PV08: A Bird With a Faulty Compass

Rating: R
Disclaimers: The Rodent Empire owns them. We pilfer.
Originally Posted: 6/16/06
Note: Our sincerest and hearty thanks to smtfhw for her excellent beta. Warnings: Potential spoilerish appearances for those who are adamant
Summary: Hangovers and confusion make for consequences, as shoreleave ends and the Chimaera sails once more.

"UP, YE SCURVY BUGGERS! YE SLIMY BILGE RATS SURE AS HELL AREN'T GOING TO SLEEP IN! "

Jack snorted himself awake and winced; his head ached, his mouth felt full of sawdust and he distinctly remembered something very embarrassing that had to do with his stuffed nose and heavy eyes. He glared at the door.

"Good morning, Jack. Was that an invitation?" James teased in a low voice, then it rose into that of a Captain trained to shout orders over a raging storm. "AND A BLOODY HORRIBLE MORNING TO YOU, MR. GRIFFIN!"

Jack gripped his head in both hands. "Shaddup! Hellacious way to wake a body." He crawled across the floor until he found the table, his eyes screwed shut against the light.

Outside the door, one of Griffin's cronies snickered. "Bet you lot've had loads o'time t'bugger each other stupid!" The laughter was cut short by Jack's flask clattering against the door.

"Least we both can rise to the occasion. Sure you ain't a eunuch?" Jack wasn't exactly shouting, but it carried as he fumbled for a glass and poured enough rum to ease his aching head. If his stomach went on him, he swore he'd fill the piss bucket and dump it in Griffin's hammock.

He gulped down a good half-glass and leaned against the table leg, staring at James through bloodshot slits mired in runny kohl.

The laughter outside faded into grumbling, and there was a last kick to the door before their waking party stomped topside.

James found a washstand, took a towel, wet it thoroughly and tossed it at Jack. "Here. I take it a question as to how you are feeling would not be taken well?"

Jack pressed it to his forehead. "Not a subject for polite conversation, mate. Lord, my head's hurtin'. Wot in hell did I do last night?"

Confronting Jack with the full truth might not be wise, not when it was such a matter that, even sober, had to be too close for comfort. James hesitated. "You drank yourself senseless and got a little, shall we say, outraged. You know, if you had wanted to trade your share of the sausages for my part of the rum, you could have just asked." His tone was light, teasing.

"Ugh. I feel like three leagues in a Bermuda gale." Jack swiped the towel over his face, leaving black streaks and staring at them. "Jamie, did I go off? And when the hell are they gettin' back and please," he held up one hand. "don't talk about sausages or I'll need that bucket."

"Please don't. There is some fresh air getting in here now, but I don't think that smell would be purged soon." James was grinning, half-mocking the hangover, half-sympathetic. "You were a little sentimental and home-sick, but that comes with the amount you drank." His voice was matter-of-fact, brushing the incident aside, relieved by the distraction of voices topside, of the crew getting back aboard. "If we put out with the morning tide, I wager they will let us out a few hours hence."

"Wonderful. Can't they do it quietly?" Jack complained and tossed back the rest of the rum. "Sorry about that, luv. I hate close cabins. They always bring out the worst in me, t'be sure." His eyes were clearing and at last opened fully. "Well, there isn't any blood so apparently, I didn't do anythin' too stupid. Sorry, James." He rested his head against the table leg and twirled the glass between his fingers. "Hope the bleedin' fools remembered t'get some warm duds. If we're headin' round the Cape, we'll need 'em."

James busied himself with his own breakfast, a good part of a sausage and ship's biscuit, soaked in water to make it chewable. He grinned knowingly, brushing Jack's concern aside with a dismissive wave of one hand.

"I do think they have. Hamilton might be rash and not one of the most honest, but he isn't that stupid and unprepared to venture the Cape unequipped. And," he chewed on another bite, "Berkely's been 'round the Cape before, with another ship. I don't think he'll have forgotten the cold. Don't think anyone does."

"Bloody Irishman'll probably keep warm with all the whisky he's got in his cabin," Jack muttered darkly. The Chimaera gave a lurch and his head rose. "We're off, then." He could feel her shimmy as she caught the wind astern.

"Whisky gives a worse head than rum. There is no call to be jealous," James laughed softly and knelt down beside him. "You should know well enough that to sail 'round the Cape, it is better to remain sober, and I, for one, hope that both the Captain and the pilot will be." He stroked two fingers along Jack's jawline, the swollen lips. "And you should know just as well that there are other ways of keeping warm."

