Pirate Vindaloo, Chapter 11

After the Tempest

by

Hippediva & Elessil

One of them was Andrew Stanton, one of Griffin's mates; the other Jeremy Shadlow. In the wild haze of the storm, nobody had seen for certain when and how it had happened, but common consent was that, certainly, nimble Jeremy had been aloft, perhaps when the shrouds had snapped; certainly, it had not been a simple wave that swept him overboard, never to return.

They told stories around the table, remembering each man, comforted those to whom they'd been close, sang songs, and Jack spent some time penning letters to their kinfolk to be mailed from Bombay. He spent the rest of his time off-duty amusing those who stayed with tall tales that defied imagination and he swore were true. He was back on day watches, happy to guide the Chimaera through the currents around the far side of the Cape.

Nights he was more often than not curled up with James, waking with an arm in his face or a leg wound around his waist. No one complained about their overloaded hammock---nearly all were doubling up to keep warm and the teasing was subdued. Everyone missed Shadlow and his insubstantial spirit seemed to hang in the galley, laughing with the stories and songs.

They missed him, but such was life shipboard, and it was bad luck to speak of it, so they did not, except once, late at night, when James lay awake and could not help but wonder what these two deaths had to prove.

The punishment for disobedience had never been exacted, and nobody spoke of it - it merely lingered that Jack had been right from the start, but it was past, and no sense in risking Hamilton's or the elements' fury once more.

The days continued as they had; the only choice they had. Even though Matthew was back on duty, James returned for daily lessons. The boy made quick progress, and the others forgot to tease him about his private tutor, watching and staring in wonder as he read sentences in a shaky wobble and traced words with an untrained hand.

A week after the storm, he had nearly knocked himself senseless when he dropped into his hammock, because stuffed under the thin pillow, there had been a plank of wood, the letters of the alphabet evenly carved into it. He'd ran into the galley to brandish his find, waving it proudly and announcing that he could read all of it. James had seen the little smile on Jack's face and had mirrored it with a knowing one of his own.

Jack spent his time between the helm and the Great Cabin, pouring over the maps and replotting a course to take advantage of the small easterly currents that would speed them across the Indian Ocean.

The Chimaera was in desperate need of repairs that would have to wait until they docked. Her starboard rigging was woefully shabby, cobbled together with the remains of the torn lines and bit and pieces. It would hold until they made port, but Jack had no intention of leaving their course to any other hand than his own. Hamilton watched him work, asking questions now and then and saw his maps overdrawn until Jack's inked lines were dominant.

He worked hard and long and it didn't seem possible that this was the same indolent, drunken pirate of Elizabeth's tales.

James worked topside and aloft, splicing and replacing what wind and weather had destroyed. Nights saw them both tired, succumbing to exhaustion and the draining chill, fast asleep until the next day.

Sometimes they would talk in hushed tones, James relaying how he had defied his mother's will and went to sea, using his uncle's means to follow his father's career; how he had first sailed to the Caribbean and received his first command there.

He did not dare mention names, or ranks, harshly reminded that he could not allow any slip. He was by no means used to living a lie, and sometimes it was difficult to remember that something of his past, perfectly right, could mean his death if anyone aboard overheard; that James Norbury was well liked and James Norrington would be killed within moments, although they were one and the same man. But the story remained the same, a man who'd gone to sea out of a love he still held to that very day.

Jack listened to him intently, letting the stories paint pictures and snuggling close. It grew warmer as they sped up the eastern coast of Africa and he told James about his first round of the Cape when he'd been a little child, about the furry animals in Madagascar, the ones with enormous, glowing eyes, no bigger than a man's fist. The tales he whispered to James, of long-ago storms and shoreleaves were certainly different from the ones he told at table once Matthew had gone to his hammock.

Jack kept his messmates entertained with his stories, but in the quiet of the hold, he shared gentler memories with James.

