Your Choice

[likeahurricane7]

Title: Your Choice

Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean; Sparrington

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: I have no claim on POTC or the lovely characters who populate it, even if it seems that James Norrington has, somewhat disconcertingly, made himself quite at home in my head with no apparent plans to leave. Jack Sparrow has been dropping by at random for years, as well, which surely doesn’t help matters.

Summary: James has had some very poor luck with the French lately, but he can handle himself. Jack is a bit impressed, and also finds the commodore’s out-of-uniform demeanor both disconcerting and deeply intriguing.

Beta: The right honorable Porridgebird.

Warnings: A male OC for whom I am responsible (James’ brother Laurence) is once more brought in as a minor plot device. Because I like him.



Nothing, in Captain Jack Sparrow’s opinion, provided a better start-off for the morning quite like the capture of a French merchant vessel that’d been illegally smuggling slaves about the Caribees. As most of his crew set about watching and restraining the rest of the Frenchmen, Jack descended below-deck, humming about really bad eggs. His first mate Anamaria and a couple others of her choosing followed after him.

Jack was in high spirits, and allowed himself the indulgence of playful curiosity when he heard the shifting of chains on stone coming not from the cargo hold as they had earlier, before Jack’s crew had let everybody out, but from the brig. He sent Anamaria and the others back to the more important searching, and himself made his way toward the small, rather squalid cage.

Inside was a tall, surprisingly upright man with a five-day beard, dressed only in shirtsleeves and breeches. His face was a ruddy light brown, suggesting that his tan was a recent acquisition, from unaccustomed sun exposure. His posture was impeccable, and if Jack had not heard the chains, he wouldn’t know that the man had his hands folded behind his back because of manacles on his wrists, as well as long-established habit. The man was handsome enough, long hair loose about a gaunt, angular visage, the lines of his nose and cheekbones a little too sharp, indicating malnutrition to go along with the lack of sleep that had painted almost kohl-dark circles around the man’s surprisingly sharp and vibrant green eyes.

“Captain Sparrow,” the man drawled, with a hint of sarcasm, but also a bit more politeness than Jack recalled ever hearing from Commodore James Norrington before. “I knew that I recognized those cannons. Congratulations on your capture.”

“And my condolences on yours, mate.” Jack cocked his head a little. “How did you wind up here?”

“I ran out of rum-runners, and my superiors have become annoyed with the French to such an extent that I have been sent on some very worthy hunts, of late, after ships like this one.” He was very calm, his deep baritone only a little rough with disuse. “I should warn you that this ship is connected to a network of others and that they are surprisingly vengeful. Three of them intercepted the Fleetwing, whilst I was aboard her.” A hint of worry flickered in his gaze and he glanced westward, toward the very distant Port Royal, if Jack hazarded a guess; he had seen the commodore aboard the little sloop that had replaced the Interceptor, and had scarcely seen a man look more like he belonged exactly where he was than did Norrington then. “I managed to capture one of them, and distract the other two long enough for the Fleetwing and my officers to escape, but I and several of my men were caught.” The cold look he shot Jack when he met the pirate’s gaze again spoke of exactly where the French had sent his men.

Jack nodded, a little disconcerted that the commodore was so at ease revealing all of this to him. He had expected the usual bluster and indignity and refusal to cooperate. “Ah. You were to be ransomed, then?”

“Of course. My brother Laurence is a vice-admiral.”

Jack connected the name “Laurence Norrington” in his head to a few old memories he’d not had stirred in several years. He paled. “Ah. The Foxhunter.”

James smirked a little. “Yes. You escaped him, too, along with those seven agents of the East India Company, so I hear. Had I known of it earlier, you would not have escaped the Dauntless.” He did not sound bitter, however, but instead seemed rather amused.

“Aye. You learn faster than him. I’ve worked that out.” Jack narrowed his eyes at the commodore, whose smirk was a bit distractingly attractive.

“And yet, for all that I have the more ominous nickname, he remains the most feared. Truly a pity,” James drawled. “I myself ceased to fear him at about age six. What of you, Sparrow?”

“Captain,” Jack corrected.

Still holding Jack’s gaze, the commodore bowed his head a little. “Of course. Captain Sparrow.” The sarcasm was still evident, but not actually condescending this time, which further confounded the pirate.

