Beyond the Horizon: Part III

[likeahurricane7]

Title: Beyond the Horizon

Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean; Sparrington

Rating: R

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

Summary: A new approach to the AWE fix-it fic idea. James has a touch of destiny about him, and the way in which he dies catches the attention of a certain recently-freed sea goddess. Also featuring: The Immortal Captain Jack Sparrow.

Note: I pulled from a lot of different influences here, but overall I think the most lasting one was from this little gem of a ficlet I found called The Damned wherein James and Davy Jones find some common ground on which to stand.

Jack awoke in a state of some confusion when his pillow stirred an hour before dawn. “Mhnod’wake.”

“I know,” James’ voice whispered, very near to his ear. “But I am, and I’ve got to see to it that the crew and all are ready to set sail within the hour.”

Recalling where he was, the pirate relaxed, but then James’ words sank in. “Bazzurd,” Jack accused, trying to burrow deeper into the comfortable warmth of James’ body and the blanket that still covered both of them. “Belay it.”

“I cannot.” He sounded more amused than apologetic, but pressed a consoling kiss to Jack’s temple anyway. “For all that I would rather linger here, I cannot.” He gently began to disentangle himself from Jack, with obvious reluctance.

Jack muttered protest, which woke him up far enough to open one eye and glare at James. “Belay, belay,” he ordered. “Yer warm, stay ‘ere, love.”

“I’ll be free to return to you once we’ve set sail, Jack.” James tugged the blanket up to Jack’s shoulders, both to assuage Jack’s warmth-related complaints and to slightly lessen the temptation that the sight of Jack’s body provided.

“Hold you to it,” Jack snorted petulantly, his voice still heavy with sleep.

James only smiled, and began to get dressed.

It was a surprisingly fine way to start his day.

Jack was given a tour of one or two other stops, at other resting places whereat James dropped off his charges. The ship stopped at several others, but many were not places that Jack, or anyone else on board, could follow. Jack spent his days occasionally working with the crew or, on a few notable occasions, manning the helm; his evenings below with captain, crew and charges, listening to and telling tales; and his nights in the captain’s bed.

For all that he itched to leave, to return to the Black Pearl and start chasing the horizon again, Jack felt a strange pang at the thought of leaving James behind, here with only dead men (fine sailors, perhaps, in the case of James’ crew, but they were still effectively dead) for company, especially when Jack did indeed appreciate James’ company, these days. The man was as fine out of dress as he was in it, a creative and occasionally playful lover, passionate, clever, sharp-witted, and a good chess player as well. He was, in short, the sort of man that Captain Jack Sparrow could come to treasure, he told himself, not quite willing to admit that he had already begun to do so, not when he would be leaving all too soon.

When they finally returned from the far side of the horizon, back into the world of the living, Jack was feeling rather cheated, in that he’d found such a lovely treasure, but one he could not take with him.

That night, he said something to that effect to James: “I want to take you wif me,” he muttered against James’ throat. “It’d be a helluva lark, mate. You could help me kill Barbossa, scare the bejeezus out of ‘is crew so they’d play nice until I could get some more loyal sailors on board, and of course...” Letting his actions speak for him, he suckled a particularly sensitive spot, which he’d discovered just a few nights ago, on the underside of James’ jaw, making the taller man shiver.

“Jack,” James groaned, his tone managing to sound both disapproving and pleading at the same time.

Impressed by this, Jack muttered, “Yer a man of many talents, love.”

James growled in reply and flipped the pirate onto his back, pinning his wrists to the bed. “As are you, Jack, with the benefit of lunacy to inspire you into using them creatively.” He ground his thigh against Jack’s erection and smirked at the involuntary groan this brought forth from Jack. Then, more gently, he added, “But you know I cannot follow you.”

“Aye,” Jack muttered. “How long before yer one day ashore?”

“Eight years, nine months, and thirteen days,” James answered.

“Why’m I not surprised by your exactness?” Jack mused, and ground his hips up against James, who responded with a breathless growl that sounded a bit like Jack’s name. “I’ll keep that in mind, Jamie.” Then he arched up and caught James’ mouth with his, kissing him and undulating his hips until neither of them were capable of coherent speech.

They had a few days before the Flying Dutchman’s sweep for lost souls brought it to a wreck within a day’s rowing distance of a populated shore, whereupon Jack could and did take his leave, but not before pulling a rather scandalized James into a passionate kiss in front of the whole crew and all of the souls recently brought aboard.

He pulled away with a gold-edged grin, his voice only a little breathless as he said, “I’ll see you around, James.”

“You are a shameless exhibitionist scoundrel,” James countered, his voice deadpan despite how he blushed furiously. Then he took a steadying breath and said, more peaceably and with sincere fondness, “Fair winds, Jack.”

“Keep a weather eye.” Then Jack hopped into the well-supplied (with rum as well as rations) longboat and the two crewmen at the ropes, both of them looking deeply confused, lowered it into the water.

James watched the small boat vanish into the mist before returning to the helm and giving the orders to go below.

Captain Norrington had expected, perhaps, to feel the return of loneliness like a cold shroud, but it did not come. James continued to serve in his duties, protecting and ferrying the souls of those lost at sea. It was not always easy work, wherein souls came aboard quietly from shipwrecks, and there was adventure enough in his life to keep him occupied.

However, he no longer actually felt alone.

At times he would feel loneliness like a sharp pang, but it was not long-lasting as before, and he could shake it off more easily. Less easily did he shake off the pangs that came when he acutely missed the presence of Jack: a thought which, not long ago, would have caused James to burst out laughing had anyone suggested it to him.

