Title: MERCY

Pairing: Jack/Norrington

Rating: NC-17 overall, for language, & slash m/m sexual content.

Archive: Yes, help yourself. Just include ALL parts/chapters, please.

CrossPosted: Everywhere

Disclaimer: The Mouse/Bruckheimer Productions owns them, except for Jack Sparrow who belongs to J.Depp. ;-)

Beta: Moonsalt

Author's Note: Thanks to Firesignwriter (KJ, dearling, thanks- for as always, you provide plenty of ZenGoo and perfervious inspiration!) Many special thanks to Thalia Seawood for her invaluable research and character studies on Jack Sparrow and Commodore Norrington. Also, particular thanks to the members of the SparrowandNorrington yahoogroup list, for the inspiration and discussion of finer points of the J/N dynamic.

Setting: After the end of the movie.

Summary: Norrington catches up with Jack Sparrow. But what is he to do with him, once he's caught him?

Mercy

1: Avarice

The deep blue-gray expanse of the white-crested ocean turned to liquid silver at the edge of the horizon, meeting the sky beyond.

Standing with his hands upon the wheel of the beloved Pearl, Jack's heart leapt within his chest, lifting with wings to soar up with the new black sails that caught the wind above.

The hope that had swelled suddenly inside him at seeing Cotton's parrot on the Royal standard had been fleeting as the hangman pulled the lever and he felt the sickening lurch in his belly as he'd dropped. The knife-edged moments of hanging literally by the rope around his neck while he'd balanced on Will's cleverly thrown sword beneath his feet had slipped by as if time had slowed.

Breathless moments, as he and Will had moved synchronously, backed up at last to the high wall of the fort overlooking the drop below where he'd fortuitously rescued Will's Miss Elizabeth over a week before. Moments that choked him much the same as that rope around his neck, as he and Will had stood surrounded by a bristling thicket of bayonets and swords. The momentary glimpse of hope surging forth in a blaze of sunlight as Elizabeth Swann had taken her place beside Will and ensured his escape, until he tippled off the edge of the wall in a parody of her previous fall.

And now. Oh, now, to have this. He closed his eyes briefly at the silent song that rang like a bell inside his head.

The experience of being reunited with the Black Pearl, at long last. It seemed drawn out and lingering, as though all the trials and separation of the past decade were dissolved away in the present.

A part of him remained reserved, keenly aware that the crew, loyal and able sailors all, was enjoying his all-too-obvious delight in being aboard his ship after so long away from her.

It was expansive, sublime and truly divine, this feeling. It was euphoria, and graceful, sliding through the waves and out over the sea of the Caribbee to meet the edge of forever.

The sun was melting down into the ocean like a sliver of white-hot metal, as the Black Pearl chased in its wake.

This new taste of freedom, rejoined in this moment and in this hour aboard his ship, was more than a dream of riches or fleeting joy. This was his. She was his! He could scarcely believe it, really.

He felt the grandness of her beneath his feet as she heaved slightly, seeming to pull in his grasp, bearing him much like a steed would. He fancied her much like a great black mare, a queen of the high seas, an angel unicorn redeemed once more upon delivery into his hands again.

After her imprisonment in the unholy enchantment of the cursed crew and Barbossa's twisted governance, Jack knew his ship was sighing with relief at his return.

Hector, he thought derisively, unconsciously and possessively stroking the dark wood at the helm beneath his hand.

And he grinned to himself, caring not that the others saw and turned their smiles away to pretend engagement with the sails and rigging.

Oh, the sound of her voice in his ears, the creak of her hull and the sound of the water splashing against her, it was almost too sensuous to bear. It was all he could do not to fall to his knees to mumble nonsensically; offering some prayer of thanks to whatever deity above had finally granted him, unworthy as he was to receive it, his only wish, only desire, only hope and dream come true.

As it was, the exultation shouted through his blood, leaping in his pulse and keeping him standing, unwilling to relinquish his hold on her. It was more than coming home. It was more than revenge, justice, and longing fulfilled.

He'd always insisted on his essential title, Captain Jack Sparrow. Certainly all who knew him learned quickly enough that it was more than appropriate courtesy and respect. But he knew more than any, how empty it had been until he would finally stand upon this ship once more. And now… now he was truly Captain.

All the hope, the pain and the anguish was sinking so fast, gone with the yesterdays and yesteryears. Left behind with the English port fading in the distance, into memory.

The night beckoned, as did the morrow, and it was the future, tasting still of freedom and glory - and there was no need for tears, for the sea-spray provided that added luxury.

Jack leaned his head back a little, breathing deeply of the air and the smoky clouds. Even if he should die tomorrow, or in the night, this evening was truly his.

Unforgettable.


* * *


Commodore James Norrington stood stiffly, overseeing the proceedings from above the gallows. The hangman was making good time, despite the crowd that had gathered to watch the remnants of the previous cursed crew of the Black Pearl each meet their fate at the end of the noose. Only five men remained.

To their credit, he noticed that none of them appeared to be on the verge of making a spectacle of themselves with struggles or pleading for a stay of execution. The entire scene though was all too familiar to him and James knew that he'd seen far too many criminals brought to the gallows to find it anything but tedious and saddening, that they did indeed deserve that 'sudden drop and short stop'.

He stifled a sigh and looked down at the stone beneath his shoes, wondering why the morning sun in the sky cast a light on the gallows that seemed pale and unforgiving. Muttered whispers in the crowd abruptly stilled as the next pirate was taken to his place beneath the noose and his list of crimes was read aloud.

It was as damning as any of the others: murder, rapine, theft, arson, kidnapping…

Rape. James flinched a little at that one. When they'd taken Elizabeth Swann those days past, he'd been horrified with fear that had consumed him following her abduction. He'd imagined all sorts of torments visited upon the innocent, high-spirited young woman to whom he'd only just that afternoon offered his hand in marriage.

Coldly, he watched as the grizzled, scruffy fellow upon the gallows stood with a frozen snarl on his face awaiting the rope to be placed around his neck. Let them hang, James thought. He had striven for years to clear the waters and settlements of Jamaica and the other Isles of this sort of scum. Violent brigands who had no respect for life, innocence or others' pain or possessions.

But these condemned prisoners before him now were far worse than any he'd ever had the misfortune to encounter. He could still not shake the grisly memory of the night aboard the Dauntless at the Isle de Muerte. He and his men had fought against the very legions of Hell itself, the cursed skeletal undead that would not fall, would not die despite all best efforts to subdue them. That abrupt, unexpected moment when the curse was lifted, and William Turner's blood had finally joined the others' in that Aztec box, had shocked everyone to stillness, even as the subsequently wounded men had collapsed under their injuries sustained at the Dauntless crew's weapons.

His dreams had been severely fraught with terrifying visions every night since.

He glared accusingly at the pirate who now stood with the rope around his neck, and as the drums rolled and then stopped, the angry face caught in a rictus of fear as the executioner allowed the door to open and the man fell, jerking, twisting, jumping from the end of the rope. This one died fairly quickly, James noted absently. Even from where he stood, he could see the prisoner twitching briefly and then going still, with a broken neck.

There was a woman weeping with muffled sobs somewhere in the crowd. James frowned, surveying the gathering below, wondering if the miscreant had perhaps been one of those who had murdered a family member of hers during that night raid upon Port Royal.

The damage had been great, that night; both in terms of loss of life of innocent townsfolk and destruction of property, as well as looting of possessions and hard-earned wealth. Fires, broken homes, stolen goods and moneys, dead men and women, even children.

Well, they would recover. Recover and rebuild. The townspeople of Port Royal always did, no matter the calamity.

Port Royal had once suffered the ignominy of the appellation of 'the wickedest city on Earth', but after that first earthquake had stolen the bulk of the rum- and rubbish-infested streets, the fort had been rebuilt and the town as well, this time as a fortified base of operations from which the Royal Navy kept one of the strongest military seaports in the Caribbean.

Yes, the town would recover, and life would go on. Thankfully, with a few less undead pirates in the vicinity.

The dead man was cut down from the gallows and a new rope strung up for the next pirate. The remaining four were silent and grim.

The Commodore breathed a silent exhalation, wishing he could quit this pitiful scene altogether. There were surely more useful duties he could attend to. Would rather attend to, he amended.

Anything rather than stand here musing upon the very spot where he'd been awarded the new rank of commodore, only to have it tested by the loss of Elizabeth both to the kidnapping and then to the young blacksmith-son-of-a-pirate, and the ordeal of searching for her, worrying that she'd perhaps be molested or killed in her captivity.

And that dreadful spectacle of the enchanted skeletal pirates attempting to take the Dauntless. If Turner and Sparrow hadn't lifted the curse, James knew full well the pirates would have probably taken the Dauntless and killed them all. He'd lost too many good men, that night.

He shook his head and straightened, trying to focus on the current events. He had to find a way to concentrate upon the matters at hand, not keep allowing the fearful memories of the past week and a half to haunt him.

As the next pirate's crimes were read aloud, James suffered a horrible flash of memory from the afternoon before, when Jack Sparrow had stood in that same place below the noose.

Had it only been yesterday?

As the morning heat crept upwards and the sun climbed in the sky a little higher, James swallowed beneath his uniform.

His conscience had pricked at the relief he'd felt when Sparrow had fallen over the wall to escape to his ship, and pricked further now as he realized that he'd been far too eager to accept Governor Swann's glib loophole he'd offered the Commodore as a way out of the situation. It stretched duty and the law a little too far, really. Sparrow was, after all, still a pirate.

Quite opposite to what the naïve Mr. Turner and Miss Swann believed, it was not a question of semantics. Sparrow's crimes still stood, and although James himself had been torn between duty and morality, neither the law nor his own sense of justice could really offer any relief to his conscience for letting the man go…A good man, yes, but a pirate.

As the condemned pirate currently standing below the rope on the gallows looked sickly about him, James could see little resemblance between this pirate and Jack Sparrow. It could even be said that Sparrow had faced his death with dignity, except that James recalled he'd been far too tormented himself to notice much more about Sparrow, with Elizabeth's obvious distress at the inherent wrongness of allowing the man to die after having helped them.

The law was the law. There was no way out of that, and James could not find it within himself to regret seeing these men die, for they deserved nothing less for their crimes. The leniency he'd wanted to extend to Sparrow could not be justified, and so perhaps the Governor had been right. An act of piracy itself could have been the only right course of action.

And now the birds came home to roost, looking suspiciously like guilt and doubt, as well as a measure of uncertainty and responsibility.

Jack Sparrow was not a murderer. A liar, a thief, a scoundrel and perhaps a good man, and a pirate, whatever gentlemanly habits he might still retain from whatever upbringing or experience he might have prior to becoming one.

There were many reasons why men embarked on a career of piracy, but primarily, James had discovered in the course of his own military career here in Jamaica, it was one of selfish greed. The objective of most pirates was to take what was not theirs and often leave a trail of misery and destruction in their wake. It went beyond lawlessness.

Still, from Elizabeth's account of her marooning on the island with Jack that the Dauntless had rescued the two of them from, Jack Sparrow had actually behaved with some modicum of gentlemanly conduct. James hadn't expected that, to be honest, not after the man's blatant, desperate actions and disregard for her after rescuing her from the sea on the day of his promotion. It spoke of respect for Miss Swann as a woman, a maid yet untouched, and for Jack's regard for William Turner in fact. And knowing that the desire for Miss Swann was the reason why the boy had been so driven to rescue her from Barbossa and his crew. Jack respected both of them. And in return, they'd saved his life yesterday.

The pirate with the rope around his neck upon the gallows below dropped like a stone as the wood opened beneath his feet, and this time, the man didn't die immediately. The usual grotesque tongue protruding from the dying man's mouth caused a ripple of aghast and fixated stirring in the crowd of people. His feet danced in the air. It was taking a long time.

James had seen many men die, some at the end of his own sword, by his own hand, and from a shot of his own pistol. He'd seen some die at sea, bloodily, messily, even taken by sharks in the water. He'd watched criminals and pirates being hung, throughout the years. But the sight never brought him pleasure, only a sense of slight relief that the law had been fulfilled, justice had been done, the criminal executed or dispatched, and honest folk were safer.

This was different. He was horrified to discover that he couldn't help wondering if this was exactly what Jack Sparrow would have looked like the day before, if rash young William hadn't risked his own neck to save his friend's. He wondered too if he would be able to watch Jack hang or if he'd have to turn away.

James shook himself. Good Lord above, why was he even entertaining such a thought? The man had escaped, and why should he care if the pirate ended up at the noose after all? Certainly Sparrow deserved it, for his past crimes, and if he carried on with his infamous career, it would bring him back to the noose - perhaps even this very same gallows.

But this notion left a sour taste in the back of James's throat. He hoped it wouldn't come to that, actually.

He was surprised that it was due more to the soothing of his conscience than anything else.

He swallowed. Since when had he become so inured against pity? Against feeling?

A sickening insight began to reveal itself to him. Perhaps this was why Elizabeth had spurned him? Why she had not wanted him in the first place? Did she find him…cold?

He had always taken the greatest pride in his duty, his performing it in ridding the Caribbean of the terrors that threatened the civilized world. A good marriage and a family had been the only things missing from his life, and he'd enjoyed the high opinion of the Governor knowing full well that he also had the man's acceptance as a possible son-in-law, should Elizabeth accept him.

As the pirate dying on the gallows finally expired, with jolting shudders subsiding and then going still, some of the women in the crowd were turned away at the sight, to leave, and the body was finally cut down.

James saw the fatalistic horror in the faces of the three remaining prisoners. He didn't have the slightest compunction to show pity or leniency towards them.

And he was confounded yet again to understand why. It could not be that his heart was as cold and dead as their skeletal forms had been. He had loved Elizabeth, he had.

Had loved, not still loved. He could not afford to keep loving her, not now that she was already lost to him.

As he thought it, James winced as he realized he'd already begun to withdraw the embarrassing and painful feelings he'd extended towards her so openly in his marriage declaration, since the previous day. She'd chosen a blacksmith. An untried youth with rebellious pirate blood, over him. Him!

A good man, James thought caustically. So Elizabeth considered Will more loving and a better man. And what of Jack Sparrow? Was even he a better man?

And in their eyes was he, a commodore of the Navy fleet, not a good man?

He began to feel as though he were a puppet king presiding over a strange and grisly play, as the third to last man was now brought up to the gallows. They were making good time, in this life and death performance that one by one was ridding the world of the last of the undead terrors that had wreaked horror upon them all. It all flowed so naturally, going through the motions quite without any hitch, and James realized that it was happening while he stood there. Silent. Completely apart from everything, trapped in his own musings.

It felt almost surreal, as he watched the pirate below stand fearfully beneath the fresh rope that had been strung up for him.

No, he thought to himself. He did have a heart. He cared for Elizabeth, he had cared enough even to let her follow the path along which her own heart took her. He cared enough to allow her to keep the young man she had chosen, despite William's unlawful actions. He cared enough to even allow their pirate friend to escape.

Because it had been the right thing to do, and he was a good man, himself. A good man, with a heart. But the uncertainty still caught in his throat as he watched the pirate tremble with fear below, as the all-too-familiar litany of crimes was read aloud now.

He wondered what it would be like, to stand there, on the other side of the law, beneath that noose. He wondered what Jack Sparrow had felt. He wondered what demon inside him whispered that it might be enjoyable to see William Turner, his rival for Elizabeth's love, beneath that noose. Perhaps even Elizabeth, for spurning him. He shook his head, quickly. It felt as if a mosquito was bothering him, but from the inside. He couldn't possibly have just entertained that very distressing thought. And he wondered yet again why he felt nothing for the man below him now.

To be the judge, and condemn a man to death for murder, was only lawful and right. To condemn him for thievery, particularly if said theft was incurred with violence visited upon decent people, was also right.

It was about power, he decided. The law and his own rank bestowed him with the power to see justice done, and his own conscience was still firmly in place, as was his heart, and sound judgment of mind, else he'd never have come this far, nor allowed Miss Swann and her blacksmith each other, nor allowed Sparrow his freedom - however long it lasted.

As the pirate below on the gallows had the rope placed around his neck, James abruptly felt his bile rise. The bitter taste of gorge was joined with the instantaneous vision of seeing Miss Swann hung there instead, Turner beside her… and Sparrow. The three of them.

James Norrington blinked repeatedly, wondering at the horrific turn of his thoughts. His imagination had never before conjured so effortlessly such disturbing fantasies. It was no doubt due to the influence of the nightmarish ordeal aboard the Dauntless at night with fighting undead pirates… and the subsequently suffered nightmares.

He usually had a strong constitution. There was no excuse for this weakness.

But all three had stood against him. As if he had been in the wrong. For being on the right side of the law. As if the laws he stood for and upheld were somehow wrong. How could they be? It wasn't as if he applied them without thought. It was for that reason he'd even allowed Sparrow to go.

The anger he felt surge within him at this was fiery enough to cancel the sour in the back of his throat. To condone piracy due to some foolishly romantic notion that pirates were dashing, brave fellows - and no doubt better lovers, he added acidly. If Miss Swann and her beau had not even had their eyes opened by their own experiences during that adventure, then they would have to learn by trial and error, as he had.

It was, after all, Jack Sparrow's choice to continue to sail a pirate ship, flying pirate colors. Raiding innocent ports and towns. Taking what was not his. Helping himself to others' riches without having the sense of honor or conscience to earn it in decent work.

As the floor beneath the condemned pirate below now swung down and the man dropped, his body twisted horribly and he died instantly, his neck breaking quite cleanly.

The passing of a life. James almost felt a chilly breeze float over him, as he felt the man's death, watching the body hang still with only the barest tremors visible to his sharp eyes from where he stood above.

As the dead pirate was cut down, a new rope was lifted up. The remaining two pirates looked quite frightened indeed, now that their own times were so close. One of them shouted unintelligibly, in some language James had never heard. No rescue attempt for such as themselves, as they had never bothered with anything even remotely close to engendering friendship with anyone outside their own ilk.

As Sparrow had done. Jack Sparrow had befriended Elizabeth and William, somehow. James frowned, wondering about the phrase 'a good man', turning it around in his mind.

Yes, he supposed even according to his own definition, Sparrow was indeed 'good'. Misguided, selfish, mostly lawless and wholly without shame, but still inherently 'good', for he was not a murderer, and was capable of acts of kindness, generosity - rescue even, James added silently. Sparrow valued life. Probably because he valued his own. In fact, the man had a zest for it.

That had to be it, he thought. That was why Elizabeth and William had responded to Jack Sparrow as, in their estimation, having lived up to at least a partial amount of their romantic expectations of what a pirate could be, and who was in the end a good man, however mischievous or devious. For he knew William Turner had never shared Elizabeth's love of pirates. And he also knew Elizabeth's ordeal aboard the Black Pearl and on the Isle de Muerte had been unpleasantly educational.

Heavens, she'd been lucky not to be despoiled. And James abruptly to his horror found that he was contemplating what it would be like to take her himself. He forced the image away, filled with shame at the thought that he could even be imagining it.

Perhaps it was only natural; he was the jilted suitor, and had every right to be angry. It wasn't as though he'd ever act on such a thing. He was a gentleman. But it hurt still, and the added humiliation of being considered less than a good man himself, over a pirate even! Less than a blacksmith or even a pirate. To be considered less honorable than the notorious pirate Jack Sparrow…Not only was it ironic, it was embarrassing.

Well, it was not to be borne without suffering. Although the humiliation would fade, he doubted that Mr. Turner and Miss Swann would hold it over him in the future, considering he had graciously allowed them each other's happiness with a great measure of understanding and compassion.

As one of the two remaining pirates was now escorted to the gallows, James wondered if he was in fact a little too jealous and had underestimated just how wounded he was, to have been passed over for the young blacksmith. It was said that all broken hearts mend in time, and that it was better to have known the taste of love as opposed to never having tasted it at all.

It was hot and he was sweltering now. Let them get on with it, he thought irritably, as the pirate's crimes were read to the crowd.

He would put Elizabeth Swann out of his mind, as well as the blacksmith. They were no longer his concern. His own dream of having her as his wife would fade, replaced with someone better. Someone new. He was young yet; he had options. Although, he thought grimly, she had been the best choice out of all the young marriageable women in Port Royal. Perhaps a change of scene would yield better prospects.

Although, he couldn't afford to throw himself into anything impulsively, and had to remember to give his heart time to heal. With a sigh, he watched as the hangman doomed the pirate to his death, letting the man's body drop under his own weight and kick uselessly.

Some folk found it amusing that on occasion, when a man is hung, his member would stiffen, as in the case of this particular prisoner even now. It had never bothered James before. But he abruptly realized that he had no idea why it occurred.

Probably the shock of it caused such a reaction in the body, even as the life was jolted out of the hanging man.

Considering Mr. Sparrow's zest for life, he'd probably find it in his death also.

At the vision of Jack Sparrow dying, hanging, kicking uselessly in the air, his male organ stiffening, even now in place of the man that hung there, James abruptly felt sick once more.

It was the heat and the accumulation of duress and stress he'd undergone recently, was all. That was why he was entertaining such improper thoughts and imagery. Hardly surprising, considering the exhibition below. But he'd thought himself above this kind of response.

It was a nauseous excitement that urged itself to life in him, that same demon whispering in his ear that he had a reason to carry on, to forget the humiliation of losing Miss Swann and Sparrow the day before, to William Turner's heart and honor.

He could pursue Jack Sparrow. He could.

He'd allowed the man one day's head start, aloud, even as he knew it was only a paltry attempt to make light of the fact that it was spoken in the relief of being granted a reprieve.

A reprieve from making a decision that would have damaged his own conscience irreparably. But what would he do with the pirate when he caught him, only to have to face the same dilemma again?

Yet, he was duty-bound, to the letter of the law, to hunt down the pirate upon the least infraction, the very knowledge that the man was indeed still a pirate was more than enough reason to pursue him. To see him brought to justice.

There was, after all, the matter of the theft and loss of the Interceptor. And if the Black Pearl continued her rampant career 'as the last real pirate threat in the Caribbean', as Sparrow had called it, then he had no choice but to hunt her down, along with her pirate captain.

James gnawed on his lower lip. Did he want to?

What did he want?

Actually, it really wasn't up to him. It didn't matter what he wanted. It didn't matter one whit whether he had gained or lost Miss Swann, or had saved his own honor by allowing a known pirate to escape. All that mattered was what his responsibilities were.

Relief flooded him as he took refuge in the knowledge that this was correct and right and completely true in every sense.

His responsibility lay in the continued safety of Port Royal and its civilians, as well as its military presence. Anything that threatened this, or looked to compromise Naval security, had to be regarded as the priority over whatever personal dilemmas he might be facing. His confusion and personal pain would subside, even as he found a sense of sanity and clarity in following the just and moral course. He'd not deviated from it, he knew beyond any doubt now.

This morning's unsavory series of hangings had proven to him that he might not have the same stomach as before, due to the stress of recent events, but he also retained his honor, his heart and his rational mind.

James Norrington watched resolutely with renewed endurance as the last pirate was brought to stand where the previous crew of the Black Pearl had all gone before him.

There was only one lingering issue that remained.

He knew that Jack Sparrow and his crew aboard the Black Pearl would most likely head straight for the Isle de Muerte, and the treasure that lay strewn in abundance in that pirate cave, surrounding the box of cursed Aztec treasure.

Could he, in all good conscience, not attempt to intercept Sparrow en route? Or catch him there on the Isle of Dead, helping himself to treasure that rightfully belonged, if anywhere or to anyone, to the citizens of Port Royal and other settlements who'd suffered its loss previously?

Compensation, dispensed by the Navy, for the damage done by the Black Pearl's undead crew, that night of the raid and Elizabeth's kidnapping… Yes, indeed.

James thoughtfully considered his options, noting that the last pirate was even now being placed in the noose and he felt nothing but immeasurable respite that the undead crew was neutralized and would never again threaten anyone or anything.

As the hangman let the last pirate drop and dance in the air, jerking like a toy on strings, James swiftly came to the conclusion that no one would go after the treasure that was on the island other than Jack Sparrow, as no one else knew where it was. Except for himself. James smiled coldly.

He'd even received the bearings and the chart Sparrow had handed to him personally, that night before he'd allowed the pirate to go make his 'deal' with the undead pirates in the cave.

Sparrow had to be aware of this still, and further, aware that Commodore Norrington would most probably make for the Isle in an attempt to stop Sparrow from helping himself to the treasure.

That treasure, James thought to himself decisively, belonged in the hands of the Navy. It was his duty to confiscate it, bear it back here to Port Royal aboard the Dauntless, and see that it was distributed as compensation for the damages incurred during the raid, and amongst the widowed and orphaned. And to pay for a new ship to replace the Interceptor. Not to mention all other ships lost, in the Black Pearl's decade of destruction.

The Dauntless might not be as swift as the Black Pearl was, but she was a fiercer threat and outgunned the pirate ship nicely. It would be quite a battle, if it came down to it.

In fact, if Jack Sparrow continued to frequent the Caribbean, then James Norrington, as Commodore stationed here at Port Royal, had no choice but to apprehend the pirate. It really wasn't a matter of choice or decision on his part at all.

As the last dead pirate was cut down from the gallows, James straightened and stretched, mulling over the preparations that would have to be made for the journey back out to the Isle de Muerte.

If Sparrow did not have the sense to get out while his going was good, he would find the talons of the hawk not far behind.

* * *

With the Black Pearl safely anchored beyond the mouth that led to the cave, and with frequent trips to and from the treasure, Jack was content to rifle through the morass of stolen bounty while several of the crewmembers collected up sovereigns, doubloons and pieces of eight nearby.

They were all working as quickly as they could to collect up as much of the swag as possible for this first trip. He knew the Dauntless would most likely be not far behind them. They were lucky to have as many days as they'd had, what with this being their second day after arriving at the Isle de Muerte once more.

The crew had been glad, actually, to return. Even despite the sea battle and their incarceration aboard the Pearl their first trip out. Picking up a few extra crewmembers in the small settlements along the way had only cost them a day.

At first, they had all cast wary glances at the big stone chest sitting so prominently in the cave. And then there had been the scare with the damned monkey.

Jack grimaced as he remembered Barbossa had named the monkey after him. No doubt to punish his memory for wielding Barbossa's own name over him, Jack suspected.

The monkey had been clutching one of the gold pieces and had been quite a little monster to try to catch, with it leaping about and shrieking at them. Strangely, it had been Cotton's parrot who'd finally lured the beast close enough to snatch the piece of Aztec cursed gold from it, giving Marty and Anamaria the chance to snare the monkey by creeping up behind and grabbing it. They cut its arm, forcing it to pay the blood debt onto the gold coin before returning it and dropping the stone lid upon the treasure at last.

Jack had been all for slitting the damned monkey's throat, or so he threatened, but Anamaria seemed to have unfortunately bonded with the creature, since. Jack had forbidden her to bring the monkey aboard the Pearl, but she'd glared at him. Obviously there would be trouble, later. And on this occasion, Jack was willing to agree with Joshamee Gibbs, that it was frightfully bad luck to be bringing that cursed monkey aboard his fine ship.

Anamaria had even tended its little cut, and Jack's comment, 'like mother, like child,' had earned him a slap. Which, of course, he probably deserved, but on whose behalf at this point he was not certain - mother's, or child's.

As for the treasure itself, Jack was still not sure if they should move the Aztec chest and drop it in the ocean. He was loath to bring it anywhere near his Pearl, after all she had been through these past ten years on its account. He was the only one who knew where this island was, except for the complication of Commodore Norrington and all his little men on that trip also knowing…at least partly. And the Lord knew the Navy had a hard enough time of it, keeping its men from deserting. But then, any of that crew who deserted would undoubtedly be far from wanting to come back here for the rest of their lives, fortunately. After their encounter with the skeletal forms of Barbossa's men. And men talk. Stories get around. Jack knew better than most, just how stories grew.

Yet, who knew what fool might take it into his head to go searching for it next? It would be the same problem all over again.

As the sailors stacked the last of the coins that would fit into the buckets and hauled them aboard the longboat, one of them turned and said, "That's the lot, sir. We'll be back one last time, aye?"

"Aye," he responded, absently. "Or just send the others back with the other boat. You've done more than your share here." They had been here all afternoon, anyway. After a while, handling treasure gets to be thirsty work, and one can't drink doubloons.

"Capn," nodded the pirate, who stepped into the boat as the other two shoved off with the oars to row back along the dark passageway out to the cave mouth.

Jack was still torn even now. They couldn't risk leaving the Aztec gold like this, but then, they hadn't brought it here themselves and at this point, only Barbossa and his dead, mutinous crew were the only ones who might advise him if it could be taken from this isle safely. With them being the only ones in a position to know since they were dead, he smiled to himself.

Going to the stone chest, he ran a hand over the lid, half-fancying he could feel the curse emanating from it even now. Barbossa's body had been the first thing to leave the cave. Burial at sea, even for such as him. Although there had been an ironic impulse that had almost made Jack order them to leave Barbossa's corpse propped up against the stone chest as a warning. But it had frightened the living spirits out of most of his crew and they'd insisted on removing the body in light of their having to remove the gold and the other treasure also, hours on end. They'd refused to share the cavern with the dead pirate.

He climbed up on top of the stone chest and crossed his legs, stretching out his left hand to recall how it had looked under the curse. Chilling, it had been. Not to feel. To see nothing but bone. He'd been lucky, for all that he'd endured these past ten years, he'd still been more fortunate than Barbossa and the others. Which really was no less than their just reward, considering what they'd done to him.

Whoever could have foretold, after all, that the tale of the curse, sounding almost childish in its attempt to warn others with talk of blood, would turn out to be true?

The tale of eight hundred and eighty-two pieces of pure Aztec gold had been more than enough to perk his interest, those years past. What a loss, and a terrible shame. He grinned in amusement at the notion that, really, Barbossa and his men had actually recouped probably the equal of that and more besides, in the ten years of desperate hoarding they'd dumped here. Jack had more than the treasure he'd started out to find.

The sound of oars splashing in the passageway reached him, echoing around the cave.

Jack abruptly realized he was sitting in the cave completely alone, without a boat to get back. Very foolish. He didn't think he had anything to fear from his current crew, and the boats had been coming and going from this cave all day long, so he hadn't thought much of it until now. But night was creeping in.

The other boat came into view and as Jack looked up, he saw with a sinking sensation that it wasn't his crew at all, but a boat full of lobsters in their cheery redcoats. And yes, there at the head of them, was the Commodore.

This was not good. How had they made it past the Pearl?

And more splashing reached his ears. More boats. No doubt they'd thought to disturb more than one pirate in this cave at a time.

This was not good at all. Why hadn't there been any warning, from those back at the Pearl, on watch, or returning to the cave in the other boat? Jack sighed. He was outnumbered. Greatly.

He watched with a heavy heart as Norrington and several of his men got out of the first boat.

Norrington approached him where he sat unmoving upon the great stone chest.

"Well," Norrington said, sardonically. "I thought we might find you here. This is getting to be rather a familiar sight, wouldn't you agree?"

"Depressingly so," Jack agreed, lightly, but not without his own measure of sarcasm.

Norrington sighed as if rueful, and turned a curious eye over the interior of the cave. "Quite sad, in fact," he commented. "All you had to do was sail away. But you just couldn't resist it, could you?" He turned back to Jack.

