PV17: A Heady Race

Rating: XX
Disclaimers: The Rodent Empire owns them. We pilfer.
Originally Posted: 6/22/06
Note: Our sincerest and hearty thanks to smtfhw for her excellent beta.
Warnings: Potential spoilerish appearances for those who are adamant
Summary: The Chimaera is on the run and the pirate and the commodore's accord is complete.

There is an X-rated illustration with this chapter

Spirits were high, even on a ship on the run. He had not anticipated that, but he felt the same thrill as always on a fine ship. That death was on their trail did not matter. It was an elation fear could not conquer.

Jack was up long before dawn and endured James' teasing with a grin: he'd fallen asleep with his precious hat crammed onto his head three night's running.

Again, anyone who had ever seen him on shore would have doubted the tireless Captain was the same lazy oaf whose only concern seemed to be the level of liquid in his bottle. If he wasn't at the helm, he could be found anywhere aboard the Chimaera, and he was certainly willing to roll up his sleeves as they raced southwest across the Indian Ocean, taking full advantage of the strong currents.

Their fourth day out, James found him in the Great Cabin, ink stained and cursing as he poured over the new manifests and the ship's log.

"Jamie, got a minute? I need a proper bloody quartermaster who can write in English!"

"Of course, Captain," James' voice was less than serious, more than teasing. He sat himself opposite of Jack and went over the manifests, then nodded once, dipped a quill into the ink and began writing.

It was strange to do so again, to see his own writing in more than the few words and letters used to teach the boy. Paper had been scarce and he had spared most of for Matthew's exercises.

"Vorst is as good as they get, but I can't read half o' wot he's wrtten," Jack complained, tipping the hat over his eyes and putting his feet up on the table.

James stopped for too long, leaving an ink blotch, and hissed a curse, quickly sanding it. "His style certainly has quite the....flourish."

"Bloody Germans an' their fancy script." Jack laughed and poked his head over James' shoulder, kissing the tip of his ear. "You've such a neat hand, luv."

He threw himself back into his chair and uncorked the bottle with his teeth. "Wanna snort?"

"After supper." James shook his head, his concentration back on the manifest when he suddenly began to laugh. "Poked Fish. Did he dream of mermaids? One of my Lieutenants used to do that."

"An' wot in hell is a Frostbit Froothaggle?" Jack peered at the page in dismay and took another swallow. "Damnation. Who else aboard can write?"

Jack barked a laugh then tugged at the small tuft bravely growing below his lower lip. "Speakin' of Griffin, he can write. I could have him translate. Seems he's pretty savvy with Dutch, too."

He sighed, put away the quill and looked up. "I do not want the man aboard in the first place, but giving him any responsibility means courting trouble."

Jack's mouth twisted. "I know ye've still got a beef with him, but Jamie, I need the bloody help if I'm not gonna be stuck in here tryin' to decipher this. An' you don't have much spare time neither. Ah well, let's muddle along an' see how it goes." He was silent for a moment, tracing a coastline in a splash of rum on the table with one finger. "The men respect 'im."

"For what, I wonder. His recklessness, or his cruelty?" James sneered, scratching at the paper with the too dry quill.

Jack settled down with a sigh. "He's tough an' smart. Don't miss a trick that one." He sniffed at the air drifting up from the galley. "Good God, wot is Cookie doin' down there? Braisin' bilge?"

James sniffed. "With an odor of rotten fish. In other words, he is cooking supper." He smiled, wrote another two lines of the manifest and bit his lip. Another line, then he sanded it and put the quill away. "Jack. I do not approve and nothing you say will change that. I think he is dangerous and should rather hang from the yardarm than anything else. But if you tell me you need him, I will not gainsay that. You are the Captain."

Jack stretched and bent over him. "I don't wanna go tweakin' me First Mate's nose now, do I?" He thieved a kiss or two. "Wot say you we look around at wot else is stowed in here. The Captain's quarters are worse than the orlop. Wot a bleedin' mess!"

"Anything to avoid supper for a little while longer." James stretched and neatly rolled the manifest and the charts. "I would like to find my sword. I dread to think that he sold it, but I could not find it so far." He rifled aimlessly through one of the chests, hefting a fine pistol, inlaid with delicate ivory designs. "If that tastes as it smells, I think the pistol might be mercy."

"Don't go loadin' it. It'll be too much temptation. James, I don't think I'll survive Cookie. I can just hear the eulogy: Fought undead pirates, braved the seven seas, undone by stew." Jack pulled open another chest and began to rummage through it like a mole in a lovely patch of garden.

