they put him in James's bunk and made him as comfortable as they could; lashing him in and leaving him with a bottle of rum and young Jenkins to keep watch.

The storm blew itself out an hour before sundown. By the time the sun sank into the sea astern, the northern half of the sky was a clear apple green and the breeze had dropped to a steady 15 knots. Jack set a course east-northeast, beating upwind as close as they could sail, saying they'd make further corrections tomorrow noon, once they knew how far off course they'd been blown.

Anamaria took charge of repairs; of which, James noted, there were surprisingly few needed. Gibbs, meanwhile, set Kursar's arm and splinted it. It was, he said, a clean break, meaning he'd likely keep the use of his arm. James suggested leaving the man in his bunk for the night, to allow him to sleep off—in relative comfort—the effects of the rum he'd taken to kill the pain.

The evening was quiet; the crew was too tired to do aught but sit still when they got the chance. Save for those on watch, everyone—Jack and James included—retired early.

Kursar had taken himself off to the fo'c's'le and they were working in James's cabin, as Jack was busy in the great cabin and had indicated he did not wish for company. They determined that they could, most likely, purchase everything they required without a further levy on the crew. This put Gibbs, especially, in a good humour, for it would have fallen to him to collect said levy and it was customary for each man to grumble loud and long before surrendering his share.

Toward noon, as James chatted on deck with a number of the crew, who were engaged—in a leisurely way—in replacing yesterday's knots and bends with splices, Jack came on deck with his sextant, shot the sun and disappeared again into the cabin. He cast a glance at James that fairly shouted mischief. This both amused James and worried him. He tried to imagine what Jack might be brewing, but stopped himself. Why borrow trouble? He would, no doubt, find out soon enough.

A little more than an hour later, when James was perched on the foretop with a book in hand, he heard Jack's voice giving orders for a change in course. It was not, as James had expected, a mere correction to their course of the morning. Their new bearing was well south of east, which could only lead them to...

"...rich Dutch settlements, lads," Jack cried. "And poorly defended. One last raid to give 'em something to remember us by, eh?"

There was some cheering and shouts of "Easy pickings!"

James very nearly dropped his book in shock. He could not have heard that correctly! Gripping a stay he leaned out, searching the deck for Jack, and found him, feet planted wide, staring up, straight at James, and laughing. James stared, open-mouthed, for a count of three, whereupon Jack tipped his hat in mocking salute and strolled aft.

The Pearl began her swing to the new heading as James made his hasty descent to the deck. There had been no mistaking the challenge in Jack's face; but why? Why do this? And to the Dutch, of all people. It was madness. He almost ran the length of the ship and burst into the great cabin without ceremony.

"What the devil do you think you're doing?" he cried as he slammed the door.

"Captain," Jack said, not looking up from the chart before him.

"What?"

"You meant to say, 'What the devil do you think you're doing, Captain' didn't you?" Jack said coolly.

James was dumbfounded. "You can't be serious."

"Never more serious in my life," Jack said, still not looking at him.

"What does that have to do with this raid on the Dutch?" James asked.

"Just about everything, I'd say," Jack replied, turning at last and folding his arms as he leant against the map table. "Last time I checked, I was still Captain of the Pearl, which means my word is law."

"But you can't..." James began.

"I can do anything I damned well please!" Jack shouted.

Holding his temper with an effort, James forced himself to speak quietly. "We have a treaty with the Dutch."

"Who is this 'we' you speak of?' Jack shrugged. "I have no such treaty."

James felt he had stumbled into a nightmare where nothing was as it seemed. Distractedly he paced up and back while Jack watched him with the cold eyes of a stranger. At last he stopped. "This is wrong," he said. "Surely you see that?" But Jack just laughed.

"Pirate, remember?" he said with a toothy, humorless grin. "That's what I am—and," he added, with emphasis, "that's what every man is who sails with me."

James winced. "Jack," he said, almost pleading, "When I signed the Articles, you implied that you were going to take up trading."

Jack, unmoved, smirked and shrugged again. "I never said it, though, did I?" he replied, "You heard what you wished to hear, James."

"I see," James said. And he did see; what a fool he had been. "You will not give up this raid, then?" he asked, knowing the answer, but unable to stop trying.

"Why should I? Nice fat pickings and little risk; by the time the Dutch Navy gets off its lazy arse, we will be long gone."

Suddenly furious, stung by the contempt in the pirate's tone, he shouted, "You cannot do this thing!"

Jack sighed with exaggerated patience. "I will say it once more," he replied in a deadly cold voice, "I am Master of the Black Pearl, Mister former Commodore Norrington." His voice rose. "Me, Captain Jack Sparrow. I command here."