"Forget it, mate," Jack informed him, calmly. "I'm not going back. Not this time."

Norrington sniffed and looked behind over his shoulder at the array of soldiers. "I don't think you have much of a choice. Dead or alive - which is it to be?"

Jack didn't bother to answer this with anything but a smile.

Which, surprisingly, Norrington returned. Although there was something a bit too wolfish about it to really find at all comforting. "You must be wondering what has happened to your men. Not to mention your ship."

"Considering the distinct lack of cannon fire, I'd wager not very much," Jack replied, sunnily. He grinned at Norrington, "You've stolen in here so quietly, but I very much doubt you'll get back out again."

"Ah, but neither will you," Norrington answered, just as confidently.

Jack tilted his head at him, giving Norrington a frown, up and down. "You know what your problem is?" he stated, rhetorically, for he fancied the Commodore really didn't have a clue. "You've lost your lass, so you're blaming me for it. It is a shame, mind. I was rooting for you, as I said."

Norrington pulled a face. "What does that mean, anyway? Rooting for me?"

Jack lifted a brow at him. "To win the girl, mate."

"No, the…never mind." Norrington shook his head as if at Jack's folly. "No matter. It's irrelevant, at this point. Come quietly, and you won't be mistreated. I give you my word."

Jack lifted a finger, "Hold on, there, 'ey? D'you mean, if I'm - how did you put it - 'silent as the grave'? Or do you mean just very quietly? Do I have to whisper? Giving me your word is very generous; wouldn't want me to get it wrong, and have you go against your word. I might end up getting stabbed or shot simply for pointing out what a lovely evening it is, or some other harmless remark now, mightn't I?"

Norrington's good cheer was slipping. "Don't worry, Mr. Sparrow. This time, when I want you to be silent, I'll simply have you gagged. That will spare you the argument in the long run."

"But," Jack persisted. "When you say I won't be mistreated, does that mean you won't hang me? Or is that just until we return to the gallows in your little port?"

Norrington glanced back at the boats. "You're stalling for time, I think. But tell me, pirate, would your crew consider your safety as our hostage worth allowing us safe passage back to our ship, if we allow them to return to theirs and sail away?"

"So you can engage them once we're all aboard? I rather think not," Jack replied. "There's the Code to consider, after all." It was, in fact, to Jack's way of thinking at this point, the only likely way any of them were bound to get out of this unpleasant situation alive. But he didn't fancy just admitting that so early on here.

Norrington looked blank at this. No doubt the man didn't know the Code. Which was quite a relief to know, actually.

Jack put his finger to his lips. "I've a better idea, Commodore. Why don't you send your men back to the Dauntless, we'll have ourselves a duel here, and the winner gets to go free, back to his respective ship."

"I can't, I'm afraid," Norrington said, resolutely. "As much as I might like to take you up on your offer, I'm bound by the law. As are you, despite your willful attempts to contradict it." He gave him a tight, cold smile. "And frankly, I'm not willing to die because of your stubborn refusal to admit when you've been caught."

"Then I'm not going," Jack said. "You see, you've failed to take into consideration the fact that my Pearl will probably sail off without me, if they see your ship and men as too big a threat, what wif' all the treasure aboard mine."

Norrington looked down at the coins beneath his feet. "Very disappointing," he commented. "Your crews are most consistent cowards, Captain."

"This one, perhaps," Jack smiled. "Not the last. But then, these aren't cursed. They 'aven't the benefit of bein' bones in the moonlight, have they now?"

Norrington's eyes fluttered and a look of a man who'd also seen things too hellish to forget came over him momentarily. So the good Commodore was haunted by it too. But Norrington swiftly recovered. "They'll desert you, then? Again."

"Can't be helped," Jack said, with a slight shrug. "It's the Code."

Norrington looked like he wanted to answer.

Jack regarded him. "May I ask you something? Why the Devil do you need to go to all this trouble merely to bring me in, at the cost of letting that entire ship loaded with pirates and stolen gold just sail off into the horizon?"

Norrington looked down his nose at him; quite a feat, too, considering he was looking up to where Jack sat. Norrington managed it very nicely. "I would have thought you'd know the answer to that one yourself."

Jack rolled his eyes, and said with a lift of his chin, "Because I'm Captain Jack Sparrow. Is that it? You let me go the other day, and your conscience hasn't been able to settle over it?"

Jack watched him, his eyes narrowing as the Commodore again was overcome with that nervous expression so quickly mastered. So that was it, then? Jack smiled slightly.

Norrington replied, stiffly, "You're out of time, Sparrow."

"Aren't you even the least bit curious?" Jack asked him, grinning. "To know of the two of us, who's the better blade?"

Norrington's eyes narrowed and that amused expression came over his face once more. The one that looked like a cat with a bird, which, really, was precisely what this was, Jack had to acknowledge glumly to himself.

"I might be, at that," Norrington replied. "A duel, to first blood, and whoever wins gets to take the other prisoner, and the treasure as well."

Jack stared at him, unwilling to believe he'd just heard the staunchly law-abiding Commodore actually suggest such a thing. A glance at the men behind him revealed much of the same surprise.

"S-Sir?" said the hungry, ambitious young officer behind him.

"Gillette," Norrington commanded, turning to face the young man. "Return to the Dauntless. I'll settle this here, for once and for all. He deserves a sporting chance, for all that he is a pirate. As Miss Swann and Mr. Turner pointed out, he is a good man. Leave us one of the boats."

Gillette stared back at his Commodore and swallowed. "Sir, he's a pirate."

Norrington raised a brow at him. "Your point?"

Jack raised his hand. "I'm afraid he's right, Commodore. I am."

"B-But Sir! He's Jack Sparrow," Gillette stuttered, quite undone by his Commodore's rash and unexpected decision.

"Captain," Jack sighed. "Captain Jack Sparrow."

Norrington let out an exasperated sigh. "I've not forgotten for an instant who or what he is. Do as I order," he stressed, angrily.

"Aye, Sir," Gillette said, the stiffness of his tone filled with reproachful dismay.

Jack asked carefully, "Am I to believe you're serious? You're going to remain here all by your onesie in this dark cavern of bloodied gold, with me, while your men return to the Dauntless. And I'm not supposed to fear they'll blast the bejeezus out of me Pearl with your guns?"

Norrington called out to Gillette, "Remember, Lieutenant, not a shot is to be fired except in self-defense. Be sure that is clearly understood by all."

"Aye, Sir,' Gillette called back, a note of crestfallen near-disobedience in his voice. The navy boats began to splash away into the dark.

Jack hadn't moved from where he still sat upon the stone chest. "Do us a favor, mate. If you win, will you take this cursed gold and send it down to join its kin below?"

"Indeed," Norrington agreed. "Davy Jones' Locker is the safest, wisest course regarding that cursed treasure of yours. I would, even had you not asked it of me. Any other last requests, Mr. Sparrow?"

"Just one, aye?" Jack flashed him a grin. "If you win, leave me here and let me take me chances. I've managed worse before. I don't much fancy dancing my last on your gallows again." Indeed, the fear of it was far worse than he'd admit, but he rather warranted Norrington already savvied that much.

Norrington was quiet. But he said, "We'll see."

Jack regarded him shrewdly. "Did you come here to capture the Pearl, the treasure, or me?"

"All three," Norrington replied, with a slight smile. "And even now, you're willing to sacrifice your own life for your ship, the treasure and your men? How noble." Interestingly, Norrington managed to say it without a hint of a sneer.

"Much the same as yourself, I expect," Jack shot back, watching as the implication hit Norrington. Because of course it was very true: Norrington too was willing to sacrifice his own life here for the Dauntless, the treasure and his men, and the chance of capturing Jack and the Pearl. Very foolish indeed. All for what? What was Norrington's game? Perhaps the Commodore didn't even know, himself.

But Norrington scowled at him. "Quite the opposite, I assure you. I'm risking my ship, my men and the treasure that rightfully belongs to Port Royal and the other pillaged towns, just to bring you and your crew to justice."

"Justice?" Jack asked, brazenly giving him a half-smile at this and a knowing look. "Whose? Yours? You'll have to forgive me, Commodore, I don't see you behaving very justly. I see you pleasing yourself, in point of fact. You say you came here to collect the treasure. And here you are now, accepting me challenge. Your little officer was quite right to point out that I am, in fact, a pirate. Young Mr. Turner can tell you that I don't fight fair, not when I'm fighting for my life."

"Oh, I would be the first to agree. I don't trust you even as far as I could throw you. As for justice…well." Norrington smiled tersely at him. "I'm not going to argue semantics with you, Sparrow. Draw your sword."

Jack raised his brows. "Not pistols?"

Norrington gave him a look of slight disgust. "Of course not. The sword is a gentleman's weapon."

"Good. It's much less sporting to draw first blood by shooting holes in people, no matter how accurate one's aim." Jack smiled at him.

Norrington ignored his sarcasm and asked, "Are you truly prepared to surrender, if I should win?"

"On this rare occasion, I'll be quite honest with you. I'm not. I've in fact no intention of winning, or losing. Are you prepared to surrender, if I should win?"

Norrington gave him that irritating little smile again. "Now, really, Sparrow. I'd almost have to say you're afraid to follow through, the way you're stalling. And it's a bit late to ask me that, now that you've already offered up your challenge and I've accepted it." Norrington drew his own sword and held it up.

Jack frowned at it as it caught the light of the torches about them, glinting silver and gold and reflecting the not-insubstantial remainder of the treasure that still lay about them. "That's one of Will's, innit?"

Norrington nodded, regarding the blade. "Fine work."

Jack uncurled his legs and slid off the stone chest, going to where he'd left his coat and effects, and drew his own sword. Returning to advance upon Norrington, he gave the Commodore a sly look. "You do realize I'm not stopping at first blood?"

"Neither am I," Norrington replied, lifting his sword in salute.

"Excellent," Jack tossed at him, and decided to take the opportunity to make the first move. He thrust at Norrington, swiftly, already planning where to move this duel to, forcing Norrington back across the gold and intending to make towards the water's edge.

Norrington's blade sliced through the air to meet his, easily, and the clash of the steel resounded throughout the cave, bouncing off the walls.

"I certainly wouldn't want you fighting at anything less than your best, now would I?" Norrington threw back.

It was curious and strange to find himself crossing swords with yet another adversary in this same cave. He had the benefit of course of having already fought one deadly duel in this same cavern, with Barbossa. He knew the terrain better, and would more easily find his footing.

At first, they were both too wary of each other, Jack realizing that Norrington would have to gauge exactly what kind of a swordsman he really was, although he was also facing the same challenge. But as their blades met, parried, and blocked, followed by lunges that really, quite honestly, never meant to strike home, they began to both find a rhythm that wasn't so much a fight as a dance. A deadly one, to be sure, but one nonetheless.

But Jack had always enjoyed the savage grace and purity that could be found in this combat. As Norrington met each of his lunges and easily blocked, however, he saw the determination on Norrington's face and realized that Norrington wasn't playing any game at all. The man was close to that edge, beyond which lay madness, bloodlust even. It wasn't a game for him. He was giving this his all, and knowing it drove a wedge of cold fear into Jack, fuelling the desperation to actually win this little competition of theirs, by any means.

The Commodore really intended to run him through. He hadn't exactly counted on it; sure that Norrington's sense of duty and obligation would force him to take Jack back to face his 'lawful' justice upon the gallows.

As the Commodore's blade struck his again and again, their moves almost faster than either of them had expected, judging from the expression on Norrington's face at this exchange of blows, Jack tried to move down, away, finding himself instead being driven back up towards the stone chest. Damn.

They were very evenly matched, but Jack hated to admit that Norrington might surpass his own skill. And that's when it hit him. Who had first placed a blade in young Will Turner's hands? A part of him was fascinated, and as he managed to keep up, attempting to surprise Norrington with a few moves of his own, he gasped out, "So this is where the lad learned it, 'ey?"

Norrington gave a curt smile. "Indeed." His next thrust lashed out towards Jack's left arm, nearly sliding between his arm and his side, skewering him, and he ended up beating it back while stepping backwards to avoid the next one.

By some fluke, in a wildly mistimed lunge of his own in an attempt to compensate for the defensive position he'd been forced into in the past few moments of engagement, Jack's sword flashed upwards, grazing the right side of Norrington's neck. It sliced right through the man's cravat and left a bleeding trail in its path.

Norrington stopped, and moved back, his hand going to the cravat and pulling it off, finding it useless now except as something to staunch the cut. It had been deeper than Jack had thought it to be.

And Jack grinned at him, victoriously. "First blood, after all, Commodore. Care to yield?"

Coldly, Norrington replied, "Certainly not." And he put his blade up again, charging forward intently, forcing Jack backwards momentarily until Jack could move to the left, up by the stone chest and keep circling around and down, Norrington still slightly distracted by the wound on his neck. The blood was running down into the man's collar and shirt.

Jack tutted at him, as their blades rang together. "That pretty uniform of yours is going to be ruined, mate."

Norrington didn't answer though, and his eyes flashed dangerously as he met the next few thrusts with a counter-attack of his own. To Jack's surprise, Norrington's lightning-fast sword next caught him on the left shoulder and he barely managed to whip his blade up to parry, even as the sting sliced open his shirt and his shoulder too.

But at this point, it mattered little, as Norrington merely continued on, pressing forward still, and Jack finally found his way down to the water's edge.

Norrington frowned, and they stopped, panting. "Where do you think you're going?" he asked, curiously.

Jack gave him a half-hearted smile. "Hardly think that deserves an answer, really." To be sure, he'd rather swim back towards the Pearl than be run through by an insane, coldly-possessed and ill-tempered Navy officer in this God-cursed cave where Barbossa had met his own fate. Jack could even fancy he heard Barbossa's ghostly, whispered laugh hissing through the cave, as thunder rolled.

Or was that… the hissing and the thunder…Jack stopped, his eyes widening even as Norrington paused as well. "Cannon," Jack said.

Norrington looked back at him, both of them listening. Norrington began to swear. "I told him! I told him only in self-defense."

Jack sighed. "Think your little officer's a tad too ambitious for his own good, Commodore."

Norrington looked torn with indecision. "Let's finish this," he said, in a clipped tone.

Jack eyed the edge of the water. "I'd rather take my chances." He gave a little apologetic shrug, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. "You understand, I'm sure."

But Norrington was angry, probably at being cheated out of whatever it was that he saw himself as possibly achieving in this absurd fight with him. Life, death…at this point it was all the same, but Jack still wanted to live, regardless.

He had his Pearl again, and that was worth more than anything else. He'd not waited ten years for nothing, to be cheated out of his freedom by a repressed soldier who couldn't be bothered to examine the real cause of his own distress and driven compulsions.

As Norrington advanced upon him once more, ignoring the distant booming of the cannon-fire between the Black Pearl and the Dauntless, Jack realized that Norrington was just crazy enough right now, and determined, to finish their fight even if it meant following him into the water. That could get messy, as his shoulder was beginning to ache, deep down, and Norrington's neck wound was hardly even slowing him.

With a growl, he met Norrington's sword easily, his own flashing in the torchlight as the flames guttered, and surprised both of them by forcing Norrington backwards a good few paces or more. Norrington's shoes weren't exactly helping his own position in the uneven terrain beneath them, either, gold coins slipping about, and wet rocks under his shoes causing him to waver.

And then, completely unfairly to Jack's way of thinking, it was Norrington's superior height and weight advantage that ended it, in that instant, as Norrington was on a slightly uphill incline and managed to block Jack's next blow and simply turn his blade down, hard, while physically throwing himself forward.

Jack ended up on his right side, rolling, half-sliding a little ways down, with Norrington grabbing his injured left shoulder. The sudden, surprisingly blinding pain of it caused him to slacken moments long enough for Norrington to disarm him.

Jack froze, his sword now flung out of reach and Norrington abruptly pulling him onto his back and rising up over him to put the tip of his good, strong Turner blade to Jack's neck. Panting, Jack stared up at him. So this is where it ended. Jack closed his eyes, catching his breath, wondering how many he had left to him.

The sound of Norrington's pistol being cocked made him open his eyes again, however, and he grimaced as Norrington took aim.

"Get up. Slowly," Norrington said, backing away slightly.

Jack sighed and closed his eyes. "Not to the death, then. To the gallows." He opened his eyes and met Norrington's gaze evenly. "Already told you, mate, I'm not going."

The far-off sound of the cannons still shuddered and echoed like hollow drums throughout the cave.

"Well, I can wait until you faint from the loss of blood and then simply row you back unconscious," Norrington pointed out. "Even so, it would be easier if you simply get in the bloody boat."

"Considering the two of us just now, it really is going to be a bloody boat," Jack quipped. But he realized he needed to stop the flow of his wound, and soon. He heaved a sigh. "Alright, alright." He sat up, feeling how much the fight had already cost him, and the fact that blood was running down his arm now.

Removing the sash from around his waist, he managed to wrap it around his arm and shoulder, tightly, although it began to bleed through almost immediately. He gave Norrington a frustrated glare. "I can't row like this."

Norrington said, knowingly, "Judging from the sound of the continuing exchange, I'm willing to bet your right arm will work well enough to get us back to your ship and mine to assess the situation."

Already, Jack was beginning to feel lightheaded. He wondered in truth if he'd even make it back to the two ships. It just didn't seem fair, somehow, for it all to end like this. But Norrington had a point. He was desperate now to see how his Pearl fared. He tried to get to his feet and found that he was more lightheaded than he'd thought.

Norrington held out a hand, and with a few blinks of surprise at it, Jack took it, pulled to his feet. Norrington gestured with the pistol. "Let's get out of here. Bring your sword."

But at the moment, Jack was finding it hard to stand. It was far worse than rum had ever been, and he abruptly wondered if maybe he really shouldn't have been sitting on that damned Aztec stone chest. Maybe it had…affected him somehow. Weakened him, perhaps. Or some such.

Curses lingered; maybe if he hadn't sat on the cursed thing for so long and just accompanied the last boat back to his beloved Black Pearl, he wouldn't be climbing into this tiny boat with the one man who seemed to have the most incentive to see him die on the gallows. Because the laws said he was supposed to.

Strangely, Norrington didn't make him take up an oar, but simply grabbed both and began to row them back out, the lamp flickering alarmingly along the way.

The cannon fire ceased, and Jack wondered if it meant…No, he shoved the thought away. He couldn't think anything yet, wouldn't allow himself to imagine the worst.

The sky was darkening, as the sun had already slipped down, but even so, as the boat neared the spot where the Pearl had been sitting, Jack could see she was gone. He sat up, craning his neck. He thought he could make out a receding shape across the water, but with the drifts of accursed mist that lay everywhere, shrouding the Isle, he couldn't really tell for certain. And then they were nearing the hulk of the Dauntless.

Jack sighed, closing his eyes, wondering if it truly had come back around, full-circle, only to end up with him losing the only thing that had ever mattered to him yet again. If so, he wasn't sure he wanted to go on at all. And looked up, to meet Norrington's eyes, that were watching him with too sharp a crystal clarity and recognition.

Jack looked away, finding himself uncharacteristically gloomy and at a loss for words, for once. Thankfully, Norrington didn't say a thing. Not to gloat, nor offer sarcasm, or to remind him that if he hadn't indeed been bent on seizing the treasure hoarded here, and had instead just sailed away… indeed, he might still be free.

Getting aboard the Dauntless was actually agony, and he was hard-pressed to understand if it really was due to the wound in his shoulder, or the after-effects of being too close to the damned Aztec treasure. Probably a combination of both.

"Someone should get rid of it," he grumbled to himself. "Bloody nuisance."

And he found himself swaying dangerously on the deck of the Dauntless before it rushed to meet him without warning.


* * *

The amber lamplight cast faux silhouettes upon the interior walls of the cabin, almost as if from a swaying moon. James regarded them without pleasure. Sitting in the chair behind his table, he leaned back, idly toying with the coin he held. It was a doubloon, one of the stolen pieces from the pirate cave on the Isle de Muerta.

He'd ordered the treasure confiscated under the auspices of the Navy and the cave cleared, but even once the Dauntless had been weighed down with the ill-gotten loot it had been obvious the entirety of the cavern would not be cleared in less than twenty trips. James wryly reflected that it shouldn't be a surprise, as the undead crew of the Black Pearl had been hoarding for well over a decade; the accumulation was considerable.

But he found himself in a most foul disposition regarding the Black Pearl. According to the officers aboard, and the sailors who'd witnessed the Black Pearl's leave-taking of the Isle, she'd fired a volley to cover her route and ensure she'd slip away, remaining only long enough to let the two boats of returning pirates to board their ship in safety.

Sans their captain, of course. James sighed to himself. This was, from all accounts, the fourth time Jack Sparrow had been left to his own fate by the Black Pearl's crew. The crew changed but the circumstances did not, apparently.

James smiled without humor. Mr. Sparrow really ought to stay away from the Isle de Muerta, for it never brought him any luck whatsoever.

Sparrow had mentioned 'The Code', and James could only assume that it was some obscure reference to the Brethrens' penchant for creating ship's articles with contingent instructions that were quirky, incomprehensible and entirely haphazard, depending on the mood of the crew. Like sailing away without their captain. At this point, James considered it to be cowardly, pitiful and rather sad. No honor among thieves.

But now that he only had Sparrow and not the Black Pearl, he was in the same position he'd occupied before; with no real victory and only the indigestible dilemma of whether or not to simply hang Sparrow back in Port Royal after all, or let him rejoin his somewhat questionable crew aboard his ship. Which was not an option James could afford, and remain within the bounds of the law, himself.

Dourly, he contemplated the presence of Sparrow below in the brig. Capturing him was almost empty of any satisfaction, at this point. Almost, because in truth it was better than nothing. The Black Pearl was gone.

As a captain-commander of His Majesty's Navy, James knew that it was quite simple: the treasure needed to be restored to its rightful owners or divided amongst those who'd suffered the undead crew's deprivations. Sparrow had to face the justice of the gallows. And the Black Pearl needed to be caught, hunted down and removed from the Caribbean.

Personally, he found the pitiful outcome of Sparrow's presence aboard to be less than pleasing, and he found too that it brought a measure of comfort to know that he was, in fact, capable of feeling sympathy for the pirate's plight. Which, really, had been brought upon himself by greed. Sparrow hadn't really had many options, unless he'd chosen to leave the Main altogether. The man wouldn't be a pirate if he weren't far too susceptible to the temptation that all that treasure represented.

It was at this thought, however, that James abruptly found his conscience assailed anew.

Who would have been hurt, and what would be the true loss, if he had allowed Sparrow and the Black Pearl to at least one helping of the treasure - and then let them leave? Most of the pirate sailors would undoubtedly lose themselves in the various port towns, and drink themselves to death, inevitably squandering the gold and jewels in whoring and debauchery. Sparrow would have the opportunity to leave the Caribbean completely after all.

Although James honestly couldn't see Sparrow retiring after one helping of the Isle's gold, if ever.

He swallowed, wondering if his wily success in running Sparrow down at the Isle was in fact going to plague him henceforth. Duty aside, law and justice aside, he still had to live with the fact that he'd achieved exactly what he wanted: to capture the man. And he still couldn't account for why he wanted to.

He glowered at the chart spread before him on the table, and tossed the doubloon onto it, where it spun for a time before landing on its side with a clink.

The Dauntless had opened fire on the Black Pearl as soon as the first shot had been fired. There were no reports of what possible damage had been incurred by the pirate vessel, as the gathering gloom and mist had made it impossible to tell.

The news of the loss of the Interceptor and the request for another ship of the line to replace her would take at least another five weeks to reach England, with another six to eight weeks before he could hope for a replacement and some word of resources and further ships, and without immediate access to several other ships to create a proper fleet, it was inadvisable to go chasing the Black Pearl down in the slower Dauntless, here.

And the idea of using Sparrow as bait to lure the Black Pearl out of hiding was also a most improbable one, considering the swaying loyalty and self-preservationist attitude of pirates in general.

James scowled, wondering why he should care if Sparrow died. Because that was the crux of it, regardless of whether the Black Pearl was nullified as a pirate threat in the Caribbean or not. For him personally, at any rate.

He had actually been glad to have the opportunity to cross blades with the man, but had realized during their duel that he actually didn't wish the man dead at all. If only the pirate would stop making such a nuisance of himself, he thought. It was like having a stray dog around, worrying children in the street, scavenging for food. And certainly Sparrow was not one to be tamed.

The rolling sway of the ocean beneath the Dauntless was comforting somehow. Soothing. He wondered if it comforted Sparrow at all.

They were making good time and would return to Port Royal probably by mid-morning.

And the memory of the defeat and resignation in Sparrow's face before the pirate had succumbed to loss of blood and weakness once they'd come aboard, it was abruptly haunting and irritating.

It was one thing to feel sympathy for the man's plight, but quite another to make sense of why he was trying to find a way to accomplish his duty without seeing Sparrow dead.

The little demon was back, whispering in the corner of his mind that perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing after all, to simply keep the man prisoner indefinitely…

James paused, staring at the chart before him without seeing it.

He could keep Sparrow imprisoned in the Fort, for any length of time.

That way, the stray would be caged, unable to create more pirating mischief and mayhem, following a drunken and greedy course through the Main, ad infinitum. He wouldn't have the man's death to worry about, nagging at him. The Black Pearl would be more easily captured, and his own conscience would be clear of having pursued a deliberate course with the apprehension of Sparrow foremost in his mind - for personal reasons. For it was personal, now, James had to admit to himself. He felt all too responsible for having let the pirate go in the first place, and had no viable, legal explanation to excuse allowing a prisoner to escape, no matter his sense of what was noble and fair.

It was personal indeed, to give Sparrow that one chance at freedom, and personal too, to feel sympathy for the pirate's outcome in the cave with him. And it was all too personal to recognize that it was most unbecoming a commander and captain of the Royal Navy to enjoy, yes, enjoy with the greatest satisfaction, the victorious duel with Sparrow and his recapture.

Gillette had not been happy. In fact, the Lieutenant had given him a disappointed glare as he'd ordered them to let the pirate ship leave without pursuit, and remain to confiscate the treasure at the Isle de Muerta. It was a task that had taken another day; a full day longer than he'd wanted to spend at the cursed Isle, treasure or no.

The surgeon had seen to Sparrow's shoulder and reported that the man was unconscious but would recover, with rest. It had been strange for James to witness the pirate's sudden loss of balance and strength after their duel. He'd wondered if perhaps it might be due to the effect of the cursed treasure, for Sparrow had been sitting on that cursed box when he'd cornered the pirate in the cave.

At midnight, nearly five hours ago, he'd overseen the tossing of the Aztec stone chest of cursed gold into the ocean, its lid fastened as securely as they could ensure, although no doubt the ropes would give way eventually. But not until the stone chest had sunk too many fathoms down for it to ever present any temptation or threat again, well out of the reach of any who might ignorantly wish to possess it.

So here he sat, unable to sleep, wondering why he should give a damn about the welfare, dreams and desires of a pirate who, for all practical purposes, should already be hung. They could hang him from the yardarm and be well within the law. The man had already faced trial and been condemned; escaping the noose hardly cancelled the fact that he was more a fugitive now than before. He could have killed Sparrow in that cave and been within the law.

He didn't want Sparrow to die. That was the bottom line. Now if he could only ascertain why.

The thought of going below to check on Sparrow's condition wasn't something he looked forward to. In fact, he was actually afraid to. He feared he might feel more pity for the man than Sparrow warranted. It would simply intensify his own indecision and confusion regarding the man's fate.

Uncertainty flooded his very being. Was he acting on some personally-driven, irrational impulse to seek satisfaction by some means, to make up for the loss of Miss Swann? Or was he in truth pursuing the right goal, in attempting to see to it that the Black Pearl and other pirate threats were destroyed?

Was he using one to justify his remaining feelings regarding the other? What meant more, really? Capturing Sparrow, or losing the Swann girl? The irony that both of them had names of birds was not lost on him. Neither was the guilt he felt at what he was seriously contemplating: keeping Sparrow. He was very close to that line, now, between duty and selfishness. There were only so many rationalizations he could offer himself or the world to explain his actions and his desires. And not wanting the pirate to die was no longer within the realms of what was right - it was entering the realms of what was wrong.

Admitting the pirate was a good man was very different than keeping him in a cage.

But not caging him would mean the man's death. All it would do, bringing Sparrow back to Port Royal with them, would offer delay and buy him some time until he could find out how he might resolve the knotty problem of Sparrow's fate, his own feelings about the same, and what his decision should be.

Lord, the power of life and death, to simply speak the words and see a man die. To allow the sparing of Sparrow's life in the cave and not shoot him or run him through had been exhilarating. Too exhilarating. It sickened him that he'd enjoyed having power over the man as much as he'd had.

Perhaps he was playing the game of cat and mouse a little too well. James mulled darkly in the privacy of his own thoughts upon the exquisite satisfaction in having bested the pirate at his own game - neither of them had fought fairly, but to the death. And even then, he'd been toying with Sparrow, and both of them knew it. For he'd never had any intention of killing him, unless it came to it without any option.

I want him alive, James decided. Not dead.

But the stark knowledge and self-discovery in this decision brought no comfort, because he was left with the question of why. Still.

The answer revealed itself in a most simplistic and horrifyingly stark way. To want Sparrow alive meant that he wanted Sparrow there, at hand. To know he had the power to keep him alive. To know that Sparrow…was his.

James groaned, and leaned forward over the table, upon his elbows, his hands over his face. Dammit, he swore, down at the carefully marked chart under his nose.

It was no longer a question of rationale - it was wholly an issue of ownership. He'd lost Elizabeth Swann, and sought to find a measure of satisfaction in capturing and owning Jack Sparrow instead. If he couldn't be allowed to fulfill the rights of husband and lover, then he would seek the satisfaction of rights of conqueror and commander instead. The duties of the one path had been lost to him, so he was using the duties of his rank and position, his career, to find some ease from the loss in recompense.

Which made him a jailer. A master. Keeping the stray dog chained up in the kennel. Only Sparrow was more akin to the bird than the dog metaphor, James had to glumly admit. For caged, Sparrow was likely to simply languish and die. He had already seen the raw pain and despair on the pirate's face at losing his ship again. For the ship was synonymous with freedom to the man. James knew that now.

He couldn't be cruel. Was he being cruel to deny the man a swift death, and keep him alive merely for his own satisfaction? Was he being cruel to not allow the pirate to return to his ship and his - pirate life? There were pirates, and there were pirates. But Sparrow was still a thief and a menace. He would not give up his pirate ways, so James was in the unhelpful position of choosing for him.

The possibility of giving Jack Sparrow the choice of leaving had already been played out, and Sparrow had shown him that he had every intention of remaining.

James sat back in his chair, realizing he could think it to death and never reach any form of conclusion, no decision that would account for all the factors, and enable him the best outcome. His sense of what was fair, noble and just was compromised by Sparrow's very existence as a pirate and a criminal. No amount of sympathy or compassion was going to change that.

But he wondered now if speaking with Jack Sparrow would reveal anything he might have not considered, at this point. Sparrow had claimed to wish death over returning to Port Royal, but James was very well-aware that was only because he didn't want to hang. All the man wanted was to return to his ship.

