The Raptors of Misdirection and Waxing Gibberish - Chapter 13

[likeahurricane7]

Title: The Raptors of Misdirection and Waxing Gibberish

Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean; Sparrington

Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: I have no claim on POTC or the lovely characters who populate it, even if it seems that James Norrington is making himself quite at home in my head, the snarky British bastard.

Summary: Jack wakes up in the Locker, complete with white desert and lack of wind, but he’s not exactly alone. The Locker is strange. Plotting and banter occur. Also, Barbossa becomes irritable by the lack of respect shown him by Elizabeth Swann and Captain Anamaria, but he can’t do a damned thing about it.

Note: This is a very long chapter. And remember back when I mentioned that I'd be alluding to a bit of Norrington's history, which I discovered on wikipedia? Yeah. It's in this chapter. Just to give you a head's up. It refers to Norrie's father, and Captain Teague.

Chapter Thirteen

Waking up for the first time in Davy Jones’ Locker is like awaking with the love-child of a hangover and the worst possible manic-depressive downswing, having a the mother of all mad fits inside one’s head, trying to bash its way out.

In Jack’s case, this was overall alleviated somewhat by the protection provided him by the generous soul of the Black Pearl, because she loved him dearly, despite her oft-fickle ways. He awoke sharply with a cry of futile rage and terror and dismay, haunted by his last moments of awareness from being inside the closing maelstrom: full of violent, sucking waters, pressure, and darkness, all closing in on him, accompanied by the onset of a bone-deep freezing cold.

Finding himself on the deck of the Pearl, Jack’s first thought was one of relief to find that he was not covered in slime. Then he realized quite how dry the air felt, and shuddered.

Sitting up and looking around, he felt his heart sink.

Desert. He was in the middle of a bloody white desert. Nothing but dryness and sand: no sea, not even a lake, no wind and hardly even dunes other than that one bloody big one...

Oh, wait. That’s...not a dune.

The Gold Hawk was nestled into the sand beside her sister, but the ship’s gold hues were somehow...dimmed. It took Jack a long time to realize that despite the unnerving lack of tangible temperature in the air (it was not hot, not cold, not anything, really), the Locker could support the existence of ice, which in turn now coated the Hawk in a thin layer.

“I have a sinking suspicion that this is not exactly a good sign,” Jack muttered, and patted the Pearl’s side reassuringly. He then removed his coat before climbing down to the sand and crossing the narrow distance between the two ships.

It was trickier this time, climbing up the side of Norrington’s little ship; the ice made it more slippery, but Jack still managed to climb aboard. It was eerily silent, with not a soul on deck. Hesitantly, Jack stepped below.

He found James sitting on an iced-over barrel of black powder, staring at his men, who seemed to have fallen asleep manning their posts. The ‘sleep’ image was only ruined by the six-inch-thick blanket of ice that appeared to encapsulate each man. The look on James Norrington’s face seemed stuck between horror, relief, fear, and anger. Jack would not be surprised if the other man had not moved a blink for more than an hour--perhaps more than a day.

“James?” he called softly. His breath formed sizable, short-lived clouds of vapor.

The other man’s expression stirred, registering confusion for a moment. Then those haunted sea-green eyes fell shut, squeezed shut tighter, and James’ brow furrowed. “Jack?” His voice was rough, almost a growl, but it sounded...almost lost. His breath was barely visible.

Jack stepped closer, resting a hand on James’ shoulder and squeezing slightly, trying to ignore the paper-thin layer of frost that melted under his ring-decorated fingers when he did so. “Aye, love. I’m here. And not iced-over.”

James winced. “They...they’re being preserved. Protected. By the Hawk. They aren’t even aware that we’re dead.” His voice was oddly hollow, sounding tired. “They are not even dreaming.”

Jack nodded slowly. “I bet that’s easier on the girl, keepin’ ‘em quiet an’ hidden. You’re a bit flashier, then, I’ll bet.”

“Yes. She can’t put me to sleep. Especially when she’s already holding them. I’m too...” He shrugged. Then a pause. He opened his eyes and glanced at Jack. “Flashy? Was that what you called it?” It was unnerving to realize that the man’s usual sardonic demeanor was absent.

Jack crouched in front of James and picked up one of the ex-commodore’s hands. James’ fingers were nearly frozen, so this time, it was Jack’s whose hands felt incredibly warm to the touch, and James sighed at the contact.

“You didn’t have to stick around, mate,” Jack said.

James eyelids fluttered and his brow furrowed. “Yes I did.”

“Why?”

“I gave my word, and the Hawk would not have let me leave, even had I tried.”

“But you didn’t. Try to leave, that is.” Jack’s dark eyes were wary.

“No.”

“Why not, James? You don’t strike me as a martyr.”

A flicker of anger seemed to stir James out of some of his lassitude. “Because I was gunning down the damned Kracken. I was not going to let it go, not when it was right there, not when I could keep knocking it back. If not for the bloody whirlpool, then with more time I could have...” Then his voice trailed away, but his eyes were open, now, looking at Jack as though through a dense fog. “I’m no fool, Jack, and no martyr.”

Jack felt his shoulders relax. “No. You’re a hunter. Not quite the same kind as meself, but a hunter still, indeed,” he said, because James’ answer was honest, and was not the answer of a noble fool: James was, indeed, the predator that Jack had thought him to be. Reassured that he had not been deceived, deliberately or otherwise, about the man’s nature, Jack sighed with a mixture of relief and determination. “Come aboard the Pearl with me, then, Jamie. Your ship’s got enough to handle here.”

James nodded, but still only got to his feet when Jack actually tugged on him. He followed the pirate as though only half-aware, until Jack finally urged him to actually abandon ship in the unearthly light of not-day that lit the desert. James stared around, and realized that he could hardly discern the horizon, out here; so bright and strange was the sky, and so white and featureless was the desert sand as it stretched into the distance. And it was bone-dry with no traces of water. “Oh God. I hate deserts. Is there no wind at all?”

“Welcome to Davy Jones’ Locker, love. Still planning to come along, then?”

James looked down at him, and then began to descend, following the mad pirate; however, it was only once he boarded the Black Pearl and stepped onto her deck that some sense of self seemed to return to him, like a heated rush of blood to the head.

As if dizzy, James clung to the railing of the ship and swayed very slightly, appearing surprised. Then his legs gave out and he half-fell to sit on the deck, looking abruptly less like a barely-thawed half-dead version of himself, and more like a very lively, albeit slightly poleaxed, Captain James Norrington, shocked senseless at the pins-and-needles he felt in his limbs as the cold began to fade. “Ow,” he said, a bit bemused.