Jack cracked a grin. "So I didn't manage t'make you wanna slap me? I usually do, y'know." His eyes were still heavy and bloodshot, but he was evidently feeling much more himself as he pulled James close for a quick kiss.

James blushed. "Actually, I hit you. Twice. But not because I was angry. I should have remembered that you are so used to slapping that it has little effect." He went to refill the glass with water and fetched more biscuit. "Here, you should try to get some of that down. Settles the stomach."

Jack shook his head. "Thanks, but I wouldn't have a prayer of keepin' it down. Just more rum and I promise not t'bolt it." He pushed himself to his feet and pressed one eye to the casement. "We're makin good time already. You hit me?" He turned to face James. "Wot in blazes did I do?"

James rolled his eyes but splashed rum into the water before handing it to Jack. "You worked yourself into a temper and paced the cabin like a wild cat. And I had to stop you from demolishing the casements completely."

Jack grunted. "One of those. Musta been dreamin' again." He took the water and drank without complaint; it made the desert in his mouth recede a little. "So wot's in the books? Anything worth readin'?"

"Unless you have begun worrying about your salvation and your undying soul without telling me, no." James stretched and had a look at his shoulder. The stitches could be pulled soon. It throbbed a little from steadying Jack yesterday, but it was only a dull ache. "Must have been one hell of a nightmare," he ventured.

The dark eyes squeezed shut. "Ya got that one right, mate. It were." He lips quivered into a smile as he pushed the thought of the Pearl into the back of his mind, then stopped suddenly. "James, I didn't say anythin' really crazy, did I?"

James began shaking his head, then stopped, and his lips tensed. "There was one thing you said that I didn't understand. As though you didn't say it to me." He knelt again, face-to-face with Jack, eyes clear and searching. "You were drunk. You might be able to stomach more than most, but it happens to the best of us."

Jack's brow furrowed. "I know I were drunk. I were shite-in-the-face senseless, mate. Wot did I say?"

"Something about a Bill, and someone slaughtering the lot." James' face was set in concern. "I don't rightly remember. You were so upset, I could have misheard you." He knew what he had heard, but the memory seemed to sit so deep that he couldn't force Jack to speak of it.

Jack groaned. "Figgers. I always go a bit off when I dream 'bout that." He looked at James ruefully, the words slow, as if pulled from the depths of his reluctance. "The mutiny, luv. Still get a trifle mad. Bill, that woulda been Bootstrap. Young Turner's da." He closed his eyes and drank more of the water. "Probably was babblin' like a madman, aye?"

James bit his lip and shook his head. "You spoke of not hearing her, and I assume you meant the Pearl." He put an arm around Jack's shoulder, attempting reassurance. He'd seen how deeply Jack was shaken and was not fool enough to think it was gone now. "I promised that you would get back to her. And I still mean that."

Jack's grin was lopsided and rather sad. “'Twas a stupid thing t'do, fallin' over like that. I didn't expect pressgangs in Tortuga." He was listening with his heart, and she was there, faint, laughing and calling to him the same way she had all those years. Losing her again to drunken folly was humiliating, but her laughter was teasing, not scornful. He nestled against James. "Thanks." The word was low, boring through hurt pride and discomfort.

"That's what a friend is there for, isn't it?" It still felt strange to use the word aloud, but less so than James had thought. "We were both out of luck when we got into this mess, but we'll return home. A better chance in Bombay, remember?" He laughed softly and pulled Jack to his feet. "Would you like to sleep a little longer?"

Jack winked at him. "Friends? Us? Y'know, luv, they'll think I'm bloody contagious when we get back, if you go 'round sayin' things like that," he teased. "No more sleepin'. It'll just make me head ache more. I could use a bit more rum and maybe..." The dark eyes twinkled, one finger tracing a line down the open collar of James' filthy shirt.

James' eyebrows shot up and he grinned. "Halvsies of everything, remember? That includes madness. But-" his grin widened until it showed teeth. "We won't have that bunk for much longer. Better use it." Very pragmatic, James Norrington, a little voice in his head whispered sarcastically, but he hushed it and pushed Jack down on the bunk.

Jack laughed, groaning at the stab in his head, and shifted to make room. "You really are as barmy as me, under all that brocade. Wait a minute! That's my foot!" They tussled to find a comfortable way to wedge themselves together, which left them face to face. Never one to waste an opportune moment, Jack took advantage of it: hangover or not, he wasn't dead.

James now knew exactly where the slipknot of Jack's breeches was, and it fell open under his insistent fingers. He pulled the rough fabric down and grabbed the hard flesh he had freed, gasping into their kiss.

Jack made one of those maddening little whimpers and his fingers worked at the buttons of James' breeches. He had just managed to get into the waistband, thrusting his prick into James' hand and tongue into his mouth when the door banged open.