Now, however, he rarely found anyone capable of playing chess with him, let alone willing to challenge him, and he understood, suddenly, Davy Jones’ readiness to offer him, a still-hated enemy of sorts, a game.

Also, there was simply the slow wearing down of James’ ability to cope with the way that lost souls seemed oddly colorless when looked at too closely, and the way that his men, despite avoiding final judgement by sailing with him, commonly possessed the same quality; and there was often a certain distance in their eyes that occasionally made conversations strained: as though they were staring through him, into some far horizon where they truly belonged.

It had been unnerving, back when James had been new at this job. Now it was just rather irritating when he happened to notice it whilst in a sour mood.

He lived, he captained, and this time he felt alive.

And now and then, with an almost conspiratorial edge of amusement, he would wonder exactly what his old friends were up to: Elizabeth and her William...or Jack Sparrow chasing his Black Pearl...

It took Captain Jack Sparrow approximately four months, this time, to get back the Black Pearl, with the help of Anamaria’s recently-acquired ship, Gibbs’ skills at rounding up the most reliable lunatics on hand to serve as crewmen, and Jack’s own sheer brilliance.

Hector Barbossa was distinctly put-off when, upon being taken aboard the Flying Dutchman, he was met with a relatively familiar face. He sneered, and cursed colorfully in four languages.

“Captain bloody Jack Sparrow asked me t’ give ye this,” he snarled, and shoved a small, water-tight box into Norrington’s hands.

After ordering his men to take Mr. Barbossa below deck, James moved to stand at the rail and opened the box. It contained a letter, and a map, just in case Jack did not make it aboard anytime soon in the next eight years five months and six days.

James laughed.

Jack was feeling impatient after just over a year’s time had passed since he had disembarked the Flying Dutchman, and his impatience bothered him.

It bothered him that he itched, as he often did, but this time it was not for treasure or for horizon-chasing--at least, no more than usual, and this particular itch was equally strong, which was disturbing. It bothered him that what he wanted was Captain-of-the-bi-bloody-ghost-ship ex-commodore ex-admiral James Bloody Norrington.

Mostly, it bothered Jack that he couldn’t find another way to satisfy this craving. Getting a wench or two for a night was a good way to relieve tension, and there were some rather pretty men to be found in port, but none of them could fully match what Jack was after: not just a bed-warmer, and not even specifically a tall and lovely-looking man to bed, but the sharp wit that James Norrington could still manage even in a post-orgasmic haze, and the soothing air of calm about him due to the man’s unflappable polite manner and self-control.

A wench might take the merest edge off, and his two rolls in the hay with men on his last shore leave in Tortuga three months ago had done little better: rough, coarse and utterly base as such transactions were. As lovers, they could not even simply match James’ level of consideration, let alone the attention to detail, patience, and affection that the green-eyed ex-navy man had so often displayed.

It didn’t help that the only way Jack knew how to reach the man was to either send a message with a dead man, or hope that he and the Pearl might happen upon a fresh shipwreck without getting in a wreck themselves.

So Jack was focusing intently on maps and charts, plotting the next course for them to raid a nice fat Spanish galleon. Reminding himself how very much he wanted that treasure aided him in not thinking about how much he wanted James Norrington and Jack’ compass was, it seemed, humoring him, providing him his needed heading.

Then, suddenly, the arrow swiveled around completely, pointing toward the corner of Jack’s cabin near the foot of his bed, where a small chess table (its fine-carved pieces of ivory and obsidian well hidden from prying eyes and thieving fingers) sat. Hesitantly, Jack turned to look over his shoulder, to where the arrow pointed, and nearly fell out of his chair, cursing colorfully in rather strange combinations of English, French and Spanish.

James, recently materialized and sitting at the chess table--practically lounging back in his chair, in fact--listened to the stream of obscenities for a moment, then said simply, “I’ll have you know that my mother was a saint.” He looked at Jack archly and smirked. “Are you quite alright, Jack?”

“Wot the Hell are you bloody doin’ here, mate?” Jack managed, still a bit shocked. “We’re not likely to sink anytime soon!”

“No. You’re not,” James agreed, softly.

Jack sighed in relief. “Oh, good.”

James’ smirk widened, but the dark edge to it softened considerably. “I’m taking a night off. I’ve left my first mate in charge, as he’s quite competent.” He ran his fingers curiously across the chess table as he looked around the interior of the cabin. “I keep forgetting what a fine ship this is,” he mused. “Even when I was aboard her as a deck-scrubber first and a sailor second, I could not help but notice.”

Despite his bemusement, Jack preened a little, with an involuntary half-grin. “Aye, she is.” Then he looked at James again. “Didn’t know you were allowed that, let alone the ability to visit like this.” He raised his eyebrows.

“Jones set foot on your ship before, did he not? So long as a vessel is at sea, I can step aboard.”

“Aye, then.” Jack glanced warily at his compass, which was still pointing at James, rather disconcertingly. He snapped it shut and set it aside, letting it act at least temporarily as a paperweight holding down his stack of maps. Jack then got to his feet and started to approach James at a slow, stalking pace. “Miss me, then, did you?”

Unconsciously, James licked his lips, but did not look away from Jack’s jet-black eyes, admiring the intensity in their expression. “Mayhap,” he said quietly, teasing. “I’ve not managed to pull aboard any other brash chess-players since you left.”

“And are you here to play chess?” Jack challenged.

After a hum of mock-deliberation, James smiled wickedly answered with a soft, curt, “No.” Then his breath caught as the pirate tugged his chair around, and draped himself across James’ lap.

Already unbuttoning James’ waistcoat (with Jack in only his shirtsleeves and breeches, James was far too dressed, which was an advantage that Jack would not tolerate) Jack purred, “Good,” and caught James’ mouth in a firm, demanding kiss, which James returned with equal fervor.