One night, James was playing with the braid in his hair, tugging at it absently, very much the way Jack had a habit of chewing on the end of his lovelock. He had the other hand around Jack's shoulder, just beneath the black locks, lifting one. "Where did you get this?" His eyes were closed, as if willing the story to appear behind closed lids.

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Got that in Singapore, mate. I was roundabout fifteen and we ran into a band o' travellin' traders from the steppes. Never seen such dancin', Jamie. He was silent for a moment, remembering the taste of buttered tea and the slender shepherd who had first braided it into his mop.

James continued to twirl the braid around his finger. His hair, never quite short enough for regulations, had grown to shoulder length and Jack had rebraided both braids as they had lain there. He hadn't asked, but James had not protested, either. "Where did you get the idea? To carry around mementos in your hair?"

"Saw the fillies all ‘round the far side of India do it and I thought it were pretty. And safe. Was a time I had 'bout a half-dozen golden guineas in it. Well, some painted gold, top of gold." He laughed softly. "A bloody fortune and trust me t'lose it somehow."

James stroked a hand through the salt tangles of Jack's hair, searching for a braid he knew was there and then lifted it. Small wooden dice were braided into it. "These do not strike me as monetary reserves. Or are they pronged so that you may earn a fortune in a game of dice?"

Jack nestled with him in one hammock, one leg thrown over James', his head pillowed on one shoulder. "Now that, " he laughed, "that's a helluva story. We were stuck fer repairs in a bloody little hole in Greece. Shabby, miserable place. I liked it. But Bill! He got himself gamblin', and oh Lord, he were losin' terrible. So I left him and went t'find a shop as had dice. I bored the holes through an' stuffed 'em with paper. Course, that changed his luck considerably. We hadta cut outta there damned quick, and he said I needed t'remember not to cheat at dice. Big ole fight and we ended up wagerin'. If I won, he wore 'em in his ears."

Jack's face split into a grin. "I didn't and he had Ole Joe and Gargetti hold me down whilst he braided 'em to hang in front of me face." He giggled against James' shoulder. "Damn near lost m'left eye to one of 'em, so we moved them later."

James laughed. "They do strike me as rather precarious. I don't know how often that storm slapped the coin against my face. I cannot understand how you manage to wear this-" his fingers now traced the stingray bone, long and white and cool and sharp, "without taking your eye out. Or mine, for that matter."

Jack's eyes were dark. "Or someone else's." He left the rest unsaid. No need to worry James all over again with the tale of the bloody bone that had saved his life in a particularly nasty encounter. Bill had made sure the bone itself was bleached with lemon juice before boring a hole in it and braiding it into Jack's mop. "Saved m'life once, luv."

James half-laughed, half-frowned. "A little backdoor?" He turned the bone in his hands, stroking the smooth texture, and whistled softly. "A knife in the boot, a bit of fish in the hair... any other precarious areas of which I should know?"

Jack grinned and turned in his arms. "None ya haven't explored already. James?" His look was wide-eyed and soft, but the smile was tempting.

“So you think there is an area that warrants further exploration?" James held fast as the hammock swayed wildly and twisted to nip at Jack's shoulder while his hand dipped beneath the blanket. "Now, this here may be hard, but it does not strike me as particularly sharp or otherwise dangerous."

"Not sharp but plenty full and dangerous when goaded." Jack laughed into his ear. He was thoroughly bored of the weeks alone with his own hand.

"Very full." James stroked lightly. "And twitchy." Jack ground back against him and James bit back a moan, then pulled away and slipped out of the hammock. "All right, get up. Not here."

"Below." Jack's gold grin flashed. "We'll need some friction t'keep warm."

Together they padded barefoot down to the orlop deck, seeking a corner where roped stacks of crates made a little alcove. "C'mere, you." Jack yanked James against him in a kiss, his hands quivering over buttons. "Missed you so much."

