Give And Take

by Lady Dementia

You can't always take treasure with you, mate.

You can't always take treasure with you, mate.

Author's Whining: Pirates of the Caribbean belongs to Disney, not to me, so guess who makes the money? This fanfic is nothing more than a scribble I used to prod myself back into writing after an art spree. Expect no more from this fandom from me. There. Now, if I can just keep to that...anyway, this story is Jack/everyone, basically, because for some reason it was easy to write and I found it funny at the time.

Give And Take

by Lady Dementia

dementedangelhotmail.com

If he could keep all the treasure he'd found in all his years of pirating, he'd have to own an island somewhere just to store it all. Come to think of it, he had. Unfortunately, he'd found out that ownership of an island is always up for grabs to whomever had the largest gun, and memories couldn't be lost or stolen like gold. At times, he had wished his memories spent like money, but on the whole he was more content with what his mind had carried away than with what he had grabbed with his arms. Not, of course, that he would ever admit such a thing out loud. Pirate, after all. But what he had carried away…well, he didn't collect treasure to keep forever, but he collected something which to him was as precious as any gem:

Captain Jack Sparrow collected colors.

Not just any colors, mind, but the colors of the moment. He stored them, in beads and baubles and clothing, keeping the colors fresh in his mind so that whenever he chose he could simply look and hold a marvel to rival a king's ransom in his heart. He was a pirate, and he knew the value of unique things; no one else could have these bits and pieces of his life. So however much they hurt him sometimes, he took the colors and stashed them away in his own private hoard, for himself alone and no one's sharing. They were his, and only he could know the significance of every color. Let them call him mad if they wished. He'd squirrel their words away in a color to laugh at as the years passed. Let them take his treasure. They couldn't remove the most important of the collection. Let them try whatever they wished; they'd never figure out the secrets he remembered.

Secrets. Oh, yes, he had his secrets. However obvious his actions sometimes seemed, even the most contemptuous was left blinking in realization after Captain Jack Sparrow had struck. His most easily freed secret was that he held many secrets, many stories, many memories, and much, much more intelligence than anyone ever gave him credit for when confronted with the daft pirate, but not many ever found out what exactly was truth.

His mother had told him to keep those worlds of imagination and mystery locked in his head, long ago, and she had followed her own words. He had known she hadn't always been a whore, hadn't always been on the drug. He had known there must have been a reason she kept him and yet aborted all her other customer's seed. She had never explained her own collection of memories even on those days when she held him with a tenderness no hardened whore should have lavished on a child, and in the end he had taken her advice. He often had, even when she was on the opium pipe, sloe eyes sleepy and troubled with the life of a prostitute. The smoke made her see things dreamily, crazily, and there was a certain delight in doing what she wished when she looked through the opium at him. At first he had been too young to understand the stupidity of what he did, but he enjoyed it too much to give it up once he'd understood. The food raids on shops across the city nearly cost him his life more than once, but it taught him to find approaches no one expected. Stealing glittery things that had attracted his opiate-muddled mother's attention showed him the advantages of strategy and lack thereof. Begging medicine from the temples when she fell ill humbled him, and once without pride he couldn't see any reason why he should bother keeping much at all. Killing the man who'd murdered her while in bed had given him the knowledge of death, feeling life slide out from under his knife and knowing he didn't have to stay in the streets anymore. With a little violence, his thieving could become more successful, and then who knew where that would lead?

The day he decided to take a ship from the port he'd grown up in, he left the tiny room he'd shared with his mother and her customers. The only thing he took with him besides the clothing on his back and a knife at his belt was a small medallion his mother had kept close to her heart. That was the beginning of his collection. When he moved his head, it flashed at the very edge of his vision, reminding him of opium and a child on the streets who was loved, however mysteriously. Copper, he remembered, was for his mother.