Jack was rather displeased when, an hour before dawn, his pillow stirred and began trying to pull away. He wrapped one arm around it more tightly, tugging the warm body close again. “Belay,” he demanded.

His pillow chuckled at him, and pushed the mess of heavily decorated hair out of Jack’s face tenderly. “I can’t, Jack,” James said, his voice low and soothing.

Idly, Jack wondered where his bandana had gone. Then he recalled the events of the previous night and blinked himself further awake, peering up at James with one open eye. “Yer leavin’?”

“No real choice, I’m afraid. You know what would happen if I were to neglect my duties.” He traced the line of Jack’s cheekbone with his thumb, taking in with apparent satisfaction the sight and feel of the pirate draped over his body and tangled up with him.

Jack lifted his head enough to rest his chin on James’ sternum. He frowned. “Tentacles wouldn’ suit you,” he muttered. Then, with a put-upon sigh, he relaxed his hold on the other man. “Fine. Ye can go, but only t’ save that pretty face of yours.”

James gave a contemplative hum and pressed Jack’s body into the bed with his own, instantly causing the other man to awaken further, but not in a way that either of them had any complaints about. “I had thought you might be harder to persuade.” Mock-disappointment.

“The longer you keep this up the harder I’ll get, Jamie,” Jack groaned, as James’ mouth nipped and kissed its way up his neck.

“Oh good,” James murmured into his skin, and set about giving the pirate a farewell that neither of them were likely to forget anytime soon, if only because the bruises and other love-marks would linger.

Some time later, when James had finally managed to get dressed, he paused before leaving, a smirk on his lips and pulled something out of his pocket. “I found this recently. I think you may be familiar with its ilk.” It was a talisman on a chain: in this case, a small anchor carved from ebony, with strange runes carved along its length and a singular, small black pearl set in the top of it.

Jack had seen it before. It had inspired him to re-name his ship many years ago. “Aye, I am,” he said, almost warily.

James let it dangle from his fingers, swinging it back and forth. “I think it only fair, Jack, that since I can materialize aboard your ship whenever I wish, then you should have this, and be able to therefore summon me with this according to your own wishes.” He held it out.

Jack curled his fingers around it. “Whenever I wish, ay?” His grin was lascivious.

“Within reason,” James added, rolling his eyes. His fingers curled around Jack’s for a moment, squeezing them tight around the talisman. “Also, if you should ever need an ally anywhere at sea...” he trailed off, raising his eyebrows a little. “I take it you remember how the summoning works?”

“Aye,” Jack murmured, his dark eyes glittering intently, but with the smallest hint of confusion. “I do.”

James smiled a little, almost hesitant. “I will be around, then.” He glanced at the talisman. “And within reach.”

Jack lasted just over eight months before calling on James, which the pirate considered to be an admirable show of restraint.

His fingers tugged at the talisman, which was woven into his hair alongside the jutting reindeer shinbone. His thumb had a small pinprick of blood, from where he had removed a splinter. The blood smeared the ebony charm and the black pearl inset in it as Jack stood in his cabin and muttered the summons.

He jumped three feet in the air when James arrived not with the expected silent materialization, but rather as though he had been flung through the wall. A seawater-soaked James landed against the opposite bulkhead, then slumped to the floor and gasped raggedly, with the faintest hint of blood-gurgle. When words at last emerged from his throat, his voice was too quiet, rough and gravelly; he was also cursing at great length as he struggled, trying to get quickly back to his feet, with apparent intent to escape someone or something.

“James!” Jack scrambled over, kneeling beside the other man’s battered form, his hands soothing on James’ sleeve. “Don’t get up yet, love, you’re a mess. Did I--was it when I summoned you? So sorry, sorry, Jamie, what happened? What did I-”

“Jack?” James looked up, surprised, one hand seizing Jack’s wrist where the pirate reached for him. Then he looked around the cabin, recognizing his surroundings, and suddenly grinned, laughing breathlessly; although the pain it caused in his throat and about his ribs made him wince. “No, no, not your fault, dear Jack. You just have truly impeccable timing.” He let his head fall back against the bulkhead and laughed again, more softly, his voice laced with relief and exhaustion.

Jack grimaced a bit as he watched the wound across James’ throat finish sealing itself until there was only dried blood on mended skin to show that it had been there.

James then added, still amused, and with the gravel in his voice smoothing out now, “I was not, as it were, having an easy time of it.”

“I’d noticed, James, as it’s a bit hard to miss. Did your ship...did some idiot try to attack you?”

“I wasn’t on the ship, but there was attacking involved. I was dealing with a few particularly stubborn souls, who have had time to hide and gather power, both whilst Jones was in charge as well as while I was still learning the ropes of my new position. They need to be brought to the other side.” James started to push himself up and winced.

Jack grabbed his arm and helped him to his feet. “And ye were losing, by the look of it, James; what were ye thinking?”

“That there was only one of them left and that Bill would be sending in reinforcements enough if I could keep him busy for a bit longer. He’ll now be trying to find me in that damned underwater crypt until the crew makes it down there to finish him off.” James rolled his shoulder until it made a rather unpleasant crack, after which he gave a small, satisfied-yet-pained grunt: arm back in its socket and other bones and bone fragments snapping quietly back into place. “I’ll be fine in about half an hour. Thank you, Jack.” He smiled again, and, heedless of how unusual the behavior was for him, pressed an affectionate kiss against Jack’s left temple in a casual and carefree manner that in and of itself was also strange.

