the Dalaverse

So. This post is brought to you by the number 8, the letter K, and the following four reasons:

1. I must describe my weekend of freedom in detail
2. I still have a nagging silly urge to try my hand at fic commentary
3. I have to get myself under control and coherent enough to reply to feedback
4. I'm avoiding studying

I whipped up all of these reasons into what is both a commentary on "North and South of the River: Set Fire to the Sky" and a recount of my fabulous/harrowing/sad weekend. Because I can, and because it'll make me feel better to write it.

NOT TO BE READ without first reading the chapter itself, in the previous post, because I spoil
within the first sentence.

I'm in blue.


Set Fire to the Sky (Directors Commentary Edition)


I can't remember exactly when I started to write the chapter, but I'm pretty sure this opening scene was started on Friday and finished on Saturday. Friday I rented movies, watched "Soldier's Girl" and "Thirteen," both of which were superbly acted and incredibly depressing. Perfect mood in which to work on the deathscene I had been avoiding since I first set down the dialogue back in January.

The point of this opening was basically to stay in the Happy for a little while longer. From a mechanical point of view, I wanted to try writing a blowjob in at least some detail. Also, it niggled me that James and Will had had a solitary romp together in "Wrap the Night Around Me;" I thought that we deserved to see something similar for Jack and James, especially considering what's to come. I wanted to let James angst a little more, and to set him against Jack because Jack sees through his bullshit every time.

It was far from the first time he’d awakened to find Jack staring at him, head tilted to one side like a bird and a slightly puzzled look on his face. James ignored him and stretched, familiarizing himself with the sight of the cabin in daylight, the feel of the sheets tangled around him.

“Morning,” said Jack cheerfully.

“Mmm,” James replied, burrowing deeper into his pillow. He came up again a second later, squinting at nothing in particular. “It’s late,” he accused Jack.

I always figured Jack would be the sleeping-in type. He's lazy when he's got the luxury.

Jack pouted and twisted one of his many beads in one hand. “Now I’m to be stuck with two early risers instead of just the one, is that what you’re telling me? You never woke all that early when we stayed with you in Port Royal.”

“Yes, well, you tended to keep me in a constant state of exhaustion, as I recall.” Jack nodded in acknowledgment, looking fairly pleased at the reminder. He linked an arm around James’ waist and hauled him close. James relaxed against him with a sigh, having no real desire to get up just yet. Last night had been intense, and he was nervous about what the day would bring. He was, after all, the scourge of the Caribbean – or at least he had been at one time. The uniform could be discarded, but his reputation and his bearing could not. It wasn’t something a pirate crew, even one under Jack’s command, was likely to forget. And his physical appearance was...alarming, to say the least. In Kingston, more than one child had turned its face to a mother’s skirts at the sight of him. Even well-bred adults found it difficult to control their reactions. James had never been particularly vain, aside from a simple pleasure in keeping his state of dress immaculate, but he knew there was no symmetry to his features now.

Breath and mustache tickling the back of his neck, Jack whispered, “I like the way you look on my ship.” James made a noncommital noise and Jack nipped him sharply.

I just love it when they bite.

“Stop thinking so loud,” he said, “you’re going to spoil my good mood.”

James turned, bringing his hand to Jack’s chest and flicking gently at a browned nipple. “I’m sorry. I can’t help but think that I’m going to be a terrible burden to you.”

“Liar,” Jack said pleasantly. “You worry about what people will say when they see you. I noticed the lack of a mirror in your former abode, mate.”

“You notice everything,” James muttered, not entirely unkindly.

They're obstensibly referring to others' reactions to James, but I think he's also still worried that Jack and Will keep him as a pretty toy and they won't want to play with him now that he's not so pretty. Yes, even after the night before -- James is neurotic, and his feelings about his own worth have been twisted around.

“And just like that, you do yourself a disservice by acting so bloody stupid when we know you aren’t.”

Even after all this time, he was still surprised at how quickly Jack could turn so deadly serious as he was now, as he gripped James’ shoulder tightly and brought his face close in, dark eyes grave and jaw set.

“Don’t you dare think for a moment that those scars or that missing limb make you any less, James. Especially here of all places, and with us among all people.” He tapped the black musket holes on his chest for emphasis, watching as James eyed them. “And it’s not the worst onboard, mind. A man can lose a lot and still go on, if he’s the will for it.” His eyes flickered with amusement as he belatedly realized his own pun.

That's me projecting, because I didn't realize it until I wrote it down and then I went, "Heh, that's tacky, Jack would love it." Also, James needed to be reminded that he's not the only one with scars. Bit of the heavy-handed death foreshadowing.

“And the Jack,” James said, welcoming the sun shining through the window onto his skin for the first time that morning.

...lighting him up, of course, which he doesn't see because he really isn't vain.

Jack framed his face with both hands. “Ah, there’s that smile again, the one kept me up nights sometimes. Could trade gold for it, that smile of yours.”

Jack Davenport's sweet smile. Incomparable.

He squirmed under the attention even as he was pleased by it. Jack was so rarely entirely focused on any one thing that it was a bit unsettling. “And how would one judge its worth, exactly?”

Can you just imagine being the focus of all that energy? Especially when you're James and you're not too fond of the spotlight.

“Oh, s’ppose there could be a contest,” said Jack thoughtfully, prompting a sigh of relief from James as his gaze shifted to the ceiling. “Of course you’d take the top prize, and we’d steal the purses of the runners-up.”

Banter. Love the banter. Gotta have it.

James chuckled, scraping the tip of the bone in Jack’s hair against his palm. “Of course.”

This is a nearly unrecognizable reference to the twin scars on Jack's and Will's hands from the movie. I really wanted to deal with them somehow, but it didn't seem to fit anywhere, so I included this bit in memorium of the idea.

Also, that crazy bone-spine thing, I can't resist it.

“But if you asked me, personally, to name my price, I’d have to tell you there’s not enough loot in all the ocean to do justice to that rare breed of expression.” He pushed James onto his back and started to work his way downwards, trailing lips and fingers, the blanket tenting in a most appealing way over his backside.

“Flatterer,” said James tightly, parting his knees to let rough hands knead the insides of his thighs. It was shameful how quickly he could be encouraged into arousal, but then shame was not a wise component to bring into this particular bed.

And on with the smut!

“Always,” Jack answered, glancing up to favor him with a feral grin. He circled the base of James’ shaft with his hand and ran it all the way up, repeating the stroke until James was fully hard.

