Archive: Well heck, if you want.

Author's notes: Okay, after all the wonderful feedback from everyone, I decided to post the stories as finished - because really they are stand-alone, and not WIP's. You don't have to read one to get the others, plus two of them aren't even based in my 'Matter of Rules' arc, so there you have it.

Dedicated To: My Figgy, Heterosexual Life Partner. For her Christmas Present she wanted a story about Jack, James, and pie. I call her little tale, 'No Honor'. Merry Christmas, sweetie.

No Honor

By L.M. Griffin

Captain Jack Sparrow stepped into the Farthest Point pub with the smug satisfaction of a job well done.

Sailed right into the waters surrounding Port Royal without crossing the path of a single other ship? Done, and that wasn't an easy task, considering how recognizable the Black Pearl was. It took a lot of fast thinking (his), a lot of good sailing (the men and Anamaria), and of course the sleekness of his own ship, (the Pearl, kisskisslovetheprettyshipyes.)

Rowed himself right into Port Royal proper without getting blown to smithereens by the Fort Charles cannons? Done, but that really wasn't that daunting. It was a mere day before Christmas Eve, after all, and even if it wasn't that chilly in the Caribbees, every soldier wanted a nip of rum punch before he stood on guard duty. Or two ... or three...

Jack smirked. Right now those marine lads were probably so soused with drink he could have sailed the Pearl right up to the docks and merrily jigged through the streets singing Christmas carols, and all they would have done was smiiiiiiiiiiiiile. More than likely they would have joined in.

Jack swaggered his way over to the counter, tri-cornered hat tilted at a rakish, or so he hoped, angle over his dark, bangle-filled hair. His coat was newer and warmer, along with his fine new black boots, but he still held unto his old sword and other effects. He looked fine, felt the same, and the holiday cheer was upon him in full force.

Now, part three of his great and marvelous Christmas plan - find the Turners and let them know, as promised on their wedding day a year past, that he had indeed come to spend Christmas with his favorite blacksmith and roguish well-bred wife. But first, a jug of wine for the happy couple, and a glass of rum for him. Well, maybe a bottle. You could never have enough rum.

"A good evenin' to you, Mr. Chip." He called out cheerily, to the tavern keeper, an old sea-salted bo'sun who ran a unique sort of tavern - where pirates and Naval officers, jack-tars and admirals alike could all sit together and enjoy a good pint at a clean table. This wasn't Jack's first time in this fine establishment, and he doubted it would be the last. His dark eyes, flashing gold like his smile in the candlelight, lit up with humor as Marcus Chip turned towards him suddenly, surprise on his craggy face.

Marcus's sharp eye gleamed, "Jack Sparrow, as I live and breath."

"Still Captain, Marcus. CAPTAIN Jack Sparrow." Jack's golden smile widened as both men briefly clasped hands, "How goes the world of warm ale and even warmer barwenches?"

"The liquor and 'n the singin' still flow." Marcus put out a mug, and a well-familiar bottle that made Jack smack his lips appreciatively, "And piratin' seems to be suitin' you well enough."

Jack took the mug of rum in hand, inhaling its amber-sweet fragrance, savoring his first sip like a truly vintage wine. He let out a content sigh as it slide down to his belly, warm and welcome. Only after that did he reply, "Can't complain. I should be thankin' Norrington for clearin' away the competition."

There was a swift sharp look over Marcus's face that caught Jack's quick eye, but it was Marcus's words that truly caught Jack's interest, " 'Ey Jack. Leave the Commodore alone this time around."

Jack lifted one eyebrow, "Can't say I was going lookin' for the man, mate." Marcus gave him an incredulous look, and Jack chortled, "Well, not durin' the festive holidays. Even Norrington deserves a respite." His head tilted curiously, "... I take it the man's got troubles?"

"Troubles aplenty." Marcus nodded his head soberly, "His wife died in childbirth, not three months past."

Jack choked a little in dismayed surprise. Norrington married? Then again, was he that shocked? The Commodore had wealth, position, and fine looks aplenty. He'd never suffer for lovers, even after his mourning period. Jack cleared his throat, clasping his hands around his mug, "What of the child?"

"He lives, and thrives, Lord be praised. Port Royal's more worried about the father." Marcus said gravely.

"He must have loved her greatly." Jack murmured, realizing that had to be true, for the Commodore was still unwed when they crossed swords at Will and Elizabeth's wedding in his yet-again-brilliant-escape, and he wasn't the sort of man to marry for simple wealth. True love had finally come to the Commodore, it seemed.

Marcus, to Jack's great surprise, snorted, "Perh'ps so, although I cannae see why."

"Oh?" Jack made the singular word into an intriguing question. as he tilted his head and leaned in closer. "Do tell."

"One shouldn't speak ill of the dead." Marcus intoned, then snorted again as he took a clean cloth and wiped down the counter, "So there's little I can say about her at all."

"Then why would Norrington ..." Jack's eyebrows drew together, then enlightenment touched his elvin face, followed by a certain wry amusement, "Let me guess, the child was a mite bit sooner than expect'd?"

Marcus tapped the side of his nose with a knowing glint in his eye, which was all the answer Jack needed. He shook his head, and lifted his mug in a silent salute, before downing its contents, "Well, here' to the next love of Commodore Norrington's life. Let's hope it's one that lasts - and one that's a bit more than a bedroom tumble."

"Amen to that. ... is that all you're havin'?" Marcus's tone belayed no little surprise as Jack took out a hefty purse, his own for a change.

"Aye, but I'll take a bottle of the same for my owneyes, 'n a further bottle of your finest wine t'share." Jack said with a gallant grin, slapping down the appropriate silver on the counter. "I'm goin' a'visitin' for Christmas."

A grizzled smile crossed Marcus's face, as he put both bottles on the counter. "The Turners will be happy t'see you then."

"I should hope so, mate!" Jack smirked, swaying to his feet, delicately tucking both bottles into his broad pockets, "Seein' as they were the ones to invite me in the first place. A Happy Christmas t'you, Marcus."

"The same t'you, Jack Sparrow." Marcus called out, as Jack made his way towards the door. Jack gave the tavern keeper a jaunty little salute, before ambling out into the Port Royal night. The sights of holly wreathes on the doors cheered him, and the flickers of a half-remembered carol filled his mind as he made his way to William Turner's home and blacksmithy. If the letter Will had sent him was to be believed, was in the finer part of town - a wedding present from the proud Governor Swann to his industrious son-in-law. Jack began to hum, tipping his hat at a pair of ladies walking past who stared at him as if he had two heads instead of just the one, but he felt encouraged when one of them giggled after he passed. The humming became singing after that, "... Fa la la Lalala...Deck the .... somethin' ... somethin' ..."