Hamilton laughed, long as hard, as James started and fell off the narrow bunk, leaving Jack to stare, his hand mid-air, his prick stiff. "Well now, I'd a hunch you two would make use o' the time. Norbury, cover yer bum. Ya can take wha'ere is left o' the rum and share it below."

Jack would cheerfully have traded the rum for another ten minutes of privacy but he grinned. "We were wonderin' how long you'd leave us in here, Cap'n."

James scrambled to his feet and pulled his breeches up, stifling a groan as he buttoned the tight fabric over his not-quite faded arousal. He had to remind himself that to be caught here meant only embarrassment, not death, but his cheeks were crimson, and not with excitement. He straightened and composed himself. "I trust the restocking went as planned, Sir?"

"Aye, it did. An' which one o' you went an' busted th' window? Spanish, yer gonna fix that right quick."

Jack stuffed himself into his breeches and reached around to pull the slipknot tight. “Aye, sir. Needed a breath of air, sir." He winked at James with another cheeky grin.

James' eyes were still flickering wildly, and he settled for glaring at Jack. Eventually, his gaze met Hamitlon's, and he wished he could stop thinking alternately about the humiliation and of how hard he still was. His hands were clasped behind his back, knuckles white.

"Alright, you two. Get out o' the honeymoon suite an' take the cask with ya to the galley." Hamilton raised an eyebrow at the barely-touched sausages. "An' take them back t'Cookie, since they didn't seem t'suit yer fine tastes. Now, off with ya."

He grinned at James' blushing face and grabbed Jack by the arm as he passed. "Nice trick with tha' knot, Spanish." He gave it a tug, and Jack glared, struggling to keep his breeches up and carry the sausages as they trudged down to the galley.

Whistles, cheers, and shouts greeted them, hands groping for Jack's arse and both their breeches. "Come t'share?"

"Making us watch ye shaggin' is nasty braggin'! Yer lucky we just had shoreleave!"

"Nice arse, Spanish! Did he shag ye so senseless that ye forgot how t'close yer britches, or are they jest worn through?"

James put the cask down, trying to keep Jack covered by standing in front of him and glared, but the blush rather diminished its efficiency.

Jack hitched his britches up from behind and waggled the sausages in the other hand suggestively. One tucked under his arm, he lunged at the startled Cookie. "Hey, Cooks, Cap'n told us to bring these back t'you. Couldn't eat 'em, we missed yer cookin' so much. Can we share 'em, aye?"

The wizened old cook beamed as though his mother had just been asked to the Court of St. James and nodded.

Jack slammed them down on the table and stuck a knife in one. "Now, you know, lads, we had to spend our time locked up doin' somethin', while you lot were all havin' such fun. We got the rest o'this cask and these. So how 'bout you tell us all about port and have a drink?"

Bertie tossed two shirts at James. "There, go'n' take care that yer mate's dressed civilly. Far too distracting, that."

James caught them and turned to close Jack's breeches. Then he pulled off the shortened rag that had served as shirt and pulled the new one over Jack's head.

At least Bertie hadn't used this opportunity for a prank, the matter of clothes for rounding the Cape was too serious. "That'll help keeping you warm." His hand was on Jack's waist, pressing lightly.

Jack looked honestly surprised, possibly for the first time in his dishonest life. He looked from Bertie to James in confusion. "Wot's this? Wot did you two do?" Jackson was bragging about something that sounded interesting to his left, but he watched James curiously.

"I can't have you run around in this short rag and catch a chill, can I?" James' hand lingered in the open collar, a soft brush that ran up to Jack's neck.

James waved a dismissive hand and grinned expectantly. "You ruined yours for me. I thought I'd take care that you get a new one."

Jack looked up at James from under his hair. The mask fell away a little in his eyes. "We can't pay for 'em. Why?" He glanced at Berthot. The new shirt, made to one size, was much too big and hung like a child's nightdress to his knees, but it was good, strong linen and well-sewn. From the look on his face, either of them might have given him a welcome but unexpected treasure chest.

James grinned and gave Jack a quick kiss. "We can. Shares from the raid, remember? Thought I'd put mine to something useful."

For once, Jack ignored an audience, his eyes locked to James, deep with a gratitude that burst through all his bravado, followed closely by a wink and a coy grin. "You're just tryin' t'cover up me charms, mate! Thank you. Both o' you. I did feel a bit of a prat runnin' round like that."

"I do not think that was the fault of the shirt," James teased. He pulled on his own, balling up the pink rag, determined to save it for emergencies. "But yes, your charms have to be covered. Else it would be too much like the basilisk glance, and we would run aground."