James curled his fingers in the sheets and thrust into the grip, good but not enough, not what he had in mind and what he knew Jack did as well. He took his precious time about it, though, holding James’ hips steady while he licked the slit daintily, swirling his tongue around the head and lapping up and down, adding a well-timed nibble with lips and teeth that generated a good deal of trembling and jerking. And God, as if the man had any right to complain about a ridiculous smile haunting his nights when he was possessed of a mouth like that –

Can I just say how fucking hard it is for me to write smut. No bad pun intended. I still don't know how I managed to get through "Three Sunrises" and make it as long as it is. Every time I finished a sex scene, I think, "Okay, that's one less I have in me. I don't know what the finite amount of smut in my brain is, but I've just extracted some of it."

And continuing the trend of James' rather arbitrary thoughts when he's gettin' into it.

Crying out abruptly as Jack took him all the way in, James cast a look down to catch the merry dancing in his eyes as he sucked slowly, the wet sound of it just barely drowned out by James’ labored breathing. He abandoned his death-grip on the sheet to slide his fingers between braids and twisted locks, allowing no possibility for that mouth to leave him until he’d filled it. Jack just kept at him, though he was probably pulling painfully at his scalp. Little noises made in the back of the throat caused waves of vibration to pulse through his cock, while long fingers massaged his balls and pressed against his entrance.

I do believe that is the first time I've ever mentioned balls and things you can do to them besides kick them. Golf snaps. I'm sure I'll go back later and reread somethinge else where I mentioned them and feel really stupid, but for now we'll go with this.

He was used to having something in the vicinity of his mouth to muffle noise, so he was quite proud of managing to quell a scream as he came, only making a croaking sort of moan that would hopefully not be audible to anyone passing by the cabin. Jack swallowed with obvious relish and solicitously icked him clean.

Licked. LICKED. Jack liketh the blowjob, it would not make him ick, and you can't ick anybody clean anyway. Stupid freakin' typo. I know why I made it, too -- I changed 'carefully' to 'solicitously' and must've cut off the 'l' somehow. PAY ATTENTION DALA.

And of course I couldn't just fix it. I had to whine about it instead.

“Just as I thought,” he said in a satisfied tone as he shimmied up the bed to kiss him.

My spell check would not accept "shimmied" as a word, but dictionary.com is my friend and it said sure, go ahead and use it *coughfreakcough*.

“And what would that be?” James ran his tongue across the roof of his own mouth, still amazed at the differences in the taste of himself, Jack, and Will – faint, really, and not something he could describe in concrete terms, but there was a slight variation on each of them.

Harkening back to the end of the first chapter, when he noted the taste of each of the three of them in Jack's mouth.

Jack planted lips just under his ear. “Still beautiful,” he murmured.

All together now: AWWW. I savor Jack's sweet little moments because I try to keep them to a minimum; much as I love the hearts and flowers, Jack is Jack.

He clamped his mouth tight to trap that damned smile Jack had been prattling on about.

“What about you, Captain Sparrow?” he asked, lazily traipsing his hand down to curl fingers in the wiry dark hair above Jack’s rigid member.

Jack shook his head and drew away. “I’m going to seek out dear William and describe to him exactly what he misses by getting up so early.” Tugging on pants and shirt, he leaned down to press a kiss to James’ forehead. “Get a little more sleep and then come find us so we can show you ‘round.”

I really, really wanted the two of them to have this last time, and that made me want to give Jack and Will a last time too. Not a particulary memorable last time, as the previous night was -- it could have been any time they've had any kind of sex. But it wasn't -- it was the last, and none of them had any idea, and the fact that they didn't spend it all together contributes to the awkwardness between Will and James at the end.

“Jack?” He pointed to a hook on the wall.

Jack strode over to it. “Nearly forgot my hat – thanks very much, love.”

Any time it's appropriate to use a line from the movie, I'll do it. Because dude, how many running jokes/lines do they use? I don't feel bad because I certainly wasn't the first to reuse lines :)

I do it a lot in this chapter, though. Not really sure why. Clinging to canon in the wake of imminent deathfic, I guess.

Never too many 'savvy?'s though. Kiss of badfic.

James lifted an eyebrow. “Would that be my wig hanging under it?”

Lifting the battered hat off, Jack peered at the white wig with exaggerated astonishment. “Why, so it is! Ain’t that a fancy!”

“What, pray tell, is my wig doing here? I distinctly recall leaving it behind.”

Jack shot him a look of great hurt. “D’you mean to tell me that we don’t get to dress up and play Commodore an’ pirates anymore? Whatever good would the manacles be if we couldn’t?” With a salute and a bow, he backed out the door and kicked it shut behind him.

Jack wants to play with the wig, but he also wants to remind James of what he was, that he has always been a good man, and just because he's where he is now, it doesn't mean the first thirty years of his life were a waste.

James groaned quietly. The prospect of dealing with his two lovers on a daily basis was beginning to look like a daunting one. More rest was bound to be a good prospect.

Ouch. I went back and dithered over that line after I wrote the deathscene, but I decided to leave it in. James' hope is very real at this point,

He pulled the coverlet up and wondered idly how many places on the ship Will and Jack christened in their own unique way, and if the crew minded the noise.

Reference to the fact that later, as Will is wandering the ship, he can't find peace because Jack is simply everywhere.


After sleeping for a few hours more, James dragged himself from bed and began the laborious process of dressing one-handed. Buttons were a difficulty, but struggling with them was infinitely preferable to asking for either Jack’s or Will’s help – in no small part because he figured the clothes would take a much longer time in finding their way onto his body if either was involved.

A couple of times I plumb forgot that James has one arm now (technically one and a half arms, but still), and I worried that a reader would forget it too. I kept having to change "an arm/hand" or "one of his arms/hands" to "his arm/hand" because dude, he only has the one. But at least we always know which one it is.

All eyes turned to him as he walked the deck, some trying to be subtle about it but most just staring outright. He held his back uncomfortably straight and his chin high before realizing how that would come off and adopting a less forbidding posture. There was the hostility he had expected, but more curiosity than anything else.

Obviously the crew understand that they kept going back to Port Royal for a reason, and in the beginning it's totally plausible that Jack would have bragged about bagging a Commodore, or at least encouraged the rumors. So most of them don't see him as a threat, and plus he's all maimed.

He got the grand tour from Jack, proud as a peacock in mating season, while Will was checking inventory in the hold. Cursory introductions were made to each crewman they passed, but James lost track of the names very quickly.

A blatant tribute to George, our campus peacock. Also, Jack totally is one. I love Jack/bird metaphors -- sparrow, magpie, peacock, anything.