Drat, what were the words? He dredged his rum-soaked brain as he left the town proper, moving along to the more lush and high-t'do end of Port Royal. However, singing and walking both suddenly stopped as his eyes fell upon a house set away from the street, with a fine stretch of lawn and trees. It wasn't a particularly fancy home - more like it had a simplistic charm to it. Ignoring the fact the windows and door were draped in solid black, of course.

"The home o' Norrington." Jack mused aloud, doffing his hat respectfully as he moved on. Save one candlelit room above, the house was dark and still. Jack wondered if Norrington sat at a desk this night, or with his motherless child. A grin flashed over his face at the thought of Norrington attempting to do both.

So Norrington had married for duty and respectability. A shame, that. Jack always hoped the man would find a better replacement for Elizabeth. Now, mind, he was fond of Mrs. Turner - it did his heart proud to see her turning from a willful girl to a strong woman. Peas in a pod they were - but Elizabeth still lacked the scope to realize what she had lost in Norrington. A lot to be said for the stoic, strong types. Dependable, faithful, determined, but with a burning passion beneath ... huh. He was describing Will, wasn't he?

Well, Elizabeth had her stoic lad, then. Now if Norrington could only find his wild spirit, his ... how did the French put it? Joie de vivre.

'God knows we all deserve that.' Jack thought to himself grimly as he continued down the street apace. However, his dark expression broke like the sun through the clouds into a broad smile at the sight that appeared before him. A snug but prosperous home - a smithy below and above ... a warm home filled with lights, all glowing within the house, even to the utmost window. Like friendly little beacons, welcoming him home.

Especially that highest window. Seeing how it was all nicely ajar, and the like.

Jack grinned, gold in the dark, and eyed the side of the house speculatively.

Scaling the house took a few go's - plaster and whitewash was slicker than people realized. However, he finally gained the window, and hoisted himself inside, where after closing the window, he promptly caught his foot on a table by said window and brought it, and himself, tumbling down to the floor. He grunted in pain, quickly checking both bottles. He let out a deep sigh of relief to find both unbroken.

He sat up, dusting himself off and straightening his tri-cornered hat, when something that had spilled off the table caught his attention. A letter, addressed to him. He plucked it up with two fingers, curiously staring at it, then he broke the seal to read the contents.

'Dearest Jack,' the letter began, and Jack immediately recognized the handwriting as Elizabeth Swann nee Turner, the same that had come along with his Christmas invitation. He continued to read.

'Dearest Jack,

If you are reading this note, you've broken into our home. Will said you'd use the front door, but I knew better.'

Jack grinned wickedly. She did, at that. He continued to read,

'You are now in our bedroom. Take a moment to admire the decor, but don't steal Anything. And yes, Jack, there are things to catch your eye. Don't touch them if you ever want to know the feel of a woman again.'

Jack looked around speculatively, and then heaved out a sigh. Bloody Turners, always making him be good and honest.

'Please exit the bedroom.' Jack did so, with much amusement, 'Now, walk down the hall to the first door to the right.' Jack walked, admiring the simple yet elegant style that Elizabeth adopted on her home insofar. He'd have to comment on that after mocking her cheerfully on her way to give house tours... 'Open the door, step inside, quietly, and give your god-daughter a kiss.'

A gentle smirk smoothed over Jack's golden face, and he folded up the letter and stuffed it into his inside pocket, then opened the door carefully. Like the pirate he was and was proud to be, he crept over to the bassinet where the small infant girl slept. Rebecca Anne Turner was a bonny lass to be sure, pink and pretty in all her small delicacy. Jack ran one ringed finger along her soft infant cheek, murmuring, "H'llo lil'poppet. Uncle Jack's going t'steal himself a kiss, if y'don't mind."

Which he did, a gentle brushing of lips on the baby's brow, before he retreated back the way he came, keeping the door open a crack if the baby cried and the nurse needed to tend to her. He presumed there was one - Elizabeth and Will were more than willing to risk their own damned necks for any cause, but he doubted they left their firstborn on her owneyes. Digging out the letter once more, he moved towards the stairs at the end of the hall, still reading.

'Don't wake the nurse...' Jack let out a sigh of relief, '...she works hard enough and deserves her rest. Otherwise, make yourself at home - we've made you up a lovely room in the garret in the smithy. I even found those silken sheets you adore so much, just so you can be as debauched as you like. We'll be back later - I am hosting Father's Christmas Party tonight. Which shall prove to be a dull and tedious affair - but Father loves them so...

NO, you may Not come. I mean it, Jack. Stay there, drink rum, and keep out of trouble for once. Please?

And if pleading doesn't work, remember what I said about never knowing the love of a woman again.

All my love,

Jack stepped into the downstairs hall, looking off to where the front door obviously lay, and then the one that must lead down to the smithy shoppe. Again, his gaze swiveled back and forth, before his lips curved upwards, almost demonically so. Puck himself could not do a better 'It's time to cause a little trouble' smile, for Jack owned it and all its patents. He ambled towards the front door, speaking to himself, "Well, after all, it's only polite as I, the guest, t'see JUST how long his hosts are going t'be. I mean, she can't expect me t'stay in this house all on my lonesome without any idea where they'll be back. Right? O'course right."

He swung open the front door, and another note peered out at him from inside the wreath at the door. With his name, again, printed on it, but in a different hand. He delicately removed it from the colorful branches festooned with ribbon, opening it slowly.

'Jack,' it read, 'I knew you couldn't resist coming after us, even if Elizabeth said you wouldn't dare, I knew better. For the love of HEAVEN, use the back door when you arrive and above all things, Avoid Norrington.


Jack shook his head, causing all his bangles to jangle in time, snorting as he adjusted his hat. He sauntered out the door, closing it firmly behind him. The Turners were just a little too astute in reading Jack Sparrow. He'd have to do something about that...


"..Deck the ... somethin'...somethin' ...buggerit." Jack muttered to himself, tipping his hat at yet another fine lady, who blinked at him twice before gliding on past, nose in the air. Jack smirked after her, and moved on further into the press. He was well in the throes of the Governor's party, which, in his concerted opinion, needed a great deal more rum and a lot less babbling about things that didn't matter. Like the bloody weather. If he heard one more comment about what a fine day it had been today, he might snap and start forcing liquor down all these poshies throats.

Port Royal's 'finest' were clearly her dullest.

"Give me a pub 'n Christmas carols bellowed any damn'd day." Jack said to himself, oozing past a group of well-heeled gentlemen that harrurmphed at his golden smile, but did naught else.

The pirate captain sniggered, turning towards the refreshment table at the request of his empty stomach. His gaze brightened at the table's lone occupant, who was clearly standing guard in the most awkward stance possible. Jack crept behind the other guests, tiptoeing until he was right at the Guardian of the Foie Gras's back, then rolled forward to whisper in the young man's ear, "Now what's a Pirate like you doin' in a posh place like this, eh?"