"At least we have a lot of ballast to throw overboard." James snapped open a compass. "If we do not find yours, this one does not point North either." He dug deeper, then suddenly went still. "Andre."

"Wot about him? Y'think Hamilton ever tried this on?" Jack held up a corset with an impressive quantity of whalebone stays.

James shook his head and rose, desperately captivated by his train of thought. "Andre said he worked as a cook while ridding himself of Cookie's efforts at the leeward rail." He sniffed again and shuddered. "Cookie is lonely. He enjoys talking. You cannot simply replace him, but you can assign Andre as his aid. It will help Andre's English, and if we are lucky, keep us from voluntarily starving to death."

Jack stopped throwing various garments around and stared at James as if he'd promised salvation. "Yer snowin' me! Andre can cook!" He grinned. "I wouldn't hurt ole Cookie fer the world, but oh God, me innards'll turn to muck if I gotta eat another four months' worth o' that. Put 'em together and pray fer a miracle. At least the flour's fresh, so there's bread. Jamie!" His shout startled the First Mate who nearly bashed his head on one of the crates.

"I think so." James took a close look, then looped it around his waist. "It is. Now where is that sword?"

Jack dove into the chest, tossing its contents out like a scavenging jackal. "Not here. Check that one." He pointed to a long crate against the bulwark.

James nodded and went for it like a hawk, impatiently tossing out a pile of garments. He held up a lady's nightgown and grimaced, then dug deeper, pulling out Jack's cutlass and pistol, still wound in the worn leather baldric. "The amount of rust marks this as doubtlessly yours."

Jack plopped to the deck on his arse, cradled the old weapons in his lap. "I woulda sworn he'd chucked 'em," he murmured softly, balancing the pistol in one hand and making a half-hearted stab at a crate with the cutlass.

James dove back, tossing out more garments frantically, giddy when he saw a gleam of steel. Triumphantly, he yanked his sword out of the chest, running his fingers over the familiar handle as if transfixed by this reminder of what he'd almost lost. Suddenly, he understood far better why Jack had been so eager to find his hat. Almost reverently, he slid it into its scabbard, the familiar weight comforting.

Jack grinned at him, bolted to his feet and stalked to the table for the bottle. "That calls fer a drink, mate!" Before James could wonder once more at his unending ability to swallow rum, he handed it over.

Jack edged his way through the mess on the floor, kicking at the garments. "Think he musta had six wives, like ole Henry. Or he was stockin' a high-tone bawdy house."

He lost his balance and grabbed for the bulwark, his fingers desperate for aid when they ran across a nearly-imperceptible seam. He whirled around, his fingertips gentle, until he felt a hidden hasp give at his touch. "Chinese. They're the only ones who can do that. Wot have we here?" The secret drawer slid open and he held up a roll of papers and a small promising-looking pouch.

Jack dug open the pouch first and even he was not so jaded by treasure to not whistle at the collection of gems that tumbled into his palm: four matched pearls of incredible size and lustre; two diamonds, big as walnuts; a ruby the size of his eyeball and a square emerald that dwarfed them all. "Good Lord!"

For once, Jack Sparrow had no words at his command. He stared at them, awed: cut stones that enormous and fine were never for sale. They had royalty stamped all over them.

James weighed them in his palm. "Where did he steal those? And how did he manage to do it without his crew noticing?" He looked at the gems more closely, turning them in his hand before whistling softly. "Why does he even bother with ships like the ivory trader?"

"Don't think he stole 'em, luv. I think he was supposed to fence them, prob'ly in Spain or Italy. I'll wager ya four to six that were Gainsell's work. Like as not a bribe from one o' those little kings all over the Indies." He held the ruby up to the light where it splashed blood-deep reflections over his face. "We won't be able to get rid of such as this in Tortuga!"

James plucked the forgotten papers from his hands, unrolled them and whistled softly. "Shipping routes."

Jack peeked at them. "Jesus! All along Africa, through the Canaries, far out as New Spain. No wonder he was doin' such good business!"

The jewels tumbled back into the dark confines of the pouch and into the depths of Jack's pocket.

"Will you share these with the crew?" James' attention was still on the shipping routes, detailed and accurate charts. "English," he rolled the first paper and laid it on the desk. "Spanish." The next. "Portuguese."