“You know them by first and last name?” said James in an undertone as Jack was waving off a Scotsman named George, or Geoff, or something to the like.

He's a friendly sort of bloke, after all.

Jack flashed gold at him. “I take it you couldn’t say the same for your little Navy-lings?” When James shook his head, he continued, “Don’t worry about it – we’ll spend tonight drinking and carousing, and I guarantee you’ll get to know at least a few of ‘em better. Perhaps better than you’d like – but not too well, eh?” he added, frowning at a bare-chested, nicely-formed blond who had been casting glances at James’ rear. “Too good for our shirt there, are we, Mr. Kipple?”

Maybe just a little influenced by Anti-Jack there.

The wind was fair, so there was a flurry of activity throughout the ship and a mood of goodwill. James was beyond startled to find himself having lunch with one Joshamee Gibbs, whom he distinctly remembered from the voyage to Port Royal years ago. Will apologized for forgetting to mention this small coincidence, while Jack said that he hadn’t meant to tell him in the first place and the look on his face when he recognized Gibbs was proof positive it had been the right instinct.

I can just imagine, after Elizabeth's "Mr. Gibbs?", that James' reaction would be pretty similar. Have to wonder why Will never seemed to recognize him, though, or for that matter why Gibbs didn't seem to connect Will to the boy he helped rescue eight years before. I have to assume that the story eventually would've gotten hashed out if they were both members of Jack's crew.

The small cluster of men who’d surrounded them asked him questions about his injuries and, once that was out of the way, proceeded to interrogate him about whether they were on file. It seemed to hold more of a romantic excitement than he would have expected. Jack had a good laugh about this before Will tactfully changed the subject. For awhile they discussed sailing, navigation, geography, and various topics before James was suddenly challenged to an arm-wrestling competition by a peg-legged dwarf. Will declined on speechless James’ behalf and steered him aft.

Will gets that the attention would make James uncomfortable, whereas Jack wouldn't quite understand it.

“Don’t mind him, he does that to everyone new,” Will assured him with a broad grin. James nodded, leaning backwards against the rail and trying to fight being overwhelmed.

With a light touch on his forearm, Will asked quietly, “Are you all right, James? Has the day gone all right?”

“I’m fine, really, it’s just...” He ran his hand through his hair and blew out a sigh.

“A bit much?” Will supplied, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Believe me, I remember.”

Intentional paralleling of James and Will. Is paralleling a word?

“Remember what? When you were wet behind the ears and didn’t know your arse from a poorly caulked porthole?” Jack came up beside them, a bottle in his hand.

Originally 'porthole' was 'yardarm,' merely because I flipped through the glossary in Under the Black Flag looking for a nautical term to use. I changed it because it really didn't make any sense, and porthole does. As for the poor caulking, we can only guess that Jack is making a crude sexual metaphor. Okay, we really don't have to guess. Also, yay alliteration!

Will made a face at him. “Thank for the reminder, Jack.”

“Anytime, love.” He flung an arm around each of them, the rum sloshing in the bottle against Will’s breast. James started when he felt a slender tongue bathe his earlobe. He tried to shake Jack off, but it only got him both arms and even more attention. Turning red, he glanced around to see if anyone had taken notice. Will was the only one watching, a knowing smirk on his face.

James isn't much for the public displays of affection. Which Jack knows, and exploits shamelessly.

“Is he always like this?” James hissed as Jack sloppily kissed the side of his neck.

“Clingy? Touchy? Draping himself all over you?”

Jack paused to haughtily declare, “I do not cling,” before, much to James’ warring senses of dismay and delight, returning to his ministrations.

“He won’t be so obnoxious about it if you stop blushing and trying to push him away,” Will explained sagely. “Took me some time to figure that out.”

At this Jack turned and pouted at him. “You ruined the game,” he complained. “You’re cheating.”

“Pirate,” said Will, spreading his arms.

Again with the direct quote. I finally figured out why I was unconsciously referencing the movie, especially Jack's and Will's lines -- to emphasize just how much history they have together, and thus how incredibly hard it is for Will to lose him. Not to undermine his closeness to James, but Will and Jack have five years and countless adventures under their belt. This ship is their world, and Will now has to walk it alone -- or so he feels.

Jack snickered and minced close, dragging James behind him. “I’m thinking it may be time for an afternoon siesta,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

“Cap’n! Sommat off ‘a starboard!” The shout had come from somewhere in the rigging. Others immediately raised hands to brows, scanning the horizon.

Stiffening and releasing them both, Jack set off for the helm at a quick clip. Will was close on his heels and James right behind. He took a spyglass from a older man with a brightly-colored parrot on one shoulder and held it up, peering intently at a blot against the shimmer of the water.

I had Jack running to the helm at first, but then I remember how he runs and it antithetical to the seriousness of the situation.

Beside him, Will and James squinted, but it was impossible to see clearly.

“Can you see the make?” Will asked in a low, urgent voice.

“Nay,” Jack said, “but she’s closing in and fast – heading straight for us, I’d say. Come on, come on,” he muttered, perfectly still as he stared through the glass at the approaching blot, which was close enough to be recognizably ship-shaped. “Turn just a little, ducks, there we are –” His fingers tapped a rhythmless tattoo on the brass. “No colors. Three masts. Man o’ war, looks like – round about the size of the Pearl."

This is absolutely the deep mining of the tiny store of ship knowledge I have. Pirate book was at my side the whole chapter, and I kept Googling stuff like "Black Pearl ship" and "parts of pirate ship" and "sea shanties" and "history of Port Royal Jamaica."

The vessel was close enough now that they could all see the black flag being risen, an hourglass and a line of three skulls with crossbones.

James experienced a familiar gut reaction at seeing that banner – excitement and fear and a cool calculation – before he remember on what deck he was standing.

Will was frowning at the rippling piece of fabric. “Tom Becker’s flag, isn’t it? But that’s not the Quartermaster.”

“No,” said Jack, snapping the spyglass closed, “Becker’s just had himself a treat of Dutch and English merchantmen, remember? I expect the Quartermaster was showing her age, so it makes sense he’d trade up.” He snorted, upper lip curled in contempt. “Overconfident bastard’s looking for a fight, we’ll give ‘im a fight. Won’t we, lads?” He raised his voice to the crew gathered nearest and they shouted enthusiastically in response.

James turned sharply on his heel and started for the cabin.

'turned sharply on his heel' added after viewing of the promotion ceremony. James is still Navy.

“Where d’you think you’re going, sirrah?” Jack demanded, snagging his arm.