Jack nodded matter-of-factly at this. “Ah. Your ship was havin’ trouble keepin’ you, then; probably had to try and quiet your presence a bit by quietin’ your mind. She’s got a lot on her shoulders, that one,” Jack murmured. “Souls like ours are hard to keep hidden here. Especially from the owner and other inhabitants of the place, and especially when we’re awake. Lucky that most of your crew aren’t anywhere near as...shiny, I guess would be about the way to put it...as we are. They don’t quite have that ‘touch of destiny’ glow like we do.”

James ran his hands over his face, as if trying to rub warmth and/or the sanity back into it; at the same time, he also muttered something wherein the only intelligible word was “gibberish” somewhere in the middle of the phrase.

“No more than usual, love,” Jack replied. That sounded safe to say, anyway.

James merely sighed and looked up at Jack. “Why would the ships bother hiding us from inevitable discovery by Jones?” he inquired. “Since this is apparently his Locker.”

“One, because he’ll soon be very busy coping with that awful Beckett, and be too distracted to come looking for us anytime soon. And also because, it is not inevitable that we’ll eventually be found.” A gold-edged grin flashed briefly. “We are not going to be here for-bloody-ever. We can’t. We’ve got work to do. I’ve got...an important game piece about my person, and you have a job or three that you need to finish carryin’ out for darling Calypso.”

“Game piece?”

“A piece of eight, one of nine others held in the possession of other pirate lords such as meself. It has to do with setting Calypso free, because it’s one of the trinkets that were used to bind her to a single human form in the first place.”

“Trinket...ah. Yes, you do have a few of those, don’t you?” James mocked, dry and sharp.

Jack only grinned again. “Good to have you back, mate.”

James leaned back casually against the ship’s railing, folding his arms over his chest and forcing himself not to shiver. “Good to be back. If I wanted to be half-frozen, and also as lethargic and unresponsive as a lazy somnambulist, I’d make a return visit to England in winter.”

Jack shuddered sympathetically. “I don’t exactly do well in cold waters either.”

“Somehow, I am not surprised. You strike me as a distinctly tropical creature.”

“How do you figure?”

“Your coloration and your plumage.”

Jack frowned slightly, and James finally showed a hint of a smile. Immediately grinning at that sign of recovery, Jack purred, “If you’re still cold, Jamie, I could think of a few ways to keep you warm. Especially since we’ve got a bit of time to ourselves and not much to do here here in the bloody desert until we get picked up by whoever Calypso will send after us.”

James’ expression brightened a bit, looking amused at first, but the mention of Calypso seemed to momentarily shadow it again. “And you are sure that she’ll send someone?”

“Absolutely. In fact, she may possibly send a variety of someones, a veritable army of them. Somehow, she’ll get us out. She made a deal with you, love, and you haven’t gotten the chance to carry it out, so she’ll want you back to work on that. And she sure as Hell won’t let Davy steal the Gold Hawk from her service.”

James looked out over the sandy horizon again. “That does make sense.”

“And I do try to keep up a few emergency back-up plans. Havin’ about my person something that Davy’s ex-lover wants to be sure never gets found by Davy himself...” Jack gestured broadly, unaware of how his sleeves had slipped down to his elbows. “Well, it’s a pretty good trump card, ay?”

James smirked at that, but his keen eyes took note of something: Jack’s wrist. “Ah, yes,” he said, thoroughly droll. James then got to his feet, his movements less stiff than before, but not as fluidly graceful as usual. He stepped up to Jack until their bodies were mere inches away. He looked down at Jack’s face, examining it with a surprising hint of affection, mixed with the usual droll suspicion. Then he lifted Jack’s gesturing hand and eyed the bruises lining his wrist. James’ hand was still cool to the touch. “Get manacled anytime recently?” He raised a brow.

Jack sighed raggedly. “Elizabeth’s idea. To keep the big squid-beastie from following the rest of the crew. Distracted me with a surprise attack on my person. My lips, to be precise.”

Raising both eyebrows, James examined his expression. Then he smirked bitterly. “At least she was not engaged to you.”

“And at least she was never condemning you to death,” Jack countered.

“No. She didn’t feel she had to, but if I had chosen differently and sought to have Mr. Turner hanged alongside you, that she would have done something truly interesting, and probably very lethal, at least to me,” James murmured, his thumb stroking the bruises on Jack’s wrist thoughtfully. “She’s more piratical than young William could ever be.”

“I told her as much, when I could finally get a word in edgeways after her little speech about her not being sorry,” Jack muttered. “Bloody pirates.”

James smirked. “She’s not so ruthless as she can pretend to be. Within hours, the guilt will sink in, and she will not be so fiery or ruthless as all that. I’ve seen it before, in smaller doses: first the shameless firebrand, then the pure British ‘Oh God, I’m so terribly sorry!’ reaction kicks in, along with a good dose of even more old-fashioned British ‘nervous guilt’ and the strange but steely honorableness it somehow inspires.”

“But you don’t get quite that reaction yourself, then, Jamie?”

Shaking his head, James met the pirate’s dark-eyed stare. “No. I have long ago ceased to be a creature of regrets. Guilt has its place, but it should not hinder one from...well...Memento vivre, as it were.” A hint of a smile. “For all the irony that statement currently possesses in this place, since we are currently dead.”

Jack grinned a bit. “But not permanently. And we’re safe from most of its drawbacks, thanks to our girls, here.” He gestured with his free hand at their two ships. Flourish. Flourish. “Like the actually Hellish bits, the ennui, the total absence of more...lively attitudes, like emotions, appetites, passions...” Now his free hand settled on James’ hip, his thumb tracing along the edge of his abdominal muscles, which tightened, but the tension was not unpleasant; in fact, it came with a pleasant flicker of heat.

James’ free hand went to the side of Jack’s neck, his thumb tracing the underside of the pirate’s jaw. “Ah...now I must wonder at the morbidity of this,” James mused, even as he leaned in closer. “Lively attitudes whilst dead. Truly unnatural.” The logical part of his mind had not yet thoroughly thawed, or it would have surely been telling him not to give in to seduction in lieu of seriousness until he had straightened a few things out, but he was still chilled and Jack’s skin felt so very, very warm. James realized then just how badly he needed warmth, right this moment: needed to feel alive instead of frozen solid and lifeless and dead, temporarily or otherwise. Jack was heat and life, and he smelled of spices and sweat and smoke and the sea. James licked his lips, anticipation and want starting to quicken his sluggish-feeling heartbeat, warming him slowly from within. Too slowly. Not enough.