Jack grinned without replying and prowled around the cabin, checking the bulwarks, the desk drawers, poking his nose into every cabinet and cupboard like an inquisitive moth. He yanked open one and pulled out a paper-wrapped package containing a gaudy Chinese shawl. "Looks like his sweetheart was a St. James doxy." He slung the scarlet silk over his hat and minced towards James. "Hey sailor! Lookin' t'get yer plumbin' wet?"

James tugged at the shawl to pull Jack close for a kiss when Matthew burst through the door like a whirlwind, running around them in circles. Finally, he stopped and looked up, his pout formidable. "I'm bored," he announced.

Jack giggled and draped the shawl around him. "That is th' first time I've ever heard a tar say such a thing! Wot's wrong, barnacle?"

"Nevill isn't there anymore. I've got nothing to do." He piled the shawl into a pillow on one side of his head and loudly snored into it.

"Well, with Nevill missin' the boat, we'll have t'keep you busy, won't we? Maybe I can make ya Chief Bilge Mate," Jack observed.

Matthew frowned. "Don't like the bilges." He wrinkled his nose, then hastily added, "Sir."

"Then you'll have t'take over fer Nevill an' be Chief Surgeon." Jack ruffled his hair and went back to rummaging.

He pulled out a red silk petticoat. "Did Hamilton keep a brace o' drabs in here? Lookit all this shite!" He tossed out a pair of satin slippers with high heels, then held up an old velvet court mask, peering through the eyeholes at the boy. "Care fer a walk in th' garden, young sir?"

Matthew looked up, suddenly serious, and, with all the weight of a nine year-old, declared, "Captain Jack, you are silly."

James snorted. "Oh yes, Matthew is indeed a wise lad." He plucked the mask from Jack's fingers.

Jack emerged from the crate with a small sword. "Am I so silly now? I think this is just yer size, barnacle."

James plucked it from Jack's fingers and winked at Matthew. "Yes, you are. Captain."

Matthew bounced from Jack to James and clutched at his breeches. James tossed the sword back to Jack with a grin.

Jack put his tongue out at James and held the little blade up. "Ya promise that I'm not silly?"

"Matthew, don't lie," James admonished, bent over the chest until he could haul out the matching leather scabbard, complete with belt.

Jack handed it to the lad with a grin. "Despite bein' an arrogant bastard and insubordinate, Jamie's the finest swordsman you can ever find. If you ask him nice, he might teach ya properly."

Matthew hugged Jack's leg, then rushed over to James and looked up at him with big eyes. "Pleeaaaaaaaasse?"

James laughed, took the little blade and stowed it in its scabbard. He scrutinised Matthew for a moment, then nodded. "I will. Under the condition that you do not play with this outside our lessons."

The boy would have accepted a condition that required him to swim with sharks and nodded eagerly, bouncing about with his newest treasure.

Jack hefted his worn old swordbelt and stood to sling it over his shoulder. His hand caressed the plain hilt and he rubbed at it with his shirtsleeve. "Missed this old thing. Seen me through many a fight. I wonder if any of the crew'll recognise this stuff? Mattie, how'd ya get aboard the Chimaera, lad?"

"And here I thought your sharp wit was better than any blade. Or is it as rusty as this one?" James teased, kneeling in front of Matthew to fasten his swordbelt properly.

The boy was blushing and chewed on his lip. "Tried t'nick something from Berk's pocket. He took me aboard then."

"Best thing as ever happened to ya!" Jack grinned over the neck of his bottle. "Whereabouts? Ya said you'd never been further than the Lesser Antilles." He laughed as Matthew grabbed the hilt of his small blade and grimaced. "Made you a proper sailor, they did. Now yer a proper pirate! We should give you a proper pirate name."

Matthew was trying to scowl, failing as he began nibbling on his lip again. "T'were in Nassau. Just after the Captain got his Letter there."

Jack made a face at James and crowed, "Mad Matt, scourge o' the high seas!" He bounded up again and waded through the mess of clothing, towards the desk. "Well let's see how ya can plunder, Mad Matt."

Matthew fairly pounced on the desk, tossing the clothes to the floor, lighting on red seal wax, kneading it. He bent over a piece of paper, and his grin faded. He grabbed it and ran over to James. "I can't read that!"

James took it, then chuckled. "That is because it is Spanish, Matthew." He handed it to Jack. "A letter of gratitude."

Jack scanned it with sharp eyes. "From His Catholic Majesty no less, fer services rendered. I'll warrant that cost a few Englishmen their ears."

"Don't remind me. Combine that with the shipping routes, and he could soon rival your reputation."