Jack blinked at him. There was a sudden lull in the conversations around them, most staring at James with confused eyes. Jack's shifted restlessly. "Basilisks bein' strange beasties an' all." He grinned. "So lads, tell us about yer leave? I wanna hear it all."

The lewd and obscene comments faded into cheers, and more quickly than ever, the group collected around the crowded table, laughing and cheering even louder as the rum was shared out. "Had the finest brothel ashore, 'least it seemed so after these weeks."

Jack sat down and toyed with his mug. "Were it filled with gorgeous fillies in silk, and rooms like a palace?" He looked at them like Matthew begging for a story.

"Eh, Spanish, don't overdo them expectations! Women and a room or a wall, 's all ye need! Floor does it, too, but the lasses be no fond of that."

Jack leaned forward, his eyes bewitching. "Ahhh, just wait till you get t'Bombay. I swear, ya never seen such women. Places with spangled cushions and a dozen of 'em attending yer every twitch. You lot are in fer a treat."

Jackson shook his head derisively. "I don't believe a word o' that. How'd a bugger like you know?"

Jack's eyes slid back to James, sly and appraising, laughing, impossible to read. "Oh, there's lots o' fish in the sea. And many a way t'try 'em out before you find one ya like, aye?"

"So ye particularly enjoy the fish what wriggle th'most?" A quick grope for James' arse and his evasive movement proved that.

James had only half-listened to the conversation. He was blindingly aware of his slip now, although he'd never have thought of it before. It had seemed the normal, the logical classical allusion to make, and any officer would have understood it.

He waited until the laughter had faded a bit and Shadlow had started a new tale to lean close to Jack and whisper, "Did I go blind from being too exposed to your charms?"

Jack shook away a perverse feeling he was being pawed. "You went an' bought on credit, mate. That's better than a parson in some places."

"Ah, but the bloody ivory already is in the Chimaera's hold. If she sinks, Bertie will have other worries than the price of two shirts." He had bent close, and it was really too opportune a moment to waste. He briefly kissed Jack's neck.

Jack pulled away before James felt him shudder. He returned an off-hand kiss and wandered off to wheedle more grog out of Cookie and deliver his carving for safekeeping. He was feeling uncomfortably contrary and looked for distraction.

It was another spontaneous celebration, and Shadlow seemed particularly proud to tell of young Matthew's adventures, who'd hired his first whore and ended up sitting on her lap for a song.

Jack joined in wholeheartedly, singing along and jumping on the table to raise the new shirt in an imitation of the Bombay dancers, making a complete ass of himself, until the group began to dwindle. He went over to Berkely with a fresh-filled mug. "Have a good time, luv."

He glanced over his shoulder to make sure James was fully distracted by Jackson's entrancing story.

"In th'right port, a girl's arms are open to anyone with the right bit of shine, aye?" Berkely winked. "Some of us may've t'pay fer it, but that don't make it no worse. Least we get to pull up our britches afterwards. Lest there were too much rum before."

He laughed." Got ye a l'il somethin'. Noticed ye'd been using this, and the lass that was selling it said it's the best kind." He pressed a small vial into Jack's palm.

Jack looked down at the kohl, his mouth half-open, then back up, his heart in his eyes. It belonged to someone else, but that didn't make the look any less true.

"You didn't have t'do that, luv. Thank you." His laugh faltered. "Feels like Christmas 'round here. I'll have to miss shoreleaves more often." The smile faded, and he looked tired, hunted. "Berks, thanks. Really. You're too good, y'know that." His fingers closed around the vial.

Berkely clapped a heavy hand on his back. "Ain't nuthin' wrong with that, 's there? Ye did yer work like any other and woulda deserved th'leave. Bit of a consolation prize."

James was sitting in the corner, where Nevill made use of his mild inebriation to pull the stitches. He stood up and moved the arm, wincing a bit as he lifted it over his head, and grinned at Jack.

Jack had to drag his gaze back to Berkely. He smiled again, a little of last night's pain fleeting across his face. "Thank you, mate. You're a right man."

Berkely grinned crookedly. "Oh, and yer sister will stop cryin' her eyes out 'bout ye soon if she still be working in yon tavern. Maybe she's found a new sweetheart." He winked. "And before ye get back t'yer Jamie, there be something I want to ask of ye."

Jack exhaled the breath he'd been holding for two days. His eyes drifted towards where James sat, laughing and joking, a man he couldn't have imagined under the Naval braid. When his gaze returned, it was wide and wary. "Anythin', luv. Anythin' at all."