And he didn't want Sparrow aboard the Pearl, James admitted. He really didn't. He wanted him -

James felt sick, suddenly. That was it, wasn't it? He didn't want to gloat and rejoice over Sparrow, but he wanted to keep him. Well, bloody hell.

He stood up, and began pacing the floor.

He envied Sparrow the freedom the man had. The intrinsic freedom Sparrow possessed, regardless of whether he was rejoined with his Black Pearl or not.

From the very first, he'd found Sparrow irritating, flaunting the very laws James had spent a lifetime dedicating himself to upholding and enforcing. It wasn't his fault Sparrow insisted on remaining a pirate. It wasn't his fault that Sparrow had no sense of sacrifice, duty, lawfulness or honor. The pirate's questionable morality had very little in the way of real decency or virtue. Why, even the way the man dressed and carried himself was an affront. Sparrow was a depraved, immoral pirate, through and through. A sinner, and most indecent.

But Jack Sparrow was also a sailor, a captain (for all that James wished he could ignore that it was true) and had a love of the ocean that James himself shared. James was more than happy living in the Caribbean and had found a great sense of deep satisfaction from pursuing a military life in the Navy.

To lose Elizabeth to the romantic illusion that Will Turner was 'a good pirate' was no less horrifying than to have to face the fact that capturing Jack Sparrow once more was only compounding the problem. Exactly as he'd feared. He sighed.

The problem of wanting to own him. It made him feel guilty and sinful to acknowledge it. It made him feel as dirty as if indulging in furtive self-pollution, touching himself in the privacy of his cabin or home at night, to seek quick, empty release. There was nothing in it of anything but selfishness and self-indulgence. To ease his own conscience, to seek fulfillment of his own desires - that was not true ambition and in fact made him less than Sparrow, even.

He paced the floor, angrily. This was interminable! It was insufferable and not to be borne. It was too much, the pressure was too great. There didn't seem to be any way out of this.

The problem…the problem was Jack Sparrow. What the man was, who he was, what he represented; everything. Jack Sparrow appeared to be a pirate, and yet in so many ways destroyed James's own carefully harbored understanding of what a pirate was.

He felt alive when around the man. Warning bells were sounding in his mind at this. The only other time he'd felt like that was either at the helm of the ship or when he was in Elizabeth Swann's company.

And James winced, as he realized he was placing Jack Sparrow, yet again, on a par with Miss Swann. Ridiculous. Absurd; as if Sparrow were any form of consolation prize that could equal the value of Elizabeth to him, personally.

He'd been willing to do anything to make Elizabeth happy, even up to letting her go to the man she truly loved. Even if that man was a blacksmith. What was so wrong with wanting the consolation of this chase and capture? This pursuit and satisfaction of having caught the pirate?

James swallowed, hard, realizing he was sweating. He couldn't catch his breath in the stillness of the room. He needed air, and glanced at the closed door.

The game was no longer made up of black and white rules though, and he himself was caught in the play without knowing anymore just where he stood, or what he was supposed to do. What was right or wrong wasn't so easily determined.

Following his heart so far had led him to lose it, with no chance of his love being returned. He was not taking it out on Sparrow, he was attempting to leave his heart behind altogether.

That caused as much of a warning in him as realizing he was finally on the verge of using the law for his own personal ends.

James realized he was well on his way to becoming no better than Jack Sparrow. Well, perhaps he might benefit after all, from seeking resolution through conversing with the pirate. It might yet yield some truths he could not grasp alone.

Shuttering away the fear he felt at confronting Sparrow, he went and pulled on his coat and hat, and opened the door. As he left the cabin, he could see the first fingers of dawn on the horizon, barely discernable trails of light that heralded where the sun would be some hours hence.

As he went below, he noticed those on watch were subdued and quiet. Making his way down to the brig, very few of the men were awake, slumbering in their hammocks and the few sentries on duty saluted him in silence.

The guard outside Sparrow's cell stood up swiftly and saluted him, now. "Sir."

James regarded the unmoving form of the pirate. "How is he?"

"Hasn't moved, Sir. He's been asleep all this time. We thought the blighter's injury would bother 'im, but then, the doctor said he's going to sleep for a long while. And so 'e has."

Jack Sparrow was lying on his back, his head and upper part of his body resting on a folded blanket, particularly where his injured shoulder was. But he opened an eye at their voices, and regarded James with an inscrutable expression.

"I wish to speak with the prisoner alone. I'll let you know when I'm through," James stated to the soldier, who nodded.

"Aye, Sir."

As the guard left, Sparrow brought himself upright into a sitting position, leaning back against the wood of the hull with a wince at his shoulder. He leaned his head back and regarded James with an almost offensive smirk.

"Well, well, well. So you've decided to grace me with a visit after all. Thought maybe you'd forgotten I was down here."

Regarding Sparrow's dark eyes and knowing leer with a renewed sense of wariness, James realized that this was no caged bird before him, but a trapped cat. A large one, with considerable stamina, strength and speed. Sharp claws. And entirely untrustworthy. He felt, in fact, as though he were facing an exotic animal, one that already proven itself to be more than a threat. A danger.

"I find it passes understanding," James observed, "why you would risk returning to the treasure when you knew very well that it might cost you everything you'd already gained."

The pirate gave him a curious frown. "Doesn't explain why you'd bother putting me in here again, yourself."

"You left me little choice. So far, you've proven yourself to be a pain in the neck," James informed him, smiling coolly.

His hand went to the bandage around his neck where Sparrow's blade had wounded him. The cut he'd sustained had needed stitches. He wondered briefly how many stitches Sparrow's shoulder had required.

"Glad I could oblige," Sparrow informed him, with as much inflection as James had awarded. That was to say, not much. But the pirate's gaze now spoke far more eloquently.

James found himself growing discomfited under it.

Sparrow looked almost accusingly at him, as though it was quite obvious to him why he'd been incarcerated once more.

James found himself hard-pressed to answer to even himself if he was merely suffering from a guilty conscience and projecting it on the pirate. Or whether Sparrow had any real idea of why he was there now, and not simply dead back there on the Isle de Muerte.

Unable to grasp why it should make any difference to him what Sparrow thought of his actions, and in an attempt to save his dignity and not be seen as gloating at having caught the man, James commented, "A little gratitude wouldn't go amiss. You have your life, after all. I would be well within my rights to simply have you executed here, aboard this ship. You are, after all, a convicted criminal and a fugitive."

Sparrow stared back at him without much reaction. He brought up his knee and rested his right hand upon it, saying with a casual flick of his fingers, "So why haven't you? What are you waiting for?"

Slowly, carefully, James replied, "Because I'm not of the opinion that you deserve to die, regardless of what the law states. Which is quite clear where piracy is concerned."

Sparrow gave him a feral grin. "To be sure, but that doesn't quite explain your taking such an interest in my welfare, now does it?"

James sighed. "How quickly you forget, Mr. Sparrow. You became my responsibility when I let you go. It was your decision to return to the treasure that led to this. If I were you, I'd stay away from that Isle in the future. It doesn't seem to bring you much luck."

But Sparrow was frowning at him as if in confusion. "It's *not* your intention then, to see me to the gallows?"

James looked down. He'd already decided that it was the last thing he intended, but he could hardly explain it to himself to any degree of satisfaction, let alone to the pirate. Placing his hands behind his back, he straightened, and met Sparrow's gaze evenly.

"No," he answered. "Although what I will do with you remains to be seen. I can't simply let you go."

"Ah, I see," Sparrow said, nodding. And raised his brows at him. "Commuted to a life sentence, then?" He sounded almost hopeful.

James began to feel even more uncomfortable. He wondered what about this whole scene was becoming more obvious, when he couldn't ascertain what his own motives were anymore. "For now," he replied, curtly. "You had your ship, and your freedom. You could have traveled anywhere, yet you chose to return to the treasure. Why?"

Sparrow regarded him and blinked with some surprise. "You've got to be kidding, mate. Did you not see it, lying there? All the gold? It's a bloody fortune, a hundred times over."

"You hardly had plans for retirement," James returned, sharply.

Sparrow's unevenly gold grin was possessing of too much amusement under his circumstances. "There is that," he agreed. "What would you have done, in my shoes?" He glanced down at his feet. "Boots, rather?" he corrected. "Or are you suggesting that the reason you went there yourself directly was to catch me and my Pearl? In which case, why'd you bother letting me go in the first place, 'ey mate?" Sparrow's accompanying sly look at him with this was almost a wink, and very distracting.

James found he was flushing in spite of himself. Why, indeed? He looked down again and replied, awkwardly, "You didn't deserve to die. I still believe that."

Sparrow was watching him closely now. "I see. And being a pirate, I can't be allowed to go wandering around, helping meself to gold that's doing no one any good sitting on an island no one else can find. So you've picked me out a nice cozy cell back in your little fort, where you'll keep me locked up until I waste away from boredom. Is that it?" Sparrow's sarcasm helped the truth in what he'd stated to bite deeply.

Angrily, James retorted, "It is your decision to remain a pirate. You can hardly blame anyone but yourself for the consequences."

Sparrow was laughing quietly. "It would seem I'm at your disposal, Commodore." The knowing tone in which Sparrow delivered this did not help James's fraying composure.

Leaning forward to grasp the bars, James replied, "Can you honestly suggest an alternative?"

"Do you honestly want me to?" Sparrow threw back at him, instantly, with a smile.

"I would have thought," James stated dryly, "that your sense of self-preservation would encourage you to at least try to offer a reasonable alternative to imprisonment or death, yes."

Sparrow lifted his hand and regarded his nails. "You could always let me go. You did once before."

James stood back from the cell once more and shook his head. "It's no good, Mr. Sparrow. Unless you and your ship are gone from the Caribbean, it is still my responsibility to see you brought in. There is only so far I can stretch the limitations of the law on your behalf." And he added in an undertone, "Although why I should bother at this point is quite beyond me."

"An ultimatum then," Sparrow suggested. "A deal. You let me go, and I take the Pearl and her current takings and take meself away altogether, thus assuring there won't be any more of these unpleasant encounters with yourself and your Dauntless."

Grimly, James said, "You're a pirate. Even if I agreed upon this with you, how could I take you at your word? Particularly considering your inability to resist the temptation of all that gold?"

Sparrow frowned at him. "And just what is that gold to you?"

James replied, "I would have thought that would be patently obvious. It belongs to whomever it was stolen from in the first place. It's my duty to see it returned to them."

Sparrow looked down briefly, then lifted his eyes to meet James's again. Unnerving, as always, those eyes. Why'd the man have to outline them so darkly? James had to suppress the urge to ask.

"Is it now? So why'd you let go the Pearl? You could have made chase."

James gave him a humorless smile. "You know as well as I there's no contest. Your ship's the faster one."

Sparrow gave him a filthy look. "You had me aboard, mate. They would've stopped for parley."

James frowned. "Parley?"

"Talk," Sparrow reiterated, and waved his hand about. "You know; truce. Negotiation. Your idiotic little officer seemed to think that blasting my Pearl with your cannons was the most effective form of communication."

"Your ship fired first," James pointed out.

"Hardly the point," Sparrow said.

"I think it is," James insisted.

Sparrow looked away, not deigning to reply.

"Our ships and our crews may not have been able to resist clashing, but then, you were the one who suggested our duel in the first place," James said. "Rather a violent confrontation for someone claiming there are better ways of negotiating."

Sparrow lifted his finger and lazily shook it at him while speaking slowly, as if thinking aloud. "Why's it so important to you, anyway, whether I sail my ship in these parts or not? So long as I leave the English settlements alone?"

"I do not, and cannot, condone piracy," James stated, dryly. "I will not. The only reason I let you go was because you were, as Miss Swann and Mr. Turner insisted, a good man."

Sparrow smiled genuinely at mention of them. "A lovely couple, aren't they?" His smile fled swiftly, and he quickly said, "Although, I'm sure it won't last. She'd have been much better off with you, mate."

"As you always take the time to tell me," James sighed. And he experienced a surge of anger and resentment towards Jack Sparrow for this. After all, he knew it was only an attempt on the pirate's part to make him believe that Sparrow understood what he'd been going through. How he'd felt to lose Elizabeth. To face rejection, and a broken heart…publicly. James swallowed and blinked, wondering suddenly at the horrid notion that of all the people who knew him, this pirate was the only man who offered much sympathy for his loss…and it wasn't even genuine.

Well, to be fair, Governor Swann seemed less than happy at losing a commodore of the fleet for a son-in-law, and having to make do with a blacksmith instead -

"Seems to me," Sparrow drawled, "that you're experiencing a little bit of a quandary, what with having to admit that I'm a good man, while claiming I deserve to rot in jail for the rest of me life for bein' a pirate. Can't you make up your mind?"

This brought James back to himself with a jolt, realizing he was standing and discussing the man's future and the very real consequences of keeping him prisoner. And with Sparrow watching him sharply, waiting for his response, James abruptly wondered at the wisdom of discussing anything with him. So far all he'd gained was an understanding that he still lacked any momentum on what to do with Sparrow, and that he had no idea how to proceed, seeing as he couldn't even trust Sparrow to leave the Caribbean at all, should he let him loose.

Meeting Sparrow's eye, James knew in this moment that it was partly a fascination with the pirate, not just the satisfaction and triumph in having caught him, but in keeping him there. In this very cell. A prize. A wild pet. He could nearly feel the accusation in Sparrow's gaze and he finally had to look away.

Sparrow's eyes narrowed and he gingerly climbed to his feet, favoring his shoulder. Moving closer to the front of the cell, he leaned against the bars, ignoring the step backwards that James took. "Tell me something, Commodore," he began. He tilted his head, regarding him askance. "If I gave you my word that I'd quit these waters and never return; take me ship and never again trespass in the New World, would you accept it?"

Helplessly, and feeling more than a little placed on the spot, James replied with a shake of his head, "I can't. Even a gentleman's agreement…you're a pirate. I cannot trust your word."

With a raise of his brows, Sparrow added, "Even if we put it in writing? You'd still refuse an accord with me?"

James pressed his lips together. "I cannot, Mr. Sparrow. You know very well why not."

Sparrow nodded. "I see. So you don't believe me to be a good man, then?"

James straightened. "Only so far as you don't deserve to die. But you are still a pirate."

Sparrow grinned at him. "Let me see if I understand you correctly, mate; you're confusing me with all this. You won't take me at my word, because I'm a pirate and cannot therefore be trusted, yet you also say I'm a good man who doesn't deserve to die for being a pirate. Pirate though I am…and all the while, if I were to say I'd give up bein' a pirate, you wouldn't be able to believe me, because my word is not to be trusted?"

James smiled and gave a silent chuff of laughter, looking down. "Yes, I see your point."

Sparrow was silent for a few moments, then suggested cheerfully, "It's quite simple then, really. They don't have to be mutually exclusive of each other. All you have to do is admit that you believe me, a pirate, to also be a good man, and therefore to be trusted as far as holding to a gentleman's agreement. Doesn't have to extend any further than that, really. Just enough to allow your guilty conscience enough respite until I can sail my ship out of your jurisdiction. What do you say to that?"

"I would say yes, except that there's one problem," James replied, looking down at him, realizing it for the final time. And beyond any doubt now, as well. "I cannot afford to let you go. Not again."

At Sparrow's look of non-understanding, James continued, "You see, Mr. Sparrow, I've decided that you're my responsibility, and if I let you go and you do not hold to our agreement, I will be the one held accountable. I've already taken a dire chance on you, when I let you go last week. A chance which you so quickly squandered in returning to the Isle of Dead, as I suspected you would."

Sparrow said, sharply, "An' whoever decided you had no choice but to follow me there, 'ey?"

"Granted," James nodded, "although you were also well-aware I'd have no choice but to follow my reasoning, seeing as I'm duty-bound to see to it that the law is upheld. We both knew you'd return there, to take treasure that does not belong to you. I would be twice the fool if I let you go again, only to release you to seek another shipload and make off with it, leaving me to be the laughing-stock of my peers. I already have enough to answer for, not to mention the personal losses I've suffered of late," James added, bitterly.

Sparrow stared at him with an expression of growing understanding. Slowly, and with a note of near incredulity, the pirate asked, "You *want* to keep me prisoner?"

To hear it so baldly uttered from the man himself, and aloud, caused a swift jolt of guilt to stab within him. James wondered if he'd compromised himself somehow. It had been a very bad idea in the end, coming down here to talk to the pirate. And as he swallowed, for once not really having any able answer to that one, Sparrow gave him a considering look, his eyes roving down James's form, and then back up to meet his gaze again.

"So you *can* let me go, but you won't. Sounds like you're making it personal, Commodore." Sparrow's eyes were now as unrelenting as his words.

This had been such a very unwise decision, James decided. He never should have come down here in the first place. Firmly, he ignored the heat that rose to his face and replied, "Neither can I let you die."

"Actually, you could," Sparrow put in. "But you won't. You don't want to. Why?" As James stared back at him, completely unable to answer, because he really didn't know, Sparrow frustratedly waved a hand. "I mean, why not? Why keep me alive? To soothe some part of your guilt at secretly wanting to see me dead?"

James let out a breath. "For God's sake, I don't *want* to see you dead. Why do you keep insisting that I do? I've said repeatedly that I do not."

"And why is that? Because I'm 'a good man'?" Sparrow smiled at him, a little more winsomely than his situation would appear to warrant, particularly given James's temper was close to breaking at this point.

James was angry, but whether he was angrier at Sparrow than at himself, he didn't know.

Stiffly, James answered, "Yes, damn it. Because you are a good man. I told you, you don't deserve to die for that."

The pirate looked him up and down again, the very nerve of it forcing James to clench his teeth in annoyance.

"Apparently I don't deserve to be free either."

"Indeed," James agreed, heartily.

"And yet," Sparrow said, lifting a finger, "you won't tell me why you care one way or the other."

"I do have a sense of what is right; perhaps more than you do, Mr. Sparrow," James retorted.

"Ah yes," Sparrow agreed. "Your fine and high morals. Which appear to include the belief that you have every right to want to keep me imprisoned. Well," he said, looking down, holding the bars, "I do hope you'll come down to visit occasionally. It's likely to be a very tedious and lonely time of it for me, I expect."

James didn't bother to attempt to respond to that. It was too obvious a ploy to act as though he was being unnecessarily cruel, when they were both well aware that the pirate was lucky enough just to be alive even now.

Sparrow muttered, "Don't suppose you could spare a bit rum, mate? This shoulder of mine is protesting, and you're doing me head in."

With a hard edge to his voice, James said, "I'll have the guard bring you a drink."

He turned away, and was nearly out of sight of the cell when Sparrow called out, "Commodore…"

With a sigh, he turned back to face him, waiting.

With that familiar pleading expression, Sparrow had the temerity to ask, "Would you at least allow me visitors? Or are dear Will and Lizbeth not to know I'm being held, 'ey?"

At this reminder of the two friends who'd stood with Sparrow against him, James bit back an angry retort and merely turned away once more, this time stalking angrily to the ladder. Sparrow knew very well that he couldn't afford to let either of them know he had Sparrow captive - at least for a while. They'd be a major nuisance about it. No doubt Miss Swann would immediately begin working on her father. Although at this point, he seriously doubted that Governor Swann had much patience left for his daughter's fancies regarding pirates.

He shortly ordered the guard to ensure that their prisoner had a bottle of rum for his shoulder injury, and then made his way back to his cabin, finally shutting himself away with relief. The dawn was nearing in the sky. He'd had no sleep and was entirely too out of sorts to even attempt to catch any.

Bitterly, he took out his own bottle of brandy and poured a measure into a glass. As he allowed the fiery liquid to icily burn away some of the ire and awkward insecurity he felt in the aftermath of the dreadful conversation with the pirate captain, James went to sit down at his desk, glass in hand.

The entire matter felt as though it were careening out of control, although he knew that, in actual fact, nothing had changed. In fact, it would appear that nothing whatsoever had been resolved, except that he'd managed to disgrace himself somewhat by rising to the pirate's baiting, and had even allowed the man too great a measure of control during their entire exchange.

And he still had no idea how to resolve the situation. Even if he'd been able to live with the knowledge that he was keeping the man imprisoned for personal reasons of his own, it was now complicated and made nearly impossible by virtue of the pirate knowing now just exactly that: Sparrow was his prisoner because James wanted him to be. And he could not give a satisfactory answer as to why, even to himself. He suspected though that Sparrow was already busily working out some subtle, finer points with which to worry him if he should succumb to the wish to speak with him again.

With another dour sip of his brandy, James considered leaving Sparrow in the cell and forgetting about him. It would be the easiest, after all. But he knew his conscience wouldn't let him forget, that was the damning part of this whole mess. Because to his utter shame, James realized that he enjoyed matching wits with the man. He was more than a pirate; Jack Sparrow was smart, and not just in a criminally shrewd fashion - he had real intelligence. What was the word he used…savvy. Yes, Jack was savvy. As apt as the analogy was, he couldn't say that the pirate was merely a caged animal. He was a man, for all that he was a pirate, and a good one. That was the source of the guilt he felt now.

James sighed, watching the lamp as it began to go out, but the morning light from the windows was enough to fill his cabin with a blue, watery illumination.

He winced, tenderly rubbing at the dressing on his neck wound. Pain in the neck, indeed.

There was a disturbing awareness too, that he'd been unable to hold in abeyance down in the brig, confronting Sparrow; an awareness of a predatory response that he felt rise from within him. If Sparrow could be likened to a caged cat, then he was a free one. He'd felt it when they'd crossed swords in the cave. He'd felt it when Sparrow had backed away and managed to fall off the high wall into the water below. He'd felt it during their conversation below.

James realized he'd finally met his match; a pirate who represented a challenge that was not so much an adversary as an equal, a worthy opponent. And he wondered at the grim disappointment that such a man could not be an ally, or even…friend.

James's breath caught in his throat and he had to take another sip of brandy at this. A hollow sort of victory it felt now, because he realized he had no close friends, and had never had the acquaintance of anyone he might have considered striking a friendship with on that level. On his own level, he amended.

Strange to find that the only potential kindred spirit he'd ever known would be a pirate. Worse, it was an irony. And an impossibility, seeing as he couldn't be friends with the man while he kept him imprisoned, nor could he be if the man were loose, rampaging about as a pirate.

In a nauseated moment of recognition, James discovered why he didn't want Sparrow to leave the Caribbean at all. Because he, James Norrington, had nothing else - not even the hope of a marriage to a good woman in the loss of Elizabeth Swann - and in lieu of being able to have any real friendship with anyone, would cling to the disappointment of the reality in their relationship of opposing sides.

James had to ask himself at this, which was more pitiful: Sparrow's inability to give up piracy, or his own inability to achieve a level of human relationship that wasn't governed entirely by military or legal structure. Not a wife, nor a friend, could he attain. That was more the pity, he thought. For Sparrow at least was true to himself.

Well, he, James Norrington, Commodore of the Royal Navy, had to remain true to himself also. Therefore Captain Jack Sparrow could look forward to remaining a guest of the prison at Fort Charles until he could decide what should become of the pirate.

It really was as simple as that.

Once he made up his mind about it, James found it was easier to dismiss Sparrow from his thoughts altogether.

Until he realized that he was merely postponing the inevitable conclusion: Sparrow was at his disposal, and the thrill it afforded him was far from impersonal. He was actually looking forward to simply enjoying knowing that the pirate was in the cell, awaiting an uncertain fate.

He wasn't sure he liked what this meant about him, and what he had become.

James finished the last of the brandy at the bottom of his glass with ill humor.

Part 2: Decadence

* * *

It didn't come as much of a surprise to Jack that he was immediately hustled under guard straight off the Dauntless to the Fort's prison upon their arrival. It was admittedly with some irony that he noticed he was placed in what appeared to be the same cell he'd been held in the last two times he'd been kept there.

But the surprise of finding the dog crouched by the bars of his cell a few hours later begging for scraps was less than amusing, for the dog didn't have the ring of keys in his mouth this time. With little else to do, Jack sat down by the door and scratched the dog behind the ears.

The rest of the cells were notably empty. Distastefully, he reflected upon the zeal of the Commodore with regards to hanging pirates. His left shoulder was aching and raw, making an agony of every movement of his left arm.

But it was nothing compared to the fatalism he found in knowing that if he'd only left the Isle de Muerte alone, he'd not have lost his Pearl again. The Commodore hadn't exactly rubbed his nose in that one, and that had surprised him actually. Norrington had seemed sincerely puzzled that he'd not left well enough alone. But he'd spent ten years waiting for his luck to change and with the mountain of treasure sitting unused back in that island cave, it seemed silly to just let it go to waste. It was a fortune worthy of a king; one could start an empire with it all.

Couldn't be helped now, however. Besides, he knew the Pearl would slip back with or without him and continue hauling off shiploads, now that the rest of the crew knew the way. It was up to him to try to find some way to be rescued; he'd already forbade them to attempt anything as suicidal as trying to rush the Fort in the event anything should happen to him.

But he found he was regretting it as the hours passed and the sun set, the evening gathered and night closed in at last. He dozed, wondering when they'd feed him.

He was only able to sleep fitfully, despite being only moderately inconvenienced. He was used to sleeping anywhere, after all. But on a ship - not on dry land. The rocking, swaying lullaby of motion was nowhere to be had and the lack of it was making it difficult for him to really get comfortable, especially with the added complication of his injured shoulder.

It was a very, very long night.

Jack spent it puzzling over why the Commodore would be feeling any sort of regard for his welfare in the first place. The man was obviously suffering an attack of conscience; firstly, for letting him go, and secondly, for acting on the decision to come after him.

He was beginning to consider Norrington a very confused person indeed. Most likely the loss of his love, Miss Elizabeth Swann-soon-to-be-Mrs.-Turner was to blame, sending the fellow into some sort of agitated, broken-hearted frenzy of refined and proper proportions, as would befit an officer and a gentleman.

Norrington had even sounded remorseful about having to keep him prisoner, which was completely at odds with the startling revelation that he actually wanted to, against the immediate alternative of hanging him. Jack was hardly going to refuse the opportunity to remain alive, for as long as he was so, there was hope.

He sighed. It was true that the Isle de Muerte had so far brought him nothing but bad luck. But it was also true that when away from the Isle, his luck had always held steady and true as one of Will Turner's blades. Or Will's heart. He wished the lad luck in his marriage - that lass was a spitfire and would undoubtedly end up either the ruination of both of them or running off to sea on some mad whimsy. He in fact fully expected Will to seek him out at some point to ask his aide in rushing to rescue Elizabeth from some future entanglement.

He wondered if Norrington had any real intention of simply leaving him here permanently. He really couldn't see how the Commodore could get away with it though; his own men would wonder at it, and word would begin to circulate, as rumors do.

It was really quite interesting, how Norrington had seemed positively unsettled by him. With every question as to why he'd want to keep Jack here, the Commodore had become more and more agitated, to the point of actually behaving as though he considered Jack far more formidable a threat behind bars than he'd been with a sword in hand, facing him in combat.

It was the moral dilemma, undoubtedly. Ah, yes. One can keep a man in chains, even hang him, but if one enjoys it…that leaves a bad taste in the mouth and can lead to nastier things. Things like enjoying oneself in other ways, exploring new territory. Woe betide the Commodore who dared to discover he might actually be a flesh and blood man, as opposed to a toy soldier in a fancy uniform with a big hat, a wig, and a pretty Turner sword.

He watched the light of the waning moon slowly creep along the wall and the floor for hours, keeping apace with his thoughts. The dog slept nearby, keeping him company. No doubt the poor mutt was lonely down here most of the time. He sighed, knowing he was in exactly the same predicament.

So the Commodore couldn't let him go, but he couldn't kill him either. Very interesting, indeed.

It was heartening, despite the inherent danger that the man could snap at some point and possibly haul him off to the gallows anyway, should his conscience and moral compass suddenly decide to point in that direction. Maybe he could exert a little sway towards the other, however, and influence Norrington's opinion to be oriented a little more kindly. If Norrington had a predisposition to not want to see him dead, he was hardly going to do anything except encourage him. He just had to work out what the reasoning was, and it wouldn't do any good to ask him because so far, the Commodore appeared to understand it even less than he did.

No, Jack knew he was alone on this one. He was going to have to figure it out by himself, and then enlighten Norrington when the suspense finally grew too difficult to stand and he came down to talk to him again.

It might take a while before Norrington broke, but it was best to be prepared, in any event.

So. Norrington was threatened by the fact that he was a pirate, and a good man. It seemed to undermine every stone laid in the Commodore's foundation, and go against the belief that all pirates are terribly wicked, evil and murdering rogues. To be sure, most of them were. But some weren't as bad as all that. Most British pirates were deserters of Norrington's own dear Navy, which was as harsh an institution as one could find, apart from the Spanish. Like Gibbs, for instance, who'd even served aboard the same ship as the Swanns and Norrington himself on the crossing from England.

He knew too that the good Commodore couldn't abide anything that challenged his belief in the righteousness of his beloved Laws.

Norrington wasn't threatened by his nature as a pirate - but was threatened by his virtue. Which Jack found rather humorous, considering virtue wasn't something he'd really identified with since he'd been naught but a lad.

He was a good man, and therefore impossible to kill, without irreparable damage to the man's sense of right and wrong. Which meant that something personal was seething below the surface of the oh-so-self-righteously uptight Commodore.

Jack tapped his lip with his finger. Now, the loss of the future Mrs. Commodore. And a broken heart. That had to be part of it. Norrington had been rather obvious, and it had been even painful to witness the poor man's vulnerability in the face of the young woman's exploiting of his feelings for her and subsequent rejection.

Lord knew, Jack himself hadn't felt very happy when she'd decided he failed to meet her strangely high standards of what she expected from a pirate. Apparently she believed that real pirates were supposed to be like young Will, there: impossibly gallant, naïve and impetuous to a fault. Not to mention willing to give up both ship and the ocean in order to settle down into some land-bound, stifling enslavement to earning enough daily bread to feed whatever wee ones appeared, and try to keep some social standing in the town until one died with gray hair and a pocketful of unrealized dreams.

Strange, too, that a man in Norrington's position should continue to harbor such unrealistically idealistic notions about true love. Obviously the world hadn't yet kicked such fantasies out of him yet. He could only hope that Norrington's recently broken heart wouldn't be the avenue of Jack's own downfall, should the Commodore decide to actually take it out on him. That was all too likely, still, at this point.

Norrington couldn't let him go, didn't want to let him leave. For some reason, Norrington wanted to keep him here. It went beyond pride, or wanting to have caught him as a trophy, some sort of feather in his hat. And it wasn't that the Commodore was bent; the man was so repressed and tightly wound up, it was a miracle he hadn't broken years ago. He probably hadn't had a proper lay in years. In fact, that was probably it.

Jack sighed. It usually was, come to think of it. The more proper the gentleman, the more it was assumed that to indulge in a little fun was akin to the most heinous sin against womankind. Which didn't say much for the ladies who offered their services towards that end, nor the young maids who ended up married to such inexperienced, untried fellows.

Although, considering the way Norrington had regarded Miss Elizabeth, the Commodore was more likely to be of a higher quality than all that.

And if the man was so tightly wound that he couldn't even enjoy himself with the lasses, it was extremely unlikely he'd ever allow himself to indulge in the lads.

No, it was something else. Something more personal. It wasn't just because of the loss of Elizabeth to Turner's boy…it was specific to Jack, himself.