Then Jack recalled their most unusual circumstances: with James being the one inside the cell this time. His furrowed brow abruptly cleared.

Seeing that Jack understood, James nodded and inquired, in airy tones, “I do not suppose that I might get a lift to the nearest British port?”

Jack folded his arms over his chest, leaning back against a nearby wall and scrutinizing James more closely. “You’d trust me to?”

“Moreso you than the French, but that is damning with faint praise. You, at least, do not plan to flog me tomorrow. Captain Jean-Jacques, however, does.” James stated the matter dryly, and with evident apathy, but the way that his shoulders stiffened revealed a man who knew exactly what he could expect.

“How do you know I wouldn’t?” Jack counter-drawled.

“Your quarter-master, one Mr. Joshamee Gibbs, once told me that he would never serve under a flogging captain ever again. That was before his career-change to piracy, but he is a man of his word in such matters.”

Jack’s eyebrows raised. “Ah. He served under you, then.”

“I, and my brother before that,” James said. “Laurence and I have numerous points whereupon we disagree; the way to run a ship is only the beginning of it. He deals with matters politically, and thus from a distance. I myself have more subjectively experienced a variety of matters here in the Caribbean: the cat, slavers both legal and illegal-” his lip curled at the thought “-and others.”

Jack fell quiet at that, and gave James one more look-over. The commodore’s pristine white shirt was grubby, but more telling than that were the streaks of red and pink, some old, some not very old at all, and all of which seemed to be from blood not spilled on it, but seeping up from underneath. Norrington had been quite abused, Jack would hazard. That the man was upright, bizarrely courteous, and still as sharp and intelligent as ever, was something of a marvel. Jack had seen many lesser men, navy and civilian and pirate alike, suffer less and break more in situations like this; by contrast, James seemed to be merely gaunt and scuffed, rather than at all broken up.

It was all too intriguing. Much like that familiar, soft metallic scritching sound just at the edge of Jack’s hearing, which had been going on for nearly a minute now.

“If I don’t take you aboard?” Jack inquired.

“Then I shall simply have to do it all the hard way. It’s your choice, whether or not you care to help.” James shrugged. The scritching sounds ended, cutting off with a loud click. James unfolded his arms from their uncomfortable position, massaging his one free wrist for a moment before meeting Jack’s gaze as he used the small bit of metal in his hand to begin work on the other manacle. “I do thank you for your violence against this ship; I otherwise would not have got my hands on this.” He indicated the improvised lock-picking tool.

Jack, his eyes now wide and his brows lifted high enough that they threatened to vanish under his headscarf, felt a distinct flare of lust for this tall green-eyed man. He cleared his throat quietly. “Aye. You seem to have the matter in hand well enough.”

“I will, in a moment, if fortune allows,” James murmured, and there was a slight edge to the way he said it, a little thoughtful and a great deal smug, that made Jack wonder for a moment if the commodore might just be propositioning him.

The other manacle fell to the floor with a clatter, making Jack jump slightly. “Good trick,” he observed, his voice oddly distant.

“One learns a great deal fast in these waters, and I’ve been sailing them for ten years now,” James said, with a small smile that suggested he had enjoyed nearly every minute of it, despite chaos and calamity of all kinds.

Jack made a small noise in his throat.

James looked up expectantly, then appeared confused slightly by the intense look that the rather flushed-looking Jack Sparrow seemed to be giving him. “Yes?”

“Yer welcome aboard,” Jack said slowly, careful to keep his voice even.

James grinned a slightly vicious grin. “My thanks. Shall I start work on the door, or would you be feeling so kind as to hand me those keys over there?”

Jack very much wanted to see the commodore pick the door-lock, if only to reference it and compare James’ technique with his own, but was all too aware that the idea of the posh and proper uniformed commodore of his memory hiding the ability to lock-pick, amongst who knew what other little shiny bits and skills, was proving unexpectedly arousing. Jack retrieved the keys, and let the commodore out of the brig.

James stepped out slowly, and the pirate spotted further evidence of abuse: the Commodore’s usual grace made stiff not with formality but to brace for pain as he moved.

“They did a hell of a number on you, Commodore.”

“I’ve seen far worse,” James muttered absently, his eyes narrowed. He sped up his pace as Jack enlisted his aid in scouting the cargo hold, and then in carrying orders to the others above-deck.