"Bloody Irishmen, " Jack drawled, as if that explained everything. "Always politics with them. Not businesslike."

To be perfectly honest, Jack didn't give two pins for England, Spain, France or Outer Mongolia. His business was loot and he wasn't overly concerned as to its origin. "Well, the charts will keep us informed of His Catholic Bleedin' Majesty's patrols. Bet he's got the same from the frogs, too." His eyes were glittering again. "Wot luck!"

Jack snorted a laugh and buried his face in the bottle. "Occupational hazard, luv."

Matthew scavenged through the drawers, losing interest in the letters which James picked up. One, long and signed with a seal he recognised, held his attention. Stormclouds gathered in his face and his fingers twitched on the paper. With a snarl, he handed it over to Jack. "Read that."

Jack read it, the faint moustache on his lip twitching. "Well well, he's not the first to be running blacks to the British colonies, luv."

His expression was airy, but he swilled down more rum. Of all things, Jack hated the slave trade. It was supremely profitable and equally loathsome in his estimation. "Dirty bastard."

He could have made his fortune a hundred times over but for that one thing and, while Jack would never have elaborated to a living soul, he never forgot that Spanish conquerors had made slaves of the natives in the New World. That cut a little too close to blood relations for Jack Sparrow to forgive. "Quite the twisted web our Irish friend was weavin'."

"It is cut now, and he will not do it anymore," James hissed icily, glad that Matthew was too busy rummaging through the drawers to pay them any attention. "Or will he? What did you do with him?"

Jack's smile didn't reach his eyes; they were black as night and unaccountably cold. "Left him and Sir John in the wine cellar with their crooked accounts pinned to the door. By the time they got their arses rescued, those papers had to be in the hands of the East India Company. I think he's in fer a rather large spot o' trouble."

They were interrupted by Matthew's squeal as he held up a small wooden box, delicately carved with intricate designs and tricky catches. He brandished his find at Jack. "It's a dragon's cavern," he announced.

All the politics and talk of slaving was giving him a headache. He much preferred honest piracy where any ship was fair game and the fun was the plunder, not passing state documents around like tea cakes, or selling human beings like cargo. He stalked over to the bed and sat down, scowling into his rum and watching Matthew fiddle with the box.

James lightly touched his arm and sat down beside him. "I think we missed supper. What a terrible pity."

Matthew made a gagging noise and bounced on the bed, stretching out beside them and working at the puzzlebox with stubborn determination.

Jack answered with a half-hearted belch and gulped down more rum. "Here, Mattie, let me try it. Y'see those seams. Run yer finger over 'em. Yeah, that. Push it from the end. Try th' other one." The box lid lifted a half-inch. "Now, can ya find another slidin' bit?"

Matthew closed his eyes and examined it more closely. His head drooped forward and he yawned, then snapped awake as the second catch slid open.

They both crowed as the box popped open and Jack dumped the contents onto the blanket, pushing a few old shillings around idly. He picked up a locket and gazed at a young woman's face in an old-fashioned cap and scowled. "Sentimental old sod." He tossed it next to a curl of red-gold hair tied with a bit of thread.

Matthew slipped the dragon out from under his shirt and reverently placed it in its new den. James rose and went back to the desk, plucking two embroidered handkerchiefs from the pile of clothes. One he gave to Matthew. "Here, give your dragon some bedding. It is enough if I have to sleep without because Jack steals it."

In the other, he scooped up Hamilton's mementos, tying it closed, face strangely blank. "There is no need to defile this. Traitor or not, Captain or not, his memories deserve respect," he said quietly, stowing it in one of the drawers.

Jack was staring at nothing, thinking of the locket and the unknown woman. If his guess was right, he'd been looking at Hamilton's mother, immortalised with tiny brushstrokes on ivory. He thought of his own, a by-product of Spanish possession in the Floridas, without so much as a tombstone and took another drink. No sense in that, Jack ole boy. Keep t' yer course an' don't get yerself distracted, he snapped to himself.

Matthew had used the mention of bedding to curl himself into theirs, half asleep within seconds. James wrenched the box from him to stow it on the nightstand. Seconds later, the boy was fast asleep. James drew the coverlet up around him and ruffled his hair. "It seems it was good we did not eat any supper. We will need the space."

He sighed and sat up to toe off his boots, pulling at the slipknot of his breeches and let them both tumble to the deck before lying back, staring at the beams above them.