Ah, yes. Having captured his nemesis, an infamous pirate who represented something beyond Norrington's rigid idea of what a pirate is, *who* pirates are…Norrington was unable to reconcile it, much as Elizabeth had been unable to when faced first with himself and then Barbossa and his mutinous crew.

Jack grimaced, realizing that Norrington most likely was intrigued in spite of himself, and that was the only reason for keeping him here. To study him from a distance, merely by having him there, captive. As soon as the Commodore reached some solid conclusion, he'd be an inconvenience, nothing more. It was what he represented, and as long as Jack was a mystery to him, an enigma to be puzzled over, he was safe.

There was nothing for it but that he would have to somehow prove to Norrington that this behavior was inherently flawed and ignoble, in keeping him here. That was the only weakness he'd be able to exploit. If he prodded too deeply at the Commodore's freshly-broken heart, he ran the risk of perhaps pushing Norrington too far in the opposite direction, towards blind anger and pained resentment.

After all, it was clear that Norrington had no idea what to actually do with Jack now that he had caught him. Jack was under no illusions on that score.

Then there was the rather arrogant and sarcastic attitude Norrington had adopted with him upon their very first acquaintance. The Commodore appeared to take great pleasure from looking down his nose at him every time they met. And not just because he was an annoyance - Norrington had actually mocked him, more than once. And almost always in circumstances where Norrington had him cornered, or he was unable to defend himself on an equal footing. But what if they were to meet on the same level?

Not as a pirate and a commodore of the Navy…but as men?

Jack grinned to himself, watching the silent moonlight bathe the stones of the wall.

All he needed to do was prove to Norrington that he was just like him; a man, with the same needs, the same principles, however different their objectives in life might be. The same dreams, the same basic and essential ideals, beyond immediate survival. He needed to sympathize with Norrington to the point of making Norrington sympathize with him…and be unable to help himself from doing so. Then the man would be unable to keep him imprisoned as just a curiosity. He needed to prove to Norrington that he had value, as an individual, rather than just a pirate who didn't fit Norrington's view of pirates.

He needed to befriend him.

Well. Jack was very good at befriending people, especially those he needed to befriend at all cost.

Now if he could just get the Commodore down here to visit him in this bloody cell.


* * *

James Norrington spent the entirety of the first day back in Port Royal overseeing the cataloguing and dispensation of the treasure, all the while attempting to push the knowledge of Jack Sparrow's presence in the prison below out of his mind. He found to his frustration that all efforts to remember to forget something merely compound the very thoughts of the subject one is trying to forget.

The side-benefit it had, of conveniently distracting him from the pain he still felt at the loss of Elizabeth Swann and her public rejection of him - for an inexperienced blacksmith, yet - was as much a source of guilt as comfort. He couldn't rest with the idea that he was using the gamble of Sparrow's life as a means of avoiding the personal grief he felt at Elizabeth's refusal.

He spent the evening at his home, finding nothing of ample distraction from the knowledge that Jack Sparrow was in the Fort, in a prison cell at his leisure, awaiting his decision of the pirate's fate. And the fact that he wanted to enjoy the power of it while being still quite unable to confront the man again, as it was too soon, well…it ate at him. It gnawed on him throughout the night and he again suffered very little sleep.

Had he become the very same cold, unfeeling monster he'd feared Elizabeth had seen in him, to secretly enjoy having such power for personal satisfaction as opposed to seeing justice done? He'd slept soundly for the most part, through years' worth of hanging pirates and seeing criminals brought to justice. This was different.

No, he didn't enjoy it. Even if he'd wanted to, he couldn't. The part of him that wanted to was merely that empty, restless side of himself that needed something, anything, to make him feel as though he were achieving something, had something human to hold onto. Something real enough that meant more than serving cold justice to condemned prisoners, or holding a strong Naval presence in a specified and designated stretch of open sea.

To be honest, the thing that haunted him most, causing him to find sleep very elusive indeed, was the plaintive expression in Jack's face before he'd left him in the brig the day before. Those dark eyes had said far more than his words had hinted, or even the covered note in which he'd spoken them.

To leave a wounded, deserted and despairing man in captivity, with no assurance as to his motives for why, having countered even the reason of execution, and only a vague threat of possibly interminable confinement…And after having already let him fly free, once, and then to suffer the loss of his ship -

James tossed and turned in his bed, finding the softness of the mattress unbearable. The deep cut on his neck burned and itched and he couldn't help but consider it to some extent a welcome distraction from the burn of the accusatory images in his mind.

In the morning when he arose, despite the beauty of the day, he found his mood was very dark, indeed. Morose, even. It was weighing on his conscience more heavily than he'd imagined it might.

The one time he tried to do something for himself. And it ended up the worst decision he could have possibly made. He'd cornered himself in the same trap he'd set for Sparrow. And now, whatever fate the pirate served, a part of him would share it with the man.

If he had Sparrow hung, a part of him would die with him, but if he let him go, he ran the risk of ending up paying for it with his own career, even his reputation - if not his own life.

He'd also made a serious mistake in likening Sparrow to an animal. He was far from it; he was a man, and James knew he could not afford to imagine him anything less than one without losing what humanity he still had himself.

There didn't seem to be any way out of his predicament. The legality of the situation was reaching catastrophic proportions for him personally. The longer he might delay, the more it looked as though he was suffering either indecision or from a failure to recognize his duty.

He almost succumbed to the idea of speaking with Governor Swann about it, but found himself regarding it with extreme distaste and guilt as he realized what the entire situation said about him. He had a horrible suspicion that somehow, Jack Sparrow was the only person he was going to be able to talk to about this, on any level. Which was depressingly ironic, considering his lack of friends in his peerage. Well, his lack of friends, period, if he was honest with himself.

It had never bothered him before, being an independent fellow, solitary and ambitious, content with a military life and the love of the sea. The Caribbean, for all its politics and dangers, was akin to a paradise. But now he realized he'd always cultivated a certain distance around himself, keeping his social life at a careful arm's length. Not that he ignored propriety, or the life of a gentleman of standing, both as an officer and a member of the town. But personally. That inner, intimate circle he'd reserved for Elizabeth Swann, whom he'd hoped to make his wife. Now, he had nothing and no one.

He tried to focus upon the demands of the day.

A second trip back to the Isle would be necessary, and he ordered the preparations and stocking of supplies aboard the Dauntless, while continuing to oversee the redistribution and compensation of wealth to the citizens of Port Royal.

It was surprising how far the treasure extended, once it was divided out, as it went hardly as far as one might think. More treasure, gold, silver coins and trinkets would definitely be required. Just the damage to the Fort itself, for example, in the Black Pearl's night raid had been extensive, and the repairs cost a great deal, both in terms of labor and materials.

That evening, however, the thought of spending yet another night in his home, in a pathetic enactment of contentment while Jack Sparrow languished in the prison because he wanted him there, finally reached an intolerable limit.

He found himself taking a light supper and barely able to really taste the food, and decided that his appetite had been severely affected.

It was with a fearful thrill that he recognized he was actually glad to make his way back to the Fort after night fell, with every intention of confronting Sparrow at last. In fact, he felt alive again, as if he were doing the right thing. Furthest from his mind was the idea of confiding in the pirate; it was more the principle of it, visiting the man in his cell to attempt to comprehend what decision he might be able to come to, regarding Sparrow's fate.

It was easy to make his way to his office and leave off the hat and wig, keeping only his coat and his weapons. He was going down, after all, as himself, not just as a commander.

And it was all too easy to find his way to the sentry on duty above the cells and obtain the keys to let himself down into the dungeon.

He sighed to himself though as he made his way carefully down the barely-illuminated stone steps, knowing Jack Sparrow was most probably going to be less than pleased to see him at this point and the man's already wickedly sharp tongue would be more honed than usual.

In a way, perhaps it was penitence then, James thought. In a form that he deserved. Certainly his mood couldn't get any darker. Maybe it would help somewhat, to clear his conscience and see things from the pirate's perspective.

Ironic, too, that he would be speaking to a near-literal representative of the Devil's advocate. He, the voice of moral justice, and Sparrow, the voice of liberated decadence.

As he neared Sparrow's cell, he steeled himself, straightening, wondering at the combined trepidation and excitement he felt.

The pirate was sitting with his back to the wall on the right side of the cell, with his knees up. He was watching James approach with an alert expression, however.

James abruptly had to swallow the absurd urge to apologize for the conditions down in the prison. He stopped and stood by the door.

Slowly, Sparrow asked, "Why do I get the feeling that you're the one in the cage, an' not me?"

James flicked a glance at the window. "I suppose you're right, in a way."

Sparrow gave him a brief smile. "Well, you do have the look of a man looking out rather than in." He cast a scrutinizing gaze over James, adding, "Although, without the accessories, you look more like yourself, mate."

James raised his brows at this. "I'm not sure the same could be applied to you, Mr. Sparrow."

"Jack," came the correction, with a glint of a smile. "Since you've decided to be less formal this night, 'ey?"

James looked down at the straw-strewn floor. And tried to comprehend why he was feeling as nervous as he had when attempting to propose to Elizabeth. It had been one of the most awkward and self-conscious moments of his life. Of course, he'd been proposing to her, for her hand in marriage… But this was ludicrous; why should he find it such a parallel, to simply try to find a reasonable solution here by engaging Sparr- Jack - in conversation?

He cleared his throat. "Frankly, I'm at a loss. I can't have you killed, but neither can I just let you go."

"All the king's horses, and all the king's men," sang Jack in a slightly off-key and low voice, "couldn't put Norrington together again."

James smiled tightly and nodded. "As you've put it, yes."

Jack gave him a quizzical look. "Are you asking me to help you?"

James let out a breath, wondering why this was turning out to be easier than he'd feared. "How is your shoulder?"

Jack grinned at this. "How's your neck?"

James leaned against the bars of the prison cell. "We have to work something out. Something that will be mutually beneficial and yet won't compromise my position."

Dryly, Jack replied, "Let me out, and I'll disappear." He pinned James with a stare. "On my honor. Or yours; whichever one you like."

"There's that small matter of trust," James answered, in a reproving reminder.

"Oh, right. You can't trust the word of a pirate. Sorry, it slipped me mind."

But Jack's casual reply made James frown. Jack was being entirely too easy to talk to; it seemed quite removed from his usual devious banter. Perhaps his incarceration had dulled him, though. But Jack's eyes didn't seem any less perceptive. In fact, if anything, he had the feeling he was somehow on stage, or being tested. Probably the pirate was unconvinced that he was capable of authentically caring what became of him.

James swallowed. "If I let you go again, and you simply return to your ship and commence your usual ways in these waters, I will be the one on the gallows wearing the noose, after facing trial in London."

Jack's eyes flickered. "We're well past that one, love. If you let me out, I'm going straight back for that treasure and we both know it, 'ey? No harm done." He held up a hand. "And I swear, on pain of death, I'll only take the Pearl round once more, and then leave for good. You'll never see my face again. You have my word of honor."

It sounded too good to be true, and James knew that Jack was in fact being entirely sincere. "Very well," he agreed. He felt the slight rise of panic inside though, and was hard-pressed to know why.

"Once you're through with me here, that is," Jack added, a bit of his customary edge returning to his voice along with the sly grin.

James was suddenly glad for the dim light, for his face burned with the sting to his pride, knowing it was very true. He didn't know what he wanted from Jack, but he knew that it was something akin to…acceptance. If not open friendship - which was an impossibility, he sharply reminded himself. He looked down with a frown.

But Jack leaned his head back against the wall and suggested, "I fail to see why you think I'm so dangerous. I may have taken a ship or two in my time, and there is the whole smuggling business which, quite frankly, wasn't really as profitable as all that. And there was the time with the bishop and the three donkeys in the parlor, but that wasn't my fault at all." He perked up. "That fire in the Lord Dewhurst's townhouse. But it weren't just me, I must say. Hardly merits the label of arson, if you ask me."

James glanced at Jack's shoulder. "Until you're recovered, then. Once your shoulder's healed."

Jack gave him a smile of genuine warmth this time. "Commodore, you don't have to go to the trouble."

James frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Why not come to the point, which is: what do you *really* want from me?" Jack made an encouraging gesture.

"I don't - … there isn't-" he started to say.

But Jack cut in, "Reckon you've not seen Miss Elizabeth since, 'ey?"

James replied in a hard tone, "This is not about Miss Swann."

Jack grinned at him. Then he said, helpfully, "Go on."

"She has nothing to do with this." James let out an exasperated breath.

Jack waited, and as James said nothing more, he shook his head slowly. "Commodore, if that's the limit of your conversation skills, it's no wonder the lass wandered elsewhere."

"I'm not here to benefit from your no-doubt astonishing repertoire of seduction techniques," James managed coldly.

Jack's eyes twinkled at this. "Your loss, to be sure."

James gave him a withering look. "They hardly helped you in Miss Swann's case, did they?"

Jack made a face. "Now, now. We both know she was already Will's, from the very start. Besides, you had - what, eight years? I had one evening. And she burned all the rum," he muttered in an aside.

But he really wished Jack hadn't brought up Elizabeth. The pain was still too much, and the hurt was to his ego, his pride, as well as to his heart. He looked away, glowering.

"The real question here," stated Jack, "is why you can't allow yourself to speak with someone such as meself without holding me in a cell." Jack paused. "That is, *keeping* me in a cell." At James's blink at his correction, Jack explained, "You'd have to be in here too, if you were holding me, now wouldn't you?"

But James hadn't missed that rather barbed little suggestion. "I highly doubt that your attempts would work on anyone in one evening, if that's as subtle a manner as you're capable of."

Jack's eyes narrowed and he said, "If I wanted to, love, you'd not stand a chance. You're quite safe, I assure you." He raised his brows. "As was Lizabeth."

James doubted this greatly. But he was hardly going to argue the case. Besides, he had the distressing pang from somewhere in the region of his afore-mentioned broken heart that he'd just been rejected again - by Jack, no less. Not that he wanted Jack's attentions. But still. "As I said, Miss Swann is not the issue, here."

"That does beg the question, love," Jack smiled.

James was starting to get the feeling he was being humored. "You'll say anything to get me to let you out. That's what this is about."

Jack gave him a wary look. "Thought we already agreed you were going to. We're just working on the specifics."

At this, James was reminded of the fact that Jack Sparrow had a devil's tongue, and was probably most capable of talking the moon down from the sky if the idea took him. "True enough, but not until your shoulder is healed."

"My shoulder would heal quite nicely aboard me own ship, so I can only assume you want me to be here longer than necessary," Jack said, sharply. "After all, the surroundings down here are hardly conducive to healthy recuperation."

Dryly, James replied, "Much as I'd like to oblige you, Jack, the moment I offer anything less confining, you'll vanish in less time than it takes for me say 'Isle de Muerte'."

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" Jack asked, brightly. "We've already established that you need me. Although for what purpose, I'm still not quite clear."

James decided to swallow his pride on this occasion. Just this once. And looked down. "Friendship," he said, trying to ignore the way his stomach dropped after admitting it.

"Aye, that's the one," Jack said slowly, shrewdly. "Now we're getting somewhere." He let both knees down, stiffly, and cradled his left elbow with a wince.

Seeing this, James wondered how much pain Jack was really in. In a clipped tone, James said, "You were the one who suggested a duel."

"You're the one suggesting we become friends," Jack replied, seriously. "I'd be happy to oblige you, Commodore; honestly. But I can't, not with this cell here with its little bars separating us, savvy?"

Angrily, James returned, "You are the one who's necessitated this. If you weren't a pirate-"

"If I weren't a pirate," Jack interrupted, "We'd not be having this conversation. If I were one of your men, or a butler, or an innkeeper? You wouldn't give me the time of day."

James rolled his eyes upwards briefly. "Jack, I don't converse with pirates."

"Apparently you do, now," Jack corrected him, in a drier tone. "Apparently, you even put them in the dungeon so's to ensure you can converse with 'em."

James stopped. "Alright, I'll concede that one."

"Aye," Jack grinned. "I must say, Commodore, you're getting better at this with each passing minute."

"Thank you, Jack," he replied, sarcastically. "I'm glad I can prove myself a quick study."

Jack looked away, up to the window. "I'll make another deal with you," he suggested, in a quieter voice. "If you let me out, I'll give you my word I won't leave Port Royal until my shoulder's healed. That is," he added, quickly glancing back at him, catching his eye, "when you decide my shoulder's healed, and I'm fit enough to travel."

James shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His neck hurt and he was becoming stiff from standing in one place for so long. "Where will you stay?"

"Anywhere but here," Jack muttered, meaningfully.

James was uncomfortable with this. "It - will not be a good idea for you to be seen around town."

Jack chuckled. "Aye, as if I'll be wandering up and down the streets announcing me presence all hours of the night. That's a good one, Commodore Norrington."

"It's been known to happen," James informed him, wryly. "Rum does strange things to one's senses."

"As do pirates, apparently," Jack murmured, swiftly adding, "but you needn't worry on my account. A simple bed would do."

James was beginning to feel uncomfortable. There was not only a sense of pressure at needing to come to a resolution at the moment, but he was assailed with doubt that Jack would do anything but run the moment he was let out. He sighed. He was no fool, and he couldn't afford to be one now. He looked back over at Jack, who met his eye now with a more serious expression once again.

"That issue of trust, 'ey?" he enquired, softly. "You ask Will or Elizabeth if I can be trusted, Commodore, then come back and let me know if I'll be sleeping elsewhere tonight." Jack drew his knees back up and leaned his arms on them, cradling his left elbow again.

It wasn't that he didn't want to trust Jack. He did. He couldn't look at the man in such obvious pain and not feel anything. But the stakes…the risk. James bit his lip.

"Why is it so important for you to keep me in here?" Jack asked, pointedly. "I find it very unlikely that you're that desperate to make a friend, that you have to pick them from amongst your enemies and incarcerate them first."

James closed his eyes and sighed aloud. "It's not that you're my enemy. And it's not because you're a pirate. It's because of who you are."

Jack grinned happily at this. "Of course. I am, after all, Captain Jack Sparrow. It's much more advisable to be my friend than my enemy. Just ask Barbossa. Now, Commodore, you know what your problem is? You can't trust anyone. Least of all yourself. Fortunately, I can help."

James's brow wrinkled. "How?"

"What's your first name?" Jack asked him.

James frowned deeper. "I fail to see what that has to do with anything."

"It has *everything* to do with trust," Jack explained. "If you can't even trust me enough to tell me your first name, what does that say about you?"

"It's James," he stated, lowly, with an inkling that he would probably end up regretting it.

"Was that really so difficult?" Jack asked. "Let's try another one. How old were you when you had your first lass?"

"Really," James disagreed, reproachfully. "That's hardly relevant."

"Fifteen," Jack said, in exasperation. "Now you."

James regarded him distastefully. "Eighteen." He was disconcerted to find himself suddenly imagining Jack Sparrow at fifteen years old, with a girl…Or with Elizabeth, on that island, as he was now. He looked away, at the window, where the moon was beginning to peek through.

Jack followed the direction he was looking, catching the light of the moon on his face. James noticed to his further discomfiture that it made the dark around Jack's eyes stand out against his skin, and his wild, long dark hair contrasted more also. Jack looked back at him, and James blinked, quickly looking away again and wondering why on earth he felt as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't.

Looking back at the window and the slice of moon that was visible, he murmured, "It may already be too late, at this point."

Jack watched him, waiting. Giving him the time to elaborate.

James looked back up the steps, to where the torches guttered, before turning back once more. He met Jack's eyes again. "I won't see you dead. Therefore, I have no alternative but to let you go. I have already let you go once; it wouldn't matter how many times I repeat it now. The outcome is the same."

"Then you really are going to have to trust me, aren't you, Commodore James?" Jack asked of him quietly, watching him still with that careful expression.

"I am," James answered, with more surety. Taking a deep breath, he looked down at the ring of keys he held. "Very well, Jack. I'll let you out. But I trust you'll also remember that as I held your life in my hands, in the cave, and even before, and spared you…You now hold mine. Try to contain yourself, at least until you depart the Caribbean?" He gave Jack a meaningful stare.

Jack solemnly returned it. "You have my word on it."

Feeling as though he was partly trapped in some strange dream, James put one of the keys in the door. It didn't fit. He tried another. This time the lock opened and the door swung open. Seeing Jack's attempts to get to his feet, he went into the cell and offered his hand, in an echo of his previous gesture in the cave.

Jack took it, and with an indrawn hiss, allowed James to pull him to stand.

James waited for him to collect his sword, his pistol, his coat and hat, which all lay against the wall outside the cell, and then pulled the key out of the door, following Jack out of the dungeon and up the steps.

As they passed the sentry, who stood in the corridor, the sentry stood straight and cleared his throat. He saluted James, who handed him the keys, and tried to not look at Jack as the pirate walked past him blithely.

In the corridor above the dungeon, Jack leaned closer to him. "I'd say it's about time I had a proper escort out of here. The number of times I come and go from this fine fort of yours, one would think I have a room below."

James had to bite back a caustic remark at this. He didn't want to be baiting Jack now, certainly not until they'd left the Fort. First, they went back to his office to retrieve his hat and his wig and a few other possessions.

Outside however, he turned to Jack. "Do you need a doctor to see to your injury?"

"Eventually. Where are we off to?"

James thought about it for a moment or two. "An inn would probably be the best choice."

He saw Jack craning his head almost wistfully in the direction of the dock. "Then again, I suppose you'd be happier on a ship."

"I would, at that," Jack admitted.

James was quiet for a bit. "This is, perhaps, the most ironic day of my life. I'd let you go aboard the Dauntless, but you'd probably steal her from me, on principle."

Jack gave him a wide grin. "Gave me word I'd wait until you declared my shoulder's fit for me to travel. And so I shall. There's that matter of trust, and all."

James looked down at the road upon which they'd stopped. "To be honest," he said, slowly, "We're taking the Dauntless out again tomorrow."

Jack's eyes narrowed at him. "Which explains your little visit a while ago."

At this point, James was beginning to wonder why he'd bothered with chasing Jack Sparrow at all. Why he bothered worrying about trust, when if it came down to it, it was the pirate's word against a commodore's of the fleet…And really, the only superiors he was answerable to right now were in London, and they had very little to do with the actual day-to-day life in the Caribbean - let alone Jamaica. Very little; confined mostly to taxes and worrying about sugar production. He sighed. "I suppose I owe you a trip back to that blasted island."

Jack shot him a look. "We'd all be going back and forth at any rate. It's a lot of treasure, mate." He brightened. "Think of it this way: at least I'm not taking it from ships and ports - simply collecting it from where it's already sitting."

"One last trip," James reminded him. "And even there, I'm sure that this is wholly illegal. It's all stolen goods."

"Gold," Jack corrected. "Stolen gold. Mostly."

"I will be lucky if I reach retirement with my good name and my commission," James muttered gloomily.

"I'll give you a very good reason to believe why I won't be stealing your Dauntless," Jack declared, unaccountably. "She's not very fetching, a bit too slow and wide. She's not as pretty as my Pearl, and I suppose I do owe you for the Interceptor," Jack added, amusedly.

James considered him. "Am I supposed to thank you for not stealing my ship?"

"Only thinking you'd sleep sounder knowing it, is all."

"I'll be grateful for the favor then," James murmured, turning in the road to begin making his way back down to the dock.

Jack caught up with him. "Do you *ever* allow yourself to enjoy anything?"

"Do you ever take anything seriously?"

"Only serious things. Like ships. Storms, mutiny…those kinds of things. And what do you enjoy, besides fulfilling the letter of the law?"

"I do believe it is dawning on me, how very different we are," James commented.

"It's occurring to *me* that you haven't enjoyed yourself in far too long. Probably since you were eighteen," Jack muttered.

"And you haven't stopped indulging yourself since you were fifteen," returned James, wondering why he was beginning to enjoy his exchanges with Jack far too much.

"If you aren't happy, no one else is going to do it for you," Jack said, helpfully. "You have to do it yourself."

"At which you are the expert, I'm sure," James answered.

"Ah, but at least I'm not doing it at the expense of others' happiness," Jack pointed out.

James suddenly realized that was exactly what he'd been doing…the one time he allowed himself the latitude to do something for himself, serving his own personal whim, it had been at Jack's expense. How could he have fallen so low as to lose all sense of virtuous behavior or charity? He sighed.

Jack's hand on his arm stopped him, abruptly. "Where," Jack asked, cautiously, "exactly are we going, aboard your Dauntless?"

James rolled his eyes. "Jack, I'm hardly going to put you back in the brig. In fact, the only place you're likely to be able to stay where it will make some kind of sense - and I'll be able to keep an eye on you - is in my cabin."

"That's alright, then," Jack said, with a half-shrug, continuing on once more.

They were nearing the dock. "Let me do the talking," James warned him.

Jack was uncharacteristically quiet all the way back to the Dauntless, even going aboard. And it was clear that he was beginning to flag, also. By the time James had seen to it that an extra hammock was found for Jack, and a trip down to the galley had yielded a bottle of rum from the stores, he could see that Jack Sparrow was nearing the end of his night.

In the cabin, James said, "Perhaps we should have had a doctor see to your arm, first."

Jack shook his head. "It's alright. Just needs time to heal, is all, and not be moving it about."

James was taken aback at how much he really was enjoying himself at this point. It felt strangely interesting to be sharing the company of a notorious pirate, even after all they'd been through, and to suddenly be exploring a little more leeway than he usually allowed himself. It no longer felt like going through the motions of performing a duty or a service…but actually allowing himself to experience something as an adventure. But it was probably due to Jack's presence that he was beginning to associate this particular voyage with that adventurous spirit.

Pirates, he thought glumly to himself.

They stowed their belongings and got the spare hammock strung from the other set of iron hammock rings. James considered the empty lamp. He'd brought in another one, refilled, but this one remained empty. They really needed a bit more light, so he decided to light the candles instead.

Jack had already taken his place in the hammock and unstopped the rum, swigging from it. He looked more relaxed, in spite of his injured shoulder.

James went to his table and considered the missives he had there. Shuffling through his papers, he began sorting and putting them away.

"There you go again, mate," Jack commented, not looking at him.

James regarded him carefully. "I have my obligations, you have your rum."

Jack lifted his head, the silver jingles hanging from the left lock of his long hair tinkling in the silent confines of the cabin. "To be sure. And you have your ship, and I have mine. So everyone's happy."

"Where is your ship? Where will they have taken her?" James asked, curious.

Jack considered this. "I'd tell you, but I highly doubt it would be wise, considering you're a commodore of the Royal Navy, 'ey?"

"Of course," James agreed, amiably, selecting the appropriate charts and unrolling them. "I was, in point of fact, going to offer you the option of dropping you off at another port somewhere, but if you'd rather accompany us all the way to the Isle, it would be easier for us."

Jack settled back into the hammock with a bit of a grin. "Well, we may have to loiter around the area for a bit, until the Pearl shows up again."

James looked down at his table, considering the charts spread out before him. "I'm sorry about your shoulder." He glanced up at Jack.

But Jack only gave a little grimace and said, "You gave as good as you got, mate. We don't need to say more than that." He took another drink. "Exactly how are you going to explain me presence aboard?" He grinned at him.

James gave a tight-lipped smile. "We've struck a deal. I'm escorting you back to your ship. I'm sure something will come to me along the way."

"I've got one," Jack declared, studying his bottle intently. He raised it against one of the lit candle flames, to peer at the light through the glass. "Suppose I offer my Pearl's services in helping you take all that treasure off the Isle de Muerte back to Port Royal. We'd accomplish it in twice the time, working together. We'd probably take less than ten voyages, all told."

James regarded him. "That would be ironic indeed, considering it was your Black Pearl that brought it all there in the first place, over the past decade."

Jack chuckled. "There is that, isn't there? We could say that, as she's come under new and rightful captaincy, she's working off the debt by helping to collect and redistribute the treasure, as well as reclaiming her good name. No longer a ghost ship of the damned, as it were."

James nodded slowly. "A temporary commission from the Navy, awarded by myself, along with clemency for the duration of the mission; however long it takes us to transport it all. It would be fair. Seeing as you also helped to undo the curse and remove the undead crew from the Caribbean."

"And when we're finished, I sail away and keep my end of our agreement, never to return. So long as the Pearl gets to keep a percentage of each shipload of the treasure on each trip back." He met James's eyes, obviously taking this as seriously as anything. "Are we agreed?" he asked.

"Agreed." James was slightly uncomfortable with the knowledge that really, this was all he should have accomplished in the beginning, rather than attempting to apprehend Jack in the first place.

"You don't look very happy," Jack observed.

"On the contrary, it makes the most sense from a practical view," James said. "I just wish I had thought of it before now," he admitted, a little shamefaced.

Jack smiled wolfishly at him. "You can pay me for the inconvenience. Forty-five percent."

James was rather shocked. "That's…outrageous. You can't possibly-"

"Alright, forty. But that's my final offer," Jack said, testily.

"Forty percent of what lies in the cave?" James said, taken aback at just how much that would be. Why…it was…indecent.

"Agreed," Jack said, taking another drink of the rum, looking back at James with an expression that looked far too pleased. "There is one other thing," he said, slowly.

"Why am I not surprised," James muttered.

"Hold on, you'll agree with me on this one," Jack said, earnestly. "Neither your crew nor mine are likely to be very happy about it, so we'll have to make sure that while one of us is in Port Royal, the other is on the island. We can cross paths along the way, and take turns collecting it up, one after the other. That way the Dauntless and the Pearl don't have to occupy the same place for long, and possibly end up like they did before, back there."

"Hm. Good point," James agreed, hollowly. "Just so long as you do keep to your end of the agreement and actually arrive with it all in Port Royal to offload it properly."

"Trust me, Commodore," Jack grinned, managing to look entirely untrustworthy in doing so.

James gave him a sardonic look.

Jack set the bottle down on the floor and settled back into the hammock. The slight sway of the ship appeared to have improved Jack's spirits, indeed.

Probably not having to be in the prison anymore also had much to do with it, however, James added wryly to himself. He looked down at the chart without seeing it.

"All's well as ends well, then," Jack said, his voice roughened with a need for sleep.

James looked up and saw Jack watching him with eyes that were brighter and clearer than he would have expected, considering Jack's state. Unaccountably, he felt unable to hold the man's gaze, and looked down with a frown at the chart once more. The Isle de Muerte, again. And Jack Sparrow. And his ship, the Black Pearl. Why did everything keep coming back to this? And here he was, about to enter a series of voyages of doing nothing but going back and forth precisely like this. It was almost dizzying.

With an empty sense of loss, he realized that, once he allowed Jack to disembark to rejoin his Black Pearl, it was unlikely he'd see him again, for their ships wouldn't be meeting up at any time, nor would they meet at either end of each trip.

He glanced back up at Jack and saw he'd closed his eyes.

James got up and turned out the lamp, leaving the few candles burning. He took off his shoes and climbed into his own hammock, wondering why it should make a difference to him whether he saw Jack Sparrow again, or not. For the entire duration of his having known the pirate, he'd had to reassess his opinion of him several times over, as well as of himself.