“To arm myself. If there’s to be a battle, I will fight,” said James stiffly, shrugging him off. He caught the doubtful look Will and Jack exchanged and his temper flared. “Look,” he snapped, “do you really expect to shut me away whenever we meet an enemy? I made my choice and here I am.” He took a breath to calm himself. “And it’s here I’ll stay, beside you.”

He couldn't protect Port Royal, but he can sure as hell protect this ship, and Jack and Will.

Jack’s eyes were laying him bare as they always did. “And if it’s an English ship we meet next?” he said softly.

A really important issue I just didn't have the time to address.

James swallowed hard, glancing briefly away. “Then we’ll deal with it when the time comes. Right now, that –” He stabbed a finger at the approaching vessel. “–is not an English ship.”

“Can’t argue with you about that,” said Jack, giving him one last searching glance before nodding in acquiescence. “Go get your pretties, then.” Will was already checking the shot in his pistol.

Within the time it took him to race to the cabin, strap sword and gun to his belt, and get back to the helm, they were already firing. The boom of cannons and the shrapnel shattering nearby only helped to clear his mind.

James gets to be in his element.

Jack was fidgeting, fingering his blade and glaring across the scant space dividing the two ships. “Coward hasn’t even shown his face,” he said scornfully. “Wants to engage onboard. Wants the Pearl.”

“As if he has any chance in hell of taking her,” said Will through gritted teeth, naked sword in hand. He offered James a grin that was more a determined grimace.

I love pirate!Will. Love. Him.

Jack cast a sideways glance at James as he shouted to the armed and ready crew. “You lot know my rules. Kill when you must, accept surrender, don’t touch any prisoners they’ve got. We’ll divvy up the take only after we’ve secured the ship”

This is my interpretation of how Jack runs his crew. Always has been.

From the muttering at his back, James guessed that they did indeed know the rules, and that they had only been repeated for his benefit.

The roaring pirates of the other ship threw lines across as the Pearl’s crew did the same. Will took off for the other side with a “be careful” tossed over his shoulder.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Jack called after him. “And you,” he added, turning to James while keeping one eye open for the attackers, “you listen to the boy.”

Recalling the movie one last time. All right, not the last.

Then a man swung in front of him with a grunt and he lunged forward. James had an instant to appreciate the fluid grace of Jack Sparrow with a blade before he was engaged himself.

The battle was mostly a blur. Fighting was something he’d been trained to do, something he’d worked at and sweated from and bled for. It was as natural as breathing and required about as much thought, even with only one arm. What was tricky was keeping the pirates straight, since he had not know the Pearl’s crew nearly long enough to distinguish them from the enemy pirates. Fortunately they recognized him well enough, so his basic strategy was to defend himself against any man that came rushing at him.

I do think James is extremely focused when he fights, but I also can't write action and that's why the battle is mostly a blur. And I was just thinking that with the military, it's so easy to tell friend from foe because you've got the uniforms. But pirates don't have uniforms, so that had to be dealt with.

Adrenaline floored him and clouded his sense of time, so that he was blinking around at a mostly empty deck before he knew it. There were dead strewn around, already being thrown overboard, and some men in chains off to the side. He could just see Will ducking into the captain’s cabin onboard the other ship, which was overrun by their own crew.

More pirate!Will, acting as Jack's right arm to negotiate with the captain, and also completely unaware of what's happened on the Pearl.

So they had won, he thought in distant satisfaction. He had survived his first battle with a pirate crew – his first battle as a pirate. The thought was strange in his head, but all he had really done today was kill pirates, and that was exactly what he’d done as a commodore and a lieutenant, so it did not warp his conscience just yet.

I didn't want to trivialize James' struggles with his new life, because they're bound to be extremely serious and complex, but they just weren't the focus of the story, so I had to shunt them aside by indicating that it hasn't really sunk in for him yet, that he's now a pirate. It's why the battle is with another pirate ship and not a merchant vessel, English or otherwise.

He stepped over bodies, searching for Jack. He caught sight of the back of the familiar tattered jacket and swaying limbs – the fool was even still wearing his hat. The captain was dictating orders to Mr. Gibbs when James put a hand on his shoulder. Jack spun, and smiled triumphantly at him, and collapsed.

Commencing whimpering. I wanted Jack to look perfectly normal from behind, even composed, as if he hasn't sullied himself with fighting at all. I wanted James and everybody looking through his eyes to be as realistically shocked as possible.

James fell to his knees, hearing Gibbs’ shocked “Mother o’ God” but not registering it.

Movie reference again.

Jack was breathing shallowly, staring down in confusion at his hand balled up against his stomach. James pried it away and immediately pressed his own hand to the wound.

That bit was partially inspired by The Princess Bride, when Inigo gets stabbed and stuffs his fist into the wound. It happens in the movie too, but the book has the addition of one of his fencing masters screaming at him in his head to stop the blood.

“Damn,” Jack said faintly, one knee bending up in reflex before he let it fall still. “Didn’t think it was that bad.”

Jack was driven by adrenaline too, and it has a tendency to keep you from feeling pain right away. Would he have lived if the wound had been attended to immediately? There's no telling, but I'm willing to bet James was thinking about it later that night even if I didn't have to sense to write it in.

The blood was coursing hot against his fingers.

Starting with the next line, the dialogue is pretty much verbatim as I first wrote it, right after writing the first scene. A couple of lines and words were fiddled with, but on the whole the ending is intact as it first appeared in my head, one day during winter break while I was at work. I had to go into the bathroom and cry a little because the scene was so damn vivid. The difference between then and now -- and why I'm glad I just jotted down the dialogue and didn't attempt anything else -- is that I have thirty-four pages of characterization between the beginning and this scene. I couldn't flesh it out until I was caught up to it because I needed the time to make the characters as fully realized as I could. So it gave me the most intense feeling of gratification to get to this part and be able to give them the scene they deserved.

“Jack – God – we need to get you inside –”

“Won’t matter.” His face was too tanned to go white, but it had taken on a grayish cast.

“But –”

“Let go o’ me, mate.” His fingertips fluttered against the back of James’ hand and James reluctantly removed it from the wound. There was no gush of blood this time, only a slow, inexorable rivulet.

A glance up at Gibbs’ ashen face only confirmed what he knew – what he knew from years of experience. The man averted his eyes.

He's bleeding. He's not going to stop bleeding. All of them, Jack included, have been around enough to know what a mortal wound looks like.

“James.” He looked back down at Jack, whose eyes were shining soft like coals that had only just lost their red-orange glow.