James returned the favour, losing himself in eager kisses and desperate touches. Soon he had Jack backed up against the crate, head buried in his shoulder and grinding their hips together, breeches falling to their knees.

They didn't notice the lone figure in the corner. Bertie had sought solitude, bent over Matthew's wooden alphabet, wary of any sound.

At the hushed laughter and footsteps, he had withdrawn behind a crate and now he not help but watch: watch how James pulled Jack's breeches off completely and lifted one leg, hooking it at his hip; hear the muffled groans they both made as James pushed forward.

There was another watcher, lost in the shadows on the other side of the crate where Griffin and Donatelli had been playing cards. Griffin was just clearing up their pilfered rum, spilled in near-fright as the scurvy Eyetie had fled back to his hammock. His lip curled at the sight of the two, but he could not stop watching the way the lantern light gleamed off Spanish Jack's amber leg, wound round Norbury's hip, the sounds they made, soft and wet.

Closer to the source of those sounds, Bertie heard them even more clearly; the wet slide of mouth on mouth, the rhythmic glide of flesh inside flesh, the breathless little laughs and whispers, muffled against sweaty skin. They were almost silent, but Bertie could not stop himself from straining to listen.

The contrast of their flesh was mesmerising, undulating with the heave of the ship; Jack's the colour of dark honey all over, James' browned arms holding him upright, his backside and legs pale as milk. Jack cried out softly, James' face hidden in the hollow of his shoulder. The black head was thrown back, eyes closed, the paint making them shadows against his face.

Griffin supposed they weren't bad, as buggers went; James with his tall pallor, and Spanish, too pretty with those girlish lips and eyes. James' head crested, his sunstreaked hair tumbling over his back as they pumped against one another. Spanish Jack's breath huffed, his dark eyes opened wide and Griffin pulled back into the shadows to watch them fix, become soft and droop under their lashes.

Bertie froze as he heard the soft hitch of breath, the helpless, broken gasps that faded into a mingled, content sigh. Then there were more wet sounds, lips moving against lips, brief laughter and the rustle of linen as they pulled up their breeches. He barely remembered to sink back behind the crate, his own breath far too loud and ragged.

James laughed softly and nipped at Jack's throat. "Very dangerous. I think I was in its line of fire."

Jack nuzzled his neck, kissing a line where the collar of his shirt defined sunbrown skin and white, then groaned as he set his leg back to the floor. "God, yer legs are so long." He laughed softly and reached behind to tighten the now-infamous slipknot of his breeches. "C'mon. Let's get back up there. I'm freezin' down here."

They chased each other up the narrow stairs, tickling and teasing, then hushed as they returned to their hold. Jack put out a leg and gave a shove, sending James stumbling into the hammock with a glare and more stifled laughter.

They shifted and struggled, still laughing, until they found a comfortable position, mashed together in the confines of the canvas and both fell into sated slumber.

Griffin remained where he was, watching the lantern light in the hold and wondered just how such a citified prig as Norbury could have taken up with wild Spanish Jack. He stayed there long enough to see them, reflected in the light and his mind, before slipping away to his own hammock.

It was a long time later that Bertie returned to his hammock, avoiding any glance into the corner. He'd seen the same often enough, never embarrassed, but this time, he felt he'd witnessed something that should better have remained between those two alone.

Jack roused with his stomach growling. It wasn't just a little rumble, loud enough to make Jackson throw a shoe at him. He sulked and gave up on sleep, dressed, and headed to the galley in search of something edible. He was near the top of the stairs when Griffin started down them, blocking his path and snarling.

"Wotsamatter, Spanish? Norbury toss you outta the hammock?"

Jack rolled his eyes. "Lay off, Griff. Y'know, for one so opposed to a bit o'buggery, yer certainly interested in knowin' wot happens between us." His dark eyes were startling, freshly painted and stark againt the whites.

Griffin's smile was nasty. "Ya don't make it no secret that yer his whore."