Absently, he regarded Jack, who appeared to be falling asleep. It wasn't that he would miss him, really. It was more that he now realized he was already missing the possibility that they actually could have been friends. He had only the duration of the trip to the Isle to spend in the pirate's company, and that was hardly enough time to get to know anyone well, if at all. He couldn't afford to dwell on it, not when it had already been so unpleasant and was destined to end up with him not able to spend any further time with him in any case.

One of the candles was flickering a little more desperately than the others, casting leaping shadows rather than a steady glow. He watched it for a while and wondered if he was the one behaving like that particular flame, instead of allowing life to simply…be, come what may.

He glanced back over at Jack, who looked for all purposes as though he had finally fallen asleep now.

James found himself struck by how at peace he looked like that, and how much younger; guileless, even. He wondered idly how Jack would look if he were tidied up, those barbaric…things, removed from his hair, the wildness tamed a bit. Trimmed, or shaved, even. He supposed Jack must affect such an appearance to keep his reputation intact, else his fine bone structure and elegant features would appear too refined or even pretty to take as seriously. He wondered too where Jack hailed from, originally. His accent was English, but almost a mix of softened foreign and cockney, although there was a trace of good old London-town as well.

He found himself feeling a distinct amount of shame at having judged the man as harshly as he had. All based on his own opinion of pirates in the Main, without ever really seeing him. To the point of compromising his own integrity, in an attempt to soothe his conscience - and to be honest, his pride. However much Jack remained a pirate, James had to admit that he did owe him now, for having treated him somewhat unfairly. In fact, a bit unfairly all the way along. Since he'd made Jack's acquaintance. And now he had no way of really making it up to him personally, nor taking the time to get to know him.

It dawned on him that he most likely wouldn't have seen Jack Sparrow again, though, if he hadn't attempted to catch up with him at the Isle de Muerte in the first place, after letting him go, so in fact he'd managed to get more time to know him than he would have, even at the cost of forty percent of the treasure that remained, and having inconvenienced Jack considerably. And got them both sliced up in that absurdly unnecessary duel.

He turned his head a little, to have a better angle to see Jack's face, wondering yet again at the reason for the blackening around his eyes. It was done so carefully, and it had the slightly disturbing effect of an effeminate about it, but with the pirate's style and mannerisms, it was hardly enough to render him less masculine for all the effect it had.

James felt an unwelcome heat rise to his face as he realized that Jack was, actually, attractive. As far as attractiveness went, that is.

He forced his eyes away, not wanting to fuel such thoughts. He concentrated on the candle flames, especially the flickering one.

But he couldn't help finding his gaze drawn back to Jack's sleeping countenance.

Well, surely there wasn't any harm in it. To watch someone else sleeping. He'd never had the opportunity before. There was nothing lascivious in his intent. Surely.

It was comforting, in fact, to see the gentle rise and fall as Jack breathed, across the floor from him in the other hammock. He'd always had this cabin to himself, each time he'd taken the Dauntless out. It was actually a novelty to, as captain of this ship, share this cabin with anyone else. He found he liked it. It was less lonely, less empty.

And he closed his own eyes at the bright spark of pain at this.

To have lost Elizabeth, and then to have this whole debacle with Jack Sparrow…and to never even really have the man's friendship or regard…To lose a beloved without ever having kissed her. And to lose a friend without ever having had the chance to know him.

Sometimes, he regretted never having taken the time to cultivate any other relations with women, or men, or anyone. Regardless of the specific label or social circle that one frequented. Perhaps that was the point. He hadn't been Elizabeth's friend, not really. He would have liked to have been. He wondered if Jack had any close friends. A sobering thought on the heels of that one; did Jack have any close lovers? Was there anyone special to him?

It was uncomfortable to have to accept that pirates frequently flaunted same-sex relations in spite of the anti-sodomy laws and the view of such relations as an immoral sin. It was unnatural, after all, against the laws of Man and most especially considered a most unspiritual act, to know another man carnally. For some reason though, however much he had never himself felt the urge towards another man (thank the Lord), he could find only a measure of jealousy that others might consider Jack a fair prospect. The pirate's affectations and mannerisms did seem to encourage such thoughts. He wondered how much of it was for show, and how much was intentional.

And he shook himself as he caught himself wondering what it would be like…to kiss those lips…Would they be as soft as a woman's? How strange would it be, to press his mouth to the other man's, encountering beard…Jack's skin couldn't possibly be as soft as the skin of the few women he'd known.

He swallowed against the sudden throb of heat and interest between his legs at this. But he remembered the feel of Jack's hand in his own, both times this very night, when he'd helped Jack to his feet.

No. NO - he couldn't afford to think of this. Of such things. It was wrong. And besides, if *he* was wrong, to think it of Jack, and Jack himself didn't lean that way, it was completely inadvisable and dangerous to even consider it.

But now that the thoughts had already arisen, he could hardly pretend he hadn't contemplated them. Maybe there was something of a latent sodomite in him, something that had instinctively turned Elizabeth from him? No, because he'd been with women previously and there had not been this concern, this issue. It hadn't been there all through his duration of his acquaintance with Miss Swann. No, this stemmed specifically from his meeting Jack Sparrow.

In fact, in direct consequence of it. Shameful really, to consider that perhaps the reason he'd so avidly pursued Jack thus far was because of some unnatural desire…Horrendous. He was horrified at himself. How could he have allowed himself to behave the way he had…unless he had been unwilling to look at where it was stemming from in the first place?

Oh dear God. This was worse than discovering that he might actually enjoy watching evil men get their just desserts. That was at least understandable, especially considering what he was required to do, as a captain, a commander and a military man.

This was - all too clear and logical an explanation, as to why he'd felt drawn to Jack, even while he'd found the man's presence an irritant and something that inevitably got under his skin.

He wanted to feel sick, but he didn't even have that luxury. He opened his eyes again, to test this. Well, regarding Jack's sleeping form didn't exactly encourage actively physical revulsion. Unfortunately. If anything, he realized he felt rather fond of him now. Which was fairly terrifying in and of itself.

His eyes widened in shock and sudden recognition. He couldn't have. Surely not. He had *fallen* for Jack Sparrow.

Oh God.

James felt as though his entire world had shifted beneath him and then resettled in some unknown, unfamiliar pattern, disorienting and causing breathlessness and loss of composure. Well, this was a nice nightmare. Somewhat more terrifying and yet less threatening than facing undead skeletal pirates. Instead, he was facing a living, sleeping pirate, and actually contemplating the insanity of having fallen for the man. It was madness.

Maybe he just needed sleep. The day had taken its toll. That had to be it. It had to be.

It wasn't that Jack was a man, or a pirate, or attractive, or even that he himself was lonely. It was some strange combination of all of it, all wrapped up together.

Maybe it was just what Jack Sparrow represented, the freedom he enjoyed from everything that defined his own life, the structure that he'd counted on for so long to stop him from becoming exactly what he considered Jack to be: lawless, depraved and entirely immoral.

He swallowed against the uncomfortable recognition that he had painted himself into a corner. He couldn't afford to believe that he'd fallen in love with a pirate. It wasn't love. It had nothing to do with the warmth, the purity and the heart-felt sweetness he'd experienced where Elizabeth Swann was concerned.

She had a sense of humor, a bright and lively wit, and possessed a lithe and bonny beauty that seemed lent to her by something beyond even her social standing and upbringing, or her good name. She was a dear girl, and always had been. He'd been startled to find that the little girl who'd romanticized pirates even back then on their crossing from England had grown to be such a lovely young woman, a swan indeed. To lose her was -

He shook himself. He couldn't afford to keep dwelling on her. Why was he - oh yes. The comparison. Well, it was absurd, frankly. Jack Sparrow's wit, humor, and attractiveness was only there because he was a pirate. It was his nature, as a pirate, and nothing more. He frowned as he acknowledged the point now; if Jack had been a manservant or a shopkeeper, a blacksmith…he'd not possess such flair and style, or be such a consistent source of fascination.

His eyes flicked back to Jack's sleeping face once more. No, considering the slumbering pirate, James couldn't say that he really was 'in love' with the man. It was what the pirate represented, only that. In fact, the issue of his being a man was still somewhat worrying.

Empirically, Jack was attractive. He had an undeniably winsome, flattering beauty, with those high cheekbones and the long, dark hair. However scruffy, the overall effect was one of a flirtatious creature that enjoyed flaunting itself before the constraints of ordinary society. Like a jackdaw, stealing peacock feathers and mockingly parading itself before the Swanns and commodores of the world. James smiled dryly to himself.

In point of fact, he could well reason that he was 'in love' with Jack rather than actually loving him. It was only natural to feel sorry for the man, seeing him in pain, or in such obvious distress at being captured and losing his ship again.

James had to shut his eyes as he drew in a sharp breath at the excitement that arose at this. He'd enjoyed it too much, even while allowing himself the recognition of his sympathy for the pirate. The simple pleasure of keeping the man locked up, awaiting his decision…as much as it had chafed his conscience, eating at him, it had been undeniable. To want him. To own him, and keep him and make him…his own.

And now, he'd made his own hell, for by his own logic he'd determined that Jack had to leave. It was probably for the best, he thought, hardening himself against feeling that loss too keenly now. For if he were to accept he'd been sublimating his feelings towards Jack in his own actions thus far, he was in greater danger of compromising his reputation, his career, everything, all for the intrigue of a pirate. A man. A very pretty one.

Damn it all, he thought in exasperation. And he resolutely turned to face the wall, shifting in his hammock. Modesty had forbidden that he undress, and it was far too warm for the blanket. And now he was in the unfortunate circumstance of sharing his cabin with a man who was most distressingly interesting, even while asleep. And he was experiencing the most unwanted arousal at the thought.

His breath was coming a little labored, and sleep seemed far away. He couldn't afford to be in love right now, he really could not. He'd only just lost Miss Swann, and his heart was far too fragile to- His eyes widened. Of course! It wasn't love at all; he was merely struggling to find something to fill the ache and the void that losing Miss Swann had caused.

But then the memories of the first few times he'd met Jack filtered through his consciousness and he realized he could not afford to lie to himself. No, there had been a heated interest even then. Now that he recognized he'd been sublimating it. Damn, damn! Just… damn. To be in love. Again. Most undesirably so. There didn't seem to be any other explanation.

It wasn't primarily a sexual response, because Jack's obvious physical, sensual nature was partly what the man used to charm his way through life, with others. And James already knew that Jack preferred women, as he himself did. It wasn't simply an emotional response on his part, because he already found Jack's wit, humor, and sharp intellect far too intriguing.

James sighed and twisted in place, turning to face upwards, staring at the shadows playing on the ceiling.

There was an unwanted nervous and tight tension running through his body. He had the uncomfortable feeling that simply seeking mere physical release at this point wasn't going to alleviate his situation at all, and besides, the presence of the pirate here completely forbade any such attempt to find relief. Not to mention the absolute shame he would feel if the only way he could resolve his discomfited state of mind and body and heart was through self-pleasuring…on the pirate's account. Horrendous. The entire affair was unbearable. Quite distressing.

It almost felt like a silent game he was playing with himself, even now; attempting to not look at Jack. He wouldn't look at him. He would not turn his face that barest fraction in the man's direction; it would merely compound the problem. But in the absence of looking at him, he realized he was wasting the one chance he would ever have, to be able to satisfy his curiosity without fear of ridicule or being observed.

A ripple of heat ran over him at this, shamefully free of pain or disgust.

He'd be deprived of seeing Jack ever again, after they arrived at the island this time. His breath caught painfully in his throat at it. Very distressing indeed, that he should have to suffer this now. Why? After all that he'd struggled to achieve in his life, all his attempts to live a good and noble life, to have to come to this? Why did he deserve this? Where had he gone wrong?

It felt so unfair, to have to carry this weight. And he took some comfort from knowing that he'd seized the only opportunity he'd been able to see, in capturing Jack on that island after letting him go. The man would have been hung, dead, gone and lost to everyone forever, if he'd not allowed him to escape back to his ship that day, so his conscience was clear on that point. And if he hadn't attempted to capture him, he'd never have seen him again.

And now with their new agreement, this deal he'd struck with Jack to see the treasure in the cave transported and deposited in Port Royal, he had the opportunity of actually working with the man, instead of having to chase him down or fight with him. So really, he was doing the only thing he could, and had actually been doing it all along.

So why did it feel like such a punishment?

To know that he could enjoy even a day's worth of friendship with Jack, that he otherwise wouldn't have had. It hurt. He wouldn't be able to enjoy it, because it was now completely scuppered, destroyed, keelhauled… It was awful. Because he was in love with him.

A hot dart of panic choked him inside, and he closed his eyes, feeling the shame creep onto his face, knowing he felt no shame at all in actually 'feeling'. It was wilder and more terrifying than his love for Elizabeth. That had been filled with longing and hope and sweetness. This was danger, and pain, and entirely wrong. Even if he had been in the unlikely position of being able to tell Jack, he would still be facing the man's rejection, because there was no way to forget what Jack had said to him back in that prison cell.

Jack had casually informed him that if he'd wanted to seduce him, James wouldn't stand a chance. And then told him that he was 'quite safe'. Despite the embarrassment and pain at being rejected so obviously, he suddenly noticed something else.

Jack was only playing along with him because he had no choice. He hadn't given Jack any alternative but to cooperate with him. Which meant the pirate was still manipulating him, still playing the little game he always adopted with him, every time they met. Pretending. He could hardly fault Jack for doing so; what would he himself do in Jack's position?

Sorrowfully, he had to admit that this careful, uneasy little truce he'd allowed himself to have with Jack, even so far as to let Jack stay here aboard the Dauntless in his own cabin, was the only thing he could enjoy.

He doubted that if he were to somehow tell Jack about his newly discovered feelings that Jack would do anything but exploit them. And he couldn't see Jack having any real interest in him - not physically or emotionally.

James realized he had nothing but what the present opportunity offered, to simply watch Jack sleeping there. To be able to look at him without fear of discovery. And he only had the next day when they set sail, to enjoy the man's company. He could afford to take nothing else.

And so he would. He turned his head, ignoring the stiff, lancing pain in his neck in doing so, to let his eyes rest upon Jack.

The near shock of simply and innocuously looking at him again was strange, in that there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary to see at all. It was casual and offered nothing more than what looking at him before now had given him. It was still just Jack.

It gave him a measure of comfort and relief now too, to realize that he didn't need any more than this. Just to look at him. And to know he had done the right thing, somehow. In giving himself this one chance.

He would never be able to forget this one night, this one moment, where he'd shared a room for the duration of several hours with Jack Sparrow, in safety. To let the man sleep safely with him and even enjoy the somewhat muted satisfaction of watching over him, to be there for him.

He wondered idly if this was what a parent might feel, actually; to enjoy knowing one's own was sleeping and sound, hale and whole.

There was the matter of that shoulder injury, but then, he grinned to himself, his own neck was no better.

Now if he could just find some way of making this cursedly aroused member of his relax, and cease reminding him of its presence. It was worse than having an itch one couldn't reach; it was in fact almost maddening in the fact that it felt so good.

And Jack's closed eyes were still too dark, those lashes too long. And the curve of the man's full lips was still too alluring. He loved seeing Jack's smile. Even when it was curling in that irritating smirk.

The slight build and the supple strength made Jack very feline, and James abruptly found himself reliving that moment after their duel when he'd managed to overpower Jack, taking him down, bearing him beneath his weight to the gold and using his superior strength to keep him there long enough to disarm him. It had only lasted a few moments, but now, reliving it in his mind, he couldn't stop himself from doing it over and over again.

To hold him down.

James swallowed thickly, wondering why he kept torturing himself like this. It certainly wasn't helping to abate his arousal. It was fanning it to keenly sweet heights. At this rate, he'd probably have to find some way of finding release, simply to get some sleep.

In fact, the shame and disgust he might feel at having to go off and do so out of sight of the pirate's knowing gaze would be far preferable to doing it here, or continuing to writhe in intolerable misery all night long.

The more he contemplated the sense in this, the more he had to admit it was for the best, considering he'd already admitted to something far more disturbing, really. Having fallen for the man. God, it was too much.

Why was his life such a hell? Had he really come this far only to have to see that he was nothing but *this*? This- this debasement and mockery of his former proud state?!

Angrily, and as quietly as possible, he stirred, climbed out of the hammock, and put his shoes back on. Pulling on his coat, he opened the door of the cabin, musing on the intelligence of leaving Jack Sparrow alone in his own cabin aboard the Dauntless, unwatched, and finally left the room, shutting the door behind him silently. If Jack was going to get up to anything in his cabin, it was probably less heinous than what he was about to do, if he were to compare the magnitude of their respective sins.

The ship was quiet, and below decks there was nothing but the empty berths, the dark and silent interior of the Dauntless about him.

On a sudden whim, he climbed down to the ladder and made his way carefully all the way down to the brig, to the cell where Jack had been held before. Too many times before.

In the dark, he grasped onto the bars of the cell, wondering why the simple act of moving Jack out of this cell and above into his cabin didn't appear to have changed a single thing. Whether here, or above, or in the Fort's dungeon, it was all the same. He was still keeping him, attempting to hold onto him.

His heart was pounding, and he had to close his eyes at the vertigo he felt crawling over him, at imagining Jack still within the cell…opening the door to join him there within. Ah, God - what had Jack said before -? *"You'd have to be in here too, if you were holding me, now wouldn't you?"*

Holding him…James licked his lips, wondering why the flush of heat that was washing over his body had nothing to do with sin or shame now, but just desire. Pure desire. Need. Not even an ache, but somehow in this close, stifling darkness, a steady current of unseen fire in his blood.

Every time he'd indulged in this act before, unlacing his breeches and holding his stiff and eager cock in his hand, feeling the pleasure race over him at the touch, even if it was only himself touching it, he'd had to imagine a girl, some woman he'd met previously or seen during the day, in order to achieve release. He'd never been able to imagine Elizabeth, not really; not without a measure of self-disgust and frustration, knowing it wasn't worth attempting to presume what it would be like to have her small, delicate lady's fingers upon him.

But Jack, oh what would that be like? To have the pirate's hand upon his organ, grasping him surely, knowing full well what it was like, seeing as they were both men…And even to touch Jack the same way during the act? He imagined the cock he held wasn't his own, but Jack's, and gasped at the sensation. Imagined Jack's hand was the one who held him, in turn.

He was shaking as he trailed his fingers softly over his own length, imagining Jack's slender hand on him. For he knew what Jack's hands looked like. Elegant fingers, smaller than his own. Jack's hot, dark eyes staring into his during it, that mouth…

James gasped, and grabbed his cock more firmly, allowing himself to pull it harder, faster, not caring how long or how quickly it took to find that height.

To have Jack up against him, to be pushing him to the ground again, lying upon him and crushing his mouth to that devil-smile, hands upon each other urging them to surrender to the pleasure. Or to hold him in the cell here, in the dark, on the floor, to feel that slighter body yielding to him -

His balls drew up tight, and he bit his lower lip against the moan that threatened to emerge.

It was paramount in that moment, to know what Jack would sound like, at the moment of release. Would he groan? Pant? Beg? Curse? To have Jack writhing beneath him, desperately, not knowing whether to fight him, or cleave to him, to have Jack helplessly giving it up to him right there on the floor - it would be the ultimate fantasy. Beyond any simple romantic dreamy wish he'd ever had of having Elizabeth warm and soft in his bed.

Turning around, he leaned back against the bars of the cell, imagining what it would be like, lying full-length on Jack, stripping the clothing from the pirate and shamelessly kissing and licking that dark, tanned skin.

Oh, sweet Jesus, the hot and gripping sensation of it, rubbing himself to completion on that body, against all of Jack. His face was flaming, and sweat was running down from beneath his arms. Maddened, he wanted to tear off his coat but didn't want to risk dirtying it down here. Ah, but to imagine taking it off and laying it down there, in the cell, and ordering Jack to his knees…

He bit his lip against the additional surge of pleasure that throbbed and pulsed in him at this. To urge Jack to take his cock into his mouth, with a hand on that dark hair…To feel those full, pretty and wicked lips against his prick - that tongue, sliding against him, wet and hot and slippery…taking him and surrounding him in Jack's mouth…

James moaned in spite of himself, the sound pathetically resonant in his own ears as that of a wounded animal, and came, his climax overtaking him suddenly and without warning, leaving him helpless in its wake. His fluid dripped over his fingers onto the floor and he could smell the scent of it surrounding him, cloying but familiar in the dark, and he closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the bars.

He was lightheaded and breathless, and it was the sweetest, most intense orgasm he could ever remember having in his life. The safety of it, knowing that Jack would never know, and neither would anyone else, ensuring that he could have this, at least this, whenever he wanted, was enough to make up for the fact that it was no more than an image. A fleeting wish. It didn't have to be anything else. It was far safer than the real thing. In fact, it was preferable to the real thing, for he couldn't imagine Jack ever actually wanting it, ever letting him do such a thing with him.

The painful echo of his thoughts upstairs, in recalling that Jack wasn't to be his, reminded him that he was in reality standing down in the brig having just brought himself off while thinking about the wounded pirate in his cabin. It was a reminder that he really should go back up and make sure that Jack was still asleep and not -

His eyes snapped open in the dark. What if Jack had heard him leave, seen him depart the cabin…and was currently pleasuring himself in the same manner? Should he even go back upstairs yet, or wait a discreet few moments more, just in case?

He brought a hand to his mouth and tasted the traces of his liquid there, wondering if Jack's was anything like it. A painful little wounding arrow chased this thought, with the sad realization that he'd never know.

It seemed that no matter what he did, the net about him tightened further, pulling him deeper and deeper into a web of self-deception and self-discovery, each vying for control.

If he tried to run from his body's responses, he'd only drive himself mad with the craving for release. If he tried to ignore his heart's unwitting and blind adoration, this fascination and fondness for Jack, he'd turn himself into the very cold monster he'd feared Elizabeth had thought him to be. Which he now knew he wasn't. And if he tried to push thoughts of Jack from his mind altogether, he'd be simply reverting to the same state of sublimated denial he'd occupied before he'd embarked on the course for the rendezvous with the Black Pearl at the Isle that second time.

And the state of his soul - he didn't even want to contemplate that one. Far too disturbing, how much sin and darkness had already seized hold of him. He had created his own living hell.

And there was still Jack, above, and they were going to return to that damned Isle together. He absently licked at the cooling traces of himself upon his hand. Was this anything like what it would be to taste Jack, to lave his tongue upon Jack's hand, or even to have Jack's tongue upon his fingers afterwards, cleaning him -

His already-sated cock stirred at this thought, and he hastily cleared his mind. He had to get back up above deck; he couldn't just stand down here all night, dreaming.

Well, at least now he'd be able to get some sleep. As he left the brig, he glumly thought that with his luck, he'd probably end up dreaming about Jack, at this point. He hoped not. Although that was preferable to the nightmares about those bloody skeletons.

As he walked on deck, he saw the lights of the town across the water, and realized it had always been home to him. But there was a part of him that could well understand how Jack would be more at home here on this ship that in any fine building on land.

The night air helped to cool him somewhat, and restore his troubled senses to a level of settled dignity.

But there was no need to work himself into a state about what he'd just done. He needed sleep, in any case, having not slept well at all for the past few nights.

As he opened the door of his cabin, he cautiously examined Jack, who appeared to remain quite asleep and not to have moved.

Quietly, he took off his shoes and went to the basin of cool water that sat on the side table just beyond the cabinet. Taking a cloth, he wiped his hand clean, and glanced at Jack. Those eyes were still closed and the slow, even measure of the man's breath spoke of a deeper sleep. Probably the rum had something to do with it, not to mention the addition of the shoulder wound.

He undid the bandage around his neck and applied cool water to his throat, careful to avoid agitating his neck-wound, before redoing the bandage.

One of the candles had gone out, the wildly flickering one. He couldn't help but see the parallel: in extinguishing his lust for the moment, he'd given himself some space and calm inside. And certainly he did feel now as though he might be able to sleep, if he tried to.

Curling back up in the hammock, he settled himself comfortably, eyeing Jack's sleeping form once more. Well, this was better, he had to admit. He was no longer the slave of the ebb and flow of that maddening tide of heat. And his thoughts were clearer.

In fact, he could even admit to a measure of acceptance, both of himself and of Jack. What would be, would be. And he didn't need to fight it. He still had his dignity, and he still retained some amount of self-control. He'd done the right thing in allowing the pirate to go in the very first, and even in now allowing Jack to accompany them back to the Isle to reunite with his beloved ship.

As the weary accumulation of his day finally took its toll, his eyelids growing heavy, he breathed a silent sigh of relief. Maybe, in a way, he was playing this out the only way he could. Whatever guilt or sin he carried along the way could be explained as accepting responsibilities for his own actions rather than dire errors that could not be fixed. He really didn't see how he could have done anything differently, at this juncture.

When James slipped into darkness and dreams, there were no reappearance of the frightening undead, living skulls, merely the drift and pull of the waves, and the soft rocking of the ship beneath him.

* * *

3: Alliance


As Jack awoke, there was a brief flash of disorientation as he opened his eyes and saw the unfamiliar interior of the cabin, and then the events of the night before filled in. He could tell from the pronounced swaying that the ship was well on its way. It was obvious that they'd left with the tide. A glance where the Commodore had been revealed the hammock was already taken down and the Commodore nowhere to be seen.

Jack frowned and made to sit up. Swearing under his breath at the pain that lanced through his arm, he managed to rise, wondering if it was worth it. He probably wouldn't be allowed to wander freely above deck anyway.

He was stiff and sore, and although it was the first night since he'd been captured that he'd really had any proper sleep, he still felt as though he'd been through a squall, beaten and battered by wind and rain for too long.

Fortunately, Norrington appeared to be on the upswing, his conscience forcing him to pluck Jack out of prison and place him -

Jack had to laugh quietly to himself at this. An equal footing now, in the captain's cabin of the Dauntless. Interesting.

Equally interesting was breakfast, left out for him almost as if he was supposed to take it as an afterthought, and yet far too obviously left with care.

He wondered if Commodore Norrington had any idea what his actions said about him, let alone what they said about what he thought of his captive guest.

Tea, bread, honey, fruit…and he saw the bottle of rum had been taken up off the floor and placed there as well. A glance revealed his sword, and his pistol, where he'd put them the night before, untouched.

A glance through the window nearest him proved it was nearly mid-morning. He supposed he'd better make the most of this while it lasted; no doubt Norrington would begin regretting this little change of heart once he'd thought it over a few times.

Sitting at the table, he helped himself to the food on the tray.

The cabin doors opened, and as Jack looked up, he saw Norrington standing there with a strange expression on his face.

"Thanks for breakfast," Jack said, noting the Commodore's thoughtful look.

Norrington came in and shut the doors. "You're welcome. We're making good time. Barring any poor weather, we should arrive back at the Isle de Muerte by dawn tomorrow." He took off his hat and coat, hung them up, and went to sit at his desk, pulling out a small book, presumably his log.

Pouring himself tea, Jack asked, "You do realize that we may have to wait a good while for my Pearl to show herself there again? The crew's going to be very wary after her last encounter with your Dauntless, here. Then there's any damage 'at might need repairing, after that exchange with your cannons and all."

Norrington looked up at him, startled, but quickly shuttering it away behind the usual cool demeanor Jack saw upon the Commodore. To Jack's sharp eye, he appeared to wear it like a shield, after having seen the man's open confusion and distress the previous evening. "Then wait we shall." He returned to his book, and picked up a quill.

So that's how it was to be. "Does your hospitality extend to the rest of the ship, or just this cabin, 'ey?"

Norrington gave him a sidelong glance but continued writing in his log. "You're a free man; do as you please."

Jack's brows lifted. He sipped the tea. Lukewarm, but better than nothing. Like the hospitality.

He actually didn't expect the Pearl to return to the Isle de Muerte until they'd stashed the treasure elsewhere and spent their own divisions in Tortuga for a week, which meant they probably wouldn't be back there for a good five or six days more. Which meant four days aboard this ship with the foul tempered Commodore and all the King's men, at the very least.

What fun.

Well, he'd have to see what he could do in the meantime to relieve the tedium. He wasn't sure which was worse: being locked in the brig or confined in Norrington's cabin with him.

Spreading honey on a slice of bread, Jack considered the best tack to take. He couldn't poke at him too much, or he'd end up back in the brig. What *was* it with people always tossing him in cells? He really wasn't as dangerous as all that, reputation notwithstanding. He leaned over and fished an apple out of the bowl of fruit on the table.

The scratch of Norrington's quill in his book filled the silence of the cabin.

Without looking up, Norrington commented, "You slept the whole night through."

So the Commodore had not, Jack surmised. "Ships tend to have that effect. Although it's a far cry from the dungeon, I'll admit."

He bit into the honeyed bread, waited to see what response, if any, that one garnered.

Sure enough, a fleeting little expression of guilt was quickly suppressed. Norrington glanced up at him, his quill poised over the ink. "You may consider this my attempt to make it up to you."

Jack smiled to himself, and settled back in the chair more comfortably. "You're proving yourself the soul of generosity." Biting into the bread, he saw that Norrington appeared to ignore this.

But the Commodore seemed preoccupied, in any case, with whatever it was he was scribbling in that book of his. Must have been an active morning, to warrant such a voluminous amount of words.

Jack was beginning to get the feeling that Norrington was avoiding him. No doubt all the officers aboard were going to be disappointed if they expected to be invited in here for luncheon, or supper, or even tactical discussions. Couldn't have officers of the Crown sharing the same air as a pirate, after all. Who knew what bad manners they might pick up?

He chuckled quietly to himself, earning a puzzled glance from Norrington.

Contenting himself with watching Norrington as he continued to write, Jack ate in silence, wondering if it should come down to it which of them would break first. It was revealing in and of itself that Norrington appeared to be treating him as if he were a part of the cabin: unremarkable and completely beneath his notice.

That rather sullen and desperate revelation the previous night regarding 'friendship' and 'trust' must be driving the Commodore quite mad, to be retreating to such a display of poise and nerve this morning. Jack smiled, knowing the next time it happened would probably be even more revealing than the last.

As he bit into the apple, it occurred to him that he hadn't as yet managed to determine exactly what it was that Norrington wanted from him. It certainly wasn't friendship; he couldn't see the Commodore actually desiring such a relationship with a man he'd obviously felt was so far beneath him - for being a pirate as well as for *not* being a fellow commodore. Or captain. Jack grinned. It really rankled Norrington to have to accept that despite being a 'civilian' and a pirate, Jack himself was still a captain, and of the finest, fiercest, prettiest, fastest ship in the Caribbean.

That Norrington was lonely and now mourning the loss of Miss Elizabeth was in part the reason for this nigh desperate attempt to reach out a hand of friendship, but he doubted Norrington himself even knew what he really wanted. From a pirate.

It couldn't just be freedom; or could it be that simple? Ships were safe in the harbor, but it wasn't what they were built for.

Perhaps the Commodore was a little too confined himself, in that safe little English port town. Perhaps the fact that he, Jack Sparrow, infamous pirate captain, could actually be a good man was a terribly distressing reminder that anyone could be free and a pirate, an outlaw, rather than just wicked types as Norrington had been restricting himself to believing.

He narrowed his eyes, watching the Commodore continue to dip his quill again and again, scratching out far too many lines for a simple morning sail with the tide.

Jack briefly wondered if the steersman that Norrington had given the bearings to had any idea whatsoever, just how dearly they'd been bought and paid for.