Stubbornly, James shook his head. "I will not countenance this raid."

"You will not countenance this raid," Jack repeated, leaning forward, eyes glittering. "Then I've a question for you, James. Think carefully before you answer. Can you sail under the command of a pirate, or can you not?"

James, who had begun to pace again, stopped in his tracks and stared at Jack. His mouth opened—Jack raised a sardonic eyebrow—and he shut it again. Turning, he left the cabin without a backward glance.

Many thought James's scruples absurd. "We're pirates," they said, as if that explained it all, which, of course it did. "The Captain knows what he's doing." Among their number were to be found many of the wilder souls—those who had taken to piracy for the sheer deviltry of it—as well as some whose loyalty to Jack would not permit them to question any decision of his, and those who resisted any change as a matter of course. To a man they claimed—now, at least—to feel naught but contempt for the idea of trade.

But a surprising number of the crew expressed doubt. Many, but by no means all of them, were older men who'd been with Jack from the beginning. They were, as noted, comparatively rich men and growing weary of life as fugitives. Trade, as they saw it, would be easy pickings indeed. "Them heathens out East ain't no match for us," they said, "trading with 'em will be a sight easier than raiding, ah, and profitable." A few of the younger men, such as Jenkins, who had conceived an admiration for James, sided with them.

Anamaria shrugged and said, "We're pirates."

Gibbs shook his head. "Jack's the Captain, boys. What he says is what we'll be doing."

James had been on deck almost from sunrise, standing motionless at the windward rail, watching the horizon with tired eyes. He had not slept and, around dawn, fled his stifling cabin for the fresh air, in the vain hope that the breeze would clear his thoughts and bring counsel. It was with dull surprise that he noted how many men went out of their way to speak to him. To each "Morning, sir" he replied with a mechanical smile, but did not speak. He broke his fast with the crew, who made room for him without comment.

The business of the morning was the raising of the t'gallantmasts, as the weather bid fair to hold and they might soon need the advantage of speed the extra canvas gave them. As before, James joined the crew on the foremast, but this time was surprised to find himself working alongside Anamaria. She nodded to him, face neutral, but did not speak, beyond the necessary orders. They worked well together, with the kind of unspoken understanding that was often a sign of similarity of thought. This struck him as odd, considering her frank hostility to his presence aboard. He spent some time pondering it, to keep his mind occupied and away from his more serious—and seemingly insoluble—problem. They were both good and skillful sailors; perhaps it was no more than this—an instinctive recognition of one craftsman for another. A few minutes later, however, when their hands touched by chance as they took up a halyard, she jerked hers away, but not before he had felt a tiny shock course through him. Intrigued, he remembered that such sympathy of mind could indicate something more. He glanced at her speculatively and saw that the fierce scowl was back in place.

The work went smoothly, with a sort of half-serious competition developing between them and the crew on the mainmast, to see who could finish in the best time. Gibbs could be heard exhorting the other crew not to let the game tempt them to cut corners. "Do the job right, lads," he said. "Saves havin' to do it over—or worse."

Anamaria repeated his words, with a warning of dire consequences if she caught any man working slipshod. "Aye, ma'am," was the prompt reply from all her crew, although some grinned as they said it. James saw that they respected her well and that their hot-tempered first mate was a source of both pride and amusement to them.

The race ended in a tie, with much good-natured chaffing on all sides. Afterward, James took a book to the top of the fo'c's'le and tried to read, but the words blurred on the page and he found himself reliving—for the hundredth time a least—every moment of the quarrel. The coldness of Jack's manner, the callous and deliberate cruelty of his words, cut at James afresh each time he thought of them. He knew, he was certain, he had done nothing to deserve them. Jack had acted as if he thought James was attempting to usurp his authority, which could not be further from the truth. He knew his 'place', he thought bitterly, had chosen it willingly, in hope and a spirit of adventure—the more fool he, as it turned out. With an exclamation of disgust, he pocketed the book and went in search of Gibbs and asked to be put to work. "Anything at all, Josh," he said, "I wish to be busy." And so it was that he spent the afternoon polishing brasswork.

After the day meal—taken once again with the crew—he went on watch, climbing to the crow's nest with relief, for he was in no fit state for the general sociability of the dog-watch and had little desire to immure himself in his cabin.

Early that evening, as he sat brooding, there came a knock at the cabin door. He looked up with a glint in his eye. "Come," he said. Anamaria walked in and Jack sat back with a frown. "Anamaria."

She marched up to the desk and, without preamble, fists on hips, she demanded, "What is going on?"

Jack shook his head. "I don't think that's any concern of yours," he drawled.

"You selfish bastard, you don't think at all," she snarled. Deliberately, she spit on deck and glared at him.