Anamaria had given the commodore a look of mixed horror and rage, until she took note of the manacle-bruises on James’ wrists, and chose to say not a word, for now. Jack winced at the thought of what an explosion he would bear the brunt of later.

James delivered orders above-deck, spared a glance for the bound-in-rope-and-guarded crew of the French vessel, and strode nonchalantly into the captain’s cabin. He emerged wearing boots, an unbuttoned waistcoat, a surprisingly well-fitted frock coat, and his Turner-made sword at his hip once more. By then, Jack had made his way back above-deck and did a double-take at the sight of Norrington in stolen civilian clothing.

James merely arched his eyebrows imperiously and then shrugged.

Jack looked away, and went back to watching his men load loot and supplies from the battered French ship over to the Black Pearl. With an effort, he remained focused intently on his task; that lasted right up until James sidled up to stand next to him.

“I am not entirely comfortable with the idea of being in your debt,” James said.

“A bit late for that.”

“Obviously. What would you suggest I do to remedy the situation?”

Jack considered this. “I’ve not thought of it.”

James seemed about to say something, then visibly changed his mind.

“I do owe you a boat. And a day’s head start,” Jack muttered.

At last, it was James’ turn to appear stunned.

“I suppose that we might be even, then, what with my saving your life, however indirectly for the most part, since I had other goals in mind.” Jack gestured grandly toward the ship beneath their feet, then left his hand out, palm-up, in James’ general direction. “We have an accord?”

James eyed him thoughtfully, then took his hand and shook it.

Jack tightened his grip on James’ hand, tugged the man closer and pushed up his sleeve, looking at the faint, very old scars encircling the commodore’s wrist. “Slaves wear a different sort of manacle than do prisoners, and they leave different marks,” was all he said, tracing one scar with the tip of his finger. “How is it you ended up wearing the wrong ones?”

James seemed torn between bitter amusement and irritation. “By being a very pretty young lieutenant, and thus marketable in the extremely secretive trade wherein a slave’s skin color matters naught,” he bit out. “I count myself lucky in that he was caught before he was able to sell me.” James’ indignant anger at Jack’s prying was palpable; he did not, however, pull away.

Unsettled a bit, Jack looked away, his brow knit under the weight of heavy thoughts. He released the commodore silently.

James re-adjusted his sleeve and folded his arms over his chest to resist the urge to fold his hands behind his back; he had gotten far too accustomed the the latter position in the past week.

When all but the barest supplies for the Frenchmen’s survival remained aboard, the captain and the commodore boarded the Black Pearl in tense silence.

“Where will ye be keepin’ ‘im?” Anamaria asked sharply, her eyes not on either of the men, but instead on her fingers as she cleaned out from under her nails with a small knife. “Enough of the men know his face, Captain. He sleep below deck and he’ll wake to his throat bein’ cut.”

“I sleep lightly,” James said, his voice cold.

“Not lightly enough, here, Navy,” Anamaria countered.

James’ eyes narrowed slightly. “I think I agree with Miss Swann’s assessment; you are perhaps the prettiest viper I have ever seen, Miss Anamaria.”

She seemed startled briefly, then regained herself, looking more than a little annoyed. “Flattery won’t help you.”

“I do not flatter. Not when I’m out of uniform, anyway,” James countered.

Jack had opened his mouth with the intent to stop them arguing, but James’ statement momentarily distracted him with a mental image of the good commodore not only out of uniform, but all other clothing as well. Jack closed his mouth and steeled himself for a few moments as Anamaria unexpectedly laughed. Then he said, “The commodore’s my guest, as it’s my debt I’ve paid bringin’ him on. He’ll be in my cabin.”

James hid all but his slight bemusement behind a masked look.

Anamaria, however, had no such reservations. “Oh, so that’s what it is!”

“No. It isn’t,” Jack said firmly, through grit teeth.

Anamaria’s grin widened. “You’ll be alright, then, commodore. From what I’ve heard, you navy men can more’n handle anything.”

“Get to the bloody helm!” Jack barked.

“Aye aye, Captain,” Anamaria crooned, mocking evident, but she did obey.

“Bloody ridiculous, insubordinate hell-woman,” Jack muttered under his breath.