Interesting, too, that Norrington looked down on him for seeking treasure or the simpler joys life had to offer, as if what he valued was less than the rigid duty and obligation that a military career required. And yet here he was, his presence in Norrington's cabin proof of the man's curiosity with his identity as a pirate. For that's really in essence what this was all about, Jack knew.

He supposed he ought to be used to it by now. People generally appeared to have a mixed and volatile view of pirates, seeing them as both living examples of romantic, unspeakably dashing scoundrels and completely untrustworthy vile sinners. Miss Swann was an excellent example, as was her paramour, young Will. He had thought Norrington here was of the mind that he was scum, and yet the good, upstanding Commodore now appeared no less susceptible to these opinions.

Far be it from Jack Sparrow to enlighten him, especially so far as it kept him from the brig.

Norrington finally put up his quill and opened the desk drawer to put away his book. Standing up, he pushed the chair back beneath the desk and went to sit down at the table, across from Jack.

Who took another bite of his apple, regarding Norrington.

The Commodore looked away, to the windows behind him, over Jack's shoulder. "I'll have the doctor have a look at your wound."

"Thanks," Jack replied, cheerfully. "Just being back at sea seems to be doing it a world of good. Funny, that. How's your neck?"

Norrington glanced at him and considered the bowl of fruit. "Improving."

Jack leaned back further and frowned. "Are you always this happy, or have you eaten something that disagreed with you? Or maybe you're disagreeing with something that's eating you?" he added meaningfully.

Norrington gave him a sardonic look, his eyes sliding away again, this time to the tray, as if bored. "Not at all," he replied, a little too casually. "Usually on ocean voyages, I read. This time, I'm looking forward to hearing you elaborate on some of the more interesting stories of your exploits."

Amused, Jack said, "I'm sure you've already heard them all. Sometimes they print the tales beneath, on the wanted poster. With the longer stories, they have to use very tiny letters, and it can even take two posters or more to do them justice."

Norrington's eyes met his, with a small smile. "I believe they're called 'books'."

"Those too," Jack agreed, not bothering to rise to the sarcasm. He was quite used to it, expecting it from Norrington now, and would have thought something terribly wrong indeed if Norrington hadn't retreated to it by this time. Mocking him seemed to be Norrington's favorite pastime, as if doing anything else somehow left him open for possible corruption by his very pirate nature.

"I suppose hearing the actual truth behind the tales is too much to hope for," Norrington commented.

"Depends on the tale," Jack explained. "Sometimes, the truth is far less likely to be believed, and has to be toned down for anyone to swallow it."

"So why do they all sound so far-fetched?"

"Because other people embellish it as it moves from each teller," Jack said. "I've heard the most amazing stories about myself, and been quite surprised to find them completely new. There's nothing more disconcerting than hearing you've done things you have absolutely no memory of doing. Of course, going to bed with a bottle of rum often has that effect too," Jack mused, leaning forward and placing his apple core on the tray, and selecting a banana from the fruit bowl. "Although it can be very strange to hear you've been in three different places all at the same time. Makes me wonder how I manage it."

Norrington's smile at this was at least a little wider than before. "Then you can hardly be surprised if I find most of the stories about you highly suspect in their accuracy; particularly if you refuse to verify them."

Jack peeled the banana, saying, "Considering I have a reputation to uphold, I'm surprised you'd think I'd tell you the truth." He gave him a half-smile and bit off the top of the banana.

Norrington seemed to regard the banana with some displeasure, looking quickly away with a slight frown to fix on the cabin doors.

Jack frowned, chewing, and examined his banana. There didn't seem to be anything remarkable about it. Well, maybe Norrington didn't care for the fruit. Or maybe it was too green for him.

"Do you play chess?" Norrington asked.

"On the rare occasion," Jack replied. He wondered if Norrington would consider a game of chess between them on the same level as a duel, matching wits instead of swords. "If the Pearl is late in showing, I daresay we'll 'ave time enough for a tournament." He took another bite.

Norrington swallowed and carefully regarded the doors, shifting slightly in his seat.

Curious, Jack asked, "Are you alright, mate?"

Norrington let out a breath. "I'm fine. But four days of this…I'm beginning to wonder if it won't start to take its toll on our mental faculties."

"I rather reckon your temper will be the first to go," Jack said, dryly, taking another bite of the banana, wondering at the way that Norrington steadfastly did *not* look at him.

This was most interesting, indeed. What, did Norrington believe that pirates ate their food raw and still moving about? Or was the novelty of having a pirate in his cabin simply too much for the Commodore?

But Norrington didn't look angry. He looked worried, if anything. Jack frowned at his banana again, wondering why it was too much simply to watch him eat. Odd.

"If I do lose my temper, no doubt I will be justified in doing so," Norrington said, without the usual cold note his voice usually held.

Jack finished the last bite and placed the banana peel on the tray beside the apple core, noting with some mirth that Norrington watched him now with a relieved expression.

"I take it you don't care for bananas," Jack drawled.

Norrington sat up straighter. "I do not."

"Well," Jack said brightly, "that's alright, because I do. You won't have to worry about them going to waste."

Norrington didn't look very pleased about this. "The chart you gave me, before; the one showing the route through the shoals and that passage…It was very neatly done."

Jack's brows rose. A compliment? "Thanks. I take it they were the reason you were able to sneak up on me ship so cleverly."

Norrington's little smile held a bit more of his usual cool, disdainful humor. "Indeed."

Jack stood and stretched, gingerly. "So I'm free to go about your ship, without any of your sailors pitching me into the brine?"

"You're a guest, within reason. There are limits, Jack."

"Fine," Jack agreed. "Just so long as they know that, 'ey?"

Norrington frowned up at him. "Where are you going?"

Jack gave him a look askance. "A man's got to relieve himself sometime, you know. First thing in the morning, aye?"

Norrington looked worried but he didn't say anything.

Jack laughed quietly to himself, going to the doors and opening them to blink in the bright sunlight. No doubt the thought of a pirate pissing off the side of his Dauntless was a little too much, particularly given the early hour of the day.

He earned a few stares from the soldiers aboard, especially the ones hanging about in the rigging, as he made his way to the side. After all, he was hardly going to use the Commodore's chamber pot at the breakfast table. Such things just weren't done. There was etiquette to consider. He hummed as his bladder rejoiced at finally being allowed relief. It wasn't until he was shaking himself dry that he grasped what had offended the Commodore so, about the banana.

And he grinned, widely. If the simple act of eating a banana in front of the man should offend the good Commodore's sensibilities that much, he wondered what other innocuous little activities might achieve the same effect.

He'd have to set about discovering so immediately, to oblige Norrington. Wouldn't want him growing bored, after all, on the journey back to the Isle de Muerte and during the subsequent stakeout for his Pearl.

He caught sight of the bucket of rainwater nearby. Going over to it, he saw it was more likely fresh water that had been brought on board that morning, for the trip. Excellent. He went and picked it up, and carried it back to the cabin.

Opening the doors and stepping inside with it, he saw Norrington was sitting back at his desk, scribbling in that book of his again. He took the bucket over to the other side of the room, then turned, wondering where Norrington kept his clothing. Going to the cupboard, Jack began searching through it.

"What are you looking for?" Norrington demanded.

"A spare shirt," Jack answered, absently.

Norrington was quiet, briefly, then said, "Try the second drawer underneath."

Jack did, and encountered one of Norrington's long white shirts. "Ah, thanks very much." Pulling it out, he went over to where the hammock was still strung, and took it down, stowing it off in the corner. Then he began to remove his clothes, starting with his sash and his boots.

A glance at Norrington revealed the man was lost in his book. Intently so. With a fine shade of crimson creeping into his cheeks.

Jack grinned to himself. Bananas, pissing off the side, and now: undressing. Norrington really needed to spend more time at sea.

After removing his headscarf, shirt, and breeches, Jack checked the wound on his shoulder. The bandage really needed to be changed. He removed it too.

Norrington said with a long-suffering tone, "Must you do that in here?"

Jack regarded him with some suspicion. "You'd rather I was outside?"

Without looking at him, Norrington sighed.

Jack gave a little shrug. And went to the cabinet to retrieve a cloth, then went to the fresh water. Cleaning himself up to a moderate degree of satisfaction, he wondered how Norrington could retain the modesty of a virgin bride after living a soldier's life for the last several years, often at sea himself for all his time spent in Port Royal. Then he turned his attention to his shoulder.

The wound's stitches were neat and small, but the flesh around them was still red and angry. And it hurt like a bastard. He was going to need a salve on it later on, to stop it from itching. And he wasn't looking forward to the stitches being pulled, which they would have to be at some point soon. It would be worth saving the rum for that alone.

He'd have to befriend the cook, and promised himself to visit the galley again as soon as possible.

He regarded the water, looking down into it. It was still relatively clean, and he was willing to bet doubloons that no one, least of all Norrington, was going to take it from him now. No doubt on the principle that he was a pirate, and if one washed one's clothing or self after a pirate, something piratey might get transferred onto them and infect them with villainous urges to plunder ships and maidens. He looked over at Norrington again. Sure enough, he was being ignored. Jack grinned, helplessly. There was something far too tempting about Norrington's sensibilities. The Commodore simply made far too large a target to ignore.

Pulling on the long white shirt, Jack regarded the way the long sleeves extended down too far for the shirt to be useful. Rolling them up, he picked up his clothing and then the bucket, and began to make his way back to the door. Norrington continued to ignore him.

Despite the pain in his shoulder, Jack heaved the bucket outside and set it down on the deck, by the starboard rail, and proceeded to wash his clothes. The bandage he picked up and hurled over the side; it was sticky with more than blood, and he really didn't think that any amount of washing was going to render it re-usable. When he'd washed the clothes to his satisfaction, he spread them carefully over the rail, keeping most of the material hanging down towards the deck in case the wind should try to snatch anything over the side.

Stepping back to survey the sight, he had to laugh quietly at it. No doubt Norrington was sequestering himself in the cabin at all costs, at this point, in every effort to avoid having to see pirate laundry spread all over his fine Navy ship.

Jack studied the horizon, seeing the high wispy clouds above. They had a very good chance of fair sailing all the way. With the breeze and the sun shining down, his clothes would be dry in no time.

One of Norrington's men approached him. "'Ere, you! Does the Commodore know you're out 'ere, doing that?"

"Aye," Jack replied, noting the fellow's familiar countenance. "Have we met before?"

The man blinked, and then gave a bit of a smile. "We 'ave, indeed. Mr. Murtogg," he introduced himself, with a proffered hand. "And you're Jack Sparrow."

Jack shook it with a smile. "Aye. And I do recall. The corset."

"Aye," Murtogg said, hesitantly. "That's the one."

The cabin doors were flung open and Norrington stood there, looking out. He caught sight of the laundry and sighed, looking up at the blue sky.

With a frown, Jack turned to look, and realized Norrington was searching the heavens for patience, and no doubt a goodly portion of endurance.

"Mr. Murtogg," Norrington said.

"Aye, Sir," Murtogg went forward, leaving Jack.

"On your way," said Norrington.

"Sir," Murtogg agreed, and obeyed, with a final look towards Jack who smiled slightly.

"Mr. Sparrow," Norrington continued. "Perhaps you might find a spare pair of breeches as well."

Jack tilted his head back a little and regarded Norrington down his nose, saying, "Mine will suffice very nicely, in not much more time at all, Commodore. And besides your men, yourself, an' a few gulls, there aren't any witnesses around to start spreading any of those interesting tales. So there's really no cause for alarm." He gave him a cheerful grin. "And I highly I doubt me legs are frightening enough to start any rumors about my parentage."

Norrington seemed less than pleased. But he let it go, interestingly, and turned away, moving back into the cabin and shutting the doors behind him.

Jack went to sit by the side to watch the waves below. Norrington appeared almost obsessively disturbed by the least little things he did. Let's see, how was the tally coming along? He marked them off in his head, along with a mental note of the strength of Norrington's accompanying reactions, as well.

Bananas: very, very disturbing.

Pissing over the side: mildly irritating.

Undressing: very much so. Shocking, in fact.

Jack chuckled.

And laundry: a necessary evil, tolerated even over wearing the Commodore's spare shirt.

Mustn't forget that one: wearing a shirt without breeches. Almost as distressing as taking his clothes off. So, it was the same whether he was undressed or half-dressed.

Also, speaking to the men: to be halted as quickly as possible.

So if Jack were to remain out of sight and out of mind for the duration of their trip, and try to keep any hint of his presence…or his clothing…from Norrington's vicinity, they'd get along nicely.

It all seemed to contradict Norrington's compulsion regarding capturing him and keeping him imprisoned, to a ridiculous degree. Enough, in fact, to set Jack to wondering if Norrington really wanted a friend, or a pet.

Hm. Very interesting, that one. A pet, Jack mused.

To be sure, Norrington would be happiest if Jack didn't speak to anyone but him. And kept himself in the cabin as much as possible, avoiding the rest of the ship and other men aboard. Including Norrington himself.

Jack rather suspected that Norrington didn't know what to do with him now that he *had* him. It was quite funny, really. Like a hound who'd been a bit too obsessed with chasing a cat…and didn't know what to do with it once he'd caught it, much less when it turned on him and showed him that cats have, in fact, very sharp claws - especially when cornered.

Norrington's over-developed sense of modesty, too, was quite suspect. Probably had something to do with his being a pirate again, though. If he were a blacksmith or the daughter of a governor, no doubt Norrington would be less than piqued at his wearing Norrington's shirt and eating fruit in his cabin at the breakfast table.

Jack sighed, looking at the sea as it rolled and heaved below. He'd have to make an effort to find the right note to take with Norrington, even as a pirate. He wondered if he made too much of an effort to behave as a gentleman, if Norrington would become suspicious, or weary of him, expecting a certain measure of outrageous behavior.

Norrington appeared to make a habit of being professionally tolerant. Always on the edge, letting his humor out only when his sense of irony or sarcasm was invoked. Jack had always avoided men like him, usually because such men tended to want to see him hanged. Or shot, he recalled. Or marooned.

Then again, regarding the banana and the over-developed modesty, Norrington had very improper thoughts. And he was the sort of man who believed that to lie with any woman other than his wife was a very sinful thing to do, indeed. And one should wait until the wedding night. It was a miracle the man had managed to allow himself to succumb to curiosity and temptation even at the age of eighteen. It was also a certainty that with the loss of Miss Swann, the Commodore was unlikely to find any sort of relief any time soon. Which accounted for all the dirty thought associations Norrington was suffering from.

The few times Jack had tried to flirt with him had revealed Norrington regarded such with as much annoyance as he did pirates in general, so it was very unlikely the Commodore would allow himself to be friends with him as a drinking partner. Therefore he'd have to find a way to get him drunk gradually, slyly. Surreptitiously. A plan began to form in Jack's mind, regarding stitches and neck wounds…and the removal of the former.

When one could only flirt with someone when they were drunk, it usually bespoke of a very strait-laced surface, beneath which seethed a volcano of suppressed longings that were never acted upon. Jack wondered if the duel had been a result of that alone.

Aha…swords, ships, cannons, bananas and breeches. All those stiff uniforms and uptight men. Norrington was undoubtedly a man who was completely unable to accept taking the belly-up position…or the hands-and-knees-do-me-sir position. Probably liked to be firmly on top and use all that command in his voice to ensure he wouldn't lose control until he was sure he was safe to do so, and only ever on his terms. Combine that with the worshipful devotion of the man's idealistically romantic heart and one would have quite a time of it.

Jack's eyes narrowed, and he wondered if Miss Swann had any idea what she was missing. The quiet, hard ones with the soft centers were usually the most interesting and inventive between the sheets. If Norrington weren't so dangerously predisposed towards hating him and either seeing him hung or driven out of the Caribbean altogether, he might have considered having a go himself.

In fact…his eyes slid to the closed doors of the cabin. But no, it was highly inadvisable. There was absolutely no way that the Commodore would be able to tolerate intimacy with a pirate, without attempting to immediately redeem him - cure him of his piracy as if it were a disease of some kind, and reform him into exactly the kind of pet horror that Jack fancied Norrington had thought he'd caught, before.

And despite what Norrington believed about pirates, Jack wasn't cruel. He had no wish to break Norrington's heart. There wasn't even any sport in it; it would be too easy, especially considering the fine job Miss Elizabeth had only just managed not long ago.

As it was, Norrington didn't seem to really want his friendship *or* his company. And the more welcoming galley awaited, as did the surgeon.

He reached over to feel his shirt and found it was drying nicely. Not long now.

Without the wig, and with those brilliant green eyes, Norrington was a rather handsome specimen, Jack considered. It was a shame, actually, that they occupied such opposite sides. And there was the whole animosity issue. Sometimes, Norrington's attitude was unbearable. There was only so far he could try to charm, befriend or appeal to the man's sense of propriety or humanity. Four days of this. Four days more of Norrington's wild pendulum swinging from angry disdain to helpless fascination.

Jack wondered if they'd survive each other.

Why, Norrington couldn't even look him in the eye.

Come to think of it, Norrington had been like this with him even before he'd lost Miss Swann, this irrational love/hate attitude. Except of course it had all been undeniably 'hate' before...

Jack blinked. He studied the waves a bit longer.

It was all coming clearer now. It would have been clearer before, except he hadn't had access to the rum, being incarcerated for the most part without it. And what with the whole bit about possibly being hung or jailed for life. And losing his Pearl again. He'd been understandably distracted, what with the fear and the pain of his shoulder and everything.

He sighed at the unwanted responsibility of it all.

Then cursed himself for being a blind, self-absorbed fool not to have seen it before.

* * *

Commodore James Norrington sat at his desk, his head in his hands. He'd thought it would be difficult to have but the duration of one day and a night in Jack's company. Somehow, the trip hadn't improved upon knowing he'd have up to three extra days and nights on top of that.

Jack had been gone somewhere below deck for hours, now. He'd be damned though if he was going to leave the cabin and go searching him out. He could wait.

So far, he'd made a right bollocks of the situation. His composure was shredded, and he hadn't even managed to make it through thirty minutes in the pirate's presence without making a complete ass of himself. Dourly, he considered confining the pirate to anywhere but his cabin.

James was also starting to believe that Jack had absolutely no idea what he was doing to him. The ordeal with the banana had been embarrassing; the episode with Jack stripping most decidedly *not* self-consciously, doubly so. Jack undoubtedly considered him to be an idiot, at this point, as well as a prude.

And if Jack hadn't already guessed at the reason for his complete inability to handle relating with him, he would soon enough.

He glumly resigned himself to the inadvisability of drinking with Jack; God alone knew what he might end up saying to make matters worse, once the drink was in him.

This was far more painful to endure than Elizabeth's rejection, because he was rejected even before it had begun. And he had three more days' worth of this hell than he'd thought he would have to suffer, yesterday.

The problem was, now that he knew how he felt about Jack, he had absolutely no idea what to say to him, or how to talk to him. How to act around him. How to behave.

He was completely unprepared for anything to do with him, most particularly because Jack was a man. With Elizabeth, he'd been nervous and incredibly uncomfortable. With Jack, he'd already tried to see him to the gallows, and then had him captured and imprisoned - there was no way to make up for that. Let alone present his heart on a platter and expect Jack to do anything but carve it up.

He sat back in the chair and steepled his fingers, tapping his chin. There was always the painful and obvious route: telling the truth and just letting Jack have it between the eyes.

He couldn't see any of it being very welcome, but at least he'd have the advantage of honesty and having it all out in the open. Then Jack would have the security of knowing he could either rip him apart, with glee, or take pity on him and merely…be slightly kind about it all before attempting to have as little to do with him as possible. It had to be at least more welcome than trying to kill him.

Of course, the opportunity for blackmail or outright destruction of his reputation and his name was the obvious retaliation, and regardless of what shaky agreement or 'trust' they had built so far, Jack was hardly in a position to give a damn.

The least he could expect was mercy, and the most he could hope for was pity.

James let out a frustrated breath. He couldn't afford to admit his feelings for him, not now. He could not allow himself to forget that Jack was, simply, a pirate.

He wondered if Jack was staying away from the cabin deliberately. Avoiding more unpleasant and tense moments with him. Or was he projecting, and Jack was only wandering about the ship examining weak points, resources to exploit, soldiers to charm and rum to help himself to?

The meager breakfast he'd managed to swallow earlier was a cold lump in the pit of his stomach. The thought of having to eat anything in front of Jack was far from appetizing. Not to mention the distinctly unsettling roiling sensation he'd felt earlier, in seeing the man actually awake and moving about, behaving like himself and - and with his eyes open; too dark and too hot and seeing too much. Seeing right through him.

Damn it all, anyway. He'd said he wanted friendship and now to know he wanted too much more, without any hope of having any of it, he was left without any options or alternatives. He'd already burned his bridge behind him, even before he'd known what it meant to him.

Trust. The word felt empty and had a mocking ring to it.

Did he truly deserve his current situation? He had no right to indulge in self-pity, not when he'd behaved so foolishly, hiding from the truth of his actions and his own heart.

All he could do was try to preserve what was left of his dignity, which was precious little, and act as though he was merely unused to the company of pirates. Which was no lie.

And attempt to cover the pain and mortifying humiliation of not knowing how to comport himself in the presence of someone who had unknowingly already become the most prominent star in his fantasy life.

The doors opened and he flinched, sitting up straighter and feigning absorption in his book.

Jack entered in his own clothes, with two more bottles of rum, the white shirt draped on his arm, some bandages, and an orange. He glanced at James and said, "We may be having our stitches removed tonight."

"Oh, joy," James muttered.

"Aye," Jack sighed. He placed the rum on the table, as well as the orange, and then went to the cabinet to place the bandages and the shirt beside the basin. Returning to the table, he slid back the chair on the far end and slouched in it. Reaching out for the bottle he'd already opened the previous night, he took a sip from it. "Your journal?"

James started, looking over at him. He took a breath and closed it, not caring if the ink was wet. "Yes."

Then wondered at the wisdom of acknowledging as much, with the possibility it would arouse Jack's curiosity. He put the book away in the drawer and stood, stretching.

He rubbed at the bandage at his neck, wincing as he realized that he would indeed end up wanting a drink or two for that procedure.

Jack took another swig of rum and said, quietly, "You weren't counting on having to put up with me here, were you?"

James pulled a slight face. "To be honest, no. I hadn't thought about it." He went to the other end of the table, across from Jack, and sat down, toying with the idea that perhaps he'd been panicking and there really wasn't as much to fear here as he'd imagined. "Three more days…"

"At the least," Jack put in. "The very least. Probably more."

James grimaced.

Jack's answering smile was less than reassuring. "I've not had to look far to see where young Will developed such a dim view on pirates, but you've got us completely skewed, mate."

James looked over at him, suspiciously. "Somehow I doubt that."

"You live by the Law; we live by the Code. Where you feel free to interpret the Law and how rigidly it applies to the specifics, we do the same. What's the difference?" Jack seemed to be genuinely asking it of him; James didn't get the impression it was a rhetorical question at all.

James made an effort to meet his eye, and was surprised at how easy it was. Besides, Jack seemed actually to be making an effort to be civil, so the least he could do was return the favor. "The difference is that you live outside the Law, by your Code, which makes you an outlaw, and subject to receiving the consequences of it, regardless of your Code."

Jack sat up, animated by this. "Your rules, then, can be broken by yourself and those that make them, but not the men who are subject to the power you hold?"

Stiffly, James answered, "Laws are not open to interpretation. They are agreed upon by men who understand the nature of both themselves and the Laws that the Lord has set down. Thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not steal. I'm sure you're familiar with the rest."

Jack snorted. "So if the King of England steals Spanish gold, it's his God-given right, but if the King of Spain or meself were to steal his silver, it's a crime punishable by death."

James chuckled quietly and nodded. "Remind me never to debate theology with you, Jack." He threw him a look. "Or politics."

Jack grinned back at him. "So what *will* you debate with me?"

James made a very great effort not to drop his eyes to Jack's mouth, and congratulated himself on accomplishing it, remaining fixed on those eyes. Dark eyes. Lively eyes. "The wisdom of trusting a pirate ship to return to Port Royal and willingly give up sixty percent of the treasure she's carrying."

Slyly, Jack said, "You still don't trust me, yet."

"Whether I trust you or not on this point is immaterial, Jack, and you know it. I don't trust your crew. And frankly, neither should you."

"But I should trust you?"

Jack's question had the virtue of sounding sincere, but James was all too aware of the bite in it.

James pressed his lips together, looking away. "Probably not," he admitted.

Jack drummed his fingers on the table, the wood echoing with it. "Suppose I sailed the Pearl alongside your Dauntless, and you offered us a proper escort? Would you trust me then?"

James regarded him at this, wondering what the flaw in this suggestion could be. "Both our crews are likely to be far too edgy, considering. Yours would probably mutiny on you."

Jack looked rueful. "They probably would, at that." He brightened. "Although, if we made it forty-five percent instead, and I could tell 'em that you agreed to it to prove you valued our services in transporting it all."

James smiled and looked down, snickering quietly and shaking his head. "You are, without a doubt, incorrigible beyond all hope."

"Forty-two percent and a half?" Jack amended.

James gave him a look askance. "Pray tell how anyone, least of all you and I, would be able to determine exactly two and a half percent less of sixty, to be left aboard your ship each time we arrive back at port."

Jack squinted at him. "You'd be surprised how motivation encourages accurate mathematics, especially motivation of the doubloon variety. Down to the ha'penny and the single coin."

Slowly, James said, "I believe you. But that doesn't solve the dilemma of why I should believe you'll keep to this vastly expensive undertaking and not simply flee the Caribbean upon being returned to your ship."

"Aye," Jack agreed, more subdued. "I'd be a fool thrice-over if I didn't, 'ey?"

James suppressed the twinge of pain in his chest rather admirably, he thought, as his heart clenched at the reminder that Jack really had no reason to remain at all, and had every reason to want to leave as quickly as he could manage. Particularly from this ship, and…from this commodore. He looked away, letting his gaze drop to the table between them.

"You would," he decided, with a note of finality.

Jack leaned back in his seat and stroked his chin. "Rather think we've come full circle, really."

Letting out a breath, James answered, "The truth, then. We're returning you to your ship. And that's all."

"And I'm not leaving the Caribbean, nor all that gold," Jack said, in an amused tone.

James shot him a sharp look. "This isn't a game, Jack. If you keep playing it as one, you will end up on the gallows."

"Will I?" Jack asked, enigmatically. "This is the fourth time you've had me in your custody, and you're about to let me go. Again. Seems like a game where you're concerned."

A flush of heat took James by surprise. Before he could retort, Jack continued.

"You're certainly playing it like one, mate. Could it be you've actually been enjoying the chase?" It didn't sound so much an accusation, as a suggestion.

James looked down at the floor. "Possibly," he admitted.

"If I die, the game ends," Jack stated.

James most carefully did not look at him, afraid of what his eyes might reveal at that dire remark. "If you don't leave the Main, then you continue to play it, yourself; and the next time, there may not be an opportunity for you to continue to gamble with your life."

Jack smiled, "Well, I'll just have to make sure I'm playing the game with you, and not someone else who doesn't savvy the rules, 'ey?"

"I'm playing according to the Law. You're playing by your Code. I doubt that this 'game' as you call it is anything other than life and death."

"Then why can't you see me to the gallows?" Jack asked. "What's changed?"

James swallowed at this, with a little frown. "You did. Well, rather, my view of you."

"Try seeing it from where I'm sitting," Jack urged. "What would *you* do, if you were me?"

"I wouldn't be you, because you're a pirate," James pointed out.

Jack rolled his eyes. "Humor me."

James drew a breath at this, wondering if he indeed wanted to, at this point. It was already reaching the point of absurdity. Game, indeed. "If I were you, I wouldn't have returned to that damned island. I'd have left well enough alone and cut my losses."

"Suppose you hadn't, though. What would you do *now*?" Jack asked, impatiently.

James met his eye at this and gave a terse smile. "Get back to my ship and depart the Caribbean."

Jack smiled back at him. "An' what would I do, if I were you?" He settled back, appearing to think on this.

That was an interesting notion. James wondered at it, himself.

When Jack didn't elaborate, James looked back at him, and saw that Jack was watching him.

Slowly, significantly, Jack said, "It's hard to know what freedom is by staring out at the world from inside a cell."

James digested this. Jack wasn't going to play it safely, because he enjoyed freedom too much to not take the risks life had to offer. Removing himself from their 'game' altogether was to play it safe, the way James himself played it. But James could hardly appreciate why Jack would be willing to take that risk, when he himself had never allowed himself to, even once.

He nodded. "Very well. You take your chances outside the cage, whereas I live in the relative security of knowing that my days may number longer than yours."

Jack smirked. "That's just like you, Commodore James. Always taking the gloomy view of things."

"How would you put it, then?"

"I take the risk of enjoying life, whereas you are afraid to." Jack's eyes glittered at him with this pronouncement. "In fact, you're even afraid to admit that you're bending those high and mighty laws carved in stone that you say you adhere to, while preaching at me that I should be living by them, and giving up my freedom for them."

Slowly, James replied, "One conversation with you, and I'm very near to settling into a bottle of rum, myself."

"It's a very good thing I brought up the other bottles then, isn't it?" Jack nodded at the two extra bottles of rum on the table.

James gave a wry smile. "Not to mention for the removal of our stitches, later, which will require yet more."

Jack's expression was one of shared camaraderie at this reminder, but he could see that Jack was not looking forward to it either. James considered the fact that he was going to have to sit and watch the ship's doctor pull stitches out of Jack's shoulder - from a wound that, although was apparently healing well, had been given to him by James himself. And now he would have to endure Jack's pain. Perhaps he deserved that, more than the cut on his neck he'd sustained.

There was a knock on the door.

"Enter," James called.

The door opened and Officer Gillette stood there, his eyes going from James to the pirate, and back again, successively. "Sir, I wondered if I might have a word."

James lifted a brow. "Come in, Gillette. There's no need to stand about in the door."

Gillette came in and shut the cabin door he'd opened, his eyes going to the bottles of the rum on the table and an expression of worried distaste moved over him. Ignoring Jack Sparrow for the moment, and obviously ill at ease to be speaking to his superior in front of the pirate, Gillette cleared his throat. "We're making good time, Sir. But the men and I, well, we're wondering what we're going to do when we arrive at the island."

James replied, dryly, "My orders were perfectly clear. We will be removing yet more of the illegal pirate cache from the cavern and transporting it back to Port Royal, again, for redistribution as before."

"Well, yes, Sir, to be sure. But-" Gillette's eyes flickered at Jack and then back to James. "What about Sparrow, Sir?" he finally asked, outright.

Jack was looking at the floor, and adopted a wondering look himself, his brows raised slightly. As if moderately curious. But he said nothing, interestingly remaining quiet.

James turned a wry smile on Gillette. "Oh, I think we can manage to keep one pirate contained aboard a shipful of officers and fine soldiers, until such time as he can prove himself useful."

Gillette stared back at him, bemused. "Useful, Sir?"

"The Black Pearl, Gillette," James reminded him. "It will undoubtedly be returning when the crew decide to help themselves. Mr. Sparrow will be a decided advantage in helping them to understand that they cannot, in fact, simply make off with whatever suits them whenever they feel like it. We may not have proven ourselves to be much of a deterrent last time, but even, as you claimed, when they fired upon us they still turned tail and ran. It's unlikely they will want to engage us a second time."