Jack sprang to his feet. "Now wait just a minute..."

She cut him off. "Always it must be your way or nothing," she shouted. "Like a spoiled baby, for the love of God."

"Shut up, Anamaria." Jack came round the desk, face dark with anger. She rounded on him like a spitting cat, bristling with fury.

"No you shut up!" she cried, striking him on the shoulder with her open palm. "For once in your life you will listen. You are a damn fool, Jack Sparrow.

"First," she struck him again, backing him up a pace, "you bring a Navy man—your lover, for God's sake—on board with no notice and look what happens: a mutiny. If you had told Gibbs and me, we could have warned the men, at least. Perhaps stopped it before it began."

Jack raised his hands and tried to stem the torrent. She smacked him a third time. "Shut up and listen, damn you. And then you get nasty when he works well with the crew—like any good officer would do. Yes, I heard you, you bastard; don't deny it. He's a good sailor and a good officer—even though he's Navy—and you treat him like shit."

"And now what are you playing at?" She waved her arms wildly. "Have you heard that half the men side with him in this stupid quarrel? This is what it has come to—you are tearing our crew apart, and for what?" Smack. "What do you want?" Smack. "Do you even know?"

Beside herself, she swung again, aiming for his face this time. He caught her arm, laughing despite his anger, and kissed her. Tearing free, she slapped him in good earnest. "I told you to save it for them that cares for it," she said, stalking to the door, "if they'll have you." Over her shoulder, she added, "You made a bad mistake, Sparrow. Best see about fixing it," she opened the door. "Before it's too late."

For a moment Jack stood staring at the closed door, nursing his bruised cheek. Then he flung himself into his chair and leaned it back on two legs, glaring morosely at the decking above.

Damn the bitch for a sharp-tongued shrew. How dared she speak to him like that? And she struck him. He could have the skin off her back for it, and none could say him nay. For a moment, he toyed vindictively with the idea of actually giving that order—but a sneaking notion that it might not be obeyed cut short his bloodthirsty musings.

And what was she about, taking James's part against him? She hated the Navy so bitterly—and with good cause—that he'd thought he could count on her to side with him in any dispute. Suddenly, it was "He's a good sailor and a good officer." What the Hell?

Then this "what are you playing at?" What did she think he was doing? He'd told her he would see to it that James knew who was Captain and he had done so. So why was she so angry at him?

"What do you want? Do you even know?" With a groan, Jack let the chair fall forward. He folded his arms on the desk and rested his forehead upon them. Damn the bitch. Damn her. He just wanted things to be as they had been, but with James in his bed and at his side. Was that so much to ask? Apparently, it was.

"Don't sound like it went well in there," Gibbs said. "What did he say?"

"Say?" she replied, "what could the fool say that I would want to hear? No, I gave him no chance to say anything. I am sick of him."

The watch was changing and James was relieved as they conferred. He climbed down slowly and stood once again at the windward rail, staring listlessly out to sea, his resolve already forgotten.

Gibbs patted Anamaria's arm and sauntered over to lean near James. After a short silence, he laid his big hand on James's shoulder. "Sometimes burdens are lightened by sharin' 'em, lad," he said.

James stiffened at the unexpected contact and frowned. "I beg your pardon, Mister Gibbs?" he said, emphasizing the 'mister' with chilling formality.

Gibbs smiled companionably. "Jest wonderin' if you were wanting to talk some."

"Thank you, Mister Gibbs," came the haughty reply, "but no thank you."

"Aye, Lieutenant," Gibbs chuckled. He was fixed with a green glare.

"What did you call me?" James demanded.

Gibbs grinned. "You put me in mind of a starched-up Lieutenant I served under once. Good man, but young, and with a stick up his arse. Ah, but we were all younger then, eh?"

James stared at him a moment longer and looked out to sea and sighed. The rigidity went out of his bearing and he shrugged, looking, if he had known it, quite as young as that lieutenant Gibbs had invoked. "It's not going to work, Josh," he said softly.

Gibbs didn't pretend to misunderstand. "You'll be leaving us, then?"

"I don't know. I suppose I must. I don't see how I can stay..."

Gibbs squeezed his shoulder and they stood in silence for some time.

James spoke again. "How do you do it, Josh? Stay with him, I mean."

"Well, lad," Gibbs replied, "for all his faults—and I ain't excusin' him, mind—he's the best of them. When I left the Navy under a cloud, as you might say, I had no real choice but piracy. No merchant vessel would hire a naval deserter. I kicked around the Caribbee a good few years before I hooked up with Jack, and some of the sights I saw... well, if I were a dreaming man I'd fear my hammock o'nights. Murder, torture as would make your hair turn grey as mine, rape—some men're no better than wild animals, as you know from huntin' 'em all these years."