Seeing the hunger in James’ expression, the pirate wore a distinctly evil variety of his usual leering grin. “Mayhap it is, but now I’ve a great opportunity to have your ex-Navy self right here on the deck of me Pearl, and so I am disinclined to knock it,” Jack growled.

James’ pupils dilated visibly. “I see.” Despite himself, the ex-commodore was beginning to return Jack’s grin, challenging, his eyes growing dark.

“Not yet, you don’t, James.” He pulled his wrist from James’ grasp and began working on the pirate hunter’s belt. “But soon enough.”

“Looking forward to it,” James countered, but his voice came slightly breathless even as he reluctantly pulled his hand from Jack’s neck and shrugged out of his coat when the pirate tugged on the lapels, letting it fall to the deck carelessly, next to where Jack had shed his own earlier.

The pirate captain stopped James’ hands reaching for his belts and sash, instead urging him, “Weapons and waistcoat, love. Off with ‘em.”

James smirked, but obeyed, removing his leather baldric with its two pistols and unbuttoning the waistcoat, but his eyes were on the way that Jack’s fingers nimbly divested the pirate of belts and sash, as well as that always-unbuttoned vest. Thus distracted, it was not wholly unaccountable that, shortly after shedding his own waistcoat, James was taken by surprise when Jack Sparrow actually tackled him to the deck--the pirate knocking him off balance, then quickly tangling their legs until they both fell and James landed on his back with only a slightly wince; he was equally surprised at how Jack somehow managed to cradle his head to prevent further head injuries in the process.

Glancing sidelong at Jack’s arms, which still cushioned his skull, James smirked. “Interesting skill. Thank you.”

“One learns such things when one pursues a career in piracy,” Jack said, then silenced the other man with a fervent kiss before any further sardonic comments could be made. Jack had been waiting for an opportunity to do this from the moment it had been clear that James’ head-injuries had not, in fact, killed the man; Jack had never been more relieved to see so much spilled (not to mention wasted) rum in his life.

Simultaneously surprised and enflamed by the pirate’s ardor, James clutched at the lithe man atop him as though intent on absorbing all of the energy, and all the warmth from him: all of that liveliness, to combat the cold James still felt. Jack tasted and smelled of burnt gunpowder, rum, sea-salt, ceylon cinnamon, toasted cocoa, black pepper, cloves, heady musk, and a bit more rum--all melded together into a single complex and intoxicating flavor, and James’ head was spinning with it. The combined feel and taste of Jack Sparrow was ten times as warming as any liquor, banishing all the lingering traces of cold from James’ blood, especially as Jack’s clever fingers went to work: untucking James’ shirt and sliding beneath it to roam his skin as though memorizing it. The pirate stifled a gasp as the coolness of James’ flesh faded, flushing with heat under his touch.

With a soft moan, Jack broke the kiss to explore the skin of James’ neck with his mouth: licking, kissing, biting gently. Then an amused thought struck him and he smirked against James’ throat with a soft, wicked laugh.

James felt it. “Hm?”

“Just thinking about visible markings. Lizzy mocked mine, you know.” A less gentle bite.

The ex-commodore went still. “Ah. I...see.” Open suspicion and a hint of...nerves?

The pirate chuckled. “Afraid your crew might wonder, Jamie?”

“Well, they’re hardly stupid,” James murmured, then the breath left him as Jack found a surprisingly responsive and highly visible spot between his neck and shoulder, and proceeded to nibble and suckle at it--not gentle. “Jack!” It had been meant as a warning, but James cut himself off with a hiss and bit his lip to keep from making any number of potentially embarrassing sounds as the pirate slipped a thigh between his legs and put just the right amount of pressure and movement into the contact. James’ hips bucked involuntarily.

Chuckling in a thoroughly evil manner, Jack bit and suckled the spot he’d found on James’ neck. It really was lovely to hear the ex-commodore growl like that: needy and demanding and breathless. Jack was fully intent upon dragging out the torture for some time, slowly rubbing against James until the other man lost his mind or begged outright, but James himself had other plans, as Jack realized when one of those long-fingered and surprisingly skilled ex-navy hands slid down the front of his breeches and rubbed him hard, in a few quick and skilled strokes that made the pirate captain forget what he was doing for several moments as he groaned and jerked his hips in response. Jack’s breath hitched when James’s thumb rubbed maddening little circles on the tip of him, toying with the foreskin.

The low noises that Jack made in his ear were quite lovely, James reflected, arching his body and wrapping a leg around the one Jack had thought to drive him mad with, which he then used as leverage to arch himself up and press their bodies closer together. Things were going quite well, and James had even managed to remove Jack’s shirt, but then the pirate seemed to abruptly recall himself, thus Jack captured James’ wrists and pin them above his head.

He stared down at the ex-commodore with jet-black eyes, the open lust in their gaze hotter than flame. “You...are far too good at surprisin’ me.”

James only smiled and narrowed his eyes challengingly. “I learn quickly, Captain.”

“Aye.” Jack was slowly beginning to smirk in a dangerous manner. He had transferred his hold on James’ wrists into one hand; Jack’s free hand then grabbed his hastily-removed shirt from where James had dropped it. Then, surprisingly quickly, the pirate captain managed to use the shirt to tie James’ hands and wrists together before the other man could properly struggle or pull away.

James’ eyebrows raised. He gave his bonds an experimental tug, finding them quite solid, and his eyes widened slightly, but as ever, he was unwilling to let himself be perturbed, as that would only further satisfy the pirate. “Impressive.”

“You’ve not seen anything yet,” Jack purred, and then promptly yanked James’ shirt up until it tangled around the ex-commodore’s bound hands. Then, as he trailed his fingers across James’ skin, the pirate captain took on an idle air, as though he had all the time in the world and James was not hot and hard and looking increasingly flushed and almost savage with need; to exasperate things further, Jack rotated his hips in a slow grind, just to torment the man beneath him. All the while, Jack unhurriedly explored the scars on James’ chest: first the pale and shiny bullet-mark at his left shoulder, then an interesting, deep nick on the collar-bone, a few faded whip-marks on shoulders and pectorals that had likely been inflicted as warning blows rather than full-on punishment, and a cutlass-slash across the lower half of his ribcage and the upper section of his firm stomach. Then Jack paused thoughtfully at the full-body shiver inspired by a small sword-cut scar at James’ waist. He raised his eyebrows curiously and looked at James’ face, which seemed to have grown very flushed; it suited him. Jack paused his hip-oriented torture and poked the scar again.