The ring on his forefinger was for his first captain. A good man, a fine sailor, and a brutal, sadistic rapist. It had been Jack's duty as the youngest of the crew to clean out the captain's cabin after those times a new piece of flesh had been brought on board through kidnap or what-have-you, and he'd learned more about what broke a human being than he'd thought he could after being raised by a whore. One night after the poor young girl in the narrow bed passed out too soon, the captain turned his undimmed lust toward Jack himself. The captain taught him many things about sailing ships and piracy, but the most important thing Jack learned was that the romanticized pirate in stories was just the tip of the tale, and the tale was of the blackest crimes held in check by the Code. He learned that a man couldn't tune out pain, but in that narrow bed he learned to ride it out, and after the worst of it ebbed that night, he found his eye caught by something on the girl's cold thumb. She hadn't needed it anymore, but he'd kept it to remember the beginnings of piracy in his blood. They always said piracy started in gold, but Jack knew they were wrong. Silver, he knew, was for piracy.

His sash was for Barbossa, but not Barbossa the undead leader of the damned. No, this was the faded red and yellowed white of a gentleman pirate weathered by sun and sin into someone too old for his age. Jack had been working as kitchen help at an inn when he'd met the man. It wasn't a glorious job, but Jack knew the pay-offs of forgoing pride. In this instance, not only was he sleeping with the innkeeper's daughter AND wife, he was also bumming free rum off the cook while planning the best way to filch the safebox. Not a bad salary for washing dishes and stirring soup, eh? He was happily scrubbing ale tankards and telling a fantastic tale involving a misplaced house cat to the cook when a polite knock came at the back door, and before either of them could do more than raise an eyebrow at the other, it swung open to frame a man. A grizzled man with a big hat and an empty bottle of fine wine, evidently drunker than he'd thought since he'd meant to come in the front door and get a room. Jack was given the dubious honor of helping the sozzled pirate up the stairs to his room, hands still fluttering in the midst of the story and the pirate's hands doing their own wandering, and…well, he'd never been one to turn down a tumble, especially with someone so novel as to have actual manners out of bed.

In his turn, Barbossa seemed rather charmed by Jack's somewhat effeminate brand of conduct. He went so far as to even say 'please' IN bed.

Jack doubted that the man ever figured out why he'd woken up three debauched days later to a bed missing of its sheets, his money purse intact while the innkeep's was plundered. He doubted even more that when they'd next met, Barbossa recognized the strip of fabric wound around his waist as a piece of those same sheets. He'd kept them, washed-out red and white, for Barbossa.

He'd stuck to the sea from then on, deciding that stealing on land just wasn't worth the effort at all anymore. It felt almost unfaithful, like he was cheating on a jealous mistress, and he turned away from steady land to board a rocking deck. Looking out over the part of the world he'd thrown his lot in with, his eyes teared up and spots danced invisibly. The sunlight off the waves blinded him, but he couldn't look away from her. Black, then, black was for the sea. Spread under his eyes, allowing him to see her in all her beauty, and it always made him smile to have that wide horizon revealed like a woman displaying herself for his viewing.

But black was also for his Pearl, his lovely Black Pearl, and he wouldn't have it any other way. The sea was hard to love and harder to hold, but his Pearl was the sea in a graspable form, solid and mortal and oh so fast. He'd been trying to sober up for some reason he couldn't recall on that day, wandering up the coast away from the port his last captain had sailed into and happening upon a little cove. Still stumbling drunk, he'd splashed naked into the water for a swim without thinking. Things were blurred around the edges when he finally realized that he wasn't alone in the sheltered bit of ocean: a great hulking ship rocked nearby, moored in silence seemingly exuded by her ebony hull. He'd stared, rubbed his eyes, and stared again, looking around wildly for the crew, but only the dark ship and he were in the water. He'd been making enough noise with obscene songs and laughter that it was probable there really was no one on board, and he'd walked the beach already without encountering anyone. Cautious but as curious as any child with a new toy, he'd swum out to her and hauled himself up the side, tensed all the while for someone to lay claim to her.

The deck was empty, as empty as it was below, and Jack couldn't help but begin to chuckle as he explored. An empty ship, to his piratey mind, was as good as his, and how he wanted this ship..! Serving in a crew was fine and dandy, but Jack had dreamt of a ship of his own since he'd first set sail. He'd have to find a crew, of course, and find enough money to outfit her since her last captain had obviously not taken care with her ropes and sails. They had been bought cheaply and showed it in their rough weave. Jack's estimation of the missing captain plummeted. That was no way to treat a lady, to his mind, and he judged the pretty thing well rid of the man it he hadn't showered her with enough attention to scrub the decks and repair the broken gunwale on the port side. Well, ol' Jack wouldn't fall so short. No, the more he touched and petted and soothed, the more possessiveness he felt for the sun-warmed wood under his fluttering hands. He purred words of promise to the ethereally empty ship, and somehow he felt that he had been heard. He would make them famous, never leave her, take good care of her, and—still as naked as the day he was born—he stepped up her wheel like a man to the altar. Whether he stood there as sacrifice or groom didn't matter, because he was burning for her either way. His fingers settled slowly to rest in a claiming caress, coming to roost like the sparrow he was named for, and she was his.