Berkely cocked his head and rolled his eyes. A few seconds passed, then he lifted his hand to one of Jack's braids, one with a gleaming bit of blue stone braided into it, tugging lightly. "I'd like this one. 'Minds me of someone I knew. Had black hair, too, ‘n' eyes just that colour."

Jack closed his eyes, just for a moment, remembering when that particular bit of jetsam had entered his personal diary, so many years ago, when he'd been in the seventeenth summer he saw reflected in Berkely's eyes. The girl who had braided it in had been even younger, her laughter saying what language could not breach.

His grin widened and he plucked the knife from Berkely's belt and sawed at the braid. It cut free, leaving a curling tuft next to his cheek, as he laid it in Berkely's broad palm. "Musta been a very special someone, mate."

Jack wasn't a fool. He knew that look and wished he could return it, but his dreams were too full of infuriating green eyes that changed from fire to ice like a tide. It made him feel nervy, possessed. "Thank you."

James watched from afar, his eyebrows knotting into a frown and one hand unconsciously lifted to the braid in his hair, tugging at the coin.

Berkely had dropped the braid into his pocket and his crooked smile widened as he whispered, "Yer mate's looking a mite bit testy 'gain if yer asking me."

"Oh Lord, not again!" Jack laughed and glanced nervously at James, then turned back to the table, grinning and ready to join in the fun. He slid next to James, refilling his mug from the fast-diminishing cask. "Wot'd I miss now? Damn, I can't keep up with you lot!"

An arm slid behind his back and lodged firmly, very firmly, around his waist, pulling him snugly against James.

"You are merely worried about missing out on the rum." Indeed, the cask was nigh empty. Jack had put quite a dent into it, and now a good two dozen of men had been at it, apparently as bottomless as Jack himself.

Jack guzzled down the rest of his mug. "And wot, pray tell, is wrong with that? “

Bertie laughed. "Well, yer Jamie took good care that there is one less to guzzle it." He lifted his mug towards James. "I don't know what ye said t'Wheldon, but I for one am glad he stayed in Dakar." His voice was indifferent but his eyes met Berkely's over their heads for a second in grim satisfaction.

He stared at James, brow furrowed. "And wot did you say, luv, t'make him run off like that?"

"Slipped the ship last night and weren't found again. We even checked under all the skirts, not that..." Bertie's voice trailed off as he saw how Jack's eyes were fixed on James and ignored the surruptitious kick Berkely gave him under the table.

James' face tensed and he nibbled at the inside of his lip, silent for a moment. "I told him to keep his slimy paws to himself, else he would have to answer to me."

Jack's lips forced themselves into a grin and he shrugged. "Without waiting for his share, too? Musta been some princess that kept him landlocked."

He bounced to his feet. “Let's go topside. I wanna breathe a little fresh air after two days locked away in that bloody cabin." He tugged at James' sleeve insistently. "C'mon, they'll chase us away fast enough. Besides," he grinned. "I wanna see the moon."

"So you can howl at it?" The laughter roared in James' head and he'd had more of the rum than was his habit. To go topside for fresh air wasn't a bad idea. "Very well then." He staggered against Jack and slipped his arm tightly around his waist again.

“'Tis a wonder ye can even walk after two days in that cabin! Mustn't be much in th'britches! Or yer prayers got a special angel takin' ‘em up to heaven."

Jack punched Jackson's arm. "Savin' 'em for Sunday services, mate." He pressed his hands together. "Dominus vobiscum." His dirty finger traced a wavering cross in the air. "C'mon, Jamie."

He bounded up the steps to emerge into fresh night air, warmer than belowdecks where the ocean seeped her cold blood into the bones. His thoughts skipped over the water, tracing the moonlight, from the letter and Berkely to James, the new shirt, Wheldon, inexorably towards the Pearl. He grinned at Venus and blew her a kiss, but he felt dark and confused and the grin was rather strained.

James walked up beside him and leaned against the railing, letting the wind cool his face, suddenly acutely aware of everything, despite being more than a little inebriated. His fingers were still lodged around Jack's waist, keeping him quite close. He let them slide up, stroking along his side.

"Must you make a spectacle of everything? Of faith, of seeing the stars... of giving Berkely one of your braids? What need of it does he have?"

Jack started, then laughed, twitching. His head was a jumble, the Pearl's voice in it shrill. He couldn't breathe. "Ah, that, " he sighed. No sense telling James about the letter until the opportune moment. Jack was too used to playing his cards impossibly close to the vest. "Nothin' but a sailor's whim. He's been good to us and I'm afraid I were a bit of a tease." His voice was airy, but he chose his words carefully.