James nodded.

"But Jack," the old sailor continued, "ah, he's a whole different breed, as it were. He'll rob you blind as soon as look at you, but he don't kill less'n he's forced to it. And he don't burn towns or kill babies or force the unwilling. And if he can get what he wants by trickery, then he won't fire a shot. He's a good man, in his way."

James laughed and then caught his breath on what might have been a sob. "So I had always thought," he whispered. He turned away. "Good night, Josh," he said quietly, and went aft.

In the passage he came face to face with Jack, emerging from the great cabin. They froze, and Jack seemed about to speak, but then James looked down and brushed past him and into his cabin, closing the door firmly. There was the creak of chains as he threw himself onto the cot. Jack stared at the door for a moment and continued on his way.

No one spoke to Jack as he stood, frowning, on the quarterdeck watching night fall. Shortly after full dark, he dismissed the helmsman and took the wheel. He was braced, this time, to feel no response from the Pearl, but it unnerved him just the same. After an hour he was so on edge that, when Gibbs appeared at his shoulder, he jumped.

"Evenin' Cap'n," he said, his face bland in the moonlight. "It's a fine night."

"Is it?" Jack shrugged. "I hadn't noticed."

Gibbs nodded. "Ah, it takes some folks like that," he said.

Jack eyed him. "And what does that mean, pray?"

"Oh, nothin'," Gibbs replied.

"Not you, too, Josh," Jack sighed. There was silence for time. Jack muttered a curse. "Very well," he growled at last, "have your say. What 'takes some folks like that'?"

"Pride," the older man said.

"What?"

"Or, as some'd call it, pure stubborn pig-headedness," Gibbs continued relentlessly. "What are you aiming at, Jack? If you want to drive James off the ship, why'd you bring him aboard in the first place?"

"Drive him off the ship?" Jack repeated, incredulous. "I want no such thing. You must be mad."

"Am I?" Gibbs's voice was grim. "Well, that's what you've done. He told me so himself, not two hours gone. He'll be leavin' us next time we make port."

Jack felt as if a pit had opened at his feet. "He can't," he shook his head, "he can't do that."

"He can. And he will if you don't do something about it." Gibbs let that sink in, and then added, "I've known you a long time, Jack. You're not stupid, 'cept when you act mulish." He lowered his voice. "You need him, same's you need the Pearl, as you'll admit, if you're honest." Jack shuddered. "Make it right, son. You'll never be happy, else."

There was silence for some time. Abruptly, Jack said, "Take the helm." Gibbs had barely laid his hand to the wheel when Jack was gone, down to the deck and into the cabin.

Gibbs nodded to himself. "That'll about do it," he said.

James, lying in his bunk, still wide awake, heard Jack's bootheels come thudding down the passage-way. They stopped at his door. Heart pounding, he closed his eyes and feigned sleep. After a few moments, he heard the door open and then there was a long silence. When he could bear it no longer he opened his eyes. Jack was standing just inside the doorway, staring at him. He stared back, unspeaking. Finally Jack looked away, backed out of the cabin and closed the door. James heard him enter the great cabin and he let his breath out in a tremulous sigh.

Jack leant back against the door for a moment and then went to the table and took up the rum. He glanced around for a glass and, finding none, drank from the bottle. Slowly, he sat and propped his heels on the table. The cat watched him from the sideboard, unblinking, her eyes glowing in the lamplight. He drank again and let his head fall back.

Once again he asked himself: what did he want? The answer was the same. He wanted things to be as they had been, but with James in his bed and at his side. What was wrong with that? He drank some more. Why could not James see how much he was wanted and be content?

Would you be? The question came into his head as if someone had spoken it. He scowled. Why not, he wondered. Of course he could be content thus. He tried to imagine it. Content to be merely decorative, an object of pleasure... a mistress.

Stunned, he put his feet on the floor and sat bolt upright. So that was it. He was thinking of James as he would a mistress. He was shaken by silent laughter. The thought of James, his James, as any man's mistress was so absurd that he could do naught but laugh, albeit bitterly, for some time.

Finally, Jack sat back again, grim amusement still on his face. Well, this cast rather a different light on things, didn't it? He took a long swallow of rum, and another, welcoming the burn. He was an ass. It wasn't often that he was forced to admit he'd been a fool but he had backed himself into this corner and there was no denying it.

But how was he to persuade James to stay, after what had passed? He must do so, of course; the alternative didn't bear thinking of. He shuddered and took another pull at the rum.