Jack yawned, patting his mouth as elaborately as if he'd been holding a lace handkerchief.

"You bloody foreign pig!" Griffin owed Jack for that aborted knife-fight and for a night tormented by dirty dreams that featured that golden body all-too-prominently. He gave Jack a shove, got one back, and decided that pretty face needed a bit of rearranging. He punched hard and Jack went tumbling down a half-dozen steps, clawing at the handrail. His face changed and his smile widened. He bounded up the steps, fists flying.

They both fell to the deck, punching, grabbing, and clawing like a pair of maddened alleycats. Berkely stuck his head out of the galley and Matthew crept to sit on the stairs, watching with round eyes.

Jack's teeth sank into one arm as he kicked and punched viciously. Griffin yanked at a handful of hair, his big fist knocking the breath out of Jack. The only sounds were the thump of their blows and huffed curses, the murmurs on the stairs of the crowd gathering as the fight grew dirtier and more brutal.

Griffin landed another cracking punch to Jack's jaw and took one of surprising power to the side of his head. Jack grabbed his collar and slammed his head into the wall, his eye tearing and swelling up like a pig's bladder over a hot fire. His boot connected with Griffin's knee and they were at it again, until they both sagged against the bulwark, seeing stars.

Matthew slipped through the crowd and ran to find James. "Hey! Hey James! Jack's just knocked Griffin senseless! Come see!"

James nearly cut himself with the razor and ran after Matthew, shaving soap still on his face. "Where?" The fight was already over when Matthew tugged him through the crowd.

Jack scrambled to his feet and reached out with both hands to steady himself. "Whoa! Nice jab. Jus' leave me the hell alone!" He moved his jaw, checking to see if he had all his teeth, then held out a hand. "C'mon, get up."

Griffin reeled and blinked at him, blood trickling from a cut over one eye. "Damn, fer a little bugger, you're one nasty customer."

Jack grinned and bowed. "Well, sir, if you're intent on more." He beckoned.

"Fuck yerself, Spanish."

Jack saw James, watching from the stairs, his eyes wide and horrified. He grinned and winked coyly at Griffin. "Don't hafta, luv." He bounded up the steps and laughed. "Jamie, luv, I'm starvin'. You've no idea how dangerous breakfast 'round here can be!"

Griffin was still leaning against the bulwark, spitting a mouthful of blood to the deck. "Hey Norbury, if he fucks as good as that left hook ye should hire him out."

Berkely handed Griffin a rag for his head, still amazed that slight little Spanish had managed to knock the big man breathless. "Leave 'em be, Griff."

James' eyes narrowed dangerously at Griffin, then he followed Jack's blood-trail to the galley. Matthew bounced up the stairs next to him, clapping his hands excitedly.

Jack took a moment to nurse his aching jaw and probed gingerly at his eye. "Well, that's one way of havin' a mornin' headache." He leaned against James, laughing.

James scowled and steered him to one of the benches, then went to beg a rag from Cookie. He wet it and straddled the bench next to Jack, gently swiping at the blood, then prodding at the bones. At least there was no damage to jaw or nose bones. "Shall we go to Hamilton now? He will have to lock him up."

"Wot for? I'm fine. Nothin' broken, just a few bruises. Goddamn, that's a helluva punch." He grinned, wincing as his eye squinted.

Matthew circled around them, finally lying down on the table and tugging at Jack's sleeve adoringly. "How'd you do that?"

"Do wot, barnacle? James, stop fussin'." Jack threw an arm around James' shoulder and held the rag to his eye, watching Matthew with a smile.

"Knock 'im out. I mean, he's so big." To Matthew, anyone was too big.

"Just means they can't move fast as us little ones. Ye take a few knocks but if you can get under their guard, all it takes it one good punch. Right here." Jack laid a hand on Matthew's chest, just below the breastbone. "That'll take the wind out of a gorilla." His knuckles were raw and he gave the boy a little jab, raising his fists. "Oho, I gotta fight you too!"