William Turner, Jr., much to Jack's glee, nearly jumped, before turning around swiftly. His youthful, goatee-d face brightened as he clasped the arm of his older friend, exclaiming, "Jack! You did come!"

"A'course I did. I gave m'word, didnae I?" Jack clapped Will on the shoulder, looking him over critically. The suit was new, well-made, and the year had given Will a bit more height and distinction. Jack nodded his head approvingly, "Year's been good t'you, whelp."

"By the look of your new clothes, I can safely say the same." Will grinned as Jack twirled around gracefully, snorting when Jack twisted up the ends of his mustache to further the preening. Then his face became a tad more serious, "You...didn't happen to steal the punch bowl, did you Jack?"

Jack's eyebrows shot up with surprise, "...Will m'lad, I'm a good thief, no lie, but even I can't steal somethin' I've never laid eyes on."

"True enough ..." Amusement curled Will's lips, "And it's not like I can't search your pockets for it either." Jack wriggled his eyebrows with a smirk, and Will continued, curiosity clear in his brown eyes, "How did you get in here? I thought you'd have the kitchen staff in an uproar, wandering through their territory."

"I concur." Jack smiled amicably, as he started to pluck food off the table, and into the palm of his hand, "That's why I went through the front door."

Will's eyebrows shot up alarmingly, as he comically stared at Jack, then towards the front hall, then back to the pirate. "The Front Door!?" He let out a sharp breath, lowering his voice quickly, "Then let me rephrase the question - how did you avoid being shot?"

Jack delicately popped a strawberry tart into his mouth, chewed happily, then swallowed as he contemplatively eyed Will. He continued to munch, as he answered, "M'boy, this is a respect'ble English home. Pirates do not wander in from the streets without so much as a slink into respect'ble English homes, especially not through the front door. So obviously, I am not a pirate, but an invited guest. Someone's eccentric third cousin. Or someone's brotherly eunuch. Or whatever they fancy. Savvy?"

"..You mean to tell me they are simply ignoring you?" Will looked somewhere between shocked and awed.

"What offends simply does not exist." Jack intoned with a solemn sneer, as two gentlemen walked right around him to get to the shrimp, without a second glance. They continued talking about the price of wool, ignoring Jack but offering Will a brief nod, which he responded to numbly. Behind them, Jack made faces, and then waggled his eyebrows as he continued to eat.

Will watched the two men walk away, back -around- Jack, muttering softly, "That's incredible. You might as well be invisible."

"Welcome to the world of po-lite so-ciety." Jack clapped Will's shoulder comfortingly, "Now, where's your bonny bride? I want t'give my respects before she sends me runnin'."

At that precise moment, Elizabeth Turner swept into the dining room, a vision of loveliness in her gown of rich crimson velvet, which was only marred by the perturbed frown on her face. She came up to her husband's side, pressing a distracted kiss to his cheek, "Well, I'm beginning to think it's hopeless. I can't find either ... Jack! What are you doing here?" She scowled prettily at the pirate, "I thought I told you to wait at the house, you scoundrel."

"Elizabeth, darling." Jack chided, taking up her smooth white hand, a bit more work worn than before but still as lovely. He kissed it gallantly, "Y'know better to tell a pirate what he can or cannot do. I nearly rode a horse right through the front door, I felt so challenged."

"...He probably could have gotten away with it, too." Will said, shaking his head ruefully.

"You're an irrepressible fiend, Jack Sparrow." Elizabeth proclaimed, even as she pressed a kiss to his bristled cheek, "Now. I won't even ask how you got in here, it will probably break my frazzled nerves all to bits. However, I must know, did you steal the punch bowl? It was fine crystal, filled to the brim with eggnog and rum." She waited, eyebrow raised.

Jack looked to the ceiling, sighing in aggrievement, "A fine prize t'be sure, luv, but as I've told your fine husband, I haven't seen it. B'sides, I prefer m'rum un-dil-lit-tat-ted, as it were."

Elizabeth absorbed this, before she tilted her chin up further and shot back, "Very well. Did you steal the Commodore?"

For a long moment, all Jack and Will could do was gape at her in amazement. Then Jack turned towards Will, glowering, "What sorts of tales have you been tellin' this woman of yours, that she thinks I make off with Naval officers at a whim?"

Will's mouth worked for a moment, before he smiled wanly, "Not all treasure is silver and gold?" He shook his head, "Has the Commodore gone missing?"

"Completely. The last time anyone saw him, Mildred Hutchins was trying to corner him under the mistletoe. She just happened to get a cup of punch poured down the back of her dress. Lieutenant Groves was terribly contrite about it afterwards." A faint smirk traced over Elizabeth's face on the contriteness of said Groves, who was probably still chortling, "So, did you take him, Jack?"

Jack snorted, folding his arms over his chest, "No, I have not made off with bowl, sauced eggnog, nor Commodore." He stopped, then frowned, "Wait, what's the man doin' here in the first place? He's in mourning, is he not?"

Elizabeth sighed, the amusement fading into worry, "It was Father's idea. He couldn't bear the thought of James spending Christmas all alone in his house, with no-one but the servants and the baby." A look of concern deepened in her brown eyes, "He ...hasn't been himself."

"And this is no time of the year to be without family." Will added gently, his arm curling around Elizabeth's shoulders, with a meaningful lilt in his voice as he addressed Jack.

Jack acknowledged it with a simple nod of understanding, then intakes a deep breath, "SO. What are we going t'do to track down said Commodore 'n missing bowl of holiday cheer?"

"Our plan of action is this." Elizabeth said briskly, "I'll keep looking for the punch bowl. Will, go searching for the Commodore. Leave no stone unturned. Jack, get the hell out of here and wait for us back at the house." She lifted a finger at Jack's protesting expression, "I mean it, Jack. Captain Gillette's in a worried rampage about the Commodore, and if he sees you here, he'll think you've stolen both eggnog and James for nefarious purposes."

"...Just what exactly could Jack do that would be considered that horrible with eggnog and Commodore Norrington?" Will asked, his handsome face puzzled and frowning.

"Actu'lly, I could ... " Jack thoughtfully twirled his chin-braids around finger, before stopping at the suddenly stern expressions on both the Turners faces. He cleared his throat, putting on one of his charming, yet innocent looks, "Nothin'. Nothin' at all. I'll jest be creepin' on back to the Turner hearth, then."'

He backed away slowly, waggling his fingers in goodbye as both Turners continued to glare at him, then turned to make his swift retreat. Well, mostly swift retreat. You try running through a room full of people who are still consistently ignoring you. They only started parting for Jack when they realized he was trying to leave, and then it was rather like the ruddy parting of the Red Seas. Jack bit his lip and stilled his hands to keep from quoting Moses at the fancy-tailed blighters, for he could see the pointy hat of Captain Gillette from the far end of the hall, arguing with the man who could only be Groves, and Jack had no wish to see the caustic young man again. He and Gillette had far too many scores to settle between them to meet in a high society setting.