For a long time he sat, deep in thought, feet once again propped on the table. He saw it now, when it was almost too late: James's coming would be bound to change things, but that need not be altogether bad. And James, he was certain, had given the matter considerable thought. Hadn't he accepted the office of purser—and he the commander of the Jamaica Squadron? Then, having made his choice, what had he done but striven to play his part without overstepping his place? Jack swore under his breath. He would trust James with his life; had done, in fact, more than once. So why had he been acting as if James meant to encroach on his command?

Ruefully, he realized he should have done this thinking before James arrived. Ah well, no time like the present, eh? He had nothing else to do with his night...

Stumbling down to the main deck, he came face to face with Gibbs. Jack drew himself up and glared. "Not one word out of you, Joshamee," he said with dignity. Gibbs winked at him and held his tongue.

When Jack had gone, Gibbs chuckled. "Well, it's about time," he said to himself, and went about giving the orders to set them on the new heading.

"What's happening, Josh?"

"Captain's ordered a change of course," Gibbs replied. "To Pig Island," he added.

James stood stock still and gaped at him. "Pig Island," he repeated slowly. As the meaning sank in, his eyes lit and he clapped Gibbs on the shoulder. Then he turned and vanished through the doors to the cabins.

Now that's a sight, Gibbs thought, as'd do a body's heart good to see. He went back to work with a smile on his face.

Very slowly, James walked across the cabin. His eyes were wide and dark and Jack raised his chin defiantly to meet them. Stopping when they were just inches apart, James drew a deep breath and then hesitated.

"For me," he said, at last.

Jack nodded. "For you."

And then James's mouth was on his and James's hands were fisted in his hair and his arms were around James tight, tight, and they were laughing and kissing and tearing at each other's clothes and sinking to their knees right there, with the bed not five feet away...

When James's hand closed around him like a benediction Jack groaned. He leaned his forehead against James's shoulder, eyes closed; fumbling still—despite his growing distraction—with the other's breeches buttons. Successful at last, he took James in hand, pleased with the jerk and gasp he elicited.

Awkward as boys, they began to move—laughing breathlessly at their own hasty clumsiness even as they kissed again, tongues touching and curling, teeth clashing. Suddenly, they found their rhythm and both men gasped. Thrusting as one, foreheads together, they raced to completion.

Jack, reaching the edge first, held on for a few strokes, until, by a flick of his wrist, he was able to take James with him as he fell.

When sight and sense returned, Jack rolled his eyes toward the bed and winked. James nodded and they got to their feet. Jack stripped off his shirt, used it to wipe himself clean and took off his breeches. He stepped up behind James and wrapped his arms around him, pressing his lips to the nape of James's neck.

"James..." he whispered.

"Hmm?" James turned in his arms, one eyebrow raised.

Jack shook his head. "Just... James," he answered and James nodded.

"Just James," he agreed, as they stretched out together, "and just Jack."

"Aye," Jack sighed.

They settled into each other, lying half on their sides, legs entwined, hands languidly stroking and touching. Suddenly Jack yawned.

"Sorry, love," he said, ruefully. "Haven't slept all that well of late." He felt James's chuckle.

"Nor I," was the dry answer, "what a curious coincidence."

Jack pulled up the covers. "You'll join me in a nap, then."

James's reply was lost in a yawn. Silence fell as the Pearl rocked them to sleep.

"Yes, Jack?" James replied, calmly continuing his scrutiny before bringing his eyes up to meet Jack's. "What is it?" There was a flicker in the cool regard, as of lightning far off on a summer's night—a flash of fire—there and gone again.

Absurdly, Jack was, all of a sudden, conscious of his nakedness. He licked dry lips. "Um, how about some wine, eh?" He rolled out of the bunk on the words and padded to the table. He poured and took a swallow. Speaking over his shoulder he asked, "Do you want a glass?"

The response came from directly behind him. "No, I thank you."

Jack started and whirled around, wine slopping over his hand. How had James gotten across the cabin without making a sound? "You startled me, mate."

James smiled, the lightning flickering again in his eyes. "Did I?" he replied softly, "then perhaps you should finish your wine. It will steady your nerves."

"No, I changed my mind," Jack began, half-turning to set the glass on the table, when James closed the distance between them and looked down at him.

"I said drink it."

Jack froze. When had James grown so tall? he wondered. Although Jack was not a big man his lack of inches did not, in general, trouble him. But with James looming over him, suddenly so large and, well, daunting... his hand shook, spilling a few more drops of wine.

"Don't waste it." James's hand closed over his, gently urging the glass toward his mouth. "Go on," he said, voice deepened with amusement, "drink up."