Matthew squeaked and slipped down from the table. James used the opportunity to grab the rag back and clean a long split on Jack's cheek. "Jack," he admonished. "It's the second time he picked a fight, and how else to stop him from doing it again? You are lucky that this won't need stitches. A captain can't tolerate such behaviour aboard, and you must report Griffin for this."

"I'll not do any such thing. It's a scratch, luv. And, honestly, it's not as though I've never been in a barney before this. Let it go. If he does it again, I'll just have t'beat his brains out." Jack took a mug of hot coffee with a grateful grin at Cookie. "No sense in all that blather, James."

Jackson and Bertie murmured their approval and Jack ran one finger down James' cheek. "No sense in it at all."

James took the finger, held it away gently and continued to clean Jack's face. He grabbed the mug of rum Cooke brought and poured a measure over the rag before Jack could protest. "No sense? You only have your thick head to thank that he broke none of your bones!"

He could hear the mutterings in the background but was determined to ignore them. Whatever sort of camaraderie they might have with Griffin, it was definitely misplaced.

It didn't occur to him that the mutterings did not concern Griffin in particular, but that they insisted on their right to have things handled as they always were.

"James? Ouch." Jack's good eye was twinkling. "Y'don't go botherin' the Cap'n with such as this. It's between Griff and me, and I say 'tis over and there's an end to it." He tried to sneak mouthfuls of lumpy porridge in between James 'fussing'.

"But it is the Captain's decision. He should be aware of such a thing," James insisted, sitting back and squinting to see if he missed anything. "Would you rather lie when he asks you about these?"

James remembered that all too well. He'd been a freshly minted Midshipman when he first saw bruises on another boy's face, bruises he claimed came from a stumble against the hatch but that had born the shape of fists, even a cut from a ring. And he remembered being a Lieutenant and asking a boy with similar marks about it, and receiving only lies and tight silence from the boy.

He remembered how his superior had then punished that boy for bearing the bruises and not daring or wanting to speak up, and how the boy had seemed almost proud to bear that punishment.

He shuddered and shook his head. "You have to tell him."

Mathew bounced up from behind again and hoisted himself into James' lap. "But why? Don't think Griffin will look for 'nother pummeling." He giggled.

"Horse shite," Jack mumbled with his mouth full. He washed the porridge down with coffee and took a second cup to drown the taste. "The great leprachaun won't ask. If he comes back fer more, I'll have to lay 'im out, won't I, barnacle?"

Matthew nodded eagerly and mimicked a sound punch, then held his own jaw and slumped back against James, who sighed. "Very well, I cannot force you. It is your decision. But at least don't tempt the boy to such nonsense. Matthew, the best way is not to pick any fights with the bigger ones at all."

Matthew pouted and giggled against his chest, then shrieked as James bent forward and gently kissed Jack's split lips. "At least he is no better off," he grumbled.

Jack kissed back and grabbed Matthew, swinging him up onto the table and pulling a few practise punches with him. "Right...no, the other right." He laughed and let Matthew pummel his shoulder. "I'm gonna need more kisses after this bruiser gets done wi'me."

"So that is why you get into fights constantly? So I can kiss you better?" James sighed and tossed down his coffee. "Matthew, there are much better ways to resolve conflict. Such as the element of surprise." He grabbed Jack from the side and pulled him against himself.

The boy shrieked and jumped down on the bench, launching himself at Jack and helping James to tickle him.

"Oww! Yield! I bloody surrender!" Jack picked himself off the bench and giggled. "Now, I'd say that's been a right mornin'." He leaned down and whispered in Matthew's ear. "A right pirate mornin'."

He yelled and chased Matthew topside and around the masts, catching him near the capstan and presenting his prize to Longthorpe. "Found this belowdecks, sir. Wot ya want me t'do with it? Feed it t'the sharks?"