He found the only clue about her last owner up in the crow's nest, huddled into the bottom as if seeking to disappear into it. Whoever the man might have been, his half-rotted features had dried out in the sun, the muscles and skin contracting into an expression of horror that struck a spark of uneasiness in Jack. Perhaps this new wife of his would be more than he could handle. Perhaps she was more of a pagan goddess who needed to be appeased and punished those who spurned her. He was hers for good or ill, though, and he quickly shrugged off the feeling in order to search the corpse. Except for a threadbare set of clothing, the dead body had nothing but a few coins on it. He was about to toss it over the side when something niggled at his mind. The corpse's right hand had been curled under a coil of ropes, protected somewhat from the elements and nearly intact. It was clenched. Not only clenched, but scabbed shut, like an open wound on the palm had cemented the fingers into their positions when the blood dried. When Jack managed to free them, they uncurled to reveal a smooth, dully shining black pearl.

He had taken it for a sign. By the time he'd been ready for his first sail with her, the pearl nestled in a braid behind his ear where no one else would think to look and he could always listen. They said he was insanely loyal to his ship, but it was because of that pearl he followed her for 10 years. Because black was for his Pearl.

The Black Pearl wasn't his only love, however. There were many others who drew his fancy and were drawn to him as well, and near the top of that list both by time and intensity lay a man called Bootstrap Bill. Jack, however, knew him as William. Knew him as that from the day they'd faced each other across the driftwood serving as a table on that beach, crewmates on a bit of shore leave and mutually drunk on rum. Knew him as that as they plied the bottle and played, gambling their most valuable possessions and stories as they continued to ply each other with drink and heavy-lidded gazes. Knew him as that as the man gracefully surrendered a battered compass and the mystical tale behind why it didn't point north. Jack would never forget the skeptical look in the other man's eyes as he'd drank in the story like a draught of the best liquor, mind already captivated by the wisps of something he could almost taste as true. He would never forget the new look that had entered those eyes then, nor what they'd done about it afterward. Hence, chipped, metallic white was for Bootstrap, that color of the paint rimming the compass he still carried. It was more of a gray by now, really, but back when it had been won there had been more paint left.

Besides, nothing stayed pure white in the Caribbean. There wasn't enough soap in all the prudishly clean colonies to keep the sun and dirt from sifting into everything. The closest Jack had to pristine was the dotted dice in his hair, as pale and suited for his hand as the woman he'd thrown them for. Ah, Mary. If he'd ever been one for settling for one lady, she would have been the one. English to the stubborn core, but she'd also been soft and laughing and understanding, full of life and freedom that called like the sea to the pirate. She'd seen the man under the pirate, and would have been happy to take the man that came ashore after the pirate had sailed into port. She'd understood the call of a sailor's watery mistress and hadn't begrudged the time spent on the ships. She hadn't been the greatest beauty he'd ever seen, but that mischievous content wrapped in curved flesh had attracted more than Jack's attention. The competition got so intense at one point that one suitor ended up murdered, and Bootstrap had taken him aside with a proposition he'd been reluctant to agree to. They were mates, though, and Jack grudgingly admitted that if he were to lose Mary to anyone, he be happier to see her in Bootstrap's arms than some oaf. So they'd thrown the dice, an accord between them that the loser would support the winner in a bid for Mary's hand.

And Jack had stared, disbelieving what he was seeing, as Lady Fortune turned her back on him.

He'd kept to the accord, of course, but the day of the wedding dawned with him passed out from too much rum at dawn in the arms of three whores. He'd refused to take shore leave at that port forever after. Sometimes he pulled the dice now braided into his hair forward enough to look at, wondering if she ever missed him. He'd never asked Bootstrap, a little afraid of what he'd do if the answer was 'yes.' Because pure white was for Mary, but he was a pirate and nowhere near such a light color was his heart.