I cringe at a lot of my metaphors, but not that one. I love that one.

He laid a shaking hand on Jack’s own, against his belly, to the right of the red slash. “Is there –” He tried to iron the tremors out of his voice. “Is there anything I can...”

“No,” said Jack with a single shake of his head, “no, just...stay with me.” His fingers curled beneath James’ own. “Sorry, Jamie – so sorry.”

“Hush – for what?” He leaned down closer so Jack could speak more quietly.

Jack patted his hand. “I wanted to show you the world...”

Reminder of the "What if you could go anywhere?" scene.

James tasted blood in his mouth and stopped biting his tongue. The desire to argue with Jack would not leave him even now. “I’ve been a sailor for a long time, Captain Sparrow.” That title – so important – what Jack was, who he was...“I’ve seen much of the world.”

“Ah, but not the way I’d show it to you.” His voice was a sigh of regret.

“It was enough, Jack. It was.” He tried to put all force of meaning behind his words, needing him to know that beyond anything else.

Jack looked at him skeptically, wary of hope in this late hour. “Truly?”

“Yes.” He was reminded of the time he’d choked on a chicken bone when he was six. His throat remembered it more vividly than his mind. “I do love you, you know...”

James is fixating on his physical reactions because he can't deal with his emotions just yet.

A half-smile at that.

“Daft bugger. O’ course I know.” His body twitched suddenly, causing him to look more surprised than anything else.

“Somebody find Will, now!” He didn’t know where he’d dredged up the energy to yell the command, since he could feel every last vestige of strength draining from his limbs, leaving him weak and shaky. Someone with red hair dashed off immediately.

“Good man,” said Jack with a wet-sounding chuckle. “Th’ whelp’d never forgive me if he didn’t get the chance t’ say goodbye.”

“Jack...” He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, only knew that he needed to keep Jack talking, keep away that approach of shadow behind his eyes. “Are you in pain?” Stupid question – stupid, stupid question –

But Jack shook his head, almost wonderingly. “Know I ought to be hurtin’ bad, but I can’t seem to feel much a’tall...”

He tightened his fingers around Jack’s. “Can you feel this?” And he bent down, absurdly afraid that he’d topple over, to kiss his lips gently. They were warm and he could catch the scent of blood behind them, sharp and metallic.

“Aye. That I could always feel.” A faint squeeze against his hand. “And your pretty green eyes –” He looked at something beyond, but James could not take his green eyes away from Jack’s face to see what it was.

The line was originally "Oh, how I loved you, Jamie, and your pretty green eyes..." but fabu rightly pointed out that the more "I love you"s there were, the less effective they'd become. And they don't need them, James and Jack, not really.

“Take care o’ him, lad,” Jack said, meeting his eyes again, earnest. “He’s goin’ to have a hard time.”

Still thinking of Will, still taking care of him, after five years. And Jack lets James see his fear and uncertainty while he hides them from Will, because he knows James can handle it -- because he's helped teach him to.

There was so much pleading in that look, so much of Jack’s fire, but there was fear there too. He would have promised anything to keep it away. “I will. I swear.”

James puts aside everything for Jack's needs at this moment. I think this is one of the more universal statements of death in the entire fic. Nobody wants to watch a loved one die -- we do it because they need us.

“Jack?” Will dropped down across from him, on Jack’s other side. His face paled as his eyes fell to the blood – the blood...

It's only when Will shows up that he's able to panic a little, to share the burden.

Jack smiled up at him, that hint of fear either hidden or left behind. He crooked a finger. “Come here, laddie-me-love.”

“Jack – you’re hurt.” Will’s voice was small, childish, almost puzzled. He touched his fingertips to Jack’s soaked shirt and brought them close to his face, staring.

“I am sorry to have t’be leaving you so soon,” said Jack, heaving a small gasp. His hand seemed to pulse against James’ own, as if his heartbeat was getting stronger.

It's not, baby. It's not.

Will was shaking his head as comprehension dawn. “No,” he said, lost within the word. “No, you can’t – the sea can’t take you, she owes you too many favors, remember?” Begging, pleading with him, pleading to be told anything but the truth before him.

Dawned. DawnED. Stupid fucking typos. Also, that line -- later on when Will is speaking to James on the deck, I meant to have him say something along the lines of Jack tried to talk to him once, about what would happen if he were to die, and Will shut him down. I still think it's a really important component of Will's character, but I just forgot all about it when I was writing the scene. However, I'm not mourning its loss too much, because it's sort of implied by that line about the sea that the subject has indeed come up, and both of their reactions in "Wrap the Night Around Me" (Jack pushing Will away from him when he gets hurt, Will's total bullheadedness about the whole thing) are true to the concept. And I'm fanwanking my own stuff. Shoot me now.

Jack just looked at him, that unnervingly steady look telling you that you were the only thing of worth in the entire universe and he’d spend eternity looking at you before he’d ever look his fill. “She paid me back long ago, sweet William, a thousand times over – she brought me you.”

“Please.” Asking in the broken tone of a man who’d never asked for anything, not like this. James could not stop glancing back and forth between them. Will looked up at him then and his desperation added another band to the vise squeezing his heart. “James – can’t you – can’t we –”

Will needs to do something. That's who Will is; he does things. He goes to his social and political superiors to get them to rescue Elizabeth. He goes to Jack for help. He knocks Jack out when it appears he isn't playing by Will's rules. He confronts Barbossa and arranges for the survival of the entire crew. He rescues Jack and faces down his fate. In this chapter, he leads the charge onto the enemy ship. His impetuousness and his puppy "go go go let's go already" attitude have been tempered by a few years and the mellowing influence of Jack, but he's still baffled by a situation in which he can do nothing. He also knows that James is a doer, even if it was held in by the rules, so he tries incite that side of him.

“Look at me, Will,” Jack commanded, and Will obeyed. “The Black Pearl is yours now. Treat her well – an’ that goes for each other too.”

But he still defers to Jack. It's not a top/bottom issue, even though I realized that I've portrayed Jack as a top in regards to Will everywhere in this fic. Jack is the captain, and Will is a pirate, and he can't forget that.

Will was shaking now, uncontrollably, his fingers clawed against his palms. “I can’t do it alone. I can’t be alone.”