Longthorpe actually laughed. Even Hamilton heard him and called down from the quarterdeck. "Belay that, sailor and set the scurvy searat t' the bow. If he's an attentive rat, he'll get some help wi' those knots he's been strugglin' on." He laughed as the boy scampered forward and looked down at Jack. "New kinda eyepaint, Spanish?"

Jack grinned and took the wheel from Jensen. "'Specially made in China."

James scowled fiercely as he made topside, but Jack's grin from the helm was infectious, and Matthew had found out just how ticklish his thigh was, chasing him to the bow. There the boy innocently stated that if James wanted him to learn something useful, he could just as well teach him that damned Anchor's Bend.

James pulled his ear, “Mind your language, young man," and sat down on a coil of ropes with a sigh, shrugging off his coat. He grabbed two loose ends of rope and patiently began to explain.

Jack bounced from the helm to the nest and back again, down to the Great Cabin to check the charts, and back again to the helm. Hamilton stared at his bruises and spectacularly blackened eye with a grin. Every soul aboard knew exactly what had happened between Spanish Jack and Griffin, but no one spoke of it.

Instead, they were teased unmercifully about 'walking into walls'' while their bruises faded. James was horrified to find them actually sharing a mug of grog at table one evening after supper, laughing and talking nineteen to the dozen.

He watched from afar, discussing the finer points of knotting a sheapshank with Bertie. More than once, he lost track of the conversation, glancing over again and again, certain that any minute, they would be fighting again.

Jack pushed the mug to Griffin, got up, and settled next to James. His eye was still puffy and an artistic array of colours from grape to greenish yellow. He grinned at Bertie. "Think we'll make it t'Bombay before we starve?" he whispered conspiratorially. Jack was in high spirits: the Chimaera was taking on the worst of the Indian Ocean's powerful westerly currents in winter months. He kept zig-zagging the course between them, searching out the weaker eastern flow and had them on a drunken course nor'nor'east. It would be no more than another fortnight before they made port.

"If we starve, it will be a voluntary action caused by Cookie's meals." James frowned at the remainders of whatever had been in his trencher.

"Are ye doing all that tacking jest t'keep us busy aloft?" Bertie complained.

James' arm had slipped around Jack's shoulder, forgetting to tickle as he stared at Griffin who downed the rest of Jack's grog.

"Takin' advantage of the currents, luv. Silly thing, headin' east this time o'year. Makes it all the quicker if you know the currents and winds hereabouts. Besides, I don't want ya gettin' fat and sloppy on me, " he teased. Bertie nearly spit up his grog. "No need to choke, luv. I'll get us there."

Bertie hid his blush behind another cough. "Jem here woulda tell me that's insane, but I actually trust ya on that. Do think 'tis more than time for 'nother shoreleave, else everyone will go barmy like you."

James growled something about the insanity of giving rum to bilge rats and huffed.

"I prefer t'be referred to as daft. 'Daft Jack' sounds so much better n' 'Barmy Jack', or 'Loony Jack'. " He nestled against James, leaning on his shoulder. "Don't get yer tailfeathers in a bunch, luv. Griff's not a bad sort, once ya get to know him. 'Sides, he's been round these parts and knows Bombay an' Calecutt like hell won't have it." He helped himself to a gulp from James' mug. The healing cut on his face and that vivid eye made him looked even more the pirate. He hadn't shaved for nearly two weeks and, contrary as everything about Sparrow, the soft fuzz on his upper lip made him look ridiculously boyish.

"If getting to know someone requires a fistfight, then I know him well enough, thank you. I know him twice as well as I ever cared to." James' eyes narrowed across the table, then he looked away.

There was little he could do about it. Foolish as he thought it, it was Jack's decision to let this matter lie. He would simply have to be vigilant should it truly come to anything more. "Or are you thankful for him giving you at least a bit of a rakish look once more?"