Outside was better. Outside was where he could breath, take in the smell of the ocean and the freedom it meant. 'How could anyone want t'be tied to duty and all it's rubbish?' Jack huffed, smoothing down his coat and adjusting his hat. There were entire worlds to discover out on the open sea, adventures and treasures beyond human reckoning to be found. 'What sort of lunatic chose to live like this?' Jack thought to himself with no end of disgust, as he eyed the hulking mass of Fort Charles, 'When there's all that lovely horizon to explore?'

Jack sighed as he began walking down the hill, back to the Turner home. Will lived the respectable life. Elizabeth, as well. There had to be something to it, something he was missing. He just didn't understand. Not like they would be able to explain it to him - it was probably as normal to them as breathing. He needed to talk to someone who stepped outside the regimentation, who had more wisdom and scope ...

His eyes fell on the hulking mass of Fort Charles, and a sudden thought occurred to him. Several, in fact. If you were a Commodore who was probably unwillingly forced to go to a party, would you take the first opportunity to escape? If you did, where would you go? And if you made your escape, would you take the bowl of eggnog liberally doused with rum because by God you deserved it? Would you be able to explain to a pirate just why exactly you were off your noggin enough to want to be part of all this madness people called 'civilized living'?

The answer to all these questions was a resounding Yes, To my bleedin' big fort, Oh Hell Yes, and If the pirate asks nicely and plies me with more liquor.

Jack smiled.


Commodore James Norrington, pride of His Majesty's Navy, loyal commanding officer of His Majesty's troops, was quite gloriously drunk.

The only reason he knew, absolutely knew he was drunk was the fact that he was fairly sure on a normal day he would not be sitting on the Fort Charles wall, a crystal bowl of eggnog beside him, contemplating the steep drop below into the ocean. At least if he was sober, he'd have his hat. Or his wig.

He had a terrible feeling, however, that he had dropped both over the wall down into that steep drop, and was even now contemplating just hopping off the wall to go get them. After all, he reasoned to himself, Elizabeth fell off and she was fine. Sorry, Mrs. Turner. But Mrs. ... whoever she was at the moment, fell off just fine and dandy.

Not to mention the pirate. Yes. Jack Sparrow also tumbled off, backwards no less!, and he lived to swim off to his pretty ship with the pretty black sails...

Hm. Where was Sparrow? He expected him ages ago. After all, was Norrington not the laughing stock of Port Royal? Sparrow was always here making Norrington look like more the fool at any given occasion, and he couldn't think of a reason why the pirate wouldn't be here to gloat in his downtrodden ...downess. Downess. Was that even a word?

It was at that moment when Norrington was contemplating the meaning of words that a grappling hook came up seemingly from the depths of the ocean and hooked on the section of the wall right next to him. Norrington blinked at it, then at the rope attached, which was quivering slightly under the weight of someone climbing UP it. Norrington helped himself to another glass of eggnog, sipping it and waiting. After all, if it was someone large with a sword, he could probably fend him off. Or push him over. Too bad he sent the guards away an hour ago, they might have helped. Perhaps it was that mermaid Gillette was always talking about. She'd flop up here and they'd have a lovely conversation and then he'd kiss her and she'd tell him she was in love with a French shoemaker who could kiss like the blazes, more than likely...

A tri-corned hat appeared, making Norrington sigh with relief. Mermaids didn't wear such hats, thank goodness, so he wouldn't have to suffer the injustice of being left by a mythical creature. Two rather familiar ringed hands curled up around the edge of the stone wall, causing Norrington to look over to see if he recognized the rest of the person. Which he did, and his expression brightened as he peered down, "Ah! I was just wondering where you were."

He leaned over, and grabbed Jack Sparrow by the back of his coat, hauling the sputtering pirate up and over the edge of the wall, sprawling him rather ungracefully down on the fort's floor. But it was all right, because he fell with Sparrow. Or rather, under him. That would explain the hardness of the stone beneath his back and the warm pirate pressed to the front of him, smelling of rum and strawberries, oddly enough. Sparrow stared down at him, his golden mouth open in shock. Norrington hiccuped, and offered a stern look in return, "Sparrow, you're squashing me."

Sparrow's eyebrows raised further, before the shock faded into amusement, "...M'apologies. Had I known y'were goin' t'lift me up like a fish onna hook, I would have better prepared m'self not t'land on you."

"How could I ever let the opportunity pass me by to lay my hands on the famed 'Captain' Jack Sparrow?" Norrington drawled, poking Sparrow in the chest. Bare fingertip against bare skin, which was warm and slightly sweaty. "Now, get up and tell me what took you so damned long, pirate."

Sparrow rolled back easily enough, leaning his head against the stone ledge that Norrington had just been perching on, eyeing Norrington speculatively, "I was unaware we had an appointment, Commodore. Unless you're speakin' of that one with the gallows, and I'm afraid I simply cannot organize m'schedule t'fit that one in."

"No, no. I thought you'd be here ages ago. I mean, after all, I've been at the lowest point of my life for a good two months now. I really expected you to be a little more prompt, Sparrow, in your mocking schedule." Norrington gave the pirate an accusing look, as he sat up.

Sparrow's expression changed emotions like the Caribbean weather, fast and furious, finally settling with helpless amusement, "Forgive me, Commodore. I jest came back into town today, and heard of the passing of your wife. Nothing to mock you about, I assure you. I'm sure she was a very fine, distinguished woman."

"Oh yes, quite. The most distinguished whore in all of Port Royal. She'd open her legs to anyone. She DID open her legs to anyone, after all. She crawled into bed with me." Norrington drawled out, then sighed, "Of course, it's your fault that she did."

He managed to shock Sparrow again. How pleasing. He hoped to keep doing it. The pirate worked his full lips for a moment, before managing to say weakly, "Beggin' the Commodore's pardon, but how is it my fault your deceased wife is a dirty strumpet?"

"Do you remember our last incident during the Turner wedding, where you hopped over that barrel, and I attempted to follow you, only to fall into the bay?" Norrington asked dryly, leaning forward on his elbows.

"Aye, I do at that." A wicked sparkle entered Sparrow's eye at the memory, while he attempted not to laugh.

"Well, I caught cold, and was bedridden. My dear, dear lately departed Clarisse crept in my window in the middle of the night and ... well. Let us just say that certain things happened that would not have if I had been in a better state of mind." He could feel the bitterness creeping through where the liquor had stunted, "I married her, as her plotting and my own duty required, but ... well, I took the vows seriously, and she did not. It was to the point to when she revealed she was with child that I had to resist the urge to ask her who the father was."