Dark his heart might be, but it still bled when stabbed, and it poured blood aplenty when the dagger sank into his back. Red, in his mind, was for Lilith. As red as the tropical flowers she favored and wore tucked behind her ear; as red as the long scarf she tied around his head one night to keep, as she told him with a wide smile, his baubled hair out of her face when he kissed her. A whore she might have been, but he'd never been one to hold that against a girl, and he certainly hadn't cared when he'd held her in his arms and thought of red instead of Mary. He hadn't cared when Bootstrap had argued with him over his obsession with her. He should have listened to William, should have listened for the black pearl behind his ear, but the warm body in his cabin could erase every doubt Bootstrap earnestly hammered into his head. Exasperated and angry that Jack had insisted on coming to this port when he knew William's young son was expecting him home for his birthday, Bootstrap had eventually given up and left him to his folly. She took him in, cunning eyes and red flower, and he followed her lead like he should have known better than to do. She drew the story of the compass out of him, the work he'd done to separate myth from fact, the rumors of cursed Aztec gold and more concrete proof of gold cursed only with the normal greed of men, and he stroked her hair goodbye without the least suspicion when he readied to sail out on the Black Pearl that day. She'd waved from the docks, clad in a dress of ruby velvet.

The next time he saw her, she was a successful madam, the money she'd gotten from Barbossa invested in a prostitution house all her own. She was also gaping at him in shock, both that he was alive and that she was dying on the end of his sword. He'd taken her into his arms as her knees had given out, and she'd touched the tangled hair she'd laughed at with shaking, bloody hands. Drops of crimson had fallen from trembling fingers to permanently stain the scarf securely tied across his brow. He'd watched her die with no regret, his heart bled out of all the tears he could have shed at that moment. Red, in all its many shades, was for Lilith.

The pale rosy pink of scar tissue, nevertheless, was reserved for England. That wasn't to say that others hadn't left their marks on him, but it was England he remembered when he saw the color of his badly-healed body. He recalled the color the puffy skin around his brand had turned in contrast to the fresh charred mark. He remembered the drunken misstep that had allowed the agents of the East India Trading Company to catch him in the first place, then the bamboozled jail guard who'd accidentally freed him. The chase after that had been merry and full of incidents he hadn't intended to turn out the way they had but hadn't minded when they did. It was much like obeying the will of an opium addict, and the burning pain was nothing compared to his laughter at the fondness he felt for those two weeks of utter madness. The agents had been questioning their own sanity long before he'd found a boat and gotten out of there. Not long after that an English ship had caught up with him, and he'd found out why those Navy lads all acted like they had the main mast shoved up their arses. It was because the officers who outranked them were shoving something else up there all the time. And when the lowest officer on the ship got the urge, it was the prisoners he could pull rank on, whether for pain or pleasure. Jack had been kept on board that ship for far longer than necessary by the law, and his back spelled out the story behind that time more clearly than any other part of his body could show. It hadn't been easy to walk again without crippling pain from more than one place, but he'd still managed to scramble over the side of the ship at a brief stop in harbor in China. The red coats had fired at him the whole time, leaving him musket shot deep in his chest, but he could smile, however grimly, when he remembered that right about then the fuse he'd lit reached the powder magazine. Broken wood and scraps of iron had torn into the forearm he sheltered his head with. No other country had brought him so close to death, nor did any one person leave him with so many scars. If not for the generosity of an inquisitive vendor who'd witnessed the escape and rescued him from the water, he wouldn't have lived to see the color England left on his body.

England had also left its mark on Joshua Gibbs. The man hadn't particularly wanted to become a pirate, but circumstances seemed determined to press him into the role. A fondness for the drink, they said, and Jack had to grin at the irony. Love of the drink had left Mr. Gibbs unconscious when his Navy ship departed, assuming him a deserter, and love of the Drink had led him back onto a ship, becoming a deserter in truth. The sea called too sweetly for the man to stay away, but Jack suspected that he could have been a successful rum runner instead of pirate if he hadn't been so tempted to drink it all himself. As it was, Mr. Gibbs had been between boats the first time Jack laid eyes on him. He'd been tending pigs in return for free liquor, and he introduced himself to the daft pirate through the cunning method of stumbling to the front of an alleyway and throwing up all over Jack's boots. Normally this would have been a fatal offense, but the ex-Englishman had looked up at him blearily and mumbled something about everything coming back to the Black Pearl. That, to Jack, was enough reason to buy him a mug of rum in order to hear the latest rumored attack by his kidnapped ship. By the end of the night, Jack had decided to just clean his boots off and let the man live. In the morning—or midafternoon, but he counted whatever time he got up to be morning—he'd rolled over and seen that puke-stained boot leather brown was Joshua Gibb's color.