Jack scrubbed at his chin and made a mental note to shave in the morning, lest the lads decide to do it for him again. His lack of beard was a running joke among them and he took it with goodnatured laughter, but that did not mean he liked it. "Miss it a lot, if you must know." He shut his mouth before Bertie started teasing. "Lord, I'll be glad enough of a shoreleave. Not bein' one of you lucky bastards last time."

"Ey, but I'm certain that Jem here made you a lucky one a few times! Seein' ya didn't even get t'close yer britches after it!" Bertie suddenly fell silent, then startled giggling.

James coughed delicately. "Hamilton can hardly keep us aboard in every port."

"Yeah, right, Deacon'd complain 'bout his sheets in the next sermon!"

Jack chuckled. "It's about time he remembered wot they're for. Triton's ballocks, if I hafta listen to one more of those, I'll really run mad." He stifled a yawn against James' shoulder. "Should get some sleep."

The warmth of the galley was being shunned for the cooler regions below. "I'm off t'bed."

"Bed? Y'got a bed? No wonder Deacon's complainin' if ye commandeered his!"

James remained in the galley for a little while longer, sipping the last of his grog in comfortable silence before retiring to his hammock.

He stretched out, lulled by the gentle sway. Jack's breath in the next hammock was even, but not quite the deep huff of sleep. James knew how that one sounded, had listened to the soft snores and little hitches often enough. "What are you up to with Griffin?" he whispered into the darkness.

"Me? Up to somethin'? Jamie, I'm shocked." Jack rolled over to face the voice. "Just talkin'. Damned fine sailor." He wriggled around to get comfortable. "Why?"

"Does he know anything? Is he blackmailing you?" James persisted, reaching out across the small divide. "Why do you defend him? He's a bloody bastard."

"I'm not defendin' him and he doesn't know a thing. Relax, luv. Have you never sussed a man out in a fistfight?" Jack swallowed a smile, trying to imagine a proper young Midshipman Norrington resorting to fisticuffs.

"Certainly not like that," James hissed. "And how Hamilton can tolerate this is beyond me."

"He's a solid seaman. Jamie, you didn't come from where the likes of Griffin, Bertie, me, all of us did. 'Tis normal as rain in spring. Ya snap and snarl, get into a tussle and then you decide. Now, Griffin, he's a good fighter. Been a long time since anyone knocked me half-senseless in a fistfight. Since we come out even, we're square. You fine folks, you do it with words, playin' around each other and usin' talk for knives. We just punch it out and see wot happens." He nestled into the folds of his coat. "Wonder where me hat got to."

"One can hardly compare a battle of wit and weapons! Days have passed and you still have that bruise. And what is done about it? Nothing. This is wrong." James had rolled to his back, staring into the darkness. This was a different world, and for the first time in weeks, he was acutely aware of it. "As for your hat, I wager it is exactly where my sword is. Which may very well be the ocean bed."

Jack frowned and pushed out his lower lip. "I really liked that hat."

He brushed James' hand in the darkness. "Please don't worry 'bout it. It really don't mean a thing. We needed to get it out. Now it's over an' that's that. Wot's the first thing you wanna do when we get to shore, luv?" He figured there was little to be gained in explanations of the niceties of street life.

James rolled over again and relented. "Get something decent to eat, and wash." His sigh was heartfelt. "And then wash you. And show Matthew how washing properly is not just one of my fantasies. Then... take a good look around the harbour. Maybe buy you a new hat."

"Aye! We'll have ourselves a good look! And some fun." James could hear the grin in his voice. "And I can't say as I'd mind a good long bath myself. And, oh Jamie, the food. You're gonna think you've gone straight t'heaven. I can't keep me eyes open, luv." Jack's fingers found his and squeezed. "Gotta sleep."

He yawned enormously and his hand relaxed, then dropped as he fell into a dream of piping-hot delicacies laced with saffron and spices.

James reached out, hand hovering over the bruises, then pulled it back, and slumped into his hammock, snoring.

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