That was about when Jack noticed the blood in his hair. “You’ve got a bit of a headwound, there, mate.” He felt a bit less uneasy, then. Concussed people were often unusually friendly towards him, even when they should be very angry, as Jack had been prepared for James to be.

“Half an hour, and everything will be back in its proper place, including small skull fragments. This is only the third time I’ve gotten quite this badly battered, but I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

“You’re madder than I am, at the moment, Jamie,” Jack grumbled. He tugged one of James’ arms across his shoulders, supporting the taller man as he walked them both toward the table. “Come on, then, love, sit down and let’s both of us have a drink, ay?” He lowered James into a chair, grimacing again when he noticed something else. “Is that a sword in your leg?”

“Oh. Yes. Well, it’s part of one. Not mine, as that’s where it belongs.” His fingers brushed along the scabbard at his side absently, then he reached for the handle of the sword that currently pierced his thigh. “It’s about half of one, I suppose.” He tugged it out with a wince and examined it. “Or two thirds. Something like that.” He set it aside on the table.

Jack seized a nearby bottle of rum; his hands were shaking, but he barely noticed. “Any other debris worth worrying about?” He pulled the cork out of the bottle with his teeth and took a healthy and steadying swig of rum, not looking away from the battered man sitting at his table.

James thought about it, looking down and examining himself for a moment. “Not that I can think of.” His good humor cracked just a bit as he glanced at the rum bottle, which seemed to remind him, through the fog of adrenaline, endorphins and his concussion, that he was in considerable pain, which the rum would ease a little. He shut his eyes, brow furrowing deeply, and reached out a hand. “May I?”

“‘Course, Jamie. You bloody well look like ye need it,” Jack drawled solemnly, and handed it over.

James only gave another wry, pained smile, and took it. He drained nearly a third of it before setting the bottle aside and gasping for breath. “God, the burn is worse when the interior of one’s throat is still mending,” he hissed. “But worth it, I think.”

Jack pushed the bottle aside and leaned on the table, settling himself between it and James as he cupped James’ face in one hand, tilting the paler man’s chin up to get a better look at him. “James, look at me.”

Dark green eyes, the color of the caribbean sea at daybreak, met his, held his gaze. After a moment, they cleared a little as some of the pain dimmed, dulled by the rum. He took in the mixed worry and pain on Jack’s features, and reached out to run his fingers down Jack’s cheek. “I’ll be fine, Jack. Really.”

“Scared the bloody daylights outta me with that entrance,” Jack muttered, his hand moving tentatively to James’ neck, his thumb running across freshly-mended skin. “Thought I’d done something wrong, and things had someway gone awry when I summoned you.” His voice was dark and serious.

James leaned forward, resting his brow on the pirate’s chest. “No, Jack. Nothing is awry. You prevented me from having to spend another half-hour fighting that thing on my own. I’m sure that you can guess what that would have resulted in.” He nuzzled a bit closer, wondering when exactly the smells of rum, mostly-unwashed pirate, and the distinct spice that was Jack Sparrow’s scent, had become so deeply comforting. “Not something I would have looked forward to, had I been capable of much clear thinking at the time.”

“Speaking of: is the headwound mending?”

“Yes, and it itches like Hell, but I’ve learned from experience not to touch it.”

“How often does this happen, then, love?” He petted the back of James’ neck gently and soothingly, but there was a trace of anger in his voice.

“Not too often. It’ll be even less often once I’ve finished cleaning up Jones’ damned messes,” James muttered. Then he looked up, thoughtfully, pulling back just enough to look Jack in the eye. “About how often these days, Jack, do you get shot?” The message was clear: do not scold me for getting hurt when you do similarly.

Jack frowned. “Several times, more often than not, on any given venture these days,” he admitted reluctantly. “Shots heal quicker.”

“Yes. You’ve thusfar only gotten smaller injuries, but we’re immortal, now, Jack. Eventually, those around us will try harder and harder to test it,” he murmured, running his hands down Jack’s sides, appreciating the fact that Jack was down to shirtsleeves here in the privacy of his cabin.

Gulping silently, Jack kept petting James’ neck, but his eyes were distant. “That’s no reason to give them the opportunity, by going in alone after...how many was it?”

“Four.” James lowered his head again, this time pressing a kiss to Jack’s exposed collarbone. “Although I only knew about two of them before I actually arrived.”

“Ah,” Jack said. “That makes more sense, for you.”

“Thank you, for realizing that I am not usually a fool.” He sounded amused again.

“I like to think that you only end up playing the fool when it’s me you’re against, mate.” Jack found himself smirking. “But I see I’m wrong there.”

“Yes, but I will admit that you are the only one to have consistently defeated me in the past.” He hummed thoughtfully and added, “With, of course, the one major exception.”

Still, Jack preened. “Let’s keep it that way, ay?”

“I am most assuredly working on it.” He wrapped his arms loosely around the pirate’s waist. He took a deep breath and let it out with a slight hiss, tightening his grip a little as some muscles in his lower back spasmed. He asked in a tight, pained voice, “How long have I been here so far?”

“Ten minutes or so, maybe a quarter hour at the most.”

“Ah, no wonder.” James’ teeth were clenched, but his voice was still even and civil, if only by his sheer force of will. “The skeletal damage always hurts the worst when it is only about half-healed.”

Still stroking James’ neck with one hand, Jack rested the other hand in the middle of James’ back and felt the tension of all the other man’s muscles: James’ restraint--restraining the urge to shiver, the urge to whimper in pain as bones snapped quietly back into their proper places and mended, the urge to curl into a ball on the floor as the pain continued, the urge to cry out...everything.

“James...”

“Hmm?”

“More rum?”

“Yes. Yes, and yes again.”

A pause: James made no attempt to pull away, even for rum.