James undressed in silence and slipped into bed beside him. "Slavery is a despicable practice," he said after a while. "Appalling even if it is not someone dear to oneself." Another pause, long minutes only filled by their soft breathing. "Who?"

The dark eyes slid sideways to meet his for a moment, unreadable as inky waters. Jack blinked. "Why?"

James swallowed a sigh, blinking up at the rafters, then at him, his eyes clear. "I am not blind, Jack. I see the way you look at me, at anything, since I gave you that letter. I wager I see it better than you do."

Jack lips twisted into a small grin. "Damn you fer bein' such a clever lad. If ya must know, me Mam." He tucked the blanket around Matthew and fussed with his pet curl. "She were half-savage, born in the Floridas."

Jack shook his head. "Ran off with me Da' and ended up on Wappin' Stairs until the smallpox carried her off. A better life indeed." He laughed harshly then shook his head again with a faint chime. "Enough o' that rot. Promise you'll teach the barnacle proper? I don't want him hurtin' himself with that blade."

James was silent for a few seconds longer, then nodded. "Of course. After all, I have no wish to see you teach him that featherduster waving you call fencing."

Jack sat bolt upright. "Featherduster! I never! And when, pray tell have you seen me in action?" His eyes had lost their brooding look and a grin trembled in the corner of his dimple.

Matthew stirred and clung a little closer, flinching at the sudden loud noise. "If you sway only half as much as you do walking, it must be a sight to behold," James teased, smiling in relief.

"I'll have you know I can handle a blade right well, I can!" Jack settled down to face him over the boy's curls. "So don't go impugning me sword!" He grinned. "We're on our way an' I need some shuteye. Gotta keep her at top speed 'til we're round the Cape, and the wind blows free...."

His eyes fluttered as he rested his head on one arm, fingers reaching for James' over Matthew. If they gripped tightly to banish the thought that a Thameside whore's grave was the mud that choked the estuary to open sea, James was kind enough not to mention it.

James was still until Jack's even breath joined Matthew's, then leaned over to douse the lantern, following them both into sleep.

The Chimaera cut through the Indian Ocean, sped by the wind, the currents and the fierce devotion of her crew, old and new alike. James thought he had rarely seen a ship running as well as this one. Discipline was - by Navy standards - lax, and Jack's captaincy marked it indubitably as a pirate ship, but everyone worked together and did his share without demur.

It was strange to witness the thin thread on which Jack's authority balanced and watch it grow by nothing more than knowledge and respect. Nobody was forced to follow his command, but they all did, as if glad of the opportunity to choose a Captain.

There were questions as to James' origin, how he connected with the legend of Jack Sparrow, but he always evaded them, relieved that he was forced to do so. It was difficult to fathom, standing on the quarterdeck again with his hands folded and giving orders, but it was his goal: to return home, take back the life of which he had been robbed.

Months had passed since then, and it was useless to deny he had changed. He could see that change everyday, sleeping next to him at night, Matthew curled between them more often than not. All those nights, they simply talked, slept. There was an easiness he had never known before, that he thought he would miss as a Commodore.

That was different, too. Jack as a Captain simply did. He joked with the crew as he pleased, teased the boy until he completely forgot any respect for rank and captaincy. Jack stood at the helm and piloted, regardless of it being the task of a helmsman.

It tempted James, his gaze darting between the Chimaera's wake and the wheel, the wood just barely darker than Jack's hand on it. He pushed himself from the rail and approached, one hand on a spoke, the other resting on Jack's waist. "Let me."

Jack smiled and released the wheel to James' hands. He'd seen it coming over the past days; the way James would creep closer to the quarterdeck without realising it, the way his eyes glittered watching the wake from their cabin or standing at the stern with the wind catching in his hair.

Jack had settled into a familiar tightrope with the crew, maintaining order with his own brew of camaraderie and bravado. If ever charm had captained any ship, it did with Sparrow, and his drawled 'requests' were met with instant action as often as his bellowed roars. He was used to keeping his wits about him, and Norrington might never know how the hard-learned lessons of a decade had made him cagey and patient as a panther overlooking a watering hole. He was always alert, aware of every muttered conversation belowdecks and any ripple of doubt that might enter a crewman's head. He slept fitfully; any noise would wake him instantly and he tended to prowl the Chimaera from nest to bilges at odd hours.

He leaned against the rail, watching the light soften in James' eyes and wondered how long it would be before Norrington finally understood the mad possessiveness that burned in his own when he thought of the Black Pearl. If he squinted, he could see another Norrington, like a ghostly twin in Jamie's face, and he pondered just what Port Royal would do to welcome home its missing hero.