Above them, the half-moon spilled her bucket of light across the water and he smiled at the silver wavelets. They changed all the time, but were endless.

"You, Jack, are a tease at any given moment, so I shouldn't be surprised." James wasn't surprised. He was angry. Why, he didn't quite know. Perhaps because he had thought of the braid in his hair as a peculiar, if very personal gift. If Jack gave his trinkets away on a whim, what value could such a gift possibly hold? The thought made him scowl.

Being jealous over such a trifle was ridiculous, and he had no call to be, so he said nothing more, just pressed closer, trapping Jack against the bulwark with his body, kissing him.

Jack waited in silence, until Deacon passed them with a glare. "Y'know James, that bugger'd make a chore outta singing fer the angels."

"It is for him, probably. And the gun's fire probably is the finest greeting to the Lord as far as he is concerned. Not to mention that he certainly does not approve of us living in sin." James grinned darkly and let his hand slip lower, caressing just barely under the waistband of Jack's breeches, leaning forward to nip at Jack's ear, then the soft skin below that he knew was particularly sensitive.

Jack stiffened and turned away. Here was James, the proper Commodore almost a ghost, his prim and ordered features lost beneath a browned face and lust-filled eyes. Jack almost missed him. "Want t'thank you for the duds. Most good of you. I felt like one o'them froggie cheesemakers. " He edged closer to the rail, his breath coming up short again.

Who was James Norrington to know just where it felt so delicious to have warm breath and lips against his skin?

James followed and renewed his hold with a playful grin, leaning against Jack and the rail with a sigh. "You're welcome. I couldn't have you run about like that when rounding the cape, could I?" His breath, once more, was hot and rum-fuelled against Jack's neck. "I did promise to keep you warm, after all."

He nipped, then let lips and hands wander, one tangled into Jack's hair, brushing the sad remainders of the braid he had given Berkely out of his face.

Jack squirmed against the grip and leaned over the rail, panting. "Stop it...don't want 'em chasin' us below. You, my dear James, are well on yer way to becomin' quite the pirate. Sure it's not in yer blood somewhere? A rogue granddad or that uncle you never speak about?" He shifted so he could see James' face, wobbling and wavering in the moonlight.

James worked one leg between Jack's and shook his head. "My uncle was a gentleman, and the one to enable me to go to sea in the first place. And I am certain that there is no pirate in my blood, although a certain one manages to heat it quite well." He emphasised his words by thrusting against Jack's thigh, one hand pressed against the front of his breeches.

The rail pressed against his spine, he was trapped between James' insistent prick and the confines of the Chimaera. Jack broke away with a soft sound, shrinking into the prow, his eyes unreadable. "Gonna make an honest woman of me? You overwhelm me with yer ardor, luv."

James pulled back, eyes widened in confusion, then he shrugged and grinned, returning his tongue to the spot at Jack's collarbone that always made him squirm. "I hold no hopes of making you honest, but I do intend to make you mine."

Jack gulped at the word, and his voice was muffled, burrowed into the tight arc of the bow. It wasn't that he didn't like it. He did and that was what made him feel so suffocated. He felt helpless and angry about feeling helpless, and that, for Jack, was unforgivable. A parade of thoughts marched through his head; Wheldon's eyes, his own fear, James' anger, green eyes, safety, and disgust at his own inability to protect himself that made him shake. "Wot is it, James? You've got what you want."

James pulled away, still looming over Jack, his hand light on Jack's hip. "What I want?" He blinked and laughed shyly. "Why, you. You wanted me to say it?" Jack didn't smile in return and James' confusion turned into worry. "Did I hurt you again?"

Jack choked. "No, you didn't hurt me." He turned back, his eyes glittering and dangerous. "I belong to no man. I didn't spend my whole life outside of your world to cave an' simper at yer feet if you pull my hair." He was shuddery, his voice flat. "I'm not any man's cooin' bitch, not for safety, not even for my life."

He stopped and turned back to the moonlight, his breath coming hard and fast. He didn't mean what he said, yet there was a kernal of truth in it. Two days of lockup and now this, and his head was aching. He couldn't see the moon. She swam in his eyes, and any anger left melted into the silvered waves.

James warily pulled away and took a half-step back, staring at Jack. "What? I never meant or thought that." Had he taken too much for granted, a manner of right taken from a lie whose truth lay only in a convenient way to slake one's lust?

Worse, had even that been only a trade for safety, and now that Wheldon was gone, Jack no longer needed his protection? He had thought that he made it clear that he would never put such a condition. But obviously, Jack hadn't understood at all, hadn't understood that he would never do that. His voice was low and soft, without inflection but for a soft tremble. "My apologies. I had no right."