Sparrow's face took on a strange lilt, one of almost fury, that surprised Norrington to no end. He thought Sparrow might have a good laugh, or at least give him some superior pity. No, Sparrow seemed almost as that if Clarisse wasn't dead, he'd throttle her with those fine hands of his. Wordlessly, Sparrow dug into his jacket pocket, and brought out a bottle of wine, one that Norrington recognized as one of Marcus Chip's finest. Flickering out a dagger, he worked the cork loose, and handed it over to Norrington, speaking solemnly, "M'humblest apologies then, Commodore. I never meant for you t'get stuck with someone unworthy of your attentions b'cause of my foolishness."

Norrington took the wine, with a little dip of his head, glad to know that Sparrow was, for once, going to give him some peace, "You brought liquor, so you are forgiven. However, you will be in my debt if you help me get my hat and wig." He took a long swig, feeling the sweet wine mix in with the even sweeter eggnog.

"Seems the least I can do, mate. Where did y'see them last?" Sparrow said, amusement clearing away the fury, like a sharp breeze.

Norrington gestured towards the edge, as he struggled to his feet, "Now, I'll just pop over the edge there, and fetch them. You meet me down below, and fish me out, as I'll be rather waterlogged..."

Sparrow's eyes widened with alarm, as he rose to his feet quickly, blocking Norrington's taller body with his own shorter, lithe one. Quick as a snake, Sparrow was, and with the smile of the serpent as he said soothingly, "I've got a better idea, Commodore. How 'bout I take you home, 'n you can get a new hat and wig?"

"...Well, that seems a trifle wasteful." Norrington said, wavering a little.

"How about we go searchin' for them in the daylight, then? We're not exactly going t'have much luck findin' them in the dark, now are we?" Sparrow's smile was widening, "B'sides, I don't fancy tellin' Mrs. Turner that I let y'slip through my fingers and off the fort wall. She'll get a mite bit furious with me if I lose you in the darkness of the bay, savvy?"

"Yeee-es, Elizabeth is rather fierce when she's angry, isn't she?" Norrington mused thoughtfully, turning on his heel to head in the opposite direction, "Although I do feel odd traversing around without my hat, it's probably for the best that we do as she would like. Almost everyone does that. Except for Clarisse, but she's dead now, so that doesn't matter ... her hips were too narrow for childbirth. Not Elizabeth's, Clarisse's. That's why she died, you see ...and she left me little James, which was really the nicest thing she's ever done for me ... " Norrington trailed off, then he shook his head a little, "But really, Elizabeth's hips seem almost as narrow. I seem to find myself constantly entangled with small boned women who don't fancy me at all."

He found Sparrow at his elbow, which was helpful because the ground was tilting once more and he didn't want to lose the wine bottle. Sparrow's arm creeped around his waist, as he spoke in a soothing tone as they made their way down the tricky stairs, both wobbling a fair bit, "Now, I wouldn't say that. I know Elizabeth might not have taken the marriageable shine t'you, but Clarisse must have found somethin' in your bed that she liked."

Norrington looked down at Sparrow, then scoffed a little, "Oh Please. She liked my position in society, Sparrow, and the stability I gave her wanton whoring. After that one night, she never came into my bed again. Do you know what she said to me? .... well, of course you don't. I haven't told you yet. She called me the coldest fish in all the ocean." He took another swig of wine, and sighed, "The entire world."

Sparrow was quiet, as if contemplating, but the silence dragged on longer than Norrington liked. He looked down at the pirate again, finding a carefully blank face, "...What?"

"Well ... I was just thinkin'.." Sparrow said slowly, as they moved through the near empty courtyard, where a few guards gave them a quick glance and then away again, as if they never saw their superior officer moving about with a mysteriously familiar looking fellow in fancy dress, "Perh'ps you are a bit caught up in catchin' pirates, mate. Maybe if y'spent MORE time on your social skills, 'n your presentation of yourself, y'wouldn't get that 'cold fish' reputation, as it were. I mean, y'do come off as a bit frosty."

Norrington suddenly dug in his heels, refusing to go an inch further, as he glared down at the pirate, "Are you perhaps implying that I am without passion, Sparrow? Are you saying that an officer of the British Royal Navy is incapable of being ...fiery with lust?"

"...Doesn't seem t'me that you fellows get much towards lukewarm, Norrington." Sparrow said with a smirk, "Unless you'd be wantin' to prove me different." He flashed golden teeth, the challenge there and unspoken, and there was the smugness that grated on Norrington's nerves, that made him want to start a duel with the damned bastard, or even prove him wrong on the most animalistic of levels...

Oh, he'd show this pirate. He'd show all of them, but first he'd show this pirate. They were in a darkened hall, yet he could see the moment when Sparrow's smirk widened in what he thought was his silent victory over the Commodore. Which was when Norrington swung him around, pushing him none too gently into the stone wall, his other arm wrapping around the pirate's waist, melding them together as he growled, "Lukewarm?"

Opening up his anger to his passion and his sudden bolt of lust, he parted his lips and pulled Sparrow's into a deep, deepening by the moment, kiss. He felt the pirate gasp beneath him, flail his arms a few times in surprise, and then ... and then felt those arms clasp around him just as tightly as his own did, and that still mouth of Sparrow's open eagerly. He pulsed his tongue within its too hot, rummy, slightly strawberry tasting depths, stealing Sparrow's breath. Deepening his kiss, his hold on the man becoming all encompassing as one hand snaked up to tangle into the beaded, bangle-filled hair, crushing their lips even more firmly together.

Well, this was another thing he'd never be doing sober. Even if his body informed him he should have a long time ago.

Sparrow was making encouraging sort of moans beneath him, which really was rather complimentary, considering how many people Sparrow had probably kissed. His pride properly assuaged, he tapered off the kiss slowly, giving Sparrow's lower lip one last little nibble, before straightening, an officer in all his uniformed glory. And with the same dignity, he plucked the surprised, breathless pirate's hat from his head, and put it on his own. Then he continued down the way, calling over his shoulder, "Come along, Jack. Plenty more where that came from."

A viciously pleased smile passed his face when he heard the swift footfalls of Sparrow behind him, and the sudden arm clasping a little more firmly around his waist, as Sparrow whispered fiercely in his ear, "Huzzah, Norrington..."

"James." He said, almost piously, "I think you'll agree that we are now on first name terms."

The arm tightened again, and Jack smiled against his skin, "James, then. Huzzah, James.."


Jack had never been so glad to be a proving ground before in his entire life.