James gave a vaguely agreeing noise, eyes fixed on her bow, her bellying sails. All he had to do was keep her steady in the currents, an easy task once accustomed with her, the wheel's spokes resting lightly in his palm, almost familiar. It was two hours later when he straightened and shook off a daydream.

Jack had been watching him the entire time, sitting on a cask and working on his little carved Pearl, smiling down at it like a madman with a secret. "Jamie, I do think you've gone and fallen in love."

James peered at him over his shoulder, arched an eyebrow, the dreamy half smile still etched into his face. "The Penelope certainly is a fine lady, but she is a ship."

"Penelope, eh? Been waitin' fer her Ulysses, tearin' out her weavin' every night?" Jack teased gently. "Her sails seem whole to me, luv. Shall we go see wot terrors await below? Andre warned me of somethin' special fer supper. I'm petrified."

James blushed. "It is certainly better than naming her after a gruesome beast part goat, snake and lion. She is, after all, a lady." In truth, he did not rightly know why he had suddenly referred to her as Penelope. It had seemed right at the moment. He shook off his confusion and grinned. "If St. Peter multiplied the fish they caught this afternoon, we will have to eat them for the rest of the journey. Rotten."

"Oh God!" Jack swore with a laugh. "That's enough t'make me turn Musselman! VAN!" he called out for the Dutchman. "Keep her with th' current. Anythin' odd, send someone to find me. There's a coupla cross-currents that'll toss her about a bit. C'mon Jamie, let's brave the depths."

The galley was redolent with a mouth-watering smell and Jack's nostrils twitched. "Now I'm really scared!" He pushed back one of James' braids with one hand. "Hullo? Jamie? Yer woolgatherin'. Dreamin' of Penelope?"

James blinked, focused and shook his head. "Nonsense." He sniffed. "It might be a trap." He sniffed again. "Whatever it is, it is definitely not Cookie's work."

Jack went to return his carving to Cookie without thinking. he'd grown used to it, to the benefit of his handiwork for he'd likely only lose or forget about it otherwise. "Cooks, wot you got brewin' that smells so heavenly?"

Cookie grinned, his near-toothless maw stretched amid a sea of wrinkles and he turned the little ship in gnarled hands. "That's comin' on fine, Spanish---sorry, Cap'n. Ye've a nice touch. Andre here had an idea an' seein' as we had so much fish." The old face twisted into a grimace. " 'Tisn't proper food but you lot must be fussy young blighters."

Jack nodded gravely. "Oh aye, we're a soft lot, ain't we. Thanks, mate. I'm bloody starvin'."

James was already seated, his trencher cooling as he absent-mindedly rested a hand on the bulwark. Bertie was already munching appreciatively next to him. When Jack sat down, James grinned and began to eat. He nearly dropped his fork. "This is edible. Which either means someone struck a pact with the devil, or half the crew will have fish poisoning in the morn."

Andre poured a thick sauce over Jack's fish and glared. "Poisoning! Und that wriggling not two hours past! Bah!"

Jack made a face and took a cautious bite, then dug in with gusto. "Mate, this is wonderful! Who sold his soul t'the devil?" He turned to laugh at one of Bertie's jokes, as much the amiable shipmate as ever, then glanced again at James. "I should be jealous, luv. Ye've stars in yer eyes."

"Jack, don't be ridiculous. She is just a ship. A fine one, but a ship." There was a sudden lurch and James swallowed more fish than he intended, coughing. "What is Van doing up there?"

Just as quickly, the Chimaera calmed, cutting easily through the waves once more. James shook his head and tugged Matthew's ear as the boy crawled under the table and emerged with a snarl and his dragon. "Did you sell your soul to the devil, hmm?"

Jack laughed and finished his meal with a belch. "Tricky currents. Like little bloody whirlpools but she's takin' 'em like Toledo steel. Oh, Jamie, Jamie, yer in deadly danger." He watched the green eyes' sparkle with a little sigh, thinking of his own dark lady, her black prow against the waves.

They loitered in the galley, eating and talking, while Jack made a perfect ass of himself, chasing Matthew under the table and providing the dragon with an appropriately fearsome adversary. After he'd been vanquished for the fourth time, he surfaced to perch next to James, his face dirtier than the boy's.

James sighed in exasperation and called for a rag. He wiped Matthew's face, then Jack's.