"Oh shut up, willya! You had every right and none at all." Jack forced himself to whisper and sucked in a breath. "I'm bloody drunk. Just leave me be."

He raised one hand to his face. It was wet and he couldn't understand how it could be wet. The Chimaera was making good time, but not so fast as to send the spray flying. He wanted to get uproariously drunk and sleep it off on the deck. But not this deck. He stifled a moan, the sound of a wounded animal. "Never mind me, James. Just a little crazy with the moonlight." His hand reached out, warily, ready to be snatched back at a moment's notice.

James' face hardened as he stared out at the waves. Played for a fool, and by himself most of all. "Very well then. I will get below."

He turned to walk away, then stopped again, speaking into the darkness rather than to Jack's accusing face. "Just one thing. In this, I have never considered you anything but an equal." With those words, he was truly gone, disappearing through the hatch and back to his hammock, lying awake and staring at the beams.

Jack's hand fell to his side. He turned and leaned far out over the rail, his eyes following the silver line of moonlight until it blurred into a kind of rain, and he shook himself. He moved soundlessly, down to their berth and stood for a moment, watching James in the gloom, trying to order his own thoughts. He crept down to the hold, curled up with his cask and tried to remember the last time he had cried. The mutiny? So many tears over that. Bill? More still. He fell asleep, to the last denying his running nose and eyes.

James was stiff and sore the next morning, rolling out of his hammock unwillingly. His first glance was at the hammock next to him. It was empty. All the better. It meant he did not have to keep from inadvertently touching Jack. The narrow holds made that difficult, and previously, it had not been an issue, but if Jack did not want to be touched, James certainly wouldn't.

He shaved quickly, cursing at a cut. He raised his hand and was about to toss the blade into a corner, then took a deep breath and let his arm drop, putting the razor back. He trudged up to the galley, promptly burning his tongue at the suddenly fresh coffee.

Jack drank and cursed, dozed and drank more until the nightwatch ended. He woke from sodden dreams, choking, hauled himself topside to lean out over the rail just in time. He sank back into a miserable knot. That hadn't happened in years and he wanted to punch someone, anyone.

Hamilton had him back on daywatch as they sped south and he dragged himself up, hit his head on the rail. Cookie's coffee nearly sent him running topside again. He managed to creep to his berth to fix the running kohl and spent five whole minutes, glaring at his left eye in the mirror with the razor poised over a handful of hair.

Vanity won that battle, and he trudged down to the brig to refill his flask, heading topside with all the enthusiasm of a boy starting Michaelmas term and his gut in a knot.

He stumbled up the top step and almost fell headlong over a bucket, left on the quarterdeck. His head aching, his stomach rolling, he swore savagely and kicked it to the main deck.

There was an outraged shout, and when he looked down, he could see James had nearly worn the bucket as a hat, the long hair wet and sticky on his neck, the whole sight hilarious but for the icy green eyes.

Jack clapped one hand over his mouth, sorry for James' soaked glare, but he looked so like a half-drowned cat, his eyes spitting fire, his hair dripping dirty water down his nose. Jack's shoulders started to shake and he tried to choke out an apology, but it got lost in a fit of giggles.

He leaned over the helm, laughing helplessly, and wondered if the day could possibly get any worse.

He could see how James clasped his hands behind his back to keep them from moving, and he imagined that stiff upper lip must already be bitten quite bloody.

James spun around on his heel and hauled himself into the shrouds. He climbed frantically, until he was up at the royal, taking a deep breath. So now that Jack was safe, and the Commodore no longer a necessary protection, it was time to humiliate him. For a good laugh, if nothing else, and possibly even a flogging if he could be provoked to an attack, James mused bitterly, the sharp wind ice-cold against his wet neck, but he was glad of anything to cool his pounding blood.

Jack heaved a sigh. There would probably be more hell to pay for that little mistake. It was hard enough to keep the Chimaera on course and attempt to decipher Hamilton's brogue, which seemed unaccountably thicker. He put on his best front, a little tattered and worn from three days with little food and much drink, and far too many emotions jangling in his head and heart.

He kept one eye on James, tense and angry, even twenty feet above the deck, and forced a smile more often than necessary. The watch dragged through the afternoon until the ship's bell rang and everyone descended to the galley.

Jack stayed topside, sulking on a coil of rope and working on his little Pearl. The knot in his stomach wasn't a bit better. In fact, it was worse, and he blamed Cookie's execrable meals, and the wind for his aching gut and the salt water that turned the little carving dark and soft beneath his blade and made his vision blur.