James involuntarily jerked at the touch, but it was not as sexy, this time; it was a movement that indicated instinctive alarm, much like a cat with its tail abruptly stepped on. James’ eyes were shut tight, but they relaxed, eyelids fluttering slightly, as the ex-commodore took a deep breath; then he opened them to glare at Jack. “That...would be from Isla de Muerta. It’s-” an almost-growl as Jack stroked the scar slowly with the rough ball of his thumb, causing the muscles of James’ abdomen to twitch and heat to pool in his belly “-sensitive,” James hissed, his head falling back on the deck as he successfully stifled a highly undignified pleading sound, making it sound more like a growl. His eyes widened in surprise as he stared up at Jack. James had not known that the scar had any purpose other than making him react like a cat hit with water whenever something unexpectedly poked it; he’d certainly had no idea that its sensitivity might effect him like this.

“Interesting,” Jack purred and shifted himself further down James’ body. James made a noise suspiciously like a whimper at the sight of the gold glint of Jack’s teeth before that maddening mouth fixed over the sensitive little scar. A simple hot swirl of the tongue and a gentle bite made James groan, his hips wriggling under Jack’s grip, as the ex-commodore struggled against the tangle of cloth that bound his hands. Jack only stopped his little explorations when he heard the faint hiss of overstretched fabric threatening to tear. With reluctance, he abandoned his discovery of such an interesting little scar and promptly re-pinned James’s wrists to the deck.

“Easy, love.”

James shot him a look that was borderline feral, and Jack almost considered changing his plans, but then the man, in those oh-so-commanding British tones that were now roughened with lust, demanded, “Untie my hands, Jack.”

It only served to remind Jack of his original goal: to take James Norrington hard, and thus see the ex-commodore and infamous pirate hunter come completely utterly undone on the deck of the Black Pearl. The pirate captain wet his lips in anticipation. “I think not, love.”

That earned him a real growl, deep and low, and surprising from such an oh-so-civilized British personage as James Norrington: how lovely. “Jack,” the ex-commodore warned, through the growl, but Jack only laughed and unfastened the man’s breeches as he slid back down to lick that interesting little scar, which seemed to stop the growling; although that was probably because James was instead muttering curses in Gaelic.

“No fair, Jamie; that’s one of the only languages you’ll hear on these waters that I know hardly a word of.” Jack’s lips brushed against James’ bare hip as he spoke.

Distantly, James wondered when Jack had managed to pull his breeches down that far, only to realize with bemusement that he was not wearing the things at all anymore. Then he smirked as the pirate’s words sunk in, distracting him. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“But where on earth did you learn it, mate?”

It was very hard to focus when Jack’s mouth kept moving across his skin like that, across such very sensitive places: licking, mouthing, nibbling--making a circuitous exploration of the skin around the main place that wanted, no, needed that attention. Needed very badly.

The pirate hunter grit his teeth. “What I’m wondering,” James growled, or tried to, as he was rather breathless at this point, “is how you can possibly-” a hiss as Jack nipped at a spot high on his inner thigh “-expect me to answer that when you’re--oh-God, Jack!” James gasped, his breath ragged, arching his hips involuntarily as Jack’s mouth wrapped around the head of his cock and sucked hard. James stifled a whimper when the pirate then pinned his hips down.

Jack was quite pleased with the way James tasted: hot and salty and male, musk with a hint of mango and more of that intriguing gunpowder tea flavor. His tongue flicked across the weeping head of James’ arousal and Jack smirked when the other man’s legs went still and tense with the effort of restraint. And then Jack began tormenting him in earnest: teeth and tongue and lips and welcoming heat.

It took all of two minutes to have James not only cursing now and then, disjointedly in an odd mixture of Gaelic and English, but also moving like liquid under Jack’s talented hands: his hips shifting even when Jack pinned them down, and the rest of his body slowly arching or writhing, and occasionally shivering. James Norrington: molten and wanton and slowly losing control; he still struggled now and again with his bonds, but the act was practiced with steadily increasing absent-mindedness.

At some point, the ex-commodore regained enough presence of mind to wonder when, exactly, they had both ended up naked, but then Jack was crawling up his body and he took the opportunity to push himself up and capture the pirate’s mouth in a searing kiss that left them both dizzy and breathless and incapable of coherent thought or speech. Then, grinning deviously, the pirate pulled away slightly, reaching for his coat, where it had been so carelessly tossed earlier, and plucking a small vial of oil from its pockets. James grew quite flushed indeed, glancing at the vial before once more holding Jack’s curious and appraising gaze. Then Jack’s eyes widened as James wrapped one long leg sinuously around him, tugging impatiently. Sheer surprise struck the pirate momentarily speechless.

“What are you waiting for, Captain?” James inquired, his voice still sardonic even as he panted, barely-contained restraint the only thing preventing him from bucking up against the pirate and rubbing against him shamelessly; for now, he was not yet fully lost, and he wanted Jack to know it.

“I think I envy the navy bastards who had the luck to educate your younger self, Jamie,” was the pirate’s somewhat strangled retort; as he said it, he unscrewed the vial and poured the oil across his fingers. Then he reached down to push them into James, whose head fell back with a muffled groan. Jack’s fingers slid back and forth: slowly, then faster, finally hitting that sweet spot. In response, James gave a low, guttural rasp as his body jerked.

“Too much?” Jack asked, reflexively.

“Not enough,” James retorted, his voice sharp, ire covering up the desperation in his voice. “Get on with it you teasing piratical bastard!”

Jack’s laugh was one more of surprise than derision, and he obeyed, seizing James’ thighs and pulling them forward until he sank into the wet and waiting heat, groaning at the tightness of it. As Jack pushed in further, he felt the other man’s muscles tense and saw James grimace briefly; the pirate slowed somewhat, almost pausing outright.

James noticed, and opened his eyes to look at Jack with a reassuring smirk. “It’s been a while,” he said. If not for the raw and breathless lust in his voice, he might have been talking about nothing more remarkable than the weather.

Snorting at the man’s insufferable Britishness, Jack nodded, and resumed.