Jack obeyed, taking a sip, another, and then draining the glass, which was removed from his slackened grasp and set down behind him. Fascinated, he watched as James took his wine-damp hand and raised it to his lips. His knees loosened as James sucked each finger in turn into his mouth before licking his knuckles clean, his palm, his wrist. He gasped.

"Look at me, Jack."

With an effort, Jack tore his gaze away from the mouth now nibbling and sucking at the webbing between his thumb and fingers and looked into James's eyes. He licked his lips again and tried to speak.

James chuckled. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?"

Helplessly, Jack began to laugh. James stepped forward, pinning him against the table. Twisting one hand in Jack's hair, he tilted his head back and smiled.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"I dreamed of a tiger," Jack replied, wincing a little as James forced his head still further back and bit at his throat. He shivered convulsively.

"And you got me," James whispered against his neck, teeth and tongue alternately nipping and soothing. "How fitting." He straightened and looked down into Jack's eyes with a hint of mockery. "How... perfect."

As James's mouth closed on his, stealing breath and reason, the world seemed turned on its head. He was Captain Jack Sparrow, pirate without peer. He was no man's prey. But this was James... "Wait, stop," he thought he said, but what came out was a breathless moan as his jaws were forced apart and his mouth ruthlessly invaded.

James thrust a knee between his legs, spreading them wide, and pressed his thigh upward. Jack struggled—he thought he struggled—but found himself rocking mindlessly against the welcome pressure.

When James turned him and bent him over the table he resisted but was overborne, crushed beneath the heavier man. After a moment, James shifted to the side and entered him with one finger. Jack bucked, trying for more. "James," he moaned.

"Shhhh," lips moved against his ear. James's fist was tangled in his hair again, holding his cheek to the smooth, lemon-smelling wood of the table. "Don't speak," James growled. Head spinning, Jack cried out wordlessly, arching his spine, as a second finger entered him, and a third; curling and stroking, sending stars shooting across his vision. The fingers paused and Jack whimpered.

"Want more?" the taunting voice asked. He tried to nod, but the hand in his hair prevented him. "Yes?" James went on, "then show me. Stop fighting."

It was only then that Jack realized his arms were trembling, braced to push him upright at the first hint of weakness or inattention in the man above him. But the man above him was James. Slowly, every instinct screaming, he relaxed his arms and slid them out and up, until they rested flat on the table above his head, palms down and fingers almost touching.

James's hand loosed its grip on his hair, and brushed it back, off his neck. "Very well, then," James murmured, kissing his nape. Jack felt his feet being nudged apart as the fingers inside him thrust and twisted one last time—he bit his lip but could not keep from whimpering softly—and then withdrew.

And then James's hands were holding him still and James's cock was pushing—ah God—pushing its way into him until he was filled to aching and he was shoving back, wanting more and more still. He could hear James's breathing harsh above him as they waited for his body to relax enough for them to move. He wriggled impatiently until James leant forward and bit down on his nape, stilling him just as he—finally—drew back and drove in again.

Slow, far too slow. Jack opened his mouth to say so but James forestalled him. "I said don't speak," he rasped in a voice that brooked no opposition, as he continued his excruciatingly slow stroking. Jack's clenching attempts to speed the pace earned him another vicious bite. With the tiny part of his mind not roiling in pleasure/frustration/submission Jack had to admire the iron control that kept him thus helpless without bringing him nearer his release. When he could stand it no more, he moved one arm, hoping to be allowed to take himself in hand, at least. But James pinned his wrists with his full weight, bit him again and issued a warning, "We do this in my time, Jack, not yours," he said, "and if you do not behave, I shall take my own pleasure and leave you unsatisfied." The threat—and Jack knew it was not an empty one—took the last of his fight and he lay panting—whimpering when he couldn't stop himself—under the pounding onslaught.

It might have been half an hour later—for all Jack could tell, it might have been days; he had long since lost all sense of anything beyond his burning body and his need—when he felt James's thrusts speed up and become shallower. He had a moment's panicked fear that James did indeed mean to leave him unsated before a hand closed around his aching cock, stroking him hard. He cried out hoarsely, gasping and shuddering, almost weeping with the force of his release, even as he heard James's groan, felt him go rigid, and then fall forward atop him. And then he knew no more.

When Jack regained his senses, he was in his bed, with James curled against his back. He had no memory of getting there, but he was too weary to care very much. James slipped an arm around his waist and drew him close. He closed his eyes and sighed.

"I deserved that," he said.

James ran a gentle hand over his bitten shoulder. "You did," he replied softly, kissing the back of his neck. "Now go to sleep."

"Aye, aye, Commodore," Jack murmured, already half asleep. He felt James chuckle.