“I no longer find it surprising that Miss Swann so admired her,” James observed. “At one point, in her youth, she wanted to grow up to be a woman like that.”

“And she has, I’d say, but don’t get any ideas about that one, Commodore. Ana’s not the sort of creature who’d appreciate it.”

“Why would I? She obviously has tastes elsewhere.”

Jack turned slowly, as though on a pivot, and stared with wide, disbelieving eyes.

James met his gaze, hiding his great amusement and everything else behind his usual mask. “Did you not know?”

“Oh, no. I knew it when I stumbled upon her tangled up with both Scarlet and Giselle years ago in Tortuga; it was how I met her.” And wasn’t that a fond memory, and a funny story unto itself. “How is it a man like you concludes it after just that little...” Jack gestured furiously toward the retreating Anamaria.

James looked away sharply, and briefly contemplated the merits of explaining to the pirate captain that he had frequented numerous secretive gentlemen’s clubs over the years, and had long ago learned to recognize a perversion similar to his own in the small number of ladies who often found themselves working in the kitchens or behind the bar in such establishments. He had even befriended one or two when he was a far younger man, and had still been too shy to always speak easily with the other men in such places, especially when so many were far older than he.

In the end, James decided against it. He suspected that Jack Sparrow’s perversions might that way tend, as well, but knew it could too easily be turned into blackmail by the charming too-intelligent pirate. In lieu of answering, James shrugged again, and said simply, “You underestimate me often, Captain Sparrow.”

“Aye,” Jack muttered. “Apparently, I do.” He noted that the color had drained from James’ face suddenly. “Are you all right, mate?”

James noted, distantly, that he felt dizzy. Taking hold of a nearby bit of rigging, he steadied himself and tried to remember when it was, exactly, that they had stopped feeding him. He let his eyes fall shut and clung to calmness with an iron grip. “I believe that I am in sore need of a meal, if at all possible. Even hardtack will suffice well enough.” His voice was steady, but a little hollow.

Jack rested a hand on James’ shoulder as the man continued to sway almost imperceptibly. “Bastards. They feed you at all?”

“Yes. Just not this week.”

Jack cursed under his breath and gripped James’ shoulder harder. “Come along, you stubborn English jackass.” He muttered something else that sounded like, “stiff upper-lip nonsense,” and dragged James into his cabin, leading him to sit on the bed before vanishing for a minute, and then returning with a bowl of oranges, a small pitcher of water, and a bit of cheese and very dry bread on a plate balanced atop the pitcher.

James accepted the plate and bowl gratefully as Jack rummaged about in a cabinet for a mug, and poured some water in it. Shortly thereafter, Anamaria came to fetch him, at Gibbs’ behest.

“Don’t destroy anything,” Jack said simply, and with a last, oddly worried backward glance, he departed.

James waited a moment, finished chewing, and set the plate out of harm’s way before he flopped back heavily on the bed with a bone-deep sigh of exhaustion. After finishing both water and food without sitting up, he took his sword from his belt and lay it next to him, found a stable place to put the plate and the bowl of orange peels (where they wouldn’t be flung about by the movements of the ship), and promptly rolled over and fell asleep.

It was thusly Jack found him, some hours later: nigh dead to the world, but breathing peacefully enough.

Jack moved a chair from his desk, to sit over his charts and nearly jumped out of his skin when James sat up and pointed a gun at him. “Bloody Hell!”

James blinked a few times, then lowered the gun. “My apologies. It’s something of an old habit...” He then looked more closely at the pistol. “Where did I get this?”

“From under the pillow. It’s mine,” Jack said tersely.

James’ slightly sheepish look turned into one of surprise and sardonic humor. “Ah. So it’s a habit of yours as well, then?” Why, James wondered, does that only serve to make him more appealing?

Jack was sharing similar thoughts. “It is. Put it back, if you’d be so kind.”

“Of course.” James put it under the pillow and sat up fully, stretching stiffly, tenderness all along his back and sides evident.

“How hurt are you?” Jack asked seriously. “Because if it’s anything like how starved you really were, I’ll be needin’ to have a look before ye keel over and die in my bed, which would be quite rude of you.”

“I am bruised and battered, with perhaps a couple of cracked ribs; nothing more.”

“Your shirt’s bloody.”