Then, once Jack was fully sheathed within him, James wickedly took the opportunity to display that amazing undulating-motion of his hips again, and the pirate was able to appreciate it in a whole new way. Of course, because he, too, was a quick learner, Jack imitated the motion with a slight variation of his own, and admired the gasp it drew from the ex-commodore. And then they were both moving, a playful power-struggle, James once more threatening to rip apart the tangled cloth around his hands and wrists until Jack reached between their bodies and distracted him thoroughly: one oil-slicked, ring-bedecked hand wrapping around James’ erection.

The way James arched up into the contact, gasping sharply in surprise and then writhing as Jack stroked him, was a beautiful sight, and soon enough, Jack achieved his goal: watching the other man come gloriously unravelled beneath him. The sight, and the feeling of it around his cock, sent Jack over the edge: unravelling him, too, and powerfully enough that his arms trembled and he had to lower himself to his elbows to avoid collapsing outright. James’ eyes were half-shut, his body relaxed, and his face totally open in faint surprise and dazed satisfaction. Somehow, through his daze, James used his knees to maneuver the suddenly-pliant Jack Sparrow into resting on top of him. The pirate submitted, and promptly sprawled as he always seemed to, idly pushing James’ legs down to tangle with his. Sticky and satisfied, they lay on the deck, content with not moving as they each caught their breath.

Finally, after a number of minutes, James quietly cleared his throat. “Jack?”

“Mhrm?”

“I cannot feel my fingers. Your shirt being tied around my wrists seems to have cut off the blood circulation to my hands. Would you mind removing it, now?”

“Ah. Sure thing, love.”

Really, Jack was far from surprised when freeing James’ hands led immediately to the ex-commodore pinning him down and seeking sweet, sweet vengeance. He was also very far from anything remotely resembling complaint.

Captain Anamaria met the remainder of the Black Pearl’s crew upon her arrival at the mouth of the river. A number of her own crew elected to jump ship at the next opportunity after they were told of the new plans of their captain and her guests. The ship itself, rechristened the Raven’s Wing and unrecognizable as a former EITC vessel, set course for Singapore.

Tia Dalma never seemed to leave the deck, staring down at the sea with tangible relief.

William asked her about it at one point.

She smiled in an unnerving manner. “Jones been keepin’ dese waters from me for many years. Now, he too busy, distracted by dose who command him, to stop me sailing on de sea.” Closer to the sea, Tia seemed somehow both fiercer and more tender, or perhaps she was simply more vibrant overall. “An’ now dat me back, he cannot banish me ‘gain.”

William’s brow furrowed. “Why would he be preventing you...” He looked at her and trailed off, unable to recall the rest of his question, because he was unnerved.

She was no longer smiling. “Because him no longer de man he once was, William Turner. He turn cruel an’ vicious, as he never been before, and him cut me out of his life like he cut out him heart.” Her dark eyes shone with something too tempestuous to be sadness--too dangerous and inhuman and unfathomable.

He blinked a few times, and then the confusion suddenly cleared. “It’s you, then.”

A flicker of that smile again. “Aye.”

Will nodded slowly, but still seemed confused. “Why did you ask us to bring you back Norrington? I certainly planned on doing it anyway, but...why do you want him?”

“Because he is mine in dis game, William Turner; my hunter, since I hire ‘im. He made a deal, and he has not carried out de duties set fort’ in it.” Then she added, with an almost-affectionate smile, “Also, he does still have my Hawk wit’ him.”

William’s eyes widened as he looked her over, trying to see through the almost fragile-looking image she made, leaning against the rail of the Black Pearl and looking longingly down at the water. “And Jack?”

“He have sometin’ dat I need,” Tia said enigmatically. Then she glared at him. “You ask many questions, William Turner. You keep askin’, maybe you get answers you won’ like.”

Bowing slightly, Will stepped back, away from her, “Sorry.” He knew a warning when he heard one, and he had learned with experience (garnered mostly from time spent with Elizabeth) when it was time to retreat from an irate woman.

Tia Dalma watched him go for a moment, then turned back to the sea, singing softly under her breath. A single white crab appeared, and crawled up the side. It was small, and fit perfectly in her waiting palm, which it settled into with a tiny contented-crustacean noise. Tia stroked the top of it with her fingertips, her low, murmuring song seemingly whispering secrets to the little creature.

Meanwhile, in the main cabin, Captain Hector Barbossa found himself being baited and commanded about, in a most obnoxiously non-sexual manner, by a pair of fierce women, and was privately warring with his dignity, his patience, and his survival instincts.

“I’m not stupid, Barbossa,” Anamaria growled. “You are not takin’ my ship into the waters at World’s End. You can barter for one while we’re in Singapore gettin’ the charts you’ll need, so that if it and most of the crew end up wiped out, you and I probably won’t give a damn.”

Hector Barbossa growled as the two women sitting at the table, facing him, and all too easily staring him down, wholly unperturbed by his facial expression’s likeness to a storm cloud. “And what, then, if Sao Feng merely has us all killed, then? It’s his town, and he’s not likely to take well to the idea of our rescuing Jack Bloody Sparrow.”

“Let alone anyone named Norrington,” Elizabeth added.

Anamaria shot them both confused looks. “I can understand Jack--most every pirate in the world, so it seems to me, either hates him or is owed money by him or something, but why would Feng give a damn about a caribbean Navy-man?”

Calmly lifting her teacup and saucer with the casual airs of a well-bred lady, Elizabeth made a small, thoughtful noise as she recalled the story; it had been one that she had been forced to prod out of various people, piecing it together slowly. “His brother, Marcus Norrington, was stationed near Singapore, and was responsible for...as I understand it, giving Feng a few memorable scars on his face or the side of his head during a sword-fight,” she explained, and sipped casually at her cup of tea. “Marcus was finally hunted down and killed by one of Feng’s crews a year or so later, but I still doubt that Sao Feng would be thrilled about our rescuing the man’s infamous pirate-hunter brother.”

“Blasted buggering Hell,” Barbossa muttered quietly under his breath. “As though we needed any further diplomatic difficulties.”

“Oh, you’ve talked yourself into and out of so much more challenging situations, Barbossa. Don’t turn coward now,” Anamaria drawled.

He glowered at her, restraining the urge to shoot her, because Anamaria was faster on the draw than he was and, in the low-ceilinged room, he was at a disadvantage with swords against the two women. He cursed under his breath in Portuguese, not so quietly.

“How exactly are we bringing Jack from World’s End, anyway, Barbossa?” Elizabeth inquired, with every ounce of polite British propriety in her, which was a surprisingly large amount; it helped that she had been able to practice her idle-seeming deadpan delivery with James recently, since he was truly a master of it.