Asleep, he looked, Jack thought, even younger than his 35 years, despite the inevitable weathering of a life spent at sea. His skin, so much paler than Jack's, showed only the faintest tan—in the few places that James's erstwhile uniform had allowed the sun to touch him. His hair had fallen across his forehead and Jack resisted the urge to brush it back, not wishing to wake him just yet.

The cut on his cheek was healing cleanly, Jack noted, but would leave him with a scar. It would add a rakish, piratical—he grinned to himself—touch to James's rather patrician good looks.

Jack leaned on one elbow and studied the sleeping body beside him. James carried remarkably few scars, he thought, considering his long career as a military man. This was due in part to his skill as a tactician, of course. Not many of James's battles had required boarding, as his seamanship had often given him the victory without resorting to a maneuver that was so wasteful of his men's lives.

Not that he wasn't formidable hand to hand when the occasion offered—quite the contrary. Jack shifted, wincing a bit. He would ache for some time, he reflected bemusedly, in consequence of James's latest 'boarding.' His play on words made him chuckle and at the sound James opened his eyes.

For a moment they watched each other; then James smiled a sweet, sleepy smile and reached up to pull Jack down for a kiss. Jack released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He touched his fingers lightly to James's cheek. "When that begins to itch," he said, "See Gibbs. He has a salve that works wonders."

James nodded. "I'll keep that in mind." He smiled again.

"Just don't, whatever you do, ask him where he got it," Jack rolled his eyes. "Unless you've naught to do for an hour or more." They laughed.

James stretched, and licked his lips.

"Fancy some wine?" Jack asked.

James nodded. "I do," he replied.

"Good. Just bring me a glass when you come back would you?" said Jack, flopping down and grinning at him. "Last time I was over there, things got a mite... interesting. Not sure I want to risk it."

James's laugh sounded startled. "Don't tell me Captain Jack Sparrow has learnt caution," he said, "for I shan't believe you."

"Then let's just say he's wary of meeting the Commodore again so soon," Jack grinned.

For an instant the lightning was back in James's eyes. Jack fought down a shiver. "Perhaps that is wise," James replied. He climbed over Jack—stopping on the way to kiss him again—and went to the table, returning with the decanter and two glasses. Jack scooted over to give him room to sit. James poured and they drank in silence.

Jack laid his palm on the small of James's back and stroked slowly upward and then back down, up and down, over and over. James arched into the touch. "Don't stop," he said.

"Lie down, love," Jack replied. "Let me do this properly."

James set his glass on the decking and swung his legs into the bed, lying facedown. Jack knelt over him, straddling his hips and leaned forward, stroking and kneading James's shoulders. Gradually he worked his way down his spine, soothing and loosening tense muscles as he went.

James hummed with pleasure and then sighed. "Where did you learn to do that, again?"

"Singapore," Jack answered, without stopping what he was doing. "I told you the story, remember?"

"Yes, but it sounded like balderdash." James chuckled, "and I dismissed it as nonsense."

Jack grinned. "The Commodore dismissed it. I'll venture to guess that plain James Norrington is more inclined to believe me, eh?"

"Demonstrations are always more convincing than tales," James agreed.

"But then," Jack continued, a sly smile glinting, "The Commodore always was a starched-up, untrusting sort... "

James rolled over, half-laughing, and unseated Jack. "Why must we talk of the Commodore?" he asked.

Jack laughed back at him. "All a diversionary tactic, intended to distract while I work my wiles."

James frowned. "Bugger the Commodore."

"Aye, well, that's the general idea."

"I might have known."

"Yes, you might—needle-witted as you are. Now, then," Jack said, pushing James flat and straddling his waist, "About that buggery... "

James assumed an air of patient martyrdom. "Very well, if you must," he sighed. He closed his eyes. "Wake me when you are finished."

"Humbug," Jack chuckled, leaning down until his lips brushed James's mouth. "I'll wager I can make you change that tune."

"Done."

"Shhhhh. I'm sleeping."

"You weren't sleeping a minute ago."

"I was. I've been asleep for ages."

"Oh? And do you always say things like 'Oh god... Jack... harder' in your sleep?"

"Frequently. Or so I am told."

"Liar."

"Shut up, Jack."

"Hmmmm?"

"Hungry?"

"Famished."

"Me, too. Let's go see what the galley has for us."

They dressed in shirts and breeches and headed forward. They were greeted with smiles from most of the men they passed. James saw Gibbs wink in their direction, although Jack pretended not to notice.

The cook provided them with bowls of stew and they sat to eat. James had last eaten, lightly, the afternoon before and he found it delicious after his long fast; Jack appeared to do the same, going back for a second helping and wasting no time on conversation. Queen Mab rubbed, purring, against their legs and James gave her his bowl to lick. The cook shook his head.