Proudly, Gillette lifted his chin. "To be sure, Sir. So he's our hostage?"

James considered Jack who was yet staring at the floor while they discussed him. "Guest, however unwilling," James explained.

Gillette thought this over. "Aye, Sir. I suppose supper is out of the question, then."

James regarded him. "Seeing as Mr. Sparrow is going to be aboard until his ship shows, I'm afraid we'll be deprived of that luxury, yes." For it was the routine for the officers of the ship to dine in the captain's cabin - however unwilling such a task might be for some. It was bad form indeed for anyone to turn down such an invitation. Sparrow's presence aboard would provide a deterrent.

"Very good, Sir," Gillette responded, a look of relief coming over him.

James smiled dryly. "You many inform everyone that Mr. Sparrow is free to go where he pleases, but the weapons, the powder, the helm and the quarters belonging to the Mate and the Quartermaster are off-limits."

"Ah. Very good, Sir," Gillette agreed, giving Jack a sterner glance.

James wondered why Gillette had such a proprietary attitude concerning their prisoner, which Jack really was, even now. And he realized that it was much as he himself probably had appeared, if not more so. It was curious to note that he'd changed, and could now see the difference; relative to Gillette, Commodore James Norrington had already dealt with his immediate reaction to the pirate as a simple captive and was now well on his way to seeing the man as more than a random element or a catalyst in their dealings with the treasure of the Isle de Muerte.

For it *was* pirate treasure, after all. Although stolen, to be sure, the Black Pearl, whatever crew aboard her now manned her, still had the most rights to it from their perspective.

With a note of finality, James said, "Was there anything else, Lieutenant?"

"I think that about covers it, Sir," Gillette agreed, seemingly accepting James's reasoning, as well as his orders.

Although James knew it still confused his lieutenant, why he should first declare acceptance of a duel with the pirate and then take him prisoner without seeing him hung, only to have him aboard the Dauntless in his own cabin - only to let him go again.

James sighed under his breath.

But Gillette contented himself with another stern glance at Jack, almost a warning, and then nodded, leaving the cabin.

When Gillette had gone, Jack observed, "That one's starting to wonder about you, Commodore James."

"He is," James agreed. "And he can continue to wonder. I continue to wonder, myself. At this rate, he may figure it out before I do."

Jack threw him a sharp look. "You'd better hope not. Seems to me your crew is starting to trust you about as much as mine trusts me. That doesn't bode well on a Navy ship, now does it?"

James gave a tight smile. "I'm not sure which I find more alarming: the thought of them figuring it out before me, or you." Certainly James did wonder more than ever, how much Jack had already ascertained about him, even before he could attempt to explain it to any degree to himself. What Jack was really doing aboard.

"Of course, that's assuming you'd want to know if I'd figured it out," Jack grinned, slightly dangerously.

James raised a brow at him. "Have you?"

"As if I'd tell you," Jack returned, instantly.

Feeling at this point as though he really didn't have much to lose, James said, "Seeing as I haven't, I'd appreciate the gesture."

"Would you believe me though?" Jack seemed amused.

Once more, the word 'trust' rang a little hollow. But it was irrelevant now. Or was it? He wondered. "It comes down to that matter of trust, does it not?"

"Trust?" Jack nodded, the almost inaudible jingles from that silver ornament distracting James momentarily. It looked Turkish. Or Moroccan. "I suppose. You can't trust me because you can't trust yourself. If you can't trust yourself, how can you expect me to trust you - or anyone else to trust you, for that matter?"

"I can't trust you because you're a pirate," James replied, grimly. "I can't trust myself because I find that I want to trust you, despite your unfortunate calling in life."

Jack's eyes dropped to the bottles of rum between them, and then lifted to meet his again. "That's…where you're wrong, you see? That's what you haven't figured out yet, mate."

James frowned. "What is?"

"You don't know what trust *is*, 'ey?" Jack stated, simply. "And it's not about trust, actually. That's also what you haven't figured out."

"I see. And you have. Yet you won't tell me." James cast a sardonic glance at the cabin doors, wondering if Gillette had any idea. Or the others. Probably not. He'd spent too long cultivating such a hands-off and superior relationship with them that he was firmly above their ranks…and out of reach on any social or personal level. Hence the problem of Sparrow, and their confusion regarding his wavering on Sparrow's behalf.

Jack let out a breath. "Happiness, Commodore." At James's surprised look, Jack added, "You're not happy. I was very happy, until you decided that making me unhappy was going to make you happy. Now that you've decided it doesn't, you're trying to make yourself happy by making *me* happy…by returning me to my ship." And he grinned. "Of course, that will make me very happy indeed. But then you're left with the problem of still being unhappy, aren't you?"

James followed this path of thought, right to the end. Making Jack happy by returning him to his ship wasn't going to make him very happy at all, because at this point, he had admittedly figured out that not having Jack anywhere nearby was making him unhappy in the first place. He let out a breath of exasperated impatience with himself. The whole situation was vexing, and didn't appear to have the slightest ounce of satisfaction. Happiness.

"The real question here is," Jack asked, slowly, in a careful tone of voice that James found abruptly disturbing, "why did you think that keeping me from my ship would make you happy?"

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" James slung at him, darkly.

"It's better than chess," Jack agreed, cheerfully.

After a moment's pause, James admitted, "I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought doing the right thing would…bring a measure of happiness."

"Ah, but you're now doing the right thing in returning me to my ship - but that doesn't make you any happier, either," Jack pointed out, with a tone of self-possessed logic that James didn't like much.

"You're saying that's not the point at all?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Jack smiled at him.

"So what *is* the point, Jack?" James demanded.

Jack tilted his head and gave him a narrowed look of those dark eyes. "And there we are, mate. I'm not sure you'd believe me if I told you."

James regarded the table again, wondering at the folly of insisting that Jack out the truth between them. He wondered if Jack must already know about the conflicting feelings he was suffering from where the pirate was concerned. In fact, he had to know, to be dancing around it this way, so pointedly. If Jack said it aloud, calling him out, and he denied it, Jack would merely claim that he'd been right to say James didn't believe him after all.

James sighed through his nose. It was making his head hurt; it quite possibly hurt worse than his heart already did. He was already resigned to not having Jack; to have to play this game of denial now simply compounded the pain. He blinked, wondering if maybe that was another self-deception. Was he assuming that having Jack would…make him happy? He frowned.

He wasn't even sure what that would entail; 'having' Jack. In what way? To simply have him near? Enjoy his company? He couldn't say that he'd been enjoying Jack's company in the slightest. At this point, he could hardly wait to return the man to his ship and hope that Jack would actually flee the Caribbean after all.

"Miss Elizabeth made you unhappy," Jack commented. "So you thought that if you made *me* unhappy, you'd feel better. But to try to make yourself happy at someone else's expense…It doesn't work that way. Unless you're very cruel and enjoy watching people suffer. Which you aren't, are you?"

"Certainly not," James agreed, stiffly. Although the entire thread of this conversation was growing distinctly unsettling, veering far too closely to the matter of his heart…and the helplessness he felt regarding Jack.

"You're assuming that, in lieu of a wife, having a friend will make you happy," Jack stated, meaningfully, staring at him.

James looked away from him again, not sure what to make of the serious expression Jack wore now. "I suppose you're right," he said, in a low voice. "I was assuming that. But not anymore."

He closed his eyes. God, he was saying too much. This was worse than he'd feared. It was too strange and unreal, too threatening, to have Jack so effortlessly voicing the relentless truth of his own conscience. Even the parts he hadn't wanted to see. But maybe that was what he really wanted from Jack. From the very beginning.

So why? Why this? James considered the freedom Jack had. He'd been jealous of Jack's freedom and lack of confinement to the very laws James kept trying to force upon him. That was the key. Freedom; from the same prison cell he'd put Jack in, repeatedly.

"I'm supposed to believe," James stated, slowly, "that happiness is synonymous with freedom?"

Jack gave him a quizzical look. "What do *you* believe, 'ey?"

James considered this.

"You gave Elizabeth the freedom to choose Will," Jack pointed out, gently. "And then you gave me my freedom. The question is, why won't you give yourself the freedom you long for? Or is it freedom that you want?"

James stated, "You desire freedom. I desire happiness."

Interestingly, Jack's eyes slid away at this.

James continued, "You enjoy your freedom, so obviously. You enjoy your life. I suppose, in a way, I envied you that happiness. Which is why it was wrong for me to try to take it from you. It only made me unhappier in the long run. So I'll return you to your ship, and you can do as you please. You can take your chances, even it brings you to the gallows," he added, bitterly.

"That's not the point here though," Jack argued. "All that really matters is whether or not *you're* happy, and what would make you so. What would make you enjoy *your* life more?"

James looked down. "I'm not sure."

Dryly, Jack said, "Not more hangings, then."

James smiled at this. Of that he was very sure. "I've never enjoyed the necessity of killing a man. Even those of your former crew," he reminded Jack. "Or maybe especially those of your crew. I had the opportunity. I discovered that hanging men brings me no pleasure."

Jack grimaced at this though. "To be sure. They weren't the best sort."

James stared back at him now. "As I've said to you, I have no wish to see you dead. Seeing you upon the gallows brought me no happiness then, and it never will."

"Neither will seeing me free," Jack pointed out.

James looked down at the rum bottles, watching as the liquid sloshed in them with the roll and gentle heave of the ship. "Nor seeing you in a cell."

"Or seeing me at all," Jack said, perceptively.

Too close, far too close to home. James drew in a shuddering breath. "Indeed." He flicked a glance at Jack. "Pirates," he commented, darkly.

But the damage was done and he could feel the heat in his face once more. However much he tried to step away from it, he knew now. Jack was already very aware of the cause of his distress.

He felt trapped, as trapped as he'd tried to ensure that the pirate was, days before. He waited for Jack to say it, to say anything that might end it, here and now; something that would hint at the fact that however broken his heart might have been in the wake of Elizabeth's rejection, he now lay vulnerable and broken before Jack, even before the man had to say a word.

He closed his eyes and swallowed, and wondered if the word 'mercy' meant anything at all in the present moment. It did to him. Would Jack share that particular understanding? Or would he offer pity, instead?

Jack's voice filtered in through the pained heat he felt inside.

"It seems to me," Jack said, lazily, "that you're looking to me to tell you the answer. Perhaps I'm leaping to conclusions, but it's simply a process of elimination. The Law doesn't make you very happy, nor enforcing it. Nor did Miss Swann. Nor bein' a most feared Pirate Hunter in these parts. Probably because you're not very happy being a commodore, Commodore."

James felt a curious mixture of relief and disappointment. Pity it was to be, then. Or Jack really didn't know, yet, how far down the path of madness his broken heart had sailed.

"I don't have anything else," he stated, stoically.

Jack laughed quietly. "At the moment," he pointed out in a reasonable tone, "you still have me. But I'm thinking that my being a pirate complicates things somewhat, 'ey?"

James's heart skipped a beat, and a tinge of panic went through him at this. "I would have thought that your being a pirate in fact cancels out any possibility of 'having you' here. Particularly as I am, in fact, that feared Pirate Hunter and by all accounts should have seen you to the gallows from the start."

"Ah, to be sure. But if I weren't a pirate, I wouldn't be here in the first place, would I?" Jack smirked at him. "Come to think of it, the dear Miss Swann had a bit of a pirate in her blood too, 'ey? Which might explain your attraction for the lass."

James blinked at this. Dear God, the insufferable man was right. Elizabeth's high-spirited quality…her passion and humor. Aching, he said, "Then what I've been refusing to see all along was merely the fact that pirates are not simply the violent and repulsive villains I believed them to be."

"Some," Jack qualified. "Some are, some aren't. Take young Mr. Turner, for example. He's still struggling with the fact that his father was a good man, as well as a pirate." He grinned at James. "Much like yourself, Commodore. You struggle with that one even now."

James looked back at him, wishing in that very instant that he didn't have to find Jack so overwhelmingly alluring. "Not at all. I've already accepted that you are a good man, Jack."

Jack's brows rose. "Have you now? So you *do* trust me, then?"

The implication was that he trusted himself, and knew himself - which was almost as bad as admitting aloud - or having Jack state aloud - that he, James Norrington, feared Pirate Hunting Commodore of the Royal Navy, was in love with a pirate. He didn't answer, wondering if the shiver than ran through him was perceptible, or caused by heat, or chill.

And he hated the fact that they were now both of them dancing around it. "We've been over this," he muttered.

"I'm not here because I'm a pirate, then?" Jack asked, shrewdly. "Nor because I'm a good man?"

James clenched his teeth, and wondered if Jack was deliberately pushing him. Undoubtedly; he must be. A pirate, after all. He gave Jack a look askance. "At this point, I don't much care."

Jack adopted a wounded expression. "You don't?"

In an irritable voice, James repeated, "No. I don't."

He feared it sounded petulant, and at the moment he didn't care about that either. All he wanted was for his life to seem simpler again, not filled with this distressing…distressing *longing*.

It was unbecoming of him.

Jack reached for his bottle, the opened one. Taking a drink from it, he said, "That's the first outright lie you've told me to my face, Commodore James."

James had to laugh at this, humorlessly, under his breath. "Are all pirates as pedantic as you?"

"Some," Jack said. "That's what the Code's for, you know." He gave James an uncertain look. "But you probably don't."

James saw the way Jack was favoring his shoulder and something slid into place in his mind. "Considering how raw my neck is, I doubt you're ready to have those stitches removed yet. Did you bribe the doctor? Or have you plans after the night is over, that requires having them pulled tonight?"

Jack gave a smirk and actually looked…caught. "Didn't manage to see him but for a moment. I did wonder what you would do."

James let out an exasperated breath. "What did he really say? What is the verdict on your injury?"

"At least another week," Jack said, with another drink of the rum, referring to the stitches.

So it was all for effect then, again, and Jack was consistently gauging his reactions. James felt slightly ill. There was no way Jack didn't know what he was going through, here. He began to feel angry, as well as humiliated. Although why he should feel any shame whatsoever for feeling concern at the thought of Jack in pain, he had no idea.

He stood up, and stretched. "I need some air," he muttered, going to put on his hat and coat. At the doors, he stopped and turned to regard Jack, who was watching him with an inexplicable look on his face. "I doubt even you could finish three bottles off on your own, but you might want to consider keeping some for the stitches."

He left the cabin, wondering why he felt as though he was running from Jack. Glumly, he realized that was exactly what he was doing. Anything to spend some time away from the pirate. He had to give himself some time, some space, away from the man, to deliberate what options he might have. So far, pursuing the friendly course wasn't working; Jack already knew he was compromised, at least where his heart was concerned. And he couldn't trust anything Jack might say or do now, as Jack was still in essence a captive prisoner and therefore unable to say or do what he might truly want - where James himself was concerned.

A part of him longed to see the pirate back down below in the brig so he would at least have his cabin to himself again. That way he could ensure that the night would be his also, and not have to spend it restlessly and keenly aware of Jack sleeping near him.

Which only served to remind him of the painfully embarrassing fact that last night they had ended up in a strange reversal of their positions, with Jack in the captain's cabin and himself…in the brig.

He supposed that was an adequate and more accurate assessment of their situation, really.

James stalked coldly forward, wishing he'd left well enough alone and let the damned pirate captain simply sail off with his treasure. It seemed the ship and the gold were truly the only things Jack valued. Let him keep them.

He was looking forward to simply ridding himself of the irritation and heartbreak the entire matter had come to mean to him.

* * *

Jack thoughtfully took another mouthful of rum, considering Norrington's temper. They were nearing that edge now, the one that had pushed Norrington to accept his offer of that duel.

Only now he was aware, as Norrington was, that this time it wouldn't reach the point of dueling.

It wouldn't be long before Norrington broke down. Considering how tightly-strung the Commodore was, Jack wasn't at all certain it would be a good idea for the man to drink much, if any. It was likely to be a highly emotional and messy scene otherwise.

Taking another swig, he gratefully felt the rum beginning to lift free certain tangled pieces of this knotted problem, allowing him to see them more clearly.

Norrington wanted him, but was afraid to allow himself to, and with good reason. The man simply was not in a position to let himself do something so 'reprehensible' as admit feelings for another man. But Jack also remained Norrington's involuntary guest, so until such time as he managed to escape, he was dependent on Norrington's interest in his welfare. Surely the Commodore realized that a 'good man' could hardly return his interest at this point, without it being merely an exploitation of his feelings?

Jack ruminated on this. It was as before; Norrington wasn't a bad sort, and if he'd had the mind to, it might have been fun. But a Commodore who believed he was in love was all too likely to swing back the other way if he suspected Jack was playing him false. And Jack's shoulder and subsequent days imprisoned in the brig and the prison bore witness to that.

By not openly discussing it, they were both tacitly pretending it wasn't an issue.

Norrington could hardly admit it outright, without compromising himself as a Commodore…and a gentleman. So the task fell to Jack, as the 'evil pirate' to out the man?

Jack grimaced. This was going to be very unpleasant.

And that little game with the journal - as if he was expected to go read it, thus proving even more of Norrington's assumptions about pirates being utterly shameless thieves, voyeurs and scoundrels who had no respect for people's privacy.

He chuckled to himself, imagining what was probably the last entry: 'Jack, if you're reading this, you shouldn't be. Pirate.'

Well, of course. He *was* a pirate, and proud to call himself one. Jack's eyes narrowed as he took another swallow of rum. Clear, amber-clear now.

Glancing over at the cabinet behind him, he saw the mirror and realized he hadn't reapplied the smut beneath his eyes in a long time…Norrington was no doubt wondering why he wore it. It always got the most interesting reactions, even despite the originally innocent reasons he'd adopted it after the African tribes who'd introduced him to it. For the sun, and medicinal purposes…but it always garnered such attention and hilarious responses. He retrieved it from his effects and reapplied it, carefully, wondering if Norrington would even realize that he was doing so for the Commodore's benefit.

Norrington was counting on Jack's so-called nature as a pirate and debaucher to save Norrington from his little repressed Navy self, so afterwards his conscience could be square and clean and he could even tell himself Jack had tempted him to sin.

Although, he knew that the Commodore wasn't too happy to have to be having feelings like this for a pirate - and a man - in the first place. It wasn't easy for him.

As if it was supposed to be easy for Jack. As if it was *his* fault that Norrington had a hard-on for him.

Talk about placing a man in an awkward position.

Jack sighed, put the black smudge away, and sat down in the chair at the table once more, slumping.

And while aboard the H.M.S. Dauntless…sweet Jesus - as if this was any sort of a place to be conducting this kind of delicate procedure. It wasn't merely a matter of honor or reputation. He could very well end up in the brig again. In fact…Jack sat up.

That was it. That was the solution.

Norrington had a choice: he could treat Jack as a guest, or he could treat him…as a pirate. But he'd have to make up his mind.

Though, the Commodore's heart was likely to make it up for him; Jack chuckled and grabbed the bottle for another drink.

He heard voices outside the cabin, and realized Norrington would be coming back in soon.

He put the rum down and reached over to grab the orange. As he began to peel it, Jack considered the most likely course the evening would take.

Dinner would be interesting but strained; Norrington would be unable to enjoy it and would no doubt be offended that he, Jack, wasn't suffering an equal measure of indigestion over the state of Norrington's broken heart. Although, to be sure, Jack wasn't looking forward to it either.

As the orange peel grew longer in a circular fashion, Jack wondered if he could possibly get away with actually doing anything with the man. Unlikely, particularly as Norrington's sensibilities would be so shocked at actually having physical contact with him, a foul and disturbingly *male* pirate, that Norrington would go into an apoplexy of self-disgust and blame afterwards.

Miss Swann was partly to blame, really; why she couldn't have accepted the man was really beyond him. Young Will was quite young; the lad had a lot to learn about himself, about Elizabeth, about women, and about life. Norrington was the wiser, and would have offered her so much more. And Norrington was the sort of gentleman who, once he gave his heart away, would idealistically devote himself to the object of his affections without reservation.

Now that was worth remembering. If he wanted Norrington, he had him.

Jack stopped, considering the length of the orange peel. It was long…and still unbroken. Carefully, he attempted to keep it in one piece, nearing the bottom of the orange.

Did he want Norrington? A very interesting opportunity. As long as it remained on his terms. He wondered if Norrington could even handle having a long-distance affair with a pirate. Most unlikely. But not impossible.

The cabin doors opened and Norrington returned inside, shutting the doors behind him and giving Jack an accusatory glance.

Jack ignored this, and triumphantly peeled off the last of the bottom of the orange, holding it up in one long strip. Setting it down on the table to curl into an empty remnant of its original shape, Jack selected a segment of the orange and ate it, furtively noticing how Norrington appeared to not know what to do with himself, hovering by his desk.

"I didn't sneak a read of it, 'ey? Your little book's safe from me," Jack informed him.

Norrington blinked at him a couple of times. "It's my log. I doubt you'd find anything revealing in it."

Jack grinned over the orange, selecting another segment. "You'd be surprised."

Norrington removed the coat and hat and put them up. Returning to the table across from Jack, he sat down. He eyed the orange peel dubiously.

Jack asked, "Do you want a piece?"

Norrington's eyes flickered, as though he might say yes. He looked away. "No, thank you," he said, a hint of dryness in his voice.

Jack gave a half-smile and ate another segment of the orange. As if accepting orange slices from a pirate were anything like accepting apples from the Tree.

"I'm hardly the serpent," he commented, under his breath.

"I beg your pardon?" Norrington asked, as if surprised.

Jack shot him a look. "I'm not Lucifer, and this isn't the Garden, mate. You're quite safe, I assure you."

Norrington looked worried.

Jack continued, picking off another orange segment, "Taking a bite of orange isn't the equal of Biblical sin, now is it?"

Norrington regarded him, looking for all the world as though he suspected a form of trickery somehow. "Very well."

Jack chewed, and raised his brows, motioning. At Norrington's acceptance, he stood, and went around the table to where Norrington sat, and selected a segment for him.

Norrington made as if to take it, reaching. Jack shook his head, withdrawing slightly. "Open your mouth," he suggested, smiling.

Norrington flushed, his eyes widening, looking as if he didn't know whether to be outraged or afraid. He was probably both. And gulped, looking up at Jack with a nervous and accusing expression, unable to look away.

Jack gestured with the segment, as if impatient. "Well?" He held it before Norrington, waiting.

Norrington's eyes narrowed and despite his obvious discomfiture, he opened his mouth. Jack slipped the orange segment between the Commodore's parted lips and then broke off another one for himself.

Norrington chewed, but he looked like he was having difficulty breathing.

Nonchalantly, Jack ate the piece he held, and raised his brows at him again. "Not bad, is it?" He gestured with the remainder of the orange. "Another one?"

Norrington shook his head.

With a smile, Jack turned and went to sit back down at the other end of the table.

Jack glanced at him. Norrington looked thoughtful.

Conversationally, he said, "You know, mate, it's only a suggestion, but you may want to consider the possibility that I'm not, in fact, a bad pirate, but a good one. Contrary as that may sound."

He removed another orange segment and held it up to the light from the window.

Norrington was looking at the floor.

Jack was certain that Norrington would never look at oranges the same way again. He was beginning to find this situation they were both in rather interesting, himself.

He popped the segment into his mouth, and regarded those that were left. He flicked a glance up at Norrington. "Are you quite sure you won't have one more?" he asked, casually.

Norrington looked back at him, and Jack almost had to catch his breath at the depth of the pain in the man's eyes. Now this was more to the point. Gallows, prison cells, duels…this was where it had been going, all along.

With a visible effort, Norrington straightened and steeled himself. "Very well," he answered. "One more."

Jack didn't get up. "Your turn, this time." He gave him a smile. And carefully selected a segment that would be large enough for what he had in mind, but not too big…

Norrington hadn't moved.

Jack gestured for him to come over. "You're very safe, Commodore James. I promise."

Norrington sighed almost inaudibly and got up, walking over to stand before Jack. "Just give it to me."

Jack looked up at him, guilelessly. "Trust me," he said. And held it up between them.

Norrington leaned down to take it between his parted lips. But Jack slowly began to draw it closer to himself, before placing it between his teeth, leaving a good portion of it for Norrington to take.

Norrington straightened, standing in what looked like a mingling of fear, anger, and indecision.

Jack waited, holding his gaze, not biting the orange. Norrington stared down at him, those green eyes filled with…want, and fear. Finally, he sucked the piece of orange into his mouth and chewed it, selecting another from the dwindling pieces. "Right then, one last time?" he asked, casually.

The expression of pure distress on Norrington's face was really quite touching.

"It won't hurt," Jack said, in a low voice, meeting his eyes.

And he placed the segment between his lips a second time.

A wince of panic crossed Norrington's face and to Jack's edification, he quickly leaned down to bite the segment, orange juice splattering both their lips.

Norrington's mouth was on his in the next instant, their lips pressed together, hard, Norrington bending over him to push his head back farther, kissing him with an intensity that shot a bolt of heat through Jack's belly.

Norrington's hand stole to Jack's right shoulder, and Jack swallowed the bit of orange, opening his lips against the other man's, to allow the tip of his tongue to dart out. But at it, Norrington pulled back as if stung.

He stood, staring down at Jack with a betrayed expression.

"I - I…No. No, I can't." And he turned away, returning to the chair at the far end of the table. He didn't look at Jack as he said, "I can't do this."

"You can. You want to." Jack licked his lips, tasting the orange juice and the other man's mouth still upon him. It had been better than he'd thought it would be. Hotter, sweeter. "Maybe you're right," he added, with a sigh. "It might be very inadvisable. What with you being a commodore and me being Captain Jack Sparrow, after all." He prided himself on delivering this with the right note of jauntiness and mockery.

He ate the last two segments together.

Norrington took a deep breath. "I don't know what I was thinking. This is madness."

"Aye, it usually is," Jack agreed, eyeing the rum. It was going to be a long afternoon. And a longer evening.

Norrington wore the face of a man who had given up.

Brightly, Jack said, "Just between the two of us, I think Miss Elizabeth really didn't know what she was passing up." He gave a sardonic grin. "With either of us."

Norrington was quiet. At length, he said in a low voice, "You lied." As Jack swiftly glanced over at him with a frown, Norrington continued, "You said it wouldn't hurt."

"If you'd stop *fighting* it," Jack said, letting his voice trail meaningfully. He felt a creeping doubt of misgiving at the tone in Norrington's voice though.

Norrington met his gaze straight on, not even attempting to hide the anguish he was so obviously feeling. "And what is this to you? A dalliance? An attempt to ensure your continued safety with me?"

Jack sobered, looking away; feeling not a little betrayed himself at this. "When you've decided that I can be trusted, Commodore James, you let me know."

"Is this mercy, or pity?" Norrington pressed, sounding a tad angrier.

Jack held up a hand. "That," he said, "is a very interesting question. You tell me: are you letting me return to my ship out of mercy…or is it pity?"

"Neither," Norrington snapped.

Jack's brows rose. "Pray tell?" He was surprised, to say the least.

"Guilt," Norrington replied, brusquely. "Which you know very well, after all that has been said."

"You want this, but you can't let yourself have it; is that it?" Jack enquired, wanting to be clear.

Norrington's eyes fluttered, and he looked away again, as if beholding Jack was pain enough. "I can't afford to, and, I think, neither can you."

Jack went silent, thinking this over. Norrington couldn't afford to allow himself to have something for himself alone that wasn't somehow earning credit in Heaven or that fit the rigid, narrowly predetermined social bounds of moral conduct. Sad, really. Very sad. "Is that your final word?"

"It will have to be, won't it?" Norrington said, slowly, sounding melancholy.

"Well," Jack said, standing up. "That's very final, indeed. I *am* free to go anywhere aboard your ship, aye?"

Norrington's brow creased. "Yes, as I said."

Jack gathered his effects, including his coat and hat…notably his sword and pistol also, and casually walked to the doors.

"Wh-where are you going?" Norrington asked.

"Removing meself from your presence, so as not to present the temptation," Jack said, turning to catch his eye.

Norrington looked stricken. "But - you can't…" he said, helplessly.

Jack tilted his head at him. "Are you forbidding it?"

Wounded anger underscored Norrington's reply. "No. Do as you please."

Jack inclined his head, and opened the cabin doors, leaving Norrington to think it over, and shutting them behind him.

He wondered how many hours it would take for Norrington to break, and come seeking him out. It wouldn't take him long to figure out where he was, once Norrington crumbled.

Jack found he wasn't even really all that worried. Norrington just needed some time to think it through, and realize that this was what they'd both been edging towards, since they'd first met. He'd been surprised, actually, at how swiftly Norrington had given in and allowed himself to be drawn into that kiss. He hadn't expected Norrington to do anything but take offense, reject him. Hit him, even. The passion and intensity of Norrington's kiss had been a revelation. The man's desperation and sincerity was quite humbling, really.

Glumly, Jack resigned himself to a few hours of patience in the dark. James Norrington was bound to come round. It was fear and wounded pride, that was all.

As he went below, Jack tasted oranges and desire lingering on his lips.


* * *


James sat in the chair before the table, wondering what had happened, where he had gone wrong, and why he had given into Jack's game. For it couldn't have been anything other than a game.

To just…leave, like that. For God's sake, what did the man *think* - that he could just crook his finger and expect him to fall at Jack's feet? To his knees?

He closed his eyes. He practically had. He'd fallen for it, completely. If Jack had any doubt about where his heart lay, he did no longer. James had played into it like a lamb to the slaughter.

His own accusation, hurled so glibly the night before, about Jack's no-doubt considerable seductive abilities, rang in his own ears.

But to kiss him…Jack's all-too-easy playful gesture of feeding him that slice of orange…

James opened his eyes and looked over to where the empty chair still sat, devoid of Jack Sparrow.

Damn the man. Placing that slice of orange between his lips, inviting. Taunting. That pleading expression in the seemingly innocent, dark eyes. And freshly painted, all too obviously. It was infuriating. James growled in frustration. Jack had known exactly what he was doing.

And, oh God, that kiss…

The crushing sweetness of it, to finally taste those lips, to feel them under his own. Softer, so much warmer than he'd imagined. Heat flooded his face anew at the memory. Warm, gentle, too inviting, too good. His mouth burned and, absently licking his lips, he still tasted traces of orange on them.

That flick of Jack's hot, wet tongue - oh God, no. It had been too much. He'd had to stop, or else endanger both of them by taking the man then and there.

Did Jack have no conception of the risks? Did he have no idea of just how…tempting he was? He must. He had to. Which meant it was deliberate.

'Removing himself from presenting the temptation'…James's face hardened once more.

It wasn't fair. He'd fallen for the one person that he shouldn't. A man *and* a pirate.

It was overwhelming, engulfing, and too much. Far too soon. He couldn't take all of it at once, without drowning, without going mad. It was like a fever; rushing through him, seizing his senses and dashing them against the rocks of duty, obligation and what was right. Expected.

How could he allow himself to take what was so freely offered, after he'd convinced himself it could never happen? It was terrifying. It was anything but safe.

That was an irony, in itself. Jack had claimed he was quite safe, consistently so. And he was anything but.