In contrast, the worn-brown leather of his tricorner hat belonged to Anamaria. She'd grown into it, maturing from a whipcord-tough fisher girl into a woman with twice the guts required of any male who'd ventured onto the ocean. When he'd first strolled around the docks and seen her on her small, ramshackle raft, he'd asked her what she thought she was doing, pretending at being a sailor like that. She'd glared at him as she hauled in her lines and explained with language dirty enough to make the dockhands howl with laughter that she was fishing, obviously. He'd deliberated for a long moment, head tilting this way and that as he thought it over before telling her that her boat could use some work. She'd smacked him across the face with a fish.

Later a knock had come on the door of the room he'd rented for his stay, interrupting some rather depressed, Pearl-oriented brooding over a bottle of rum, and he'd opened it to find that the slight teen had tracked him down to declare that she would someday get a boat all her own. He blinked at her. Then he invited her in. Somewhere between his Black Pearl and her future, unknown boat, they'd spent the night comparing nautical terms and fishing techniques, and when she looked down at him in the morning with his hat perched on her head, he'd told her to keep it until she found that boat of hers. She'd been indignant, thinking that he was making fun of her, but he'd known that she'd get that boat. He wanted his hat back, after all. It was her color, but it was his memory. He'd taken it back the night he'd freed her sloop from its moorings and sailed off in it, finding the scratched leather tucked in with the provisions, waiting to be put back on the captain's head. Admittedly, Anamaria hadn't been pleased that he'd gotten it back in the way he had, incidentally sinking her ship somewhere along the line, but he thought that she'd taken it well. At least this time she hadn't used a fish.

Funny how women seemed to enjoy slapping him so much. It was like some sort of undiscovered talent, one that Jack wished he could project on other people, or at least expand to include an explanation for each time it was invoked. It seemed like half of the times he'd been smacked, nobody had bothered to tell him WHY. Take Scarlet, for example. Scarlet NEVER told him why she hit him. She just felt like slapping him, apparently. Well, not to say that he hadn't deserved some of the abuse when he'd finally found out the reasons. How was he supposed to know it hadn't been real gold he'd paid her? He'd been drunk! She'd been drunk! They'd both had a wonderful time! What was wrong with that?

But, no, gold belonged to Scarlet more than any prostitute Jack had ever visited. It wasn't just that she was worth the price she charged, or even that she had something new to show him every time he'd come (in every sense of the word). There was something to Scarlet that put Jack at ease and kept him coming back: give her a glimpse of yellow flash, and she was willing to do anything without a murmur. A trip out to a secluded beach to dance in surf and sand, to make the beast with two backs under winking, knowing stars; a nursemaid when he'd caught that vile flu and chill—and how many whores would shove tea sans rum down his throat and threaten to put him over her knee if he so much as put a toe out of bed? Now, admittedly, he hadn't believed she would, either, but she'd put him on the road to recovery with a sore backside and a new perspective on getting his money's worth. She'd been a soft breast to lean against in a grubby room, candlelight flickering with the muffled noise of a Tortuga night even as he brooded wordlessly, her hands stroking through his hair in a soothing rhythm. She'd teased and delivered, comforted and threatened, all for the right amount of gold. So for her was the precious metal, in coins and chains and chalices.