Another thing about Will: he spent a long time alone. Think about it: when we meet him in the beginning of the movie (after the flashback), he does not appear to have any friends or companions, as Elizabeth really doesn't count. He has no trouble going off alone with Jack, and then proceeding on his own when he clocks Jack with the oar. It's the same thing with the rescue, although you could argue that he may have had some contact with the crew of the Pearl. And then, quite suddenly, he wasn't alone anymore: he had Elizabeth for a brief while, and then he had Jack, and he's had Jack ever since. He loves James, but James hasn't shared his life in the same way Jack has. It only makes sense that when Jack is gone, Will regresses to that solitary aspect of his character.

“You won’t be.” The warmth was starting to leech out of his voice, though James could tell he was holding onto it for as long as he could.

And Jack knows Will, and he's trying to keep him from pushing James away.

Will’s eyes darted from Jack to James, back and forth, brimming. “Do something...” It was unclear if he was speaking to himself or to James. James answered anyhow.

“I can’t.” Voice as blanched of color as Jack’s face.

Jack closed his eyes, opened them again at Will’s panicked sob. Will’s hands were moving, touching his face, his chest, his arm, his bleeding wound. James couldn’t move.

Starting to shut down because he can't deal with this in the same way Will is.

“Love you, Will Turner,” Jack breathed. His eyes shifted to James, who tried – tried so hard it spasmed through his body – to give him that smile he adored. He didn’t even know how to do it, but this curve of lips couldn’t possibly be –

Again, James is trying to give back what Jack has given to him, even though he's stumbling through it.

“Your smile – aye, your perfect smile, Jamie. Both my loves. Always.” He looked at Will again and his eyes closed.
They waited a heartbeat – two – three. His eyes stayed closed.

A cry that sounded like it was being torn from Will’s throat echoed across the silent deck. It was the most awful thing James had ever heard or imagined hearing. Will reached for Jack wildly, drew him up against his chest, rocked back and forth as he made that sound again. And James was glad because it meant he didn’t have to feel Jack’s hand go cold, wouldn’t have to remember that.

Something I have to admit comes straight from me. When I put my cat to sleep, I was stuck as to what to do when the stuff they use started to work. I wanted him to feel me there in that last moment, but I didn't want to feel him stop breathing, feel his life slip away. I ended up with kind of lifting my hand as he laid his head down so it hovered over his fur. And I had to use that, because even if the situations aren't precisely comparable, there's no universal scale on which to measure grief.

There was a low, ragged, animal breathing he realized was his own.

He became aware of the crew gathered around, utterly still. No one was close but Gibbs and the man with the parrot. For a moment he wanted to scream at them, beat his fists against them, but it was a quickly faded impulse – they had been his friends, they had cared for him too. And, a cool part of his mind noted, witnesses to his final words. There were things that had to be done when a captain died.

Things that had to be done.

James, again, is a doer. He's very good at reacting.

He scooted awkwardly forward to Will, still clutching Jack. No, Jack’s body – the body.

Raising a hand to his shoulder, he earned himself a violent flinch. Hot raw eyes looked up at him, tears streaking down Will’s cheeks.

“Will.” He wondered how he could sound so calm, so composed. “He’s gone now.”

Will's wondering it too. It confuses him and he resents it.

Will stared at him like he was a thing out of deepest hell.

“Let go. Let him go.”

Fury as pure as his grief mired itself in Will’s features. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

James didn’t rise to the bait, only said his name again: “Will.”

His expression went slack and distant and he laid Jack carefully down against the deck, tucking his arms straight at his sides. He tugged at the knot in his scarf and, freeing it, lowered it slowly over Jack’s face.

James was relieved; it seemed a good sign. Of what, he wasn’t exactly sure.

Will stood straight. He drew his sword.

Gibbs stepped forward nervously. “Wi –” He cleared his throat. “Captain Turner.”

Will jumped exactly as a man struck with a lash. His arm, however, was steady as he raised it to point his blade at the cluster of captured pirates.

“Kill them.” His voice was controlled. Cold. “And those aboard the Retriever. Kill them all.”

Will is freaking out. That's what this part is. Obviously. I'm afraid I can't be very useful here.

It was a credit to Jack’s integrity, James knew, that Gibbs did not jump to obey this order. No one had ever lied when they called him a good man, and he attracted a certain type of follower for his crew.

After a pause, Will swung the sword around to aim it at Gibbs. James got to his feet.

“Sir – cap’n –”

“Don’t do this, Will,” James said. Will spun to look at him, and his eyes were terrifying, a rictus of suffering. Grief held back by anger and hatred, focused now on James, who raised his arms to show he had no weapon.

“You dare.” Will’s voice was a sibilant hiss.

James stayed perfectly still. The sword point came against his throat. He did not look away from Will’s eyes.

“This is not going to bring him back.” And it hurt – the past tense hurt like a blow to the chest. But there were things he needed to do and he had no time to dwell. “This isn’t what he would have wanted.”

“How do you know what he would have wanted?” Will shouted. Beyond the haze governing his actions, James could see the horror mirroring his own at the manner in which he’d spoken: the moment in which ‘is’ became ‘was,’ ‘has’ became ‘had,’ and the man to whom they both belonged became the empty shell lying on the deck.

Blood dripped down onto his sleeve from the tip of Will’s sword, just barely nicking the skin.

“I don’t.” A lie, but one needed to convince him. The next, not a lie: “You do.”

Alright, this is where I stopped writing on Sunday morning. To catch up, on Saturday I wandered around the room, watched "The Talented Mr. Ripley" and rewound the Jack Davenport scenes over and over. I watched a bit of PotC, worked on the fic a bit, watched "Before Night Falls" and repeated that shot moving up Johnny's ass about a thousand times, but I didn't really start to tackle the deathscene until around midnight. First I searched for awhile for a sea song I could use in the funeral, but there weren't any that worked. Then I had a crazy thought of using a Jimmy Buffett song, so I dragged out my CD to see if "Son of a Son of a Sailor" or "One Particular Harbor" would fly. No such luck, but I managed to distract myseelf for a good hour, because who can write about death while listening to Jimmy Buffett? Then I finally started writing. And when I was able to stop, crying all alone in my dorm room, it was 3:45 in the morning and I had to get up at some reasonable hour because the movies were due before noon. I gave it a quick once-over, made a quick "I dead" post, got myself under control, and went to bed even though I wasn't the least bit tired. Then for some godforsaken reason I woke up, all on my own, at 7:55. I ploughed through the rest of it on Sunday, getting stuck at Will and James' conversation and having to finish it during the Oscars. Anyway. Moving on.

His shoulders slumped and his jaw worked, the sword trembling at James’ throat before it fell to the side, Will’s head lowering as he seemed to fold in on himself.

James stepped forward, hand held out, but Will backed away from him.