Jack stuck his tongue out at Bertie and decided that what he needed had nothing to do with dragons, pots or pans. He fidgeted under the washing, grabbed James' arm and leaned close. "Think we got a bit o' time before the barnacle commandeers our quarters?"

"There is a lock on the door if we get away fast enough," James purred against his neck. He grabbed Matthew's dragon, held it out of reach, then passed it to Bertie. The chase was on and the boy jumped on the bench to hunt his toy, squealing in protest. James nodded. "Now."

They bolted from the galley, giggling through a mad dash for their cabin. Jack pinned him against the door with a kiss as he fumbled blindly for the handle. It creaked open and they stumbled, breathless and laughing.

Once inside, Jack darted close for another kiss. "Damnation, Jamie, I've been goin' mad." His hands were as insistent as his lips. "Fine thing, turnin' me own bunk into a nursery. I'll never live it down, " he murmured, finding his way south along James' collarbone.

"Yes, it does seem to be quite up now." James urged Jack's chin up for a kiss, then batted greedy hands away from his breeches' buttons. "Shhhh, easy." He was as lit up as Jack, longing for touch, for more.

He thought of responsibility, his own responsibility to stop this, for the law he upheld. But this, too, was a responsibility. He had declared himself Jack's mate, aloud, mere days ago, and so much earlier in deed.

Almost. There was one more step before which he had balked, and they both knew that. Another step Commodore Norrington should not take, another step he decided for as a free man. He saw his own boots shuffle and looked up with a smile, infinitely soft. There was a sudden pause in their urgency, and he gripped Jack's wrist as it slid towards the slipknot of his breeches. "Not like this. Let me."

Jack backed away, his hand raised in a flutter, placating. "Wot's wrong, luv?" His sharp eyes watched James, brow knotted. So it was back to Navy protocol already? He masked his confusion and disappointment with his trademark grin. "Didn't mean to pounce you, James. I'll lay off if that's wot ya want."

James shook his head and barked a laugh. "Don't you dare." His fingers slid to Jack's shirt, teasing it free to pull it over his head and drop it on the deck, following its trail with his hands, warm and broad, then just the barest of touches as he brushed his fingertips up Jack's spine, the dip of his waist, slow and wondering.

When Jack looked up again, confusion warred with obvious desire in his eyes. His delight at the touch was more than evident, holding his own hands back clearly difficult. "I'm not sure I follow, luv."

There was something very young in Jack's face, vying with the understanding that James was on his way home to a life far removed from their adventures. It made him look unsure, at complete odds with his normal swagger, and woefully distressed.

James grinned against his lips, then nipped at them, teasing their confused pout open into another kiss. His hands were busy, one tugging loose the backlace of Jack's breeches, the other disappearing into their pocket. He cradled the small vial in his palm for a heartbeat, then pressed it into Jack's.

Jack stared at it, then back at James, his confusion complete. He didn't know whether to leap to the obvious conclusion or push it away with both hands. So he stood there, his breeches caught on his boottops, looking stupidly from the vial to James, like Matthew torn between his dragon and a chance at the helm.

"I'm your mate, Jack, your equal," James said firmly, "With all that entails." He took Jack's hand between his and put it to his shirt's hem.

Jack's eyes opened very wide and he let his fingers slide beneath the shirt, over well-known nooks and crannies of pale skin, holding his breath. Did James really mean what Jack thought he meant? No way to know; the green eyes were teasingly inscrutable. Jack's lips twitched into a grin and he buried his face against James' neck, the scratchy new stubble of his beard as rough as his calloused hands.

James' fingers ran gooseflesh up his spine and he shuddered with a soft laugh. "Lemme get outta me boots."

James shook his head and urged him back to sit on the bed, pulling his boots off, his breeches, then slid to kneel between his feet, hands flexing against his thighs insistently. "I think you need to relax," James laughed nervously, the gust of breath raising the thin trail of hair around his navel.

Jack groaned in agreement, his eyes rolling back into his head as James made short work of relaxing him. His fingers wound into the sunstreaked hair and he choked, "If ya don't stop, I won't be able to, luv."

He pushed James away with a huge effort, his eyes glassy and half-lidded. Was this what James wanted? Or the other? He was more than happy to oblige either way. Jack was blissfully omnivorous in matters amatory: he gave or took however the moment governed with equal enthusiasm, but he wasn't blind. He knew how hard the giving could be for some. James' eyes were gleaming and that look was familiar. The trust underneath desire was something new.