Now, Gizelle, on the other hand, didn't care what metal it was set in as long as it was precious. He had given her valuables in every shape and form for her services, but he had ended up with something unexpected in return. Not that it was necessarily a bad thing, but it was somewhat surprising considering the circumstances. It wasn't like he wanted to go to Scarlet EVERY time he was in Tortuga, after all, but he did like the feeling of being welcomed back by someone who knew him when he came into port. Sure, they were whores, but he was a pirate. His standards weren't overwhelming. He should have known better than to pick such a possessive woman, though. Then again, he was Captain Jack Sparrow. Where other men with money to spend were welcomed with open, greedy arms no matter what insults were given last time, prostitutes in general seemed to regard him more as a man than a customer, with all the rules included therein. Some days he swore that he handed out more apologies than any pirate alive OR dead. The tawdry blonde's little crush on him had just made the situation stranger. And maybe he had made a few rash promises in the dark. He couldn't help that he liked making his girls happy!

Unfortunately, that had led to an interesting confrontation on young William Turner's first trip to Tortuga. He hadn't the time then, but after all the excitement involving undead pirates and his own neck were over, he'd dealt with the woman using the lavish application of pretty shiny things. He'd had plenty to spare by then. Gizelle had responded well, as any whore worth her price would, although she hadn't understood why she'd received stones of one color. Jack had done it intentionally, fingering his cheek ruefully as he considered the new color for his collection: green, the green of emeralds, jade, and jealousy, was for Gizelle.

Her enthusiastic thank-you had almost made him late for a wedding. He hadn't told the Turners that's why he'd been forced to climb into the bell tower and watch everything unfold from up there, but that was because he thought the whelp would remember the incident with Gizelle and laugh at him, and the new bride would…well, she'd probably slap him. She did anyway once he got tangled in the ropes and set the bells to ringing prematurely, but at least she was angry about the interruption of her wedding and not about him discussing a whore in front of her. Not quite sure why getting slapped for one reason was better, but in his mind it was. Something about manners and ladies, but drat all if he remembered where he'd picked that tidbit of information up. Besides, after all her work on her father to give him a last-second clemency as he jumped pews and guests alike with Commodore Norrington and Co. in hot pursuit, she deserved an opportunity to let some steam off. She'd looked particularly lovely with her cheeks flushed and her eyes flashing fury, amusement, and joy over his arrival and her wedding. Come to think of it, she looked like that most of the time he was around, minus the wedding part, of course.

In fact, add a bit of lust and there was quite a bit of mathematics going on in the Turner household. Subtract young William from the equation, add him, and Elizabeth came out equal in the end. He'd known as he'd looked down at her sleeping face that some substitutions just didn't work out, though. He wasn't the one she wanted to multiply with, but his continued presence could lead to division. Pirates just weren't meant to live a squared life, and he'd crept to her bedroom window knowing that he couldn't have put down roots even for Mary. The sea called to him like a settled life called to Elizabeth, but he even as he thought it something on her dressing table caught his eye.

The faceted crystal perfume stopper smelled the way her hair did, but it was the way the tiny thing broke the light that fascinated Jack. Young William had found a treasure in Elizabeth Swann, a rainbow piece of life as glittery as the stone in his hand, and Jack couldn't resist taking a bit of that swirling clear rock for himself. Pirate, after all. A pirate who was reminded of the new addition to his life not by one color by itself, but by the flashes and changes found in no color at all. Elizabeth Swann-now-Turner defied being pinned down by a single shade, so Jack had slipped out the window with a sense of satisfaction for finding what captured his memory of her the best.

He'd been braiding that tiny prism into his hair as he walked, confident that Port Royale was safe for him since the Dauntless was off chasing other pirates this night. He'd kept a lazy eye watching for red coats, but something had turned his steps toward trouble in another form. He really couldn't recall why he'd been struck with the urge to visit Mr. Turner right that moment. Elizabeth had been certain he was too busy at the smithy to return that night, and for some reason Jack suddenly wanted to see what commission had been so important it would keep Bootstrap's whelp from his bride's bed even for one night. Maybe it was the piracy that made him suspicious of every good thing that dropped into his lap, gold, gems, and Elizabeths alike.

Or maybe he was just hoping for a bonus prize for the night. Bootstrap's whelp looked an AWFUL lot like Bootstrap himself.