“Don’t touch me,” he said, shaking his head over and over until the gesture lost all meaning, his voice a shadow of his former anger. The men parted for him as he turned and strode away, the sword clattering onto the deck at James’ feet.

James picked it up and mechanically cleaned the bloodied tip.

“Comm – Mr. Norrington. Sir,” added Gibbs when he didn’t turn around.

“I should go after him,” said James. His own voice sounded far away and flat.

Gibbs cautiously took the sword from him because he was shredding the hem of his shirt. “Might be best to let ‘im alone for awhile. Till he wants t’be found.”

The prospect of writing Gibbs frightened me because I suck at dialect and he needs to speak it. I wasn't even going to use him, but I needed somebody who would be able to take charge, and Gibbs was far more effective for that purpose that an OC. I put Cotton in because I love Cotton. Though notice I didn't bother with the parrot speaking.

“And if he does harm to himself?” There were things that had to be done in times like these, and then there were things that people needed to be protected from.

Gibbs frowned. “‘Adn’t thought o’ that. You – Robespierre, and Tibbits – look for Captain Turner. Search ‘er from fore to aft.”

James went to Jack’s body and examined the shirt, the blood already stiffening it the fabric.

“Norrington. Lad – we’ll take charge o’ the – the body,” said Gibbs. The man with the parrot put a hand on his shoulder. James stubbornly shrugged it off.

“I have to do this,” he said. “I have to take care of him”

Poor Jamie. I think that's all that can be said about that.

“All righ’,” said Gibbs placatingly. “We’ll all bring 'im below, clean 'im up. C’mon.” He helped James to his feet and he and the parrot-man bent to lift Jack in their arms.

“Careful,” said James stridently. He was no use in carrying, but he laid a hand on him all the same.

He kept vigil through the night, convincing the others to leave him be. He sat beside Jack’s body, laid out on a pallet and covered by a sheet, as rough winds shook the ship. The Pearl herself kept him company, evidenced by the eerie wailing from above – the wind sounding through the open hatch, he knew, but more than sufficient for mourning cries.

One last thing he can do for Jack. And my first, probably only, effort at personifying the Pearl. I didn't want him to be entirely alone.

James took a breath, held it, let it out. Took another, did the same. It was all he was capable of. Sleep eluded him, phantom voices echoed in his ears. He could not yet think on the words of the afternoon, though he knew they were recounted in his mind with perfect precision and would never be forgotten if he lived a thousand years. Those words did not torment him, not yet – but others did.

You are without a doubt the worst pirate I’ve ever heard of.

Ah, but you have heard of me.

Did you miss us, Commodore?

Funny you should mention sea monsters. D'I ever tell you about that summer I spent in a lovely little glen in Scotland?

We’ll be leaving in the morning, Jamie, so do name your pleasure for the night.

Just as I thought. Still beautiful.

A man can lose a lot and still go on, if he’s the will for it.

Lines thrown in from the movie, from the fic, and a couple I made up on the spot.

The will.

Will.

You forget your place, Turner.

It’s right here, between you and Jack.

He gazed at the still body and he wanted Will there with him, with a dull ache that felt just like his missing arm only worse.

But Will proved impossible to find. He was still missing the next morning when they laid Jack to rest. James knew the proper procedure for a burial at sea, having attended his share over the years, but this one passed indistinctly. There were words and fumbled prayers and some men were weeping, and he had to decline a request to speak with a simple shake of his head. Somebody played a fiddle as a young man – no more than a boy, really – sang high and sweet.

I tried to find an actual song for the funeral, I really did, but all the hymns I know don't go back that far and none of the traditional shanties seemed to fit. In any case, James isn't paying attention.

The ring he had taken from Jack’s finger sat cold and heavy in his hand.

You’d make a bloody awful pirate, Jamie love.

Did it count if he meant to give it away? He thought that made him more of a Robin Hood than a pirate.

He had left tokens in exchange: Will’s scarf, knotted around Jack’s wrist, and the piece of green glass they had once given him. Quick work with an awl had drilled a hole through it and it was twisted in Jack’s hair, tucked away in the back at the base of his skull.

The original concept was for him to take trinkets out of Jack's hair, one for himself and one for Will. But I sat for awhile staring at pictures of Jack's hair, and I couldn't see how he would possibly be able to pick one or why, and also it seemed a bit like desiccating the body. So it became the ring instead.

The sea was deathly still, the weather’s rage spent the night before. No noise muffled the sound of the splash as Jack’s wrapped and weighted body hit the water. He thought he heard the Black Pearl sigh.

Someone handed him a flask and he raised it to his lips, the faintest sip of rum bitter against his tongue.

Don’t vomit on my pillow, please.

And waste good rum?

Dropping the flask, he stumbled further aft, knocking men out of his way, before he bent over the side of the ship to retch. His stomach roiled painfully when he was finished; he would have to eat at some point.

Eminently practical. He's beside himself with grief, but he's still functioning.

He turned, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and grimacing at the taste of bile. Will was standing on the forecastle deck, turned toward the funeral party but looking straight at James.

Before he could say anything or move towards him Will was gone, disappearing down the hatch. James considered chasing after him for a moment, but decided against it. He was exhausted and Will obviously didn’t want to be caught.

He swayed against the rail as lack of sleep suddenly caught up with him. He could fight his pride and ask to sleep where the crew slept, even if it meant being surrounded by so many, or he could take the cabin. Sleeping right out on deck was an option, but the sun was gaining power in the sky and he wanted to be out of it.

There was a rough curtain over the cabin windows that he hadn’t noticed before. Drawing it closed, he sat down on the bunk and took off his shirt, the same one he’d been wearing since yesterday, stained beyond help. It could be burned. His breeches were a bit soiled as well so he took them off too, along with his boots, and curled up naked under the sheets.

He breathed in the scents of Jack and Will. Pulled their sheets up over himself, nestled his head against their pillows. Being the only one in the bed made it seem all the less his own.

This image of James just kills me.

To his surprise, sleep claimed him easily. He woke himself around twilight, sobbing hard and gasping for air. The pillow beneath his head was soaked through with his tears. He didn’t remember the dream; he didn’t have to.

For the rest of the night he wandered, taking over watch from the man on duty. He walked the deck until his toes were pinched inside his boots, looking for glimpses of Will. The next day was much the same, except there was more desire to hide himself from sympathetic eyes. He retired to the cabin well before nightfall, sitting up in bed to watch the sunset through the window.

What do you have to lose?

Nothing I’d lament being rid of.