All right, so it was taking a bit longer to get the good Commodore home that it really should, but was it his fault that every time he just happen to mention that perhaps the last kiss they shared could have been improved on by a little more ... verve, that the Commodore had pushed him into the nearest alley, doorstop, or wall to prove him wrong with his lips and his hands? Certainly not. Of course, he had still yet to get to his question answered, but he was starting to realize there were some benefits to living in Port Royal. Delectable British Royal Naval Officers, for one.

And the fact that James actually KNEW the words to that ruddy Christmas Carol was more than reason enough for Jack to want to kiss him. Again. In more intimate places. They were singing it together, in fact, softly at James's insistence as they walked arm in arm down the street, the half finished bottle of wine in James's grip, and the barely sipped at bottle of rum in Jack's. Oh, he wanted to be sober enough to remember all of this. Of what transpired, and what would as soon as he could get James somewhere he could properly deal with this rather fine specimen of Naval manhood. He mused on that little happy thought, as he sang, "...Deck the halls with boughs of holly...'tis the season to be jolly ... fah la la lala lalala..."

"You missed a line of falala's." James observed drolly, taking another long sip of wine. He smiled warmly at Jack, which did interesting things to Jack's pulse. He pushed away the feelings of guilt that traversed with cavorting with a Commodore who obviously had a bit more drink in him than usual. After all, the Commodore kissed -him- first. That in itself was invitation to further scuppering, in Jack's opinion.

Besides, he rarely lay with men these days. Too many seemed to think that a swaggering pirate meant he was a bit nancy in the masculine department. Just because he lined his eyes with kohl didn't make him weak, for Godssakes. At least there was no problem of that with James. He knew Jack was dangerous, and brutal, and manly in all the right manly sorts of ways. Yet he still kissed him, still let himself be kissed. All right, so it was because he was drunk. He was upright and talking coherently. That was more than sober enough for Jack Sparrow.

However, now was the moment for some questions, as they were between ranting and kissing, so Jack gently turned James into the wall, and rolled up next to him, pressing his slighter form close to the taller one of James. To his secret delight, James wrapped his arm around him, holding him closer, his wine-coated breath hot against Jack's ear as he leaned in to give Jack's earlobe a light nibble. Jack shuddered in appreciation, before putting a stilling hand on the Commodore's chest, "Now hold up there, Jamie. I got me a question I want answered."

"Ask away." James said gallantly, and Jack noted with some wonder that when he was relaxed his green eyes were deep enough to drown in. Like a storm swept sea, echoing depths that he had yet to imagine...

Shaking off that pulled-under feeling, Jack cleared his throat, "Tell me, what good is it t'be tied to this town, this society? Not that y'seem to fancy it much, as you escape it with eggnog."

James looked taken aback, and he tilted his head in confusion, "What do you mean?"

"I mean ... why choose to tie yourself down to a life where women take advantage of you and people are vindictive 'n cruel behind their pretty well-blooded masks. Why do you, James Norrington, choose to live in proper society when it's done nothin' for you?" Jack felt the frustration welling up and through his voice. He was suddenly aware that perhaps his words weren't the wisest, or well put, and waited to see if the coldness would return to James's eyes and tone.

James, instead, twirled his fingers around Jack's chin braids, smiling softly, "You really don't understand, do you?"

"No, love. I can't say that I do." Jack said shortly, even as he leaned into the touch, "I have the horizon. What do you have that keeps y'here?"

"...It's not that it keeps me here. It's that I have something to come back to. I have a journey's end. Yes, sometimes the people are unbearable and the reins of duty and social constraints are rather choking, but then I get out on my ship, and I traverse the same horizons you do. The difference is, I have a place to go when the horizon stretches on too long." James said simply, tilting his head at Jack seriously.

"Yes, but what's in it for you? Honestly, I just don't see how having a place to make berth gives them the right to mistreat you or use you as their marriageable fodder or ...or... or you're not a bloody sacrificial lamb, James!" Jack cut off in frustration, wondering at the stunted, angry emotion inside of him - and the small flutter of fear that followed. He cared, he realized. He cared perhaps a little too much...

James answered softly, "You're right, Jack, it is a sacrifice. I give up a lot of things, but I gain in return."

"Like what?" Jack asked wryly.

"A warm hearth, a good, fine home, and friends." James's smile broadened, "The chance to dally with famous pirates in alleys." Jack snorted a little, but his fingers returned to tracing along the other man's ribs, and his lips trailed along the edge of James's jaw. The man sighed softly, stroking Jack's hair in a way that made him rumble deep in his throat. James lolled his head back, silent for a moment, before continuing, "And there is honor. Honor in serving my country, doing my duty, protecting those who cannot protect themselves. For that I am given a fine title, a finer hat, and of course, all the pie I want."

Jack paused in his kissing, looking up at James with one eyebrow raising, "...Pie?"

"Hmm. Pie. I love pie." James said with a happy sigh, "Any kind of pie. Of course, I am always willing to share my pie."

"...Are you now?" Jack said quietly, the humor rising in him at the content, yet slightly dopey smile on the Commodore's smile.

"Oh yes. I offered my pie to Elizabeth ... but she preferred your friend Turner's. And of course, Clarisse just took it." James sighed softly, "Is it so much to ask, Jack, for someone to wait for me to offer the pie first?"

Jack's motions stilled, as he looked up at the Commodore, and the guilt attacked him with fresh, painful waves. He spoke quietly, fingers dancing along James's jacket arm, "P'haps they thought that you wanted honor, more than you wanted pie."

"Jack!" James's eyes widened, "There is no honor without pie!"

Jack's gaze took in this beautiful, sincere man, who was making him ache with the longing desire to just wrap him up and hold him prisoner on the Black Pearl, where Jack's favorite, most treasured things were savored and ... loved. He wanted to keep this Commodore all to himself, wanted that pie to be his and his alone. But he wouldn't be worth a slice of it, if he took James Norrington this night to his bed. In the morning, Jamie would wake up and realize that a -real- pirate had plundered him, and the damage ... the damage would be far too much to bear.

Jack Sparrow wasn't a generous person by nature. He was a thief, a scoundrel, and he took what he wanted when he wanted it. But that intrinsic inner sense of right and wrong balanced with the thought that if he took what he wanted now, he'd never have it again.

There was no honor without pie, and there would be no pie, without a little honor.

"C'mon, Jamie, it's time t'get you home." He finally said, tugging James's hand within his own, swallowing his regrets and tapering down to that steel within, that so few people understood that he possessed.

James sighed, stumbling upwards, before he wrapped his arms around Jack from behind, whispering in his ear, "You want my pie, don't you Jack?"

"Oh, more than you know, love." Jack murmured, gently urging James forward with each step. "But I have t'be worthy of it, y'know. I want your pie, freely offered. No ... heh, bakery fees attached."