“I had one bout with the cat after my first escape attempt two weeks ago, but the first-mate had a very weak arm, and it was only ten lashes. The wounds re-opened slightly due to general brutality, but only two or three of the remaining marks, as of now, have any risk of that, and I do not suspect that you have any plans to keelhaul me quite yet. I must, however, ask if you plan to use me for ransom or blackmail. I like to keep informed about such things before I settle comfortably in...” another man’s bed, he thought helplessly, then immediately shook it off and instead said, “any potentially hostile place.”

For a long moment, Jack merely stared at him. Then the pirate shut his eyes, caught somewhere between anger, frustration and confusion. “Who the hell are you and what’ve you done with the pompous uniformed popinjay whose been chasin’ me for two years?”

James’ eyebrows raised, but he knew what the pirate meant and looked away. “I am not in uniform, therefore I am, for the time being, purely myself. That is all.”

“Anything more that you happen to’ve kept hidden under that brocade?” Jack muttered, sarcastic.

James smirked wryly. “Quite a bit, actually, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.” He raised one hand and tugged down his sleeve to show the manacle-scar again: a pale halo just above the bruises from his more recent incarceration.

Jack stared at the tall, lean, and handsome man sitting on his bed, and snapped. “And what else? Are you a sod, as well?”

For a moment, James stilled, then cursed himself for letting his initial reaction show, however briefly. When he saw Jack’s eyes widen in shock, James quickly regained his composure, leaning back against a wood bedpost in a casual manner. “Actually, yes.”

“But...but you-” Jack’s hands danced a dance of confusion and nonsense in the air. “You loved Elizabeth.”

“The only woman who has ever inspired me in that regard, and look how that worked out. My first ideas were in another direction entirely, and in retrospect seem to have been the wiser choices, despite the usual amount of danger involved,” James drawled, at his ease for the moment, because Jack was so obviously at a loss. The commodore studied his own cuticles with bored interest.

“Well,” Jack said, his voice oddly hollow. “I see.” He could not stop seeing, in fact: the lines of James’ neck and long-fingered hands, James’ mouth, the too-pretty shade of green in his eyes. The man was in his bed. The man liked men. All of those pretty, shiny qualities were right there, screaming that they were available.

“I will not, however, indulge with you.”

Jack’s heart sank. “What?”

James shot him a cold, suspicious look that spoke of other sorts of battle scars that he usually kept hidden.

Stubbornly, Jack folded his arms over his chest. “What makes you think I’m interested?” he countered, covering his own hurt with malice.

James’ eyes fell shut for a moment, his lips thinning, and Jack was disconcerted to realize that he seemed to have actually landed a hit, for all that he’d not really intended to, not when the commodore’s gauntness made the expression look so oddly fragile. “Nothing,” the commodore said, in his usual calm, curt tone, but his voice was quiet. “It was merely to clear away potential for... confusion.” And all is quite clear now, James thought bitterly.

“I’d not have anyone pay that price to stay aboard my ship,” Jack said firmly.

“I know. I’ve hunted you for two years, Jack Sparrow; I know you well enough to know that, at the very least.” James kept his eyes closed.

“An’ yet I don’t know you in the least at all. How is that, love?”

“How often do you look back over your shoulder when running away as quickly as you do?”

Jack considered this. “Aye. Makes sense. I’ve been more than a little too hasty, then.” As always, he thought bitterly, when James’ eyes opened, shooting him a look of mixed suspicion and bemusement. Steeling himself, Jack sat down in his chair at last and faced the commodore squarely. “I do want you.”

James’ aloof expression was replaced by surprise, irritation and confusion for a moment, then masked again, which was really beginning to irritate the pirate, he could tell. “But you-” He stopped himself, and shook his head. “No.”

Jack scrutinized the way that the commodore’s ears had turned red, and how those sharp green eyes were suddenly fixed anywhere else but on his person.

When Jack remained silent, James risked another glance at him. Seeing the same intense look on the pirate’s face, James felt heat rise not just to his ears, but across his cheekbones as well, and quickly looked away again, but not before Jack figured out a few things.

“You want to.”

James inhaled sharply and forced himself to turn his head and glare in Jack’s direction. “Yes.”

Jack thought about it. “You worried you won’t be able to kill me, later?”

“What makes you think that I’ve actually wanted you dead at any point over the past year?” James countered.