He's not only playing Jack's voice over and over in his head, he's playing every conversation they've ever had, and hating himself for anything he might have said that was hurtful or cold.


And on to the dream sequence, the only part of the story that is not narrated by James. Will's dream is meant to be ambiguous as to whether the apparition of Jack is real or his own imagination, and it's going to stay that way, because I honestly don't know. The important thing is what it makes him do.

Will slept.

He had tucked himself into countless corners of the ship in the past two days, including the smuggling compartments no one else knew about, but this particular corner was simply the last straw. He leaned back against a coil of rope, decided to rest his eyes for a moment, and was instantly gone.

In his dreams he walked barefoot along a nondescript beach. The sun was high but it was cold, and it didn’t hurt his eyes even when he looked straight at it. It left spots as the real sun did, though, and when they cleared away Jack was standing in front of him. He looked the same as he always did. Perhaps a little more somber than usual, a little wiser – but Jack nonetheless

Will thought that he ought to be rushing forward into his arms, overcome with the need to touch him, but it didn’t seem very important in the world of the dream.

“Are you really here?” he asked instead. “Is this you, or only what I want to see?”

Jack shrugged, flashed a grin at him. “Dunno. Does it matter?”

Will ran his eyes over the lean form, the be-ringed fingers, the dark eyes. “Are we somewhere important?”

“No,” said Jack. “But we have something important to discuss.”

Will remembered the guilt weighing down his waking self and he cried out, “I’m sorry I didn’t say it one last time.”

Quietly: “That you love me?”

“Yes. I should have told you.”

Jack snorted. “Silly whelp. As if it was necessary.” He waved a hand over his shoulder in a gesture of nonchalance. “Mere frippery – ask Jamie, he’ll tell you.”

Will dug his toes into the sand, which was cool and damp from the waves gently lapping up. “I haven’t spoken to him,” he said, unable to look Jack in the eye.

Clucking his tongue, Jack said, “Now that is a damned shame, m’boy. You’ve usually got more sense than that.” He held up a single finger as he began to dig in his pockets, under his sash, patting himself down as if he were looking for something. “Ah – here –” Drawing something out of his vest, he tossed it to Will. “Catch.”

Will caught the thing. It was an oversized silver coin, with the visage of a grinning skull that swirled rapidly in the center until it was just a white blue. Inside it he could suddenly see James, tossing violently about on a bed, drenched in sweat.

“Is that our cabin?”

Jack nodded.

“He’s sleeping there alone?” Will shivered, watching James kick at the sheets. “It would hurt so much.”

“Maybe that’s the point.”

The silver disc stung his fingers and he dropped it in surprise, watching it sink down into the sand and disappear. When he looked back up, Jack was slowly backing away from him.

“Jack?” He tried to follow, but it was as though every one step of his was equal to three steps of Jack’s, and the water was receding as well.

“Tide’s going out,” said Jack apologetically. “Got to go with it.”

Will hurled himself forward, feet slapping against the wet sand as it dried out beneath him. “Wait – please wait! Don’t leave me!”

Jack smiled patiently. He was far enough away that he had to raise his voice. “That’s not quite how it works, love.”

Then he was speeding away backwards, faster and faster, and Will found himself running on dry sand. One foot sank deep and he started to fall, landing with a jerk against his coil of rope in the belly of the Pearl.



What if you could go anywhere?

Anywhere in the world.

Here. Right here.

James woke with a wordless cry. Checking the clock on the wall, he realized that he’d managed two hours of sleep this time. Better than nothing, he supposed, but he was unwilling to try again. He pulled on his breeches and opened the door, freezing as he caught sight of Will standing just outside, staring out over the water.

The notion of dragging him inside and tying him up to keep him from running all over the ship was a tempting one.

Will turned his head slightly, so that James could just catch the moonlight glinting off his eyes. “Come on out.”

Still fearing a bolt, James walked over to stand beside him at the rail. Will didn’t look at him again, so he studied the younger man out of the corner of his eye. His clothes were torn and filthy, his skin streaked with soot and dirt. There were little scratches and cuts on his hands and his face. His eyes looked bruised in the dark, and James wondered if he’d slept at all.

I'm not sure how Will got all banged up. Maybe accidental, maybe it's self-inflicted, maybe he pissed off some rats.

“I wanted to thank you for stopping me from killing those men,” Will said suddenly, breaking into his thoughts. “I would have regretted it.”

“You’re welcome.”

“The crew must be very unsettled right now. I’ve shirked my duty to them.”

Very formal, very uncomfortable. They don't know how to be alone with each other anymore.

“Gibbs has been handling things,” said James. “You can take as long as you like.”

A grateful half-smile was sent his way. “I’ll speak with him in the morning, all the same. I don’t imagine we’ve got a destination just yet.”

“No, that’s your decision. Have you given it any thought?”

Will nodded, sliding his palms together and apart on the rail. “There’s an old friend who will want to – want to know. She’s usually sailing around the Leeward Islands this time of year, so we could head that way. And before the cold weather sets in up north, we might go to London to visit Elizabeth.”

The old friend, of course, being Anamaria. And I just missed Elizabeth, and would love for her to see Will and James again, for them to get to play with her children. And she deserves to know about Jack.

“It would be nice to see her,” said James honestly. “And she would want...” He hesitated.

“News,” said Will shortly. “Yes. After that, perhaps North America – you’ve never been there, have you?”

James shook his head. “I’ve certainly heard stories, though.”

Read dirty poetry to a witch queen in New Orleans once. Barely made it out o’ there with all my bits intact.

Will pulled a wry grin. “The plunder is good, if you can sneak your way in.” He bit his lip and looked at James quickly, almost furtively. “Jack has a child in Charleston, did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t,” James replied, noting how Will’s voice got soft on his name.

“A son,” said Will with a nervous bob of his head. “We send his mother money twice a year, and we went there for a few days once.”

“How old is the boy?”

“He’ll be ten in January. His name is Thomas. It’s like looking at a miniature...” He choked on a wondering laugh. “Uncanny. He doesn’t know of his parentage, of course – he thought we were uncles – but I mean to tell him someday. When he’s old enough to understand.”

I don't know how a kid got in there. He just appeared.

James was bidden by the need to take him close, to shield the fragility in his voice. But he didn’t move, afraid to interrupt the struggle behind those brown eyes.

Finally Will said haltingly, “This is – I don’t want it to be like this. Us – it’s different now but – are you going to stay?” The last word fell to a whisper, nearly held back.

Blinking at the suddenness of the question, James said thic