"What makes you think I wouldn't?" James murmured, pressing very hot lips to Jack's bared neck, and again the pirate had to delve down to the inner steel to keep himself from throwing the Commodore against the nearest wall and simply gorging himself on pie.

"B'cause you're nine sheets to the wind, and I've never thought you t'be a wanton buggerer like m'self. When dawn comes, and your head sobers up, if you still want me you'll know where t'find me." Jack sighed, endlessly relieved to see the black draped house before them, as he wryly added, "If you still want t'offer pie to Jack Sparrow, man and pirate ... I'll be waitin'. I think I've been waitin' for this particular pie for longer than I realized."

"Hmmm...all right, Jack. I'll come to find you tomorrow. With pie." James sighed against his skin, half-asleep and content to just be holding unto the one pirate he could never catch until he plied him with kisses.

He would not be so content if he knew the pirate's smile was a bitter one, and the dark eyes were filled with a dead certainty of what would happen when the sun rose, and sense returned to James Norrington.


It was an hour later when Jack Sparrow stumbled back into the Turner home, empty crystal bowl under his arm, and was greeted by the couple dressed in their nightclothes, coming down the stairs. They stared at him mutely as he sighed deeply, and heaved the bowl unto the table, speaking in short, clipped tones, "Found this, and the Commodore, at the fort. He's the one who drained it, not I. I got 'im home alright, and here's your bowl, Elizabeth-luv. I'm going t'bed."

"...Jack, are you all right?" Will asked, his dark eyes creasing with concern as his friend slumped off towards the smithy.

Jack half turned towards Will, one corner of his golden mouth lifting up in a shadow of his usual broad smile, "Nothin' that another bottle o'rum won't fix, m'boy. Not to mention a healthy dose of pie... but I'm afraid I won't be gettin' any of that. I'm not worthy of it."

"..Not worthy of pastry?" Elizabeth frowned, tilting her head and sending long golden curls down the side of her neck.

"Aye. Now, YOU could have had some of his pie, but you gave it up for love. I gave it up because I'm a ruddy moron." Jack muttered, turning back towards the door. "Now if you two will excuse me, I'm going t'go kick m'self t'sleep."

The door opened and shut without another word from the pirate, and the Turners exchanged a glance and a sigh as they moved back up the stairs together. Will shook his head, "I knew this was going to happen eventually. God, why did James have to be drunk?"

"Why did Jack have to have a moment of moral conscience?" Elizabeth returned wryly, "They would have been so much better served if they had just had a go in the bed-sheets. Honestly, who do they think they're fooling?"

"Not us. Not anyone who knows them. I suppose you'll be calling on the Commodore tomorrow?" Will asked, wrapping one arm around his wife's pretty waist.

"Yes, because he shall guilt himself into a pretty mess and he won't figure it out until Rebecca is old enough to marry." Elizabeth rolled her eyes appropriately, "He'll blather on about sin, and how it's wrong, and how it's his duty ... when he'll really be looking for me to give him excuses to go to Jack."

"And Jack will mope. I do not want Moping Jack on Christmas." Will's jaw firmed up. "Let's have an early go at it, darling, and get these two figured out by dinnertime."

"Hmm. That sounds lovely. Turkey and settled romantic entanglements. Of course you realize that once we work them out, they will owe us for all time and we must -never- let them forget it." Elizabeth smiled, leaning up to kiss her husband.

"My love, my wife ... as if I would?" Will smirked in return as he kissed her back, drawing her back into their bedroom.


When Commodore Norrington awoke, head throbbing and guilt rising like a storm off the sea, he found himself facing one rather stern looking Mrs. Turner at the door to his bedroom, demanding to know what happened with him, the punch bowl, and Jack Sparrow.

Caught off-guard, he slowly pieced together what he remembered. Felt even more ashamed, but covered it up with a glower and a demand that Mrs. Turner quit his bedchambers at once so he could properly attire himself.

Mrs. Turner refused, on the grounds that once he neatened himself up, the person that Jack Sparrow had fallen in love with last night would disappear behind the cold facade that he, the Commodore, had built up so well.

The Commodore glared, and said that it was none of his business what sort of debauching ideas Jack Sparrow had about him, even though he was silently gratified of such an infatuation. Then shocked at the gratitude.

Mrs. Turner, and he was quite surprised on the scope of her language on the subject, told him that if Jack had debauchery on his mind, the Commodore would be waking up with a pirate and much less clothing. And if he claimed that he would not have found that enjoyable, she'd call him a liar, but his still kiss-swollen lips seemed testament enough.

The Commodore's fingers brushed against his mouth. So he hadn't slept with Sparrow last night. In fact, if Mrs. Turner was to be believed, Jack Sparrow had opted out of taking advantage of him in his drunken state. It was such a decent, and yes, he'd think it, sweet thing to do that his lips moved upwards. Then he coughed, trying to hide the ghost of a smile, but Mrs. Turner pounced on it like a kitten to a bug.

She proceeded to tell him that she and his other friends only wanted him to be happy, and if he found his happiness by finally admitting that he had feelings for a man and a pirate, well, drink up m'hearties. She also informed him that he had been used, and abused, and put aside by people - herself included - and it was time that he got what he deserved - happiness. Yes, Jack Sparrow was an unconventional and probably sinful choice, but had not enough sins been committed against Norrington himself that this balanced out?

Besides, if all it took was a few drinks of eggnog for Norrington to open up to Jack Sparrow to the point where the man had fallen madly in love with him, imagine what warmth and devotion could come from offering himself up sober and well-thought out way?

While silently pondering her words and feeling sharp relief that he had not married Elizabeth for as much as he feared her sharp tongue more than ever, he dryly asked her just what exactly she expected him to do about this.

She told him.

He blinked.

However, when shock gave over to thoughtfulness instead of disgust, he knew his mind had been made up since the pirate had climbed the wall last night.

After she was finished, he asked her a question.

This time, she blinked.

He smirked.

Three hours later he had everything he needed. It was time to finally catch Jack Sparrow.


"...Right, the next y'offer t'keep me entertained, remind me t'say, 'Well Will, would y'fancy playin' a game of cards and or chess at the local pub? Much more relaxin' than havin' m'arse handed to me on a silver-plated sword, wherein it was thrown down on a dirty field.'" Jack growled as he and Will came back into the Turner home, both sweaty and dusty.

Will laughed, clapping his friend on the shoulder, "Why don't you go wash up and relax in the loft? I'm sure Elizabeth has fulfilled your request for rum, and Christmas dinner isn't for hours yet."

"...Consider yourself roundly forgiven, Will. Rum is the balm of all things." Jack smacked his lips, immediately heading into the kitchen to commander such a bottle of fine plunder, before taking one of the buckets of water to give himself a through wash just outside the kitchen door. It wasn't warm, alas, but it sluiced off the majority of dust. Shaking himself dry, he pulled his shirt over his head and ambled through the side door into the smithy, cradling the bottle of rum to his chest. This should take the sting out of losing himself a Commodore, not to mention the million little aches that came from pulling his muscles in every which way to avoid Will's quick blade.