“You’ll have a hard time drinking it if you stay as you are, love.”

“Just...give me a minute.” His grip loosened, almost hesitantly.

Jack gently pulled him closer again, reassuring. “No rush, Jamie.” He settled himself half-sitting on the edge of the table and lowered his head until his brow rested on the top of James’ head. “Missed you,” he added, very quietly.

“I noticed,” James countered, his voice equally low. “I was wondering when your curiosity would get the better of you.” A thoughtful noise. “Was I correct, earlier, in noting that the talisman itself is actually woven into your already eccentric-looking hair, or was that the concussion?”

A derisive snort. “Yes. It’s in my hair.”

A soft laugh, almost able to conceal the pain in James’ voice. “I thought so.” His arms tightened around the pirate again. “And I’m glad. That’s a good place for it.” He pulled away a little: just enough to reach behind Jack for the rum and to drain another third of the bottle before setting it aside and again embracing his pirate.

Some time later, once James had washed most of the blood off his skin, they adjourned to Jack’s bed for a few leisurely hours, of sex, of quiet, and of idle banter, respectively.

When the Flying Dutchman then appeared, and James left, Jack felt a sad bit of disappointment and longing, and realized that his life was even stranger than he had previously given it credit for.

After all, he was Captain Jack Sparrow. Falling in love had never been in his plans; it was messy, people did stupid and potentially lethal things on its behalf, and it left him open to manipulation. Falling in love with a former navy man, now ex-navy and ex-mortal, captain of the ship responsible for ferrying the souls of those lost at sea to the other side...

Well. To call it unexpected would be an understatement.

And yet...they were both immortal, savvy? No worries about what might potentially kill them. Except, perhaps, Jamie’s heart, but the man had proven quite good at guarding that, so far.

Except, if Jack was not mistaken, from a certain pirate.

Jack realized he was smiling.

Just about eight years since dispatching Barbossa once more, and Jack Sparrow was still captain of the Black Pearl.

He was sitting in the corner of his favorite bar in Shipwreck Cove, watching the other patrons like a king watching a play. He’d visited Elizabeth and William Turner the night before, but this evening belonged to someone else. Especially since his last little chat with dear Calypso had been so...informative.

It could, apparently, go either way that James chose: sunrise to sunset, or sunset to sunrise. James would choose the latter, Jack knew.

Through an amber haze, Jack wondered if the sun had set yet. There was a whole night ahead of them. The amount of liquor in his system was impressive, and kept him from thinking about the alternatives: James not showing up, either for a lack of interest in spending his once-every-ten-years shore leave with Jack Sparrow (a thought more insulting and more painful than Jack would admit) or because something had gone wrong and some idiot had taken it into his head to stab James’ heart and steal the man’s immortality in order to sail the seas forever, which was more disquieting than anything Jack had thought up in a long time.

More rum, then. He reached for the bottle...

Jack’s hand flailed in the air for a moment, then groped blindly at the spot on the table where his rum bottle had once sat

Far too close to his ear, a low, familiar and far-too-dignified baritone voice said, “Hello, Captain Jack Sparrow.”

Flailing impressively, Jack spun both himself and his chair around quickly, and tried to glare at him but was grinning too widely. “James.” He got to his feet and seized the man’s hand (the one not occupied by rum) to shake it. “You mortiferous rogue!”

“And you are a reckless, duplicitous and conniving scoundrel,” James countered, affectionately, his smile equally wide, for all that it was still more than a little sardonic, just like his voice as he added, “But still one with a ship of his own, which I presume you are continuing to enjoy ceaselessly.”

Jack gestured at the table, and they both sat down. Again, Jack’s smile was brilliant, sincere, and almost involuntary. “Aye. Luxuriating in it, too.” He stretched languidly and folded his arms behind his head for emphasis.

They spent much time just talking, bantering, telling tales and exchanging news stories from their respective worlds: the Turners had a second child, a girl now four years old, and Calypso had a new flame.

As the night wore on, they wandered through a few other taverns until they reached one that was attached to an inn. They rented a room, and supported each other as they stumbled up the stairs, laughing like far younger men: Jack with his arm around James’ waist, James with his arm draped across Jack’s shoulders. As James started to unlock the door to their room, Jack leaned up to nuzzle his throat.

“Did you miss ol’ Jack, Jamie?” he purred.

With a pleased rumble, James pushed the door open and tugged Jack through it. “I did. I did indeed.”

Jack pushed the door shut behind him and pinned James against it with the length of his body, to which James uttered no complaint. They were both rather drunk, at this point, which is probably why Jack found himself muttering, “Too long at sea, ay? Not that I complain, mind, but I didn’t see you lookin’ all that intently at any wenches.” Even as he spoke, his hands were making quick work of James’ waistcoat buttons.

“We’re men of the sea, Jack: no such thing as too much time spent there,” James countered. “Then again, given that you currently appeal to me more than any of the ‘wenches’ who passed by us this evening, perhaps there may be, but I’m not complaining, either.” He removed Jack’s belts and sash with familiarity and practiced ease.

Jack chuckled softly, as their coats fell to the floor and James carefully set aside the infamous leather tricorne. “At least we’re not limited to every ten years if we don’t want t’ be.”

James chuckled, but did not deny the insinuation: that Jack had claim over his heart. Instead he leaned down to nibble along the edge of Jack’s ear and suck lightly on the lobe. Then he replied, in husky tones, “Something for which I am most grateful.”

“Aye?”

“Aye, Jack.” His lips and teeth trailed down the side of the pirate’s neck. “I do not know, truly, how I could cope without you. Then again, I think a lot of people in love say such things,” he mused.