Whatever his original purpose, he'd found ample cause for suspicion in the smithy. The door was unbarred, but the only light came from the banked coals in the whatever-it-was blacksmiths put their fires in. Jack really hadn't gotten much of a look at it before the scent of rum registered and a bottle of it came hurtling out of the semi-dark at his head. His instincts made him duck, but his mouth was opening in a wail of protest against the waste of rum even as the bottle smashed on the closed door. Shame, that. In better news, young William took advantage of his open mouth in ways a married man shouldn't have. By the time THAT got sorted out, Jack was lying back on a rough wooden surface with a black-haired head over his heart in a way that brought back chipped-white memories. He stroked the boy's hair absently as William muttered soft complaints about splinters in his back, but most of his attention was on the events of the night and dull orange light reflected in dozens of swords nearby. Suspicion and good things just didn't mix.

Coaxing answers out of a drunken William Turner was difficult, but Jack was nothing if not determined, or at least curious, when it came to helping out his young friend. That is to say, Will latched onto him with a death grip when the tears started, or he would have been long gone. As it was, he awkwardly sorted through all the emotional slop to find the real problem. When he did, he nearly laughed in the poor boy's face. It seemed the young Turners were going through a slump, and Elizabeth had been getting a sad look of longing in her dear eyes. Will thought it was because his wife was in love with Jack; ergo, if Will stayed out of the way, Elizabeth could have an affair and make the rest of married life more enjoyable for everyone. It let his wife be happy at his expense, something only someone as self-sacrificing as William Turner, Junior, would think up.

Jack thought that was the funniest thing he'd heard since he'd dumped the punchbowl over a group of matrons with shockingly experienced vocabulary at the Turners' wedding. If Bootstrap had still been alive, he'd probably laugh his arse off at his son's rather over-done nobility. In Jack's humble opinion, it was the dull, normal existence in Port Royale that was getting Lizzie down. That's what would get HIM down, anyway, and he didn't hesitate to tell Will that. His suggestion for spicing the place up? Either give the girl a bottle of rum all her own, or start wearing that hat with the feather in it again. He'd noticed it had been missing since the wedding. All those stodgy matrons peering down their noses at him must have finally gotten their way, eh? Elizabeth had fallen in love with a blacksmith/pirate, not a socialite who folded when a scandal threatened. Jack's presence in their bed had only been a substitution, or why else had she called William's name? Probably for the same reason William had called hers!

After that whole speech, he'd done the hardest thing there was for him: he'd shut up. If the whelp was ever going to figure out when the opportune moment was, it was now or never. Maybe it was the drink, but he'd practically been able to see the thoughts slosh through Will's head. Eventually he'd reached the right conclusion, though, and Jack had been left on his own in the shop, watching embers flare and die in blades of shiny metal. Funny how things worked out, wasn't it? Neither Turner claimed to trust him, but obviously each had been willing to use him to patch their marriage up, trusting him to hold the events of the night in confidence. As to whether or not he'd told the truth about whose name was called…well, he'd keep that to himself. He'd taken it for granted that young William wouldn't care to be thought of even in passing as a whore, so he'd commandeered something else as his counselor fee. Something that had stuck in his mind that night, to forever remind him of William Turner, Jr. A setting sun was almost the same color as a smithy fire, he'd found, and its reflected light made him grin every time at the memories.

His own sword was getting a mite old, anyway.

Of course, he'd known that for weeks prior to getting his hands on, ahem, Turner's blade. Lieutenant Groves had actually pointed it out for him the last time they'd been waving their respective weaponry at each other over the same silly argument the British Navy had been having with him since his first raid. Groves had apparently been so determined to debate with him that he'd left his own small vacation time to pursue him. Now THAT was persistence! Since the only reason he'd come on shore to begin with was to have a decent drink and a good hard shag, he really hadn't felt like fighting, especially when half his crew was still sober enough to come running if he hollered. He'd explained that politely enough as they'd circled around an overturned table in the room he'd rented for the night. He pointed that out, too. See, even pirates knew how to BUY things.

The Lieutenant had just as politely sneered that the British Navy didn't really care when pirates obeyed the law; as long as they were still pirates, they would be treated as such. Jack had sighed, rolled his eyes, and bluntly asked, using considerably less polite wording, if Groves was going to be as creative as the other Navy lads who'd captured him inevitably were.

It had probably helped that he'd been half-undressed at the time, with only his shirt covering the interesting bits. Or that Lieutenant Groves had a spot of hero/villain-worship for him. And that spot was located right where neck met collarbone…

Two days later he finished patching together his new pair of fingerless gloves and contemplated the now-tattered pair of faded tan trousers he