Disconcerted, Jack leaned forward a little. “I thought you let me go the one time that-”

“Three times,” James said flatly.

“Why?” Jack asked, a little breathless.

After a slight hesitation, James said, “Because I enjoy chasing you. In a way, I need to keep up the chase.” He was the commodore again, to such a degree that Jack could clearly picture every detail of the naval uniform in his head.

Now, Jack admitted, the commodore had been a frequent subject of his fantasies for some time now, what with the shiny uniform, the intense cleverness, the predatory way he moved, the bleak sense of humor, those damned pretty eyes, and the man’s body...

Needless to say, James’ brief return to curt commodorial formality in his tone of voice made Jack’s mouth water, and he was forced to clear his throat before replying. “Do you now?”

James’ lips thinned in a look of anger, which was a commodorial expression Jack had often imagined had the potential to lead to some very intense sex up against a wall if he played his cards right. James voice, however, was glacially cold. “You provide an intellectual challenge, and an excuse to avoid doing the real dirty work for the East India Company, whose ships in this part of the world are none of them fast enough to stand the least chance of chasing you down, no matter how eager those who own them might be to see you hanged.”

Jack sobered quickly. “Oh.”

“Yes.” James’ eyes narrowed.

“But I still don’t quite see here, love, how it is that you’re in my bed, arguing that you’ll not share it with me,” Jack cajoled hopefully.

James, however, was in his element now, and stood up sharply. “You forget, Sparrow: I know you. Not only your habits over the past two years when I have chased you, either; I have done my research and I know a very great deal about your past. Perhaps you should take a closer look at what you know of mine and ask me if my reluctance is not more than justified.” With that, he stalked out of the cabin, headed above-deck to clear his head.

Jack remained where he was, a little perturbed. He was not, by nature, an introspective sort, and it took him several long minutes thinking about things James might’ve come across in his reading, before he hit upon it. As the thought entered his mind, Jack felt his stomach plummet. He put his face in his hands for a moment, tasting bitterness: a reminder of why he so often avoided retrospection.

He realized, belatedly, that James had been so hasty in his retreat that he had left his sword on the bed. Jack lifted it, thinking about the smith who’d made the blade and the woman he’d married, and what all she’d done to James--and she’d even had the best of intentions, which Jack could hardly ever claim having done.

Sword in hand, he followed James, and found him leaning against the rail and staring out over the water. Jack pressed the sword against James’ side.

“Thank you,” James said absently, and returned it to its proper place at his belt.

“I’ve only ever blackmailed two men,” Jack said quietly.

James froze. “I’ve only heard about the one.”

“Aye. He’s the only one of the pair I regret. Tried to make it up to ‘im, and I think I did, eventually. Did you hear that part?”

“No. You must have covered your tracks well.”

“I tended to, back then. Suspicious of nature as I was at that point, after the mutiny.” Jack folded his arms across his chest. “The other was a man I know you’ve heard of: Cutler Beckett. He wasn’t my lover, but he wanted to be. I wasn’t interested, for a lot of good reasons.”

James’ eyebrows raised. “I see.”

“The other... well, he went to work for ‘em. The East-India pricks.” Jack inhaled slowly. “It was a mistake. I’ll not repeat it. I’d never ever considered-” Jack stopped, and shook his head. “I like you chasin’ me. If you lost your commission, how’d we keep crossin’ paths the way we do these days? We wouldn’t.” A pause. “I’d not like to lose sight of a man like you if I could help it.”

James took a slow, deep breath. “You must really want sex,” he said quietly, clinging to humor in the hopes of retaining his equilibrium.

Jack, playing along, leaned in closer without taking his eyes off the horizon and whispered, “You’ve no idea, love. I’ve practically been hard since you lost the damned manacles.”

Helplessly, James laughed.

“It’s just a pity I don’t get a chance to ruin yer uniform the way I’ve wanted to.”

Blushing a bit now, James shot him an odd look. “My God, you’re serious.”

“What, and I never show up in your fantasies?” He leered.

James’ blush darkened.

Jack reached out and traced a line down James’ chest. “Care t’ show me what’s on yer mind?”

“Not here on deck, I don’t,” James said cooly.

“Aye. You’ve a point.” Jack was grinning now. “Follow me, then. Or not.” He turned on his heel, heading back toward the cabin. “It’s your choice, love.”