Jack shuddered; this was the first time either of them had admitted aloud anything of the sort. “Jamie...” He groaned, his graceful fingers moving faster, more desperately, to divest James of his clothing. “JamieJamieJamie,” he breathed, and captured James’ mouth forcefully with his own.

Returning it, James moaned softly and slid his hands under Jack’s shirt, feeling the familiar lines of scars and wiry muscles under golden skin.

Briefly, Jack pulled away, but his lips still brushed James’ as he said, “Loveyou, too, you droll British pillock.” Then his mouth smothered James’ attempted reply.

All seemed well enough, over the next several years, but James was becoming wary of the way that the world was changing around them: piracy in decline, the further advances of naval technology, the first rumbles of revolution starting in numerous colonial territories. James could taste war on the wind, and it reminded him of his naval days, which seemed now so incredibly far away. He did not worry, however, for the navy. He worried for Captain Jack Sparrow.

One night, his worries showed themselves justified, as the Flying Dutchman made its way to a spot of ocean lit by the still-burning-a-little wreckage of one badly damaged naval ship, now half-sunk. Its allies had long ago collected the survivors and sailed away. But there were more floating pieces of wreckage than could have been spread from the one ship alone, and James felt his innards turn to lead as he recognized some of the larger pieces, including a pure-black figurehead, with one man draped over it looking too battered and bloody to be alive: his clothes torn by debris, some of which was still sticking out of him, and charred here and there by fire.

After pulling Bill Turner aside for a moment and exchanging frank words with him, James called his men to lower the longboats and then vanished. When he again materialized aboard, the figurehead floating in the water nearby was bare and James carried Jack Sparrow in his arms in a manner that, had their mood not been one of somber lamentation, one of them might have mockingly called ‘bridal’ just to make the other laugh; now, however, Jack was not speaking. He was alive, and had opened his eyes to meet James’ gaze briefly when he had first been lifted from the water, but then he had closed them again, saying not a word. His body was limp, sapped of all strength and resistance, as James carried him.

Some of the crew glanced at the pair, but said nothing, merely getting on with their duties. Will Turner took James’ usual role, greeting each soul taken aboard, making sure no one was treated like a corpse.

James took the pirate into his cabin, and set him on his feet, quietly urging him to stand. In silence, Jack obeyed, watching James shed coat, hat and boots before rolling up his sleeves in preparation.

Jack silently let James remove his soaking wet clothing and hang it all up to dry over a small brazier in the corner. He flinched, but made no sound as James’ graceful hands plucked splinters large and small, of wood and glass and metal, out of his skin. In silence, he accepted and dressed in a fresh pair of breeches and a shirt, both in his size, from James, who then gently pushed him down to sit on the edge of the bed. Jack rested his hands on his knees, his eyes looking oddly blank.

Kneeling in front of him, James rested his hands over Jack’s be-ringed ones, rubbing warmth into them. “Are you with me, Jack?” he asked, his voice soft.

Jack blinked a few times, some of the fog in his gaze clearing. “A little, Jamie. Most of me ‘s with the Pearl.” His voice was ragged. He cleared his throat with a wince. “She’s gone.”

“You need not bargain with me as with Jones. I can raise her again if you ask it of me,” James murmured.

Jack’s eyes, almost all the kohl washed away by the sea, shut tightly. “Not much left to raise, love,” he said, after a long pause, and his voice cracked a little. “After I sent the crew off, when it was clear we were sinkin’, the other bastards fired again, and it started a fire below deck. All the black powder...” He swallowed thickly.

James got to his feet and settled on the bed, pulling Jack back with him, so that he was pressed against the pirate’s back, wrapped around him and supporting him. Jack sagged into his embrace, turning to bury his face in James’ shoulder, his hands clutching hard at James’ forearm where it had draped across his chest.

Without James holding him now, keeping him gently contained both in his arms with that soothing air of calm that always hung about the ex-navy man, Jack knew with startling clarity where he would be; it would be the same self-destructive rage and pain he’d suffered when Barbossa had first marooned him and stolen the Pearl, but deeper and blacker and more full of despair, because she was truly gone, this time for good. Even immortality might have scarcely weathered that storm. Jack knew it, and knew also that James somehow knew it, too.

With a shudder, and a choked sound resembling a dry and suppressed sob and an irate growl mixed together, Jack began telling James of how it had all happened, in a flat and pained voice that hissed slightly because it often escaped through clenched teeth.

A navy man o’ war, along with a corvette and two smaller privateer ships had approached, concealed from sight by a heavy storm. By the time they were visible through the driving rain, it was too late. They had cornered the Black Pearl into a narrow harbor at the nearby island James had spotted earlier: the harbor was small, cliff-backed and hard to find. It had been safe for Jack many times before, but not this time.

The Pearl had upped anchor and managed to slip past the less disciplined privateer ships, damaging one of them severely, but the corvette had cut off his escape as the man o’ war swooped into position for a broadside. The corvette was the now-sinking ship, and Jack and his crew had managed to take down the mainmast of the man o’ war, but not before their ship had taken too many hard blows.

While the man o’ war struggled with their fallen mast and the remaining privateer ship moved in to help, Jack had told his crew what was what: the Pearl was sinking, and there was no safety within swimming distance, even if they managed to limp some distance away while the enemy was distracted, but they could slip away in the longboats, if they used the smoke from the conflagration aboard the naval corvette to conceal their escape. He told them to go, and they went.