Disgusted with James, Hamilton, oceans, ships, nightmares and damned Navy morality, he shoved both in his pocket and climbed down to the galley to search out anything edible.

James had just finished his supper and strode topside, nearly colliding with Jack. "Good. This saves me the trouble of chasing you down. What did you think you were doing this morning? I assure you, I am perfectly capable of understanding words. There is no need for a cold shower." Green eyes flared in the flickering lanternlight. "Or did you hope the bucket would knock me out?"

Jack looked up at him and groaned. Of all the things he needed, an angry James Norrington was about the last. Perversely, his lip lifted in a sneer. "Course ya would think that, wouldn't you? Well, why don't you just trot up to his Highness' cabin and complain." That was not what he meant to say at all; James' eyes were alight and beautiful, amber flames shooting from them in the swaying light. Jack felt sick and his appetite was gone again. "Sorry such a fine tar as yerself can't take a bit of a dunking!"

"Oh yes, it is an integral part of being a sailor to stalk around in the wet. It is downright hilarious to be freezing in the wind only a few leagues south of the equator. I don't know how I could expect you to be professional enough to part your personal animosity from your task. You do not know the meaning of responsibility, that much is obvious." James felt stifled and wanted to get topside for a breath of air, but Jack was blocking the narrow space of the causeway. "Get out of my way."

"Go fuck yerself!" Jack braced his legs and had to look up to stare James down, drowning in his eyes, and hating every word coming out of his own mouth. He gnawed a raw spot inside his cheek to keep his face from crumbling. ‘This is the bastard who put a rope around yer neck, and then tried to own you, don't be a fool,' that little voice in his head kept nagging.

"There is no need to concern yourself. I certainly won't fuck you again. Forgive me if I lay hand on your person, but you are leaving me no choice." James shoved at Jack's shoulder, pinning him against the wooden bulwark, and pushed past him. "And next time, don't ask for something you don't want." He swallowed all disappointment and focused on his anger.

Before he could stop himself, Jack shoved back. "Next time, don't bite off more than you can chew!" Something in his gut twisted; the green eyes were cold as ice and it hurt terribly. "I shoulda known you'd revert to type. Greedy, cruel, and so damned fast to lay blame on anyone who ain't so fine. Tell me, Sir? Does yer great family still practice droit de seigneur or d'ya save that fer the cabin boys?" Jack's voice was low and venomous.

James had both hands flattened against Jack's shoulder, panting heavily. He didn't think as he lifted one and punched Jack soundly across the jaw, wincing as he heard the gasp and he stared at his fist, then at Jack's lips, split and parted, and so beckoning, even curled into a sneer.

James' face hardened again and he pushed himself away. "Do not worry about your non-existent virtue, Mister Sbarra. You have made sure it is quite safe with me now."

Jack's eyes closed, then opened again, enormous and shining for a split second before he turned and spat a mouthful of blood against the bulwark. "I've no doubt it is. You don't want wot's given, only wot you can take. And you call me the pirate!" He bit back another rush of hurtful words and turned to push past James towards the galley blindly, then turned, his eyes narrowed. "Let's just hope your fine airs are enough t'protect young Mattie."

"Certainly better than your lies." James clasped both hands together and stormed topside.

Jack stumbled his way down to the brig hold and curled up next to his cask, sucking on his split lip and wondering why the blood tasted so salty. He banged his fist against the bulwark, cursing and spent the next few hours nursing his bruised knuckles and drinking compulsively. Half-blinded with anger and hurt, he remembered to get himself out of there, and paused at their berth, then went down to the orlop deck and curled up in a corner to sniffle and swear himself to sleep.

Old Gentile listened to him, shaking his head, then pulled a blanket over him. "Silly English buggers," was his only thought as he went back to his workshop to snore amid the wood shavings.

James stood alone at the bow, like another figurehead, no one daring to approach him, his hands clenched tight around the rail. How could he have been so wrong? He'd offered his help without any conditions, but, pirate that he was, Jack had thought he had to secure it. Always keeping an ace up his sleeve, as though a man's word wasn't enough.

He shrugged and squared his shoulders. No was a clear enough matter, and if Jack did not want any intimacy, he certainly would not press the matter.

It hurt, he realised, that Jack would think of him thus. That he would even think him capable of leaving him as prey to cruelty, abandoning his given word.

A false word given to a pirate? James had never meant to treat him like that, nor did he want it. How could Jack think that he would simply want a slave to his lust? There were brothels for that, and with whores, he'd never... he'd never... James shook his head violently and swallowed the urge to scream.

Pirate Vindaloo, Chapter 8

A Bird With a Faulty Compass