The door was just shutting behind him, when a scent hit his nose, and he paused, frowning. He smelled ... rum. But, not like the rum in his bottle. If rum could smell warm, that's what this rum smelled like. He sniffed once more, following the scent up the ladder to the fine loft which Elizabeth had made ready for his visit - with all his little personal articles strewn about. And on the comfy straw mattress that Elizabeth made more comfortable with pillows and blankets, there lay a pie. A perfectly round, golden brown crusted, mince pie, to be exact. Beside it rested a perfectly innocent silver pitcher filled with thick, rich cream to pour on the delicious smelling pastry.

He approached it, head tilted in confusion, until he heard the voice behind him, a rich modulation of the slightly more slurred tones he heard last night, this time fuller and more focused, "Did you know in the making of mincemeat, they use rum? I had no clue until I asked Elizabeth to make me one."

Jack turned, his head jerking back in a slightly overdrawn way, to take in James Norrington leaning against one of the walls, hidden in shadow. He cleared his throat, eyeing the naval officer warily as he replied, "Well, mate, I can tell you that's why I always preferred it."

"I didn't know you liked pie... Jack." James moved out into the light, distinguished in his breeches of olive green, his white shirt rolled up on the sleeves and open at the collar. Jack could see the freckles on his arms, and the dusky dark hair of his chest.

"Depends on what kind." The pirate answered slowly, his dark eyes taking a keen edge as he tilted his head knowingly at Norrington, "N'depends on whether or not it's bein' offered."

"I offered you pie last night. You didn't seem that interested." James moved towards him again, closing the gap by careful inches.

"That was different, Jamie. You were drunk, 'n you weren't offerin' your pie in your right head." Jack had to fight down the urge to either run or move closer. He decided upon the middle ground, holding his place carefully.

"Aaah, I see. And if I offered it now?" James finally stopped, a breath away, and Jack could make out all the light creases about his fine, fine mouth, and to his forehead. The way his dark hair had a bit of wildness to it, for one lock of hair refused to be tied back. The sea-green eyes that were so bright they glowed in the dim light of the smithy.

In answer, Jack stepped up, and commandeered himself some Commodore, with silent glee. A glee that only increased when he felt James's arms slip around his middle, and Jamie's mouth part willingly under his. Which was when Jack decided to get all the pie he possibly could, as soon as he could, and his fingers moved to swiftly strip off the fine vest, and the fine white shirt, even as he tugged James back towards the bed. James complied willingly enough, his own long fingers dipping down to untie Jack's bandanna, then to unwrap Jack's waistcoast from him. Jack's shirt followed, and after a long pause, James's long fingers traced the painful scars that marked Jack's skin with care.

Their eyes met, and Jack didn't flinch away, merely lifting his chin up, as he whispered hoarsely, "Some pie comes at a price, love, and honor's got nothin' to do with it."

"...They are cruel to us, aren't they? They keep trying to make us swallow down all the bitter dregs." James murmured, gently pushing Jack down to sit on the bed, before kneeling before him, moving his fingers up and down. There was no need to be specific about which 'they' - for life had seen fit to toss Jack Sparrow as wildly and painfully as it did James Norrington. In response, Jack smoothed his fingers along the narrow jaw-line, both comforting and seeking comfort. Green eyes rose from Jack's chest, intent as the mouth that whispered, "Lie down, Sparrow. I shall show you what it means to taste of the sweet."

Jack lifted dark eyebrows, but lay back, stretching tough, sinewy arms over his head. He let out a throaty rumble of pleasure as James's clever fingers found the lacings of his breeches, and therein stripped him of the last vestiges of clothing. What he didn't expect, however, was the feeling of still warm mincemeat pie being gently applied to his bare golden skin. His eyes shot open, and he looked down at the long, thin trail of pie that went from his navel to mid-chest. "Oi, what's all this noooo-oooooaaauuu.."

For James's answer was a slow tongue tracing up that line, making Jack's pulse thud in his ears, and jerk his cock from a comfortable half-slouch to a full-standing salute. James carefully lapped up the last of the mincemeat, and solemnly looked up at the delightfully dazed Jack. The Commodore smiled, and offered one pie covered finger to the Pirate with the quiet murmur, "I told you I liked pie, did I not?"

Jack smiled slowly, grasping his wrist lightly as he pulled the finger to his golden leer, "Yes, and I think I finally understand why, love." He suckled that finger in-between his heated lips, his dark eyes glinting at the soft moans it enticed, of the swift hardening he felt pressed against his thigh.

It didn't take much more kissing of that long finger for James to lose his own breeches, nor did it take more than a few kisses to bring the pie back into play, as it was spread carefully over golden skin, and just as carefully nibbled away - from neck to collar bone, from dusky nipples, down a lithe plane of chest and stomach. Of course, the cream pitcher was groped for and found, and liberally applied to skin almost as pale, to the curve of a fine strong jaw, the crook of an elbow, and all those sensitive places where sharp hisses of slight pain and infinite pleasure arose.

The pie and the cream moved lower after that, slathered over intimate areas, where tongue and mouth met in pleasure, and Jack showed James just what one could pick up in Singapore besides a knowledge of corsets, as he mouthed hot throbbing inches, twisting his body around so that James could inflict the same sweet torture upon him. There was a tightness, and then a sudden stopping, for they were both too close, and neither of them wanted their release met that way.

There was the muffled sound of both pie tin and pitcher being pushed aside as the two bodies turned towards each other and met in much closer proximity, the pale skin crushing down on the golden, as James moved against Jack, burrowing his mouth and his tight cries against Jack's throat. Jack arched up against James, wrapping his legs around James's, pulling him further down, harder and sharp as his moans. Thrusting, harder and harder.

It got tighter, faster, more heated until they crashed into each other, their cocks sputtering out hot, salty streams against their stomachs, like the ocean's tide rolling over and cresting, coming to the shore, then receding slowly back again. Final deep shudders rippled over them, before they collapsed, eyes closing as exhaustion pulled them under as surely as the lust had.

Jack opened his eyes near an hour later to the now nearly dark smithy, breathing in the musky smell of sex and sweat, intermixed with the sweet sticky cream and the rich mincemeat. He breathed deeply - a comfortable, smug smile on his face as he looked down at the still sleeping James, who had curled around Jack's smaller body, one long arm draped over Jack's middle as if it always belonged there.

Jack fondly mussed the dark, sweat-soaked hair of his lover, tilting his head back as he sighed out happily into the silence, "I like pie..."



Metaphorical Pie. Bwhahaah!

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