“Ye’ve worked out the rest ‘m sure,” Jack whispered hoarsely. “I couldn’ leave her. Not when she was...I could feel her pulse gettin’ quieter. I could feel ‘er die.” A few tears leaked afresh from the corners of his eyes, despite his best efforts. He had told himself that he’d done with all that, in the hours he’d clung to the last pieces of her, floating and feeling more dead than he had felt even in the Locker. He felt James’ arms tighten around him, and found that James’ warmth made it easier to choke down and prevent the shuddering weakness and the burning urge to weep that threatened to well up in him again. “I knew ye’d find me,” he rasped.

James stroked Jack’s hair and lifted his legs a bit so that they were bent at the knees and slightly wrapped around Jack’s as the pirate curled up against him. Feeling Jack’s hands clutching at the fabric of his shirt and waistcoat, James let his eyes fall shut and tucked Jack’s head under his chin. “Always, Jack,” he murmured. “Whenever you need me.” His hands stroked up and down Jack’s back and sides as the pirate turned around further, pressing his face against James’ neck.

“Never had such a permanent safe harbor as that,” Jack mused quietly, almost whispering. “Never in my life.”

Reaching between them, James tugged at one of Jack’s wrists until the brown fingers unclenched from around the now-stretched fabric of his waistcoat, and gently pressed Jack’s hand against his chest, where James’ heart should be. The rest of his body had a tangible pulse (wrist, throat, crook of his elbow, et cetera) but the place just under the impressive scar, where his heart had been cut out, was very still and quiet. James held Jack’s hand there until he sensed the pirate glancing at the dark, locked chest still bolted in place atop the cabin’s highest bookshelf. “It’s yours,” James said, his voice low and gentle and loving. “Always.”

Jack inhaled sharply and then, after a momentary pause, bent his head down to press a kiss to James’ chest, between his thumb and forefinger, where he knew from memory that, beneath the fabric, was the top of the largest and deepest scar on James’ body. Then he wrapped his arms around James’ waist, finally returning the other man’s embrace. “‘M yours, Jamie. Have been for ages,” he whispered. “Even if I’m a bit scuppered at the mom’nt.”

James stroked his hair again, held him tighter, and murmured something soothing into his hair, at which point Jack realized exhaustion was getting the better of him. He mentioned it to James and let the other man pull them up the bed to settle against the pillows there. James was humming the song Elizabeth had taught Jack long ago on that damned island, and that was the last thing Jack heard as he fell asleep.

Half an hour before dawn, Jack blinked awake, feeling inexplicably confused even before he was fully conscious. Without moving his head, he looked around the interior of James’ cabin, then glanced up and James’ face.

James, who had been awake for about half an hour by this point, met his gaze with a faint smile. “You are awake earlier than expected.”

Jack rubbed his eyes and grumbled incoherently for a moment, then looked up at James again, still wearing a look of mild bemusement. “You’re still here.”

Tilting his head a bit to one side and shooting Jack an arch look, James drawled an affirmative “Yes?” in a tone that told Jack he was stating the obvious again.

“Yer crew? Duty and all that?”

“As soon as I spotted you in the water, I pulled Mr. Turner aside and asked him if he could temporarily take over my daily duties for a while.” James’ soft smile returned.

Jack blinked a few times. “Oh. Well.” He was not having much success hiding his surprise. Being told he was loved was one thing, but this was one of the most stark and oddly touching little way in which Jack had ever been shown that he was loved. With a ghost of a smile, he sat up enough to kiss James properly, in order to show his gratitude, not trusting his voice until he pulled back from the kiss and looked down at his lover’s face and what he could read there. “Thank you.”

“No thanks needed, but they are appreciated,” James replied, and leaned up to brush his lips over Jack’s again. It was a chaste kiss, after which he started to pull back, but Jack did not let him: leaning in eagerly, lips and tongue more desperate this time as they lured James into a series of hungry, biting kisses that soon left them both breathless.

Unbuttoning and tugging away the waistcoat and shirt James had fallen asleep wearing, Jack left off James’ mouth just long enough to gasp, “Need this. Need to have you, please, Jamie, don’t stop-” at which point James cut him off, their mouths crashing together almost clumsily. Jack felt those long ex-naval legs part beneath him, James’ knees pressing against either side of his hips, and moaned most prettily at the open invitation. Their remaining clothes were shed and cast off with remarkable speed, and James pulled a vial of oil from a bedside drawer.

“Yes,” James hissed, arching back against Jack’s body as Jack entered him, one devious piratical hand stroking him at the same time: fast and hard and too maddeningly good. Neither of them would last long at this rate.

It was fast, and rough, and James’ release arrived on a crest of mixed pleasure and pain that was as much excruciating as it was ecstatic, and Jack’s continued pounding dragged it out, prolonging it and sending spasms of white-hot after-shocks through him until James could scarcely remember who or what he was, let alone that he had to try to breathe at some point. Then Jack finally came, with a few final quick-hard thrusts, and slumped against James’ back, breathing hard and tasting blood where he had bitten his lip. Realizing (with some boost to his ego) that James seemed to be a bit incapacitated, Jack eased out of him with reluctance and maneuvered them both back down to rest on the bed. He felt a small pang of guilt when he saw James wince once or twice along the way.

“Too much?” he asked tentatively, curled against James’s side as he was.

James did not open his eyes, but his eyebrows raised and it was clear that he was trying to think through the fog of afterglow. “I’ve never come like that in my life, so I would have to say no,” he said at last, attempting his usual drawl, but finding himself still just a bit too breathless to do it justice. “Or, at least, that it was quite worth it.”

Jack’s eyes widened a little, but he found himself half-smiling. “We’ll see if you still think that tomorrow when the soreness catches up with ye fully.” He still sounded a bit apologetic.

“Hmm. Then I shall simply have to return the favor sometime before then.”

Licking his lips, Jack snuggled closer. “Lookin’ forward to it.”