For a moment, like a cat watching for the perfect moment to pounce and seize upon a retreating mouse, James remained perfectly still, watching Jack get a few seconds’ head start before following at a clipped pace.

When he opened the cabin door, Jack immediately reached out and yanked him in, slamming the door shut behind him and then pressing James up against it bodily. James chuckled and caught Jack’s mouth with his own, seemingly catching the pirate and himself by surprise with the sudden intimacy of it.

Jack found himself clinging to the lapels of James’ stolen coat as if for dear life. It had been a long while since he’d shared a kiss with a man before intimacy, instead of just sharing a hasty, impersonal affair. He’d started to forget how damned good it was, and James was a hell of a reminder: his tongue as clever and maddening in kisses as it was when the commodore talked, and he tasted like gunpowder tea and sailor and oranges. Not to be outdone, Jack made use of every little kissing trick in his considerable repertoire, until James was making delectable little noises in his throat, and James’s hands were pulling at Jack’s clothing, unbuttoning madly.

James felt blissfully drowned in the smell and taste of rum, spices, and pirate. Jack’s lean, wiry body was solid and warm under his hands, and the pirate’s touch was surprisingly careful as his fingers untucked and slipped beneath James’ shirt. Jack’s hands moved slowly, feeling the texture of old cuts and fresher bruises, and surprisingly firm whipcord muscle stretched under James’ skin, made a little more wiry due to his thinness; Jack could all too easily feel more of the commodore’s ribs than was healthy, but the man was not quite emaciated, and did not feel fragile.

The gentleness of Jack’s exploration proved more than a little distracting to James, who shivered in appreciation and kissed his way down the pirate’s neck, with occasional use of his teeth that made Jack’s breathing stutter. “I’m not going to break,” James assured in a whisper.

“I know; ‘s obvious it’d take more than I’d be willing to do to see that happen, love,” Jack countered. He then pushed James’ coat and waistcoat to the floor and started on the commodore’s belt.

James countered by deftly finishing his removal of Jack’s sash and belts, dropping them to the side in a careless manner. He grinned wickedly when he noticed Jack pluck a small vial from a coat-pocket before shrugging out of the garment entirely. “And who is that for, this time?” he purred.

“Persuade me,” Jack challenged.

James appeared momentarily thoughtful, his smirk widening. Then he pounced, and Jack found himself disoriented; James was kissing him again, there was a great deal of movement involved, lots of clothing removed, and at some point they landed on the bed. Jack soon found himself very well persuaded indeed.

Of course, once they had recovered, Jack took full advantage of the opportunity to do his own bit of persuading.

“It’s not just this, you know,” Jack murmured, an hour or so later.

“I’d gathered,” James replied peaceably, his eyelids fluttering a little as Jack’s fingers traced across his injuries. “And for the record, it’s the same for me.” He lifted a hand blindly, catching one of Jack’s, entwining their fingers easily.

“And what changes now?” the pirate mused.

“I hardly know. Everything, or very little, depending.”

“Upon?”

“Your choice, Jack.”

“What of yours?”

James opened his eyes slowly, staring into Jack’s dark gaze with heat. “I’ve become accustomed to following you. I merely need to know if the chase is a wise one, or if I’ll be led into a hurricane.”

Jack was already curled against his side, but managed to press closer anyway. “My Pearl outruns hurricanes, but then, your little Fleetwing managed the same trick; however, two captains on one ship fer too long--that’s an unavoidable disaster I think we’d both dislike.”

“Then I shall require my own ship again.” James chuckled. “And thus you’ve put the choices back into my hands once more. Cheat.”

“Pirate.”

“I never would’ve guessed,” James drawled.

“You have a plan, then?”

“I have time, before we near Port Royal, to think of a suitable one to fit the goal I’ve chosen to pursue. In the meantime, I have another decision for you to make.”

“Aye?”

“Sleep, or sex.”

“You’re up for it?” Cautionary: a hand brushing over hurt ribs.

“If you are, old man.”

“You complete bastard,” Jack growled.

“You’ve chosen, then?”

“To shut you up: yes.”

“Then why are you still talking?” James proceeded to shut Jack up instead, if only briefly. Jack then proceeded to persuade James into doing a variety of things, none of which required either of them to shut up.

|| Story Index ||