“We aren’t. Getting past World’s End will take us to Davy Jones’ Locker, which is where Jack and my ship are both waitin’, along with the ex-commodore and his ship, if yer to be believed. The charts we’re after will provide us with the necessary knowledge on how to be gettin’ back.”

“And ‘gettin’ past World’s End’ is why you’re not takin’ my ship,” Anamaria added.

Barbossa glared at her. “Where, I wonder, have you gotten your information, Missy? Because you don’t exactly look like you’ve died anytime recent.”

“Neither do you...” She looked him over critically and gave a faint sneer. “At least, not much, but that’s neither here nor there.” Then she smirked. “And not that it’s any of yer business, Hector, but I got my information from a most lovely woman, who I’ve known very...hm...personally for a number of years. You know her too, of course, seein’ as she raised you from the dead.” Anamaria gave a slow, lecherous grin.

Elizabeth managed, just barely, not to choke on her tea in response to either the suggestiveness of Anamaria’s statement and what its implications were, or the look of pure and exquisite shock and horror that momentarily graced Barbossa’s features. She did, however, indulge herself with an amused smirk at the sight of the latter, as she again sipped her tea.

After a long moment, Barbossa seemed to recollect himself and, clearing his throat, he said, “Should’ve guessed that. You seem the type.”

Anamaria grinned. Elizabeth blushed at the suggestion, feeling deeply confused.

“Fine, then. We’ll get all that we need in Singapore. I do hope you’ll at least be plannin’ to help us get the charts, Captain,” Hector rumbled.

“Aye. We will do that. But once you sail from Singapore in your bloody ship, you’re off on your own, Barbossa. If you make it to Shipwreck Cove for the meeting you and yours got to see to, perhaps we’ll meet again.”

Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “What meeting?”

Anamaria tossed a silver coin across the table. When Elizabeth caught it, Anamaria gestured for her to hold it to her ear.

Elizabeth did so. Her eyes widened when she heard it sing.

“The song has been sung,” Anamaria said. “The nine pirate lords are called to meet and discuss the matter of Beckett now that he’s started makin’ orders and enforcin’ his laws with the Flying Dutchman and a mountain of dead pirates.”

“There are pirate lords?”

“Aye, Miss Swann. You’ve already met two of ‘em.” When Elizabeth turned to stare at him in confusion and disbelief, Barbossa grinned. He touched a hand to his chest and bowed slightly, “I myself am Pirate Lord of the Caspian Sea, and your own Jack Sparrow is Pirate Lord over the Caribbean.”

Elizabeth gaped. “You’re joking.”

“He’s not,” Anamaria said reluctantly.

“Jack’s sorry arse is needed for the meetin’,” Barbossa explained.

“I see,” Elizabeth sighed. “Why is it everything confusing and irritating and related in any way to pirates seems to lead inexorably to Jack Bloody Sparrow?”

“A ‘touch of destiny’ you call it?” James inquired.

“Exactly. It’s how all those supernatural things--curses, vengeful heathen gods, mythical quests--find us. I myself am a veritable magnet for ‘em. Have been all me life,” Jack said.

“I think a reasonable part of your ‘magnetism’ is to do with the simple fact that you cannot resist shiny things at all, and you have a very weakened resistance against the temptation to do exactly what anyone tells you not to do,” James mused.

“What about you, then, mate? You followed the rules quite well, at least by all appearances, until you started to show up in Tortuga regularly.”

“Hmm.” James appeared thoughtful, even as he lay back on the deck, utterly relaxed with his arms folded behind his head. He was wearing nothing but a pair of breeches and an equally scantily clad Jack-Sparrow, who was currently using his stomach as a pillow. The both of them were sprawled on the deck in the fashion of men riding out the doldrums. “I could blame your mischief-making quite easily for that. Perhaps I captured the attention of the supernatural world because of your actions taking me to the Isla de Muerta.”

“Aye. But then, wouldn’t more of your current crew be equally shiny? You were still the only one Callie saw her way to bargainin’ with, Jamie,” Jack countered, opening one eye to glance at James’ face.

“Point made.” James opened his eyes and stared at the too-bright sky. “Let me guess: it’s never actually going to be night, here?”

“Probably not. The Locker’s designed to offer the most punishing conditions to its occupants. Sea captains in the middle of a desert with no sign of water, and no night to relieve ‘em with dreamin’ of the sea--that’s enough of a nightmare for me.”

“Yes, but one would think that it would be more...Dante’s Inferno, I suppose.”

“Well, we’re not altogether as dead as we could be, since Jones saw fit to steal us both body an’ soul, which means that most of the infernal stuff is for after the Locker’s owner has seen fit to divest us of our mortal bodies. In the mean time, the place is just meant to drive one mad with lethargy, isolation, sameness, long bouts of insomnia, the futility of the whole place, et cetera.”

“You know a lot about this.”

“I had thirteen years to look forward to it; figured I’d be sure to know what exactly I was gettin’ meself into,” Jack explained.

James nodded. “Makes sense.” He clicked his tongue. “I suppose that the fact we managed to take two fully stocked, supernaturally inclined, and sentient ships with us, along with not exactly being alone, should prevent most of the madness, then.”

“Aye. Worked out quite well, that.” Then he smirked. “Although I must admit that in the past, I’d’ve never thought I’d ever hear you consider this anything other than pure madness--numerous bouts of sexual intercourse with a pirate captain included.”

James chuckled, and unfolded one arm from behind his head to rest a hand on Jack’s stomach, his thumb brushing across the skull-and-crossbones tattoo there. “I should think that you of all people should’ve known to consider how deceptive appearances can be.”

A contented hum, not quite a purr, rumbled from Jack’s chest. “I worked it out eventually. It’s just not so often that the appearances of Navy-men are all that deceiving, mate. You expect dishonest men to be dishonest, but you struck me as the dangerously honest type right off the bat. I suppose the ‘handshake’ routine you pulled should’ve tipped me off, though.”

“Mm. Yes. I do tend towards honesty, but that does not rule out the potential for deception and selective omission, both of which I know you to be more than familiar with.”

“Aye. Still, it took you long enough to stop tripping over the omissions I left in your way, didn’t it?” Jack countered, a smug half-grin on his face.

James snorted. “Once I was no longer part of the immediate chaos in your vicinity, it was simply a matter of looking back on my experiences and working out the language of your strategies. Unnerving, of course, was realizing that some of them were very similar to strategies I myself had used in the past.”