They reached their first port two hours after dusk, and James insisted Jack revisit it. Reluctantly, Jack at last agreed. None of the crew commented on the fact that both men seemed to be limping a little, Jack more so than James as his cause was the more recent. Jack was scowling, his expression dark enough to make thunderclouds balk, as he stepped onto the docks, but he had not walked far with James before it suddenly cleared. Jack stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes open wide, but unseeing. He seemed to be listening to something only he could hear.

James, a step ahead of him turned and looked at him mildly.

Familiar as he was with the minutiae of his lover’s subtle changes in expression, which no one else could seem to read, Jack could tell that James was not actually surprised; he was, in fact, a bit expectant. Jack’s brow furrowed and he shot James an almost suspicious look before darting off in the direction he could hear and feel the familiar presence and pulse...

There she was, not four ships between her and the Flying Dutchman along the dock. Jack was not aware of running up to her. He spotted her masts, and then he was at her side, standing on a convenient pile of crates with his hands resting against the black boards of her side. She was unscathed, as perfect as she had ever been. After a few long minutes with his palms and his brow pressed to her, his soul soothed, Jack was aware that he was not alone. He did not open his eyes. “Tia.”

“Not no more, Jack Sparrow, yo’ know dat,” she said, her voice sounding like a small chorus. “I got an offer for yo’.”

“I had a suspicion,” Jack murmured.

James approached slowly, as slowly as he was capable of walking, giving Jack plenty of time. He admired the lines of the pitch-black ship, and smirked slightly when he saw Jack standing on a pile of crates at her side. Then he saw another figure, standing at the base of the pile and talking to Jack. James slowed to a halt and watched, his hands folding behind his back with years of habit, giving him the ability to be patient, calm and controlled.

He watched Jack’s hands caress the ship once more before the pirate jumped down to the docks again, talking with Calypso. Jack’s demeanor was guarded: very little flourishing, one hand on his sword and his chin held high, and his stance that of a calm and collected pirate captain despite his mixed collection of borrowed and battered clothing. After a minute or so, however, Jack smiled slowly, and it was predatory but sincerely pleased and oddly gentle; then he appeared to agree to something, putting his palms together and giving his odd little bow toward the goddess, who smiled at him charmingly, bending to kiss his brow, her palm caressing his cheek before she bid him farewell and half-walked half-drifted away, as though made of fog.

Taking a deep breath, James made his way to Jack’s side. The pirate appeared thoughtful, still staring off into the crowd on the docks wherein Calypso had vanished. “Ye knew, didn’ you?”

“I had a feeling that your ship would be here, yes, but I did not think it was something to do with Calypso planning something.” He watched Jack’s face, a silent question in his sea-green eyes.

Jack glanced at him. “She’s noticed that the world’s population is on the up-and-up. It’s gettin’ so that there’s too many people on the sea, living and dead, for you to keep up with all on your onesie, James.” Looking into the distance again, Jack cocked his head a bit to one side, grinning his horizon-chasing grin again. “She’s given me back the Pearl, and the opportunity to collect any crewmen from this place that I can persuade to follow me, and in return, I’m to share your duties.”

James’ eyes opened very wide. His lips parted as though he were about to speak, but no sound escaped him.

“And we’ll not be alone, either,” Jack added. “She’s bringin’ in a few others, assigned to various territories. We get the caribbees an’ most of the atlantic, and will actually have a bit more free time, as it were. Both of us allowed ashore and everything.” His smile widened, glittering gold, and his jet-black eyes shone equally bright. “A lot more free time than you’ve had these past years.” He met James’ gaze again, and admired the man’s shell-shocked look. “You alright, there, Jamie?”

Struck speechless, James pulled Jack close to press against him, looking deep into the pirate’s dark eyes. Finally, he found words. “You’re sure, then, that this is what you want?” His voice was a bit rougher than usual.

“Well, let’s see,” Jack mused, looking skyward. “I get the Pearl back, the promise that I’ll be able to sail her forever without worrying about her getting hurt or sunk ever again since she’ll recover as easily as your ship does, and she gets the ability to travel beyond the horizon with me as well; I get to team up with you, and thus have you much closer at hand most of the time instead of waitin’ months at a time between visits; I need somethin’ to do now that piracy is a dying art and I’m not inclined to go down with it; and did I mention the free time, wherein I can take you to all the most interesting places in this world and possibly the next?” His grin was back, wide and reckless. “Yes, Jamie, I’m damned sure I want this.”

James pulled him still closer and pressed his forehead to Jack’s, unable and unwilling to restrain his own incandescently happy smile. “So this is what it is like then, to get everything I’ve wanted and more.” He wrapped his arms around Jack’s waist and kissed him: just a tender brush of lips. “And yet, I still have to wonder how...and why...”

Jack snorted. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t mate. It wouldn’t be like you, otherwise, and it’s having you around, acting like yourself, that helps me cope, in the matter of living with myself.” He nipped at James’ lower lip. “I realized that recently, y’see. Deaths having that perspective-shifting effect, savvy?

With an incoherent noise, James kissed him more firmly, more deeply, only to pull away and add, in a slightly ragged whisper, “It’s the same for me, Jack.”

“Duty not enough?”

“Too cold and lonely.”

“Together, Jamie, I think we’ll manage.”

James chuckled softly, and nuzzled Jack’s ear. “Bring me that horizon.”

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Endnote: I did not expect in the slightest that I would use that last line, despite having come up with the (only slightly cheesy) title of this story before I was a quarter of the way through writing it, and I especially did not expect James to say it, but I love it. Also: titles never come to me that easily, so I’m just generally weirded out a little by how easily and how well this story came together.