The sound of a fiddle being tuned made them look up. Jack grinned. "Shall we?" he asked. James smiled and they headed out on deck.

As on the previous occasion, nearly all the crew was gathered to hear Tommy play. Jack led the way aft and sat on the uppermost of the steps leading to the quarterdeck, high enough to see over the crowd. James allowed himself to be pulled to a seat on the step just below, between Jack's knees.

He listened with pleasure as the fiddler played several jigs and reels. As before, men danced and clapped along. The rum went around. Gibbs told one of his comical tales, swearing, despite the good-natured scoffing of his audience, that it was gospel truth. Tommy played again. There was a pause as he retuned. Jack sat up—he had been lounging with his elbows on the deck behind him—and whispered to James, "Watch this." Then he raised his voice.

"Gentlemen, I've an announcement to make."

Heads turned in their direction. James wondered what was coming. Jack waited until he had their full attention, then went on. "I've decided to make Mister Norrington here supercargo of the Pearl."

James stiffened in shock, but Jack's hand came to rest on his shoulder with a warning squeeze, and he sat still.

There was a general muttering and then someone asked, "And what's that, when it's at home?"

"He's the officer in charge of the buying and selling of cargo," Jack explained. "If we're to have a go at trading out East, we'll need someone to keep order."

"Trade? We're pirates!" someone else exclaimed. It was clear to James that some, at least, had not believed Jack's talk of trade to be sincere.

Jack was nodding. "We are, mates, and that won't change. Think about it. Trading—the way some folks does it—ain't so very far removed from piracy, eh?" He winked and some of the men laughed. "Only traders don't risk life and limb for their plunder."

"'Cept when pirates get 'em," came the reply.

"Ah, but we're no helpless merchant vessel, lads. Any pirate that thinks the Pearl's easy pickings would get a nasty surprise," Jack said. James, watching the faces before him, could see that Jack had begun to catch their imaginations.

"But what will we be trading?" was the next question.

"We'll take them a cargo of sugar, coffee and rum," Jack replied.

"And where will we get that?" A few of the doubters looked hopeful, as if they saw the familiar comfort of raids in their future. But Jack surprised them once again.

"We buy it," he said.

There was an outburst of confusion. "Buy it!" and "With what?" and "I ain't payin' fer naught." For all that it might have sounded like the ugly situation of the other day, James felt the difference. It was not mutiny; these were men willing to be convinced.

Jack held up his hands for silence. "No worries, gentlemen. I've given thought to the matter." He grinned. "We'll use the loot forfeited by Tearlach and his mates to buy our trade goods. What say you to that?"

Laughter broke out, mixed with a few cheers. "Bloody clever!" someone shouted and Jack bowed, laughing with them.

As the noise abated, young Jenkins spoke up, perplexity and some embarrassment on his face. "One more thing, Cap'n—and beggin' your pardon, Mister Norrington—but do you mean to give him charge of our money as well?" he asked. "I don't fancy any but me holding my own, if you take my meaning." He shrugged apologetically.

Some nodded in agreement. "Good question, lad," they said. "Aye, what about that?"

Jack shook his head. "What's yours is yours. No man can touch it, or will. A supercargo minds the trade goods—what we pay for them and what we make on them—so when the time comes we know how much profit we have to share out."

"You mean to share the profit?" Blank surprise at the unconventional idea left them gaping.

"How else, my friends?" Jack said, and James heard how pleased he was to have astonished them yet again. "Ain't it in the Articles? One man, one share; same as ever."

Slowly, smiles were growing. Some were chuckling. He had them now. Jack sat forward, pressing his chest to James's back and draping an arm over his shoulder. James could feel him laughing under his breath.

"Puts a rather different face on it, eh men?" he said. A chorus of ayes answered him. One or two cheered.

"You've talked us into it, Cap'n," Duncan called, from his seat atop the capstan. "But then, you could likely sell toasting forks to the Devil himself." There was a roar of laughter at this sally.

"And have done," Jack grinned. "Very well, then. It's settled." He nodded to the fiddler. "Tommy, let's have another tune, if you please."

Before Tommy could begin old Giddings stood. "Just one more thing," he cried. "Three cheers for Cap'n Sparrow!"

Jenkins piped up. "And Mister Norrington!"

When the cheers rang out, Jack drew James close and spoke in his ear. "For you," he said.

James nodded and leaned his head back against Jack's shoulder. As the music started, he brought his hand up and laced his fingers with Jack's where they lay across his chest. "For me," he replied.

Dark fell as they sat, unmoving, listening to the music. More than one smile was cast their way, but, lapped in contentment, they never noticed.

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