“Doing what?” Jack’s curiosity was piqued now.

Taking a deep breath, James began reeling off a list in a lazy, bored-sounding fashion: “Getting out of maddening family and social situations at home, escaping small hordes of women trying to wed me to their daughters as soon as I moved up in rank to Captain with the clear promise of further advancement, a few romantic trysts in the very distant past required some very quick thinking and a lot of misdirection on my part...” He smiled faintly, then, with nostalgic amusement, and the slightest hint of embarrassment.

“And here I thought naval life to be dull,” Jack mused. Romantic trysts, in fact, sounded quite promising, especially if one of them had taught James to move his hips the way he did.

“It is dull, I suppose, for most people. I simply had a tendency to bend rules here and there when I got too bored. The resultant mental exercise required to maintain my reputation tended to rid me of even some of the most stubborn doldrums,” James recalled, smirking faintly.

“Not such an honorable creature as you might appear, then?”

“I am not of the opinion that an honorable man has to be without a sense of humor and intellectual flexibility applicable to all things; especially when my father’s moral inflexibility caused him to inform me, at a very young age, that he would prefer me to drown rather than be indebted to a pirate, shortly after I had just been rescued from drowning by an infamous pirate captain.” James sneered a little around the words. “Despite being young and impressionable at the time, I still eventually recognized that to be rather crass.”

Jack tensed slightly, his eyes wide with sudden realization. “Ah...would that happen to’ve been a Captain Teague, then?” he asked lightly.

“Yes, actually. You know him?”

Jack cleared his throat. “He’s me dad. And I was there for that skirmish. I remember hearing the Admiral say that.” And thinking him a right cad for it, too, he didn’t have to add.

“Ah. Small world. I don’t remember you, but as I was barely seven years old, I doubt that’s altogether surprising.”

“Aye.” Jack grinned. “But the world only really seems smaller for the relatively small number of people in it with a shiny touch of destiny leading them about. And you must admit that Captain Jack Sparrow is nothing if not incredibly shiny.”

“Your modesty and humbleness astounds us all,” James mocked.

“And your hidden wicked streak would scandalize more’n half the civilized world.”

“As though your life story could not do the same thing,” James scoffed.

“It truly couldn’t, Jamie; because I’m a pirate, so they expect debauchery and deception and villainy of all sorts from me, but you have a reputation as a fine and upstanding Navy gentleman with prospects-- or, at least, you did in the past--and so therefore the stories of past scandals you’ve kept hidden from the world have more potential to truly shock people. ‘M sincerely jealous of that. I take great pride in shocking people, as you might have noticed.”

“Ah, then you should more often show that hidden honorable streak of yours. It would positively stun people. In fact, I doubt that they would even actually believe it. It would seem, to them, to be too far beyond the pale.”

“Enough would believe it to ruin my damned reputation,” Jack grumbled.

“The irony of that statement is truly astounding.”

Jack snorted. Then he seemed to do a bit of delayed mental math and scowled abruptly. “How old are ye?”

“Nearing thirty-two years.”

Jack glanced at him oddly and cleared his throat, looking a little sheepish.

At this, James’ curiosity was piqued. “And you, Jack?”

He tried to grin unabashedly, but there was a hint of meekness in it. “You’re lookin’ at a pirate of forty-years, lad.” And you’ve been fucking him, too.

James’ eyebrows raised. “You hardly look it. Especially for a pirate. The sea’s been kinder to you than many.”

“It’s a matter of treating her right yerself,” Jack said, almost absently, still looking a bit taken aback. “How in the names of all the denizens of Hell did you get to be a commodore at--what was it--thirty? Thirty one?”

That earned a low laugh. “Because I’m ‘The Devil Himself’ James Norrington.”

“I’ve nearly ten years on you,” Jack huffed.

“Does it bother you?”

“How old would you’ve guess me, then?” Jack growled, glaring.

James considered this. “Perhaps somewhere in your mid-thirties.”

Jack preened a bit.

“I’m sure that part of it is your tendency not to act you age. Especially not insofar as your tendency toward acrobatic stunts. Perhaps the constant exercise you’ve gotten from fleeing so often has been keeping you young.”

“You’re a cruel man, Jamie. Mockin’ your elders.”

“I’m hardly complaining,” James murmured, leering a bit as he looked up and down Jack’s body with open appreciation.

Jack snorted. “Flattery will get you everywhere, mate. But I’m sure you had to learn that in the Navy.” The condescension in his tones was clear.

“Touche`, Jack,” James muttered.

“Good to be free of all that, isn’t it, James?”

A resigned sigh. “Yes. I want to deny that it was as bad as all that, but God is it fine not to have to deal with land-locked ignorant nobility trying to tell me how to run the Navy in a place that they have never visited and haven’t the imagination to do justice when they try to picture it.”

Jack’s eyebrows raised and he stared at James, struck speechless, but wearing a hint of a smirk on his face.

“What?”

Jack reached up and poked his forehead. “Feral.”

James growled, looking determinedly stoic, unimpressed, and overall commodore-like.

“Case in point.”

Rolling his eyes, James allowed the hint of a smile. “Perhaps. I am a hunter. Tame hunters are not nearly as good at catching the craftier types of wild prey.”

“Are you admitting that pirates are crafty, then?”

“Many are not, but I’ve met my share of far worthier adversaries,” James mused vaguely.

“Gibberish. You’re avoiding the direct attributing of due credit and praise, to me.”

“I’ve admitted grudging respect for you enough of recent, I think.”

“With such astounding charm, it’s no wonder ye were such a desirable bachelor,” Jack snapped, dripping sarcasm.

“Alas, propriety and my more gentlemanly nature prevented me from being nearly as acidic as I wished to be toward the marriage-mongering vultures of Port Royal. Damn my chivalry,” James deadpanned.

“True. In fact, Jamie, with me you’ve hardly been a gentleman.”

“Well, to be fair, you’ve hardly been a lady.”

Jack snorted. “Thank God.”

“Indeed. Yet another thing about which I have no complaint.”

A low, slightly dark laugh. “And wasn’t that a pleasant surprise. From our first little meeting, James, I thought you had enough of a pole up your arse with all your pomp and propriety that you’d’ve hardly had room left for buggery.”

James laughed openly, surprised and genuinely amused. “I shall have to remember that one, Jack. Quite good. It would have many a marine formerly under my command positively in stitches,” he sighed, his hand trailing up from Jack’s chest to his stomach.