One kiss wasn't enough! One touch, one moment stolen out of all the loneliness, heartache and dreams unfulfilled for so long. It had been far too long since he'd allowed himself to seek out the touch of another. He'd been saving himself for Elizabeth, in fact. And now, to have that one, fleeting taste of it. Bloody hell. He wished he'd never given into it, because now he could only yearn for more.

And for it to be Jack Sparrow…God. The shame of it; the man probably had people throwing themselves at him, begging to be allowed to commit that sin, only discovering afterwards that it really didn't mean as much as all that. All too alluring and inviting.

This would drive him mad. It had already driven him half-mad, and reduced him to a fragment of his former pride.

Jack had deduced his feelings accurately and then proceeded to peel his emotional defenses away from his heart exactly like that orange, and then had consumed it with as much carefree unconcern.

And now to be left sitting here with nothing. A vacancy that all too soon would be permanent. Perhaps he was a fool not to take it now and be damned later. What else did he have?

He had to close his eyes against the pain that realization caused to well up once more, within him. The prick of heat behind his eyelids was unwanted. For God's sake, he couldn't lose *that* much dignity…over a *pirate*. But it wasn't just anyone, it was Jack. And as much as he might shame himself by having to blink away these unwanted tears that threatened, he couldn't lie to himself even now. Especially now. The thought of losing him. To lose him…

He shouldn't have pushed Jack away. The notion that it was a sinful, shameful desire, to want him - only had a place in him so long as he ignored what his heart had already told him. That there is no shame in love. No shame in feeling it. The shame and guilt was in pushing it away.

The problem was, Jack couldn't be serious. It had to be a game. It hadn't felt like one. But maybe Jack was testing him. Seeing how committed he was to wanting this. How compromised he was.

That issue of trust again raised its ugly head, and he considered the possibility that Jack would betray him. Jack would be well within his rights, actually, considering how he'd treated Jack so far.

He could be ruined; destroyed utterly.

James frowned, remembering something Jack had uttered earlier, however. About happiness, and the truth of their intentions. Jack wasn't going to leave the Caribbean…and he was going to let Jack go.

If he believed that, and of all the things Jack had said this day it had the truest ring of sincerity in it, then he could quite conceivably believe that in letting him go, Jack…might come back to him.

A wistful sort of hope whispered inside of his breast at this, countering the sodden, leaden sensation dragging upon his heart.

This strange alliance he'd formed with the pirate - it had all the makings of a play. A game. He admitted to playing it. But when all was said and done, and the play and masks were stripped away, all that was left was the bare truth: two men alone, each with a heart and the need for happiness.

For Jack, that happiness was freedom. For himself, it was…

Jack.

Swallowing at the simplistic revelation, James wondered if it was *too* easy. But already he felt lighter inside, and could see a way through. A careful one, a path that didn't entail hangings, or conflict, or even pain and loss, and unrequited love.

A secret. Well, it would certainly be dangerous. But considering Jack Sparrow's love of risks in his 'game of life', that wouldn't be enough to deter him, if he wanted it also. So it came down to himself alone.

A secret affair, he mused. It might just work.

He was a little thrown by how pleasant this thought was, in fact, and decided he was glad Jack had left the cabin for a time. Just to give him the space to think. It was impossible to think when the man was around.

He could afford to let himself have this, for himself alone.

Elizabeth had broken his heart so completely; was he in danger of making the same mistake again?

There was the whole concept of it being entirely against the law, but at this point, he realized what Jack had said was true also; when kings and magistrates behaved with hypocritical corruption and the intent to do harm to others, it was between themselves and God, how they would be judged. If he was to be damned for loving a man, a *pirate*, so be it. His own conscience was still clear, in having let Jack go that day. He knew it was right. Therefore it could hardly be wrong to love him. If it felt right.

He thought on this, wondering if there might be some fatal flaw in his reasoning. Was he merely trying to rationalize it away so he could have what he wanted? Was it corrupt?

He'd seen far worse, in his time. And it had the advantage of being more than carnal lust; he knew that to his core.

Jack had confounded him at first by causing him to question his set principles, his ideas of what constituted good and bad, right and wrong. Every step he took along the path Jack took however led him to believe all the more that, so long as he followed his own conscience and his own path, there was no reason why they couldn't walk side by side, in parallel.

He sat for a long time, weighing the alternatives.

As the afternoon faded from the sky and Jack still didn't return to the cabin, James knew it was up to him to seek him out and attempt to convince him to come back.

No doubt it would be horribly humiliating in so many innumerable ways. At this point, he didn't care. In fact, he felt so much lighter, that he realized he'd come to a point of balance inside, having finally harmonized his mind with his feelings.

And really, he could do no more than to offer some form of continued alliance with Jack now, whether as friends, or more.

He stirred himself, and went out, to ensure affairs were order and that the ship was on course, and all was well. The mood of the men seemed rather piquant; from what he could ascertain they were looking forward to gathering the treasure - something of the lure of touching gold, probably. But they were also hoping to engage the pirates again. James found he was actually hoping that it wouldn't be necessary. He wondered yet again if he were going soft.

As he went to go below deck, he saw one of his men coming up to him. "Ah, Mr. Stephens."

"Aye, Sir," the soldier said. "The Lieutenant said you'd want supper for two brought."

"Yes. Be sure to include the claret, as well," James said. "And Mr. Stephens, have you seen our erstwhile guest, the pirate?"

"I 'aven't, Sir," Stephens said. "Shall I 'ave a look for 'im?"

"No, don't bother. I'll find him. Just see to it than supper is left for us."

"Aye, Sir; that I will."

James looked about the deck, and saw the sun was now already sinking down beneath the horizon. There were a few gray puffs of cloud in the sky, hinting with purple as the last light of the sunset painted them.

Sighing, he realized where Jack would have gone.

Making his way down to the brig, down the ladder and along the bowels of the ship, he nearly stumbled as he edged along in the dark. He knew the way, but his eyes still hadn't acclimatized to the darkness. He should have brought a torch. There was enough of a dim light however, that he began to see.

Going to stand before the cell Jack had been in before, he saw, sure enough, Jack Sparrow lying in it.

The door of the cell was even open.

Leaning against the bars, James said, indulgently, "Are you going to stay down here all night?"

Jack's gold grin was visible even in the dark. "That rather depends on you, now doesn't it?"

Lightly, James said, "I shudder to even try to bring myself to contemplate your upbringing. I was told never to eat between meals. No doubt that orange has ruined your appetite."

"Funny," Jack murmured, from the dark floor of the cell. "Had the opposite effect on me, I must say."

James felt his face go hot once more, at the knowing and suggestive tone in Jack's voice. Replying in a rather mournful tone, he said, "Yes, for me also, I'm afraid."

"Did it now?" Jack drawled, and he chuckled quietly. "You're a piece of work, Commodore James. You do know that, don't you?"

James was abruptly brought back to the fact that he was standing in almost exactly the same spot he'd been the night before, when he'd allowed himself to indulge in imagining this very same pirate here with him. "As are you, Jack."

"No," Jack corrected him, moving and sounding as though he was getting to his feet. "I'm a pirate. That's different. Very different."

Wryly, James replied, "As you no doubt intended, I've changed my mind. I therefore request the, ah, temptation of your presence above, for dinner."

With a smile James could hear, Jack asked, "An' if I refuse?"

James said seriously, "I suppose we'd have to dine down here, then. Although it doesn't seem very comfortable. Why you would choose to come down here of your own accord is quite beyond me."

Jack leaned against the bars closer to the open door and James could make out his eyes, even his face now. "Have you ever been on the inside, Commodore?" he asked, curiously, a hint of…something, in his voice.

A wave of excitement broke over James and he abruptly found it thudding through his body, settling in his groin. "I can't say that I have, actually."

"Well," Jack said, sprightly, "you should try it."

James regarded him in the dark. "Is that an invitation?" he asked, quietly, hoping Jack could hear more than what the simple words conveyed.

"It always has been," Jack answered. "Though it's taken you long enough, 'ey?"

"I'm sure you can overlook that, seeing as I'm not a pirate," James reminded him.

"Don't be so certain," Jack grinned at him. "Remember that business about the Law and the Code? Only someone possessing the flair of a pirate would let themselves start interpreting laws and such. Letting pirates go, letting them out of prisons, letting them dry their clothes on Navy ships. Not to mention letting them do absolutely filthy things with common fruits."

James smiled wryly, and stepped to the opening, joining Jack inside the cell. "You are anything but a common fruit."

"You're sure, after sampling the one time, are you?"

James replied in a voice gone thick, "I may have to try once more, to be certain."

Jack turned around, leaning against the bars, and James stepped up against him, careful not to press Jack's left shoulder, but allowing himself to lean forward...The pure delight in pressing Jack back into the bars, trapped between them and his own body, was too good, and apparently Jack was of the same opinion, for James heard his indrawn breath at it.

Looking down at him, James asked, "And what does your 'Code' say about the relations between pirate captains and Navy commanders?"

"Fraternizing with the enemy," Jack mused. "Not sure if I remember 'at one. You might have to jog me memory."

James leaned down to capture Jack's mouth under his, taken aback at how easy it was, and yet how overpowering the simple, delicious sensation of claiming those lips again turned out to be. And Jack's lips were warmer than he remembered. And still as soft, but that tongue - he sought it out, eagerly, wondering if something that was so hot, so slippery against his own, but that tasted so good, could be called wicked.

God, he was drowning. Jack's choked moan as he pushed the slighter man up against the bars was enough to pull at his cock, the sound tugging it to hardness, and he realized he was in danger of throwing caution to the wind and just seeking completion against him then and there.

His breath came too short, he couldn't breathe, and he was pushing Jack up against the bars too hard, and it was all he could do to pull back and gasp out, "We can't do this here. Someone will come looking for me."

Jack paused, waiting, and then said, dryly, "Well, if you'll give me the chance to move, love."

James remembered himself and stepped back, letting Jack sidle out from between him and the cell and go gather up his things with a quiet snicker.

"I do recall now," Jack commented, picking up his sword and then his hat. "Something in me own Articles, about fraternizing with the Navy. It's a recent addition of course, quite new."

"Really?" James said, with more of a statement than an enquiry.

"Aye, just tonight," Jack grinned. "Now, after you, Commodore, unless you want to sup down here with me an' and the rats. Although I have to say, I do have a complaint about the rats."

James preceded him out of the cell. "What about them?"

"Substandard, really. They don't taste very good."

"You aren't supposed to eat them, Jack. They're there to give the place an air of authenticity." James walked ahead to the ladder. "And what does this addendum have to say regarding the Navy?"

"The details are somewhat cloudy; I expect you'll have to help me with 'em."

"I'm sure we can thrash it out over dinner," James mused.

As they made their way above deck, Jack leaned in and said in an undertone, "I'll bet you don't spend much time down there, do you, mate?"

James blinked, wondering if he ought to illuminate him. "You might be surprised."

Jack was quiet, then muttered, "Well, what other nasty tricks do you have up your sleeve, then, I wonder? A taste for the cane?"

James looked down at him with a smile. "Oh, I wouldn't worry, Jack. You're 'quite safe'."

At having his words tossed back at him, Jack's eyes narrowed. "Let me guess. You really dislike oranges."

As they walked towards his cabin, James said, in a quiet voice, "Better than rum, I expect. But I would have preferred something a little more verbal."

Acidly, Jack said, "Well, let me know which tongue you want me to address you with, next time."

James frowned at him, and stopped, his hands on the cabin doors, saying, "You mean 'undress', don't you?"

Flinging them open, he went inside, wondering if he'd seen anything more delightful than that little startled look on Jack's face. Suppressing a chuckle, James went to light the candles, and the two lamps.

Casually, he glanced around at Jack who stowed his effects once more on the other side of the cabin where the hammock rings were. He leaned to light the lamp on his desk. "I believe that's our supper, on the table."

With a wary note that James caught, Jack asked, "I do hope you don't mind if I ask, mate; but what brought about this change of heart of yours?"

Slowly, he replied, lighting the candles along the sides of the shelves and the cabinets, "Realizing that my heart wasn't going to change. So I changed my mind instead."

Jack washed his hands, picked up the towel, and went to sit down in the same chair he'd been occupying since that morning. "That's something you appear to do frequently, though. Particularly when it comes to meself, and whether or not to let me leave."

James followed suit, wiping his hands, and then went to the platter and lifted the silver lid, noting the roast fowl. He picked up the knife and began dividing it into portions. Slowly, he said, "It's true. But only the one time." He threw Jack a look. "I daresay that new addition to your Articles may coincide with the changes I'm about to suggest to our agreement, here."

Jack leaned forward. He smirked. "The one about the forty-two and one half percent?"

"Indeed," James agreed, wryly, serving Jack a plate of the fowl before returning to pick up his own and sit down with it. "I would in fact suggest that you can keep any treasure you can collect, so long as I don't catch you with it."

"That goes without saying," Jack stated. "What of our agreement?"

James gave him a cheerful smile. "Well, you already said as much: I'm simply going to let you return to your ship, and you're going to attempt to make off with the gold." He paused, meaningfully. "I did say 'attempt'. If I catch you first, well of course then it's moot, isn't it?"

Jack didn't look amused. "So the chase is on, then?"

James poured himself a glass of the claret, careful not to fill it too close to the brim, to compensate for the slightly rougher waves they were experiencing. The Dauntless was smooth, but the sea had picked a more tense night mood. He expected it was rather apt, mirroring the level of suppressed nerves he felt running through him at the moment.

"Actually, I'd prefer to call it 'fair play'."

"Noblesse oblige," Jack mused.

"Exactly." James smiled at him again, enjoying feeling a little more in control than he'd been since Jack had awoken that morning.

But Jack had picked up on this, and he had a rather sly and suspicious expression in his eyes as James began to eat. "Well, Commodore James. It would seem you've given this a great deal of thought, indeed. So what happens the next time we meet up then, 'ey?"

"That will depend on you," James informed him with some satisfaction. "I'm letting you go. It's up to you whether or not you come back again."

Jack looked down at this and then said, "That would depend on the reception. How welcome would I be?"

James carefully swallowed a sip of claret, and said over his glass, "As welcome as you want to be."

Jack considered him, a little smile hovering over his mouth now. "An' if I invited you aboard *my* ship, would you trust me not to throw you in the brig?"

With a look of distaste, James sighed. "Well, I suppose if you did, I would have that one coming, wouldn't I? But you do realize, accepting an invitation to join you aboard your *pirate* ship, fine as she is, I'd still be held accountable for it. I can't see that one working out for either of us."

"Oh, good," said Jack, returning to his plate as if relieved. "That's settled then. Grand."

"Well, neutral ground would be in order, I expect."

"To be sure," Jack agreed, with a winsome smirk.

James stared at him, to see it. It made him want to get up and just…seize him. Hold him down. Kiss him until that smirk turned into something a little more helpless and pleading and breathlessly begging -

Jack leaned back in his chair and said, knowingly, "I do hope we can get through the preliminaries without you trying to skip to dessert."

James looked away and cleared his throat. "Forgive me. It's not every night I dine with a pirate captain, or outline agreements with one that entails a good deal of outlaw behavior and bending of the Law."

"Bent, or broken; that's the question, really," Jack suggested. "Although considering you're already broken yourself, it would be disputable to say you're *bent*."

"I'm hardly broken," James corrected him.

"Oh but you are, most assuredly, and a fine job of it that lass did, 'ey?" Jack smiled at him.

"Ah," James said, dryly. "So it's your job now to bend me."

"Aye, just as it's your job, Commodore, to decide which laws are to be broken, and which are to be bent." And Jack gave him a rather salacious leer at this. "An' which ones first, and in what order, and position…"

To have that look turned on him full-force however, caused a surge of renewed fire to race through his veins and it was all James could do to remain in his seat, and remember that they could be disturbed at any time. Somehow, the danger of it was causing him to feel reckless, and he realized that Jack was entirely too volatile to keep in his cabin for any length of time.

"We'll have to find some neutral ground," he declared, firmly.

Jack looked about them. "Don't you have a valet? Cabin-boy? Or does one of your men double?"

James shrugged. "For voyages of this short duration, I usually don't bother. I prefer my privacy."

"How convenient," Jack commented. "Now that does explain why you're broken. Not enough company." He leaned forward, with both elbows on the table, stroking his beard and looking for all purposes like some sort of devilish imp. "If I may be so bold, Commodore James, have you ever entertained anyone else like this?"

James considered his plate. "Once or twice, but never a man, and certainly never a pirate."

"Well, but that goes without saying," Jack said, waving a hand negligently. "If you knew most women pirates, you wouldn't bother with the distinction."

James abruptly felt the enclosed cabin was stifling him. The doors irritated him and he wanted nothing more than to find some dark, quiet place to pull Jack into and just…At this, he wondered. What does one *do* with someone like Jack? He pondered this.

Jack must have guessed the course of his thoughts, for he queried, "Is this going a little too quickly for you, mate? Just last night, you were all, 'let's be friends and best mates and go on treasure-bearing voyages together, forty-two percent, and one half percent more', 'ey? And now it's straight to how soon, how hard and how often."

James nodded. "Yes, but as I believe I mentioned, I'm a quick study. So I'd say, very soon, very hard, and as often as possible. Although I daresay the latter is precisely what we haven't yet deliberated to our mutual satisfaction."

"But once you've let me go, it's my turn, innit?" Jack grinned at him, and James was rather pleased to find himself growing terribly fond of it, almost in an indulgent fashion. "You'll just have to trust me."

With a glimmer of slow astonishment, James realized that he did trust Jack. In fact, if he did not, it would be quite impossible for him to claim, even in the silence of his own being, that he loved him. "I will, won't I?" he replied, quietly, enjoying the effect his words had on Jack.

It was somewhat of a marvel, to see that playful lasciviousness melt into a combination of the thoughtful shrewdness he'd seen on Jack before, and that appealing wistful expression - the one that made him want grab him; seize hold of him and-

It was the violence of the response that made him catch his breath.

Jack picked up a bit of the roast fowl and began to nibble at it, with that thoughtful look, and fixed his eyes upon him, not looking away.

Just to watch Jack eating, so slowly, deliberately and with obvious intent, while staring at him, it was one of the most erotic things he could remember ever seeing. He should have expected it, after the traumatic morning with the banana. But that had been unintentional, whereas this was a show just for him.

The now familiar heat made him reach for his glass of claret, only to find he'd finished it already. He poured himself more, congratulating himself on not spilling any; no mean feat, with Jack's lips now turning up into a slow approximation of that devil-smile.

He wondered why it was that this felt so different, to be watching Jack eat. And it came to him: watching him sleep was altogether another story, but to be allowed to devour Jack with his own eyes as slowly, as lingeringly, feasting on him, as Jack feasted on that succulent meat…

He was growing aroused, and recognized that it had been building for some while. It felt new, as if it didn't matter if he sought release or not, because it was enough just to sit in the room with him, enjoying the sight and the company.

It felt too deliciously good for it to be anything but sinful, and the knowledge that he might, even if it was hours from now, press his body to Jack's again, did nothing to alleviate the hardening of his cock.

Jack put down the bones and began licking his fingers, one by one, too carefully, still watching him. The thrill of pleasure that whipped through James at it nearly made him gasp, and he couldn't look away, feeling almost hypnotized. He wanted to lick those fingers himself, and the glare of absolute cold fury he cast momentarily upon the cabin doors had Jack laughing.

How was he supposed to get through hours of this? It was all he could do to retain his composure. To not rise from his chair and strip the clothes from him, explore the body he'd only briefly glimpsed that morning. He'd not allowed himself to look, certain that he'd be damned if he did, and unable to ever forget. Now he wished he'd drunk his fill.

Jack glanced down calculatingly at the greens, and asked, nonchalantly, "Ever really tasted someone? I mean, properly?"

James hastily swallowed a gulp of claret and sniffed, regarding the candles off to the side. "I have. Although I doubt the one time really compares to the benefit of your experiences."

Jack seemed determined to avoid using silverware from this point, and began to eat once more. Gradually, he said, with a knowing grin, "What did she taste like?"

Sitting was becoming an uncomfortable activity, and he shifted, leaning forward a little. He did recall the lady however, most vividly; long fair hair and skin like cream. "Strawberries."

Jack gave him a curious frown. "Seriously?"

James nodded. "I was surprised, actually." He smiled wryly with a chuckle. "I was expecting fish."

Jack grinned back at him. "Believe me, mate; there's nothing quite like expecting fish and then getting it." He sounded less than enthusiastic.

"I'll take your word for it," James commented.

"Do," Jack suggested. "Another excellent reason why rum is very useful."

James gave him a searching gaze. "I believe the names of certain taverns I should avoid is what comes next, then?"

Jack raised his brows at him, his eyes widening. "It's usually most indiscreet to tell, matey, but on this occasion I do believe I need to set you straight. That one was a duchess."

"If this has anything to do with the Lord Dewhurst's townhouse being razed to the ground, you'd probably better not tell me. He was most put out. You're still a wanted man, for that incident."

In a grieved and put-upon tone, Jack said, "Everyone always blames me. It's as I've been trying to tell you, aye? I was with the duchess at the time."

"Ah," James nodded. "Another one of those magical instances where you were in two places at once?"

"Now you're catching on." Jack reached for another portion of fowl.

James didn't think he could last the duration of the meal, let alone until it was late enough to pounce without as much fear of being interrupted. Not if Jack kept eating fowl dripping with juices and licking his fingers. This time, he wasn't even making a production of it.

He decided he'd better try to finish his own plateful; even despite the leaping and coursing of his insides.

Jack didn't make it any easier though with his next question, which was delivered so smoothly that James barely registered the significance of its import until it sat for a moment in his head. "Tell me, then, Commodore James, 'ave any of your fair lasses let you bugger them?"

As James sat with some shock, not sure whether to be completely unsurprised or indignant, Jack added, "Even one?" At James's look, his face fell. "Not even one, then." He shook his head. "You don't know what you've been missing."

"I've hardly gone out of my way to plough through the female population of eligible maidens and lonely spinsters of Port Royal," he stiffly reminded Jack. "And I don't make a habit of frequenting the brothels."

At which Jack promptly grinned, a new twinkle entering his eyes. "I'm sure no one holds it against you, mate."

"No doubt I'll provide you with ample entertainment at having to prove myself a fast learner," James muttered.

"Not to worry, 'ey? It's not about the regularity, or the positions, or the variety," Jack assured him.

"Tell me something, Jack," James said, a hard edge he hadn't intended creeping into his voice anyway. "Have you ever made love to a woman who loved you passionately? Truly?"

Jack paused and said quite seriously, "There are any number of people who can go to bed with you, believing they love you to the exclusion of all others, and when they wake up the next morning, find they were quite mistaken."

Despite the light tone in which Jack delivered this, James found himself actually sympathizing for Jack. "That hardly sounds romantic."

Jack gave a little shrug.

James began to suspect that Jack was the one who'd been missing out. Something in his countenance must have revealed this because Jack settled back in his chair with his glass in hand, and said with a bit of a smirk, "I *have*, however, been manhandled, imprisoned, starved, stabbed and nearly run through, according to military courtship ritual."

James flinched. Coolly though, he answered, "The life of a pirate captain is not an easy one."

"One does begin to wonder where the romance lies," Jack admitted, with a smirk that belied his words.

"Oh, I'm sure it lies in a large puddle in some dark cave somewhere, awaiting collection," James replied.

Jack sat up swiftly, and said, unaccountably, "Do me a favor, mate, and try not to lose your temper over this one, 'ey?"

James stopped. "'This one?'" he repeated, trying to ignore the tiny chill he felt at it.

Jack's dark gaze pinned him though. "Me," Jack said, simply.

What Jack had revealed to him a minute ago suddenly made more sense to him. Jack feared he would take him to bed…and in the morning discard him. This unwitting revealing of how deeply Jack's own insecurity ran where he, Commodore - and even now, captor - was concerned, caused a painful wince from somewhere in the region of his heart on Jack's behalf.

"Although you have less reason to believe me than I have of you, I will ask you to trust me," James said quietly, still meeting Jack's eyes.

The irony that they'd both been spurned by the same woman was not lost on James, either. He smiled, abruptly. "I'm sure Miss Swann would be more than a little astonished if she knew that two of her suitors were surviving her rejection so well. And in this fashion."

Jack's answering smile was rather moody.

James grew acutely aware that he was quite forcefully keeping at bay any thoughts about how exactly they had come to this moment. This…meal together.

Hardly romantic, indeed, especially given that only one day previously Jack had still been in the Fort's dungeon. He swallowed. It wasn't even a question of trust, anymore. It literally came down to mercy. He could afford to be merciful. It behooved him though to allow Jack the same latitude where he was concerned.

Uncomfortably, he said, "To err is human…" He flicked a glance back up at Jack.

Jack seemed to take this quite seriously, fortunately. "To forgive, divine," he finished.

It seemed pitiful and woefully inadequate to attempt to apologize for the way he'd treated him, but James could not help but wonder if he should at least attempt to. It wasn't even a question of pride. He suddenly felt ill, wondering if Jack would find it offensive if he did.

Jack's eyes narrowed, making him appear almost feral, and he said, "Not trust, then."

James looked down at his plate without seeing it. "I can only give you my word," he started.

Interrupting him with a reconciliatory tone, Jack said, "We both want the same thing, then. Forgiveness?" As James looked up, a sickly sort of hope in him, Jack nodded briefly. "Apology accepted, Commodore." He threw him a quick grin. "James. And I do apologize for depriving you of such a fine little ship; your Interceptor. Will was rather insistent, you understand, that we depart speedily before any harm befall fair Elizabeth."

James snorted, although the relief that covered him at Jack's words was very welcome indeed. "You came into Port Royal specifically intending to commandeer that ship; don't even try to pretend otherwise."

"Yes, well, there is that," Jack grinned, "but you *did* intercept me before I could accomplish it. If it hadn't been for Will…" He gave that little shrug again, that didn't seem so much a shrug of apology as a winsome attempt at an innocent leer.

The bizarrely banal note of their nostalgia over recent encounters made James blink with some surprise, realizing that he hadn't really known Jack Sparrow for all that long, yet. It struck him that he had fallen for Jack faster than he'd thought possible.

Slowly, he said, "True, although you also seemed somewhat unfortunate in your luck thereafter. I must say, it was as if your fate conspired to throw you into my path repeatedly."

Jack gave him an accusing grin. "All but this last time, aye."

James noticed his arousal had been banked considerably in the resurgence of the guilt and awkward recollection of their circumstances. And Jack's barbed reminder didn't help.

"I-I do need you," he said, wondering at the quavering in his voice that he suddenly couldn't control.

"You think you do, because you want me," Jack explained. "That's not quite the same thing."

Feeling as though he was opening himself up for a world of hurt, James said, "You said you wouldn't leave the Caribbean. Because of the gold."

"Aye," Jack agreed. "I did." He was watching James.

"I'd like to think…" James managed, "that you'd stay for me, as well."

Jack regarded the table between them, the dishes, the food, the candles nearby, and surrounding them. "At the captain's table," he said. "Occasionally captive? Or did you have something else in mind?"

James began to understand what Jack needed, however. "I'll await your word," he contented himself with saying. He hardly wanted Jack to continue to feel pursued.

Jack regarded him knowingly and gave a little quiet laugh. "A quick study," he repeated, looking almost fondly at him. In fact, James realized, it was fondness.

His heart experienced a thud at this, and he said, "I am honestly sorry, you know. I never meant for it to get so out of hand."

Jack smiled grimly. "No, but you *did* intend to make sure that I was *in* hand."

"And I owe you, for that," James stated with certainty.

"So leave the treasure alone," Jack suggested. He was watching James most carefully now.

James began to wonder if he was being played. But then, if he was constantly bringing the Dauntless into harbor there beyond the cave, it would certainly make life difficult for Jack. He picked up his glass and sipped at the claret. "Alright," he replied.

Jack was bemused. "Aye?"

James looked back at him, earnestly. "Yes."

Jack's look of blank surprise was almost funny.

"Yes, Jack," James said, lazily. "You can have your treasure, your ship, your freedom. You can have anything you want."

"Anything I want?" Jack asked with a return of that smirk, the one that reminded James of a dark imp.

He was reminded that he was still dealing with a pirate. In fact, a pirate captain who, despite having a repeatedly horrendous run of bad luck, was still in Jack's favorite phrase, 'savvy'. He sighed. "Yes. Anything. I do owe you, after all."

Jack leaned back in his chair, his grin now so smug that James began to quail at it. Whatever the hell Jack was planning…it couldn't possibly bode well for him.

"Excellent," Jack commented, lightly.

James sighed.

Jack began laughing at him. "James, you'll have to trust me, won't you?"

"Indeed," James replied, wondering why all of a sudden the humor was quite lost on him.

Jack got up from the chair and ambled in his queerly swaying gait over to where James was still sitting, watching him now with wariness.

"A very fine gentleman," Jack murmured, looking down at him. And he leaned closer, even as James held his breath, entranced by the novelty of having Jack so very, very close, overpowered by having Jack's dark hair brushing down against him, and being completely transfixed by those dark eyes. "Very fine," Jack whispered against his mouth, before pressing his lips to James's, too gently and too sweetly to be mistaken for anything but what it was.

James instinctively closed his eyes, and the softness of it, no heaving passion this time, just lightly pressing to him, made him tremble.

He couldn't bear this; not moving, just…held there, beneath Jack's lips; more a prisoner than he'd ever be able to make of Jack in any cell or dungeon anywhere. And it went on and on, Jack barely moving, and not his lips at all against him, either, and Jack didn't lift his head, keeping him there, until James finally felt his heart break at it.

To have felt such longing, such anguish and keen pain and now to have *this* - it was overwhelming. He felt the flames flash over his face and the rest of his body. Too much beloved - please, God, stop, before he drowned. He felt in distant shock the tears run down his cheeks and then Jack was pulling back even as a groan was pulled from him by the cold sensation of Jack ending it now.

It was with only a little soothing of the horrified and awkward despair he suddenly felt, at this distressing undoing of everything he was or had believed himself to be, the touch of Jack's finger against his left cheek, brushing at the wetness there. He opened his eyes, blinking, helpless, and saw Jack standing over him.

"Easy, love," Jack murmured. "Broken wings can mend, aye?"

"I never meant - to hurt you," James said, haltingly, while the pain of knowing that he had suddenly caught at him anew.

Jack gave him a little smile. And leaned over to kiss him lightly on the mouth again, this time not for long enough at all, and before James could register that Jack was moving away, he heard Jack say over his shoulder, "Need to see the waves. It's been too long." And opening the doors, he left James sitting and blinking in his wake.

James wiped at his face, wondering if he'd just glimpsed in too many terrifying moments all at once their very dual natures, superimposed. Jack, for all his devilish impish ways, with an angelic gift for caring. And his own self - God forgive him, indeed - capable of selfish darkness and a possessive greed that far outweighed the so-called moral decency he'd always supposed made him better than any 'pirate'.

He sat for a long while, watching the candles melt down like his composure, and finally, the last of his resistance to the truth: in trying to enslave love, it had enslaved him.


* * *
END PART 3


Chapter 4 is being written - you'll just have to trust me on this one! ;-)
(This chapter was too long to include all the SMUT I've been trying to get to. Hee hee)
More soon……hopefully the SMUT will be included, with lots of NC-17 slash
::gets down on knees and prays for it to be true::