The soft laughter trailed up his chest as James rose and pushed him back on the bed, crawling over him, leaving his own breeches to pile forgotten on the deck. It was easy to desire, it would be easy to take, to make them both find the pleasure in it. He paused to nip at Jack's ear. "Perhaps, a bit of remaining tension might be best," he whispered into it, then rolled off and lay back.

Jack looked at the vial, still clutched in his hand and eased himself down beside James, lips speaking in touches rather than words.

His hair trailed across James' chest, ragged nails scratching lightly on sensitive nipples, trinkets chill amid the heat between them. "Yer sure?"

James smiled nervously, then pushed it into an insolent grin. "I am always sure, Captain Sparrow." He was not afraid, not of Jack. He knew his touch so well now, the way his trinkets would press into his cheek, that one longer nail that could make his breath hitch all on its own. He answered as well as he knew how, his lips on Jack's, hands exploring and caressing.

The bed felt like a silken cocoon although it was certainly more spartan than Jack's cabin on the Pearl. Hamilton had maintained the illusion of a no-nonsense, hard-working captain and, although more comfortable than the rows of hammocks below, the linen sheets were well-worn and the pillows in need of restuffing. It didn't feel that way to Jack at all. Perhaps the silk was James' skin and the satin his hair.

Jack poured rum down their throats, sucked it off James chest, laughed and teased and revelled in the slow languor that fed them both. The oil slid over his skin with a glint of gold, slippery between James' outstretched legs, gleaming droplets left along his back. Jack nipped at the nape of his neck, sliding over him and pushed forward, gently.

James' back flexed and he bit his lip, hissing. He counted his breaths and it became easier with each of them until Jack stilled atop him, as breathless as he. His face burrowed in the pillow, he was acutely aware of every shift, thinking of Jack under him like this; then Jack bent over him now, arms trembling against his own. He nodded.

Jack arched and pushed again, biting his lip to hold himself back from mindless pounding. His head was in a whirl, body so ready to simply react but he moved slowly, slipping one hand around to stroke James with sure fingers, his hips beginning to find a gentle rhythm.

"Easy, luv. You just relax and let ole Jack please you now." He shifted again on his knees and pulled James' hips up to meet his with one hand.

James gasped, his breath pushed out with each push inside. Unable to keep quite still, he shifted, his head slumping between his arms. The next thrust made him arch and he cried out, bucking into Jack's grip. He relaxed, panting for breath, then tensed again and moaned. Each thrust strung him up further, like a feather, until he pushed back to meet them. He stifled another outcry, teetering on the edge of ecstasy. He let himself fall.

Jack felt himself sucked inside James' body, the grip around him like a pulsing vice and he moaned, spilling himself in a daze of stars and sails, heat and flesh and tremors that set them both quivering. "Y'awright, luv?" he managed to pant, rolling away from their sweat to pull the blanket close.

"If the Captain is willing to overlook a slight limp in the morning." James' grin faded into a smile, then parted into a kiss.

Jack giggled in a most unfierce manner. "I think that can be arranged. Besides, I wouldn't want t'break ya." He pulled James close and hid a smile against his warm throat. The Chimaera tipped and swayed and he breathed a soft 'thank you' into one ear.

He was blissfully lethargic despite the urge to dance, thinking of James at the helm, the way the wind played with his hair, eyes matching the water. That he had committed to memory and savoured the image for a moment before he slid out from under James and opened one of the drawers of the desk. He came back to bed, a shadow of gold and midnight, two small ivory beads in one hand, a length of scarlet ribbon in the other. "This deserves a 'here and now', luv."

He sat Indian-fashion on the bed and worked the ribbon through the ivory, then braided half of it into James' hair, the bead bouncing against his cheek. "There. I like that," he grinned, as he sliced the ribbon and knotted the second bead to it, like a small moon suspended on a streak of flame. "Now you." He turned so James could find a place amid his mad collection of baubles.

James smoothed out a strand and braided the ribbon into it. It was a small braid, hanging amidst wide ones, old ones, but he knew its place exactly. "Thank you," he whispered.

Jack grinned into the darkness and pulled them down into the pillows again. His voice teased and whispered, growing faint as the summer breeze that James sometimes felt standing on the parapet at Fort Charles; that mischievous little wind that would pluck at his wig and blow feathers at him from over the bay. The words weren't clear. He might have said "Pearl" or he might have said "James" before his lashes fluttered closed.

Pirate Vindaloo, Chapter 17

A Heady Race