“I’d imagine they thought you quite starched and proper, ay?”

“Of course. What kind of commodore do you take me for?”

“Former.”

“Fair enough."

A lengthy and companionable silence passed between them. Jack picked up Norrington’s hand and idly started mapping it.

“We should probably start coming up with a set of very clever plans for how we’re going to get rid of Beckett and Davy Jones,” James mused.

“Aye.”

Another long silence passed.

“Why can’t you use your compass?” James asked idly, sounding almost as if half-dozing, which he genuinely was.

Jack, however, was startled out of his own near-doze by that question, and pointedly cleared his throat in a nervous manner that caused James to open an eye and pay more attention. “I can use it. Works just fine,” Jack muttered.

“Which is, of course, why you required Elizabeth to find your heading.”

“Do you know that you have the single most insufferably evil British drawl that I have ever heard?” Jack grumbled. “Bloody stoic sonofa-”

“Flattery will not get you out of answering the question, Jack.”

A low growl escaped the pirate, but he reluctantly answered, “I don’t know what I want.”

“Ah. And how is that?”

“Because ten years is a long bloody time to be stuck aboard the Flying Dutchman ferrying souls to the next world, for one day ashore, ay? For all that it would mean sailing the seas for all eternity, which is an idea that I rather like.” He was still apparently fascinated with James’ hand. It was a good-looking hand, albeit roughened and marked with a few pale and shiny scars from work and from fighting. Jack was trying to recall the palmistry that he’d learned from an interesting gypsy woman around twenty years ago, with little success.

“Ah. You planned to stab the heart,” James mused.

“At first, yeah. I needed it anyway just because it seemed the simplest way to save my arse from Jones, but...well, immortality.”

“With some strings attached, in this case. Or...perhaps not strings: more like ropes or even chains, really,” James mused.

“Aye. So, much as I needed the chest, I could hardly figure out whether or not I actually wanted what was in it. Hardly the best conditions under which to attempt navigating.”

“Hm. Yes, I suppose so.” James sounded thoughtful, distracted.

“What’s on your mind, love?”

“Immortality. Especially if the afterlife in general is at all like this desert.”

Jack laughed. “Well, it might be for me, which is a damned good reason to avoid it in my case. I get the feeling that you’ll go someplace nicer so long as you can keep avoiding the Locker, here.”

James frowned very slightly. “Yes, but is ‘better than this’ all that it will be? I can’t imagine that one’s final resting place will be a place as vibrant, changeable, challenging, and interesting as the world of the living. I...do not want to stop living. Not when it’s taken me this long to start truly enjoying it this much.”

“I know exactly what you mean, mate,” Jack murmured. “But I’ve yet to find the fountain of youth or a map to it; although I think I might know of one, but that’s a scarcely more ‘n rumor. And I’ve not been able to get anywhere near Singapore since the first thing I stole from Sao Feng’s family, anyway.” He snorted. “Thusfar, only cursed Aztec gold and the heart of Davy Jones have crossed my path, and both put too high a price on the immortality they offered.”

“Yes. The skeletal look would not suit you.”

“It was more than that, mate. They couldn’t enjoy life: food and drink had no taste, liquor wouldn’t effect ‘em, they couldn’t feel warmth or pleasure from their lovers, and they couldn’t smell or taste or feel the wind and the sea.”

James swallowed quietly. “I see. They were even more cursed than they appeared to be, and that’s saying something,” he observed.

“Aye. Served them right, though. Treacherous, avaricious, unprincipled, deranged and perfidious mutineers to a man. Barbossa was the only man ever inspired me to take comfort in Dante’s Inferno, I’ll tell you that.”

“I can relate.” James looked again at the manacle-scars on his wrists, and saw Jack looking at them, too.

“A man in your own ranks?” Jack asked, his thumb running along one manacle-scar.

“A few of them. They sold out the entire ship to the Spanish, after disarming us the night before,” James murmured.

“Ah. They’re dead, then, I presume?”

“Very.”

“As is Barbossa.” The Jack’s hands stilled as a look of horrified realization slowly crept over his face. He winced, snarling, “...Oh. Bugger.”

James raised an eyebrow at the tension that he could feel spreading throughout the body of the pirate against him. “Jack?”

“Callie wants to be set free, Ay? She needs the nine pieces of eight, and the nine pirate lords to go with ‘em. Barbossa never passed on his piece of eight. He’s still a bloody pirate lord,” Jack growled. “So I think I’ve got a good idea who it is she’s sent to retrieve us, because he’ll be familiar with the path here and the path back, and he’ll owe her a quite serious debt, anyway.”

“Barbossa?”

“Aye.”

“Working for Calypso?”

“Aye.”

“...So it would be ill-advised for you to kill him again? Or for me to?”

“‘Fraid so,” Jack said through grit teeth. “Unless you want a wrathful goddess makin’ yer life miserable. And no doubt Hector’ll have some scheme he’ll be working on for his own benefit. He’s a more politically inclined wretch than I’ve ever been.”

“Insofar as pirates have politics,” James said distractedly, sounding thoughtful again, but this time in a more inspired fashion, as though he had an idea.

Jack perked up slightly. “You’ve a plan?”

“I believe that I do, but let’s see if it can possibly hold water; can you explain to me, briefly if you can, the rules you can recall surrounding the pirate lords, and what exactly they do? Other than, of course, squabble like a number of cats thrown into the same water-barrel.”

Jack did. At some point, due to explanatory hand gestures, he let go of James’ hand.

“Shipwreck cove. Hmm.” James’ fingers idly toyed with a couple of the baubles in Jack’s hair, not actually looking at them, but the different textures under his moving fingers helped him think. Then, very quietly, he laughed.

“I think I’ve an idea what you’re onto,” Jack mused, the wheels in his own brain turning.

James began to explain. Then Jack started adding to the plan. Soon they were both sitting up, arguing good-naturedly and gesturing and questioning and occasionally smiling like madmen. Then they moved to Jack’s cabin and pored over maps, talking more quietly for no other reason than it was darker in the cabin and softer voices seemed more apt.

They spent a number of hours on their plotting, until they were satisfied with the plan’s overall outline and the contingencies they had come up with; or, at least, satisfied enough to allow themselves to be thoroughly distracted by Jack’s bed--or, rather, by James’ sudden inspiration to tie Jack’s wrists to the bed frame. Jack was soon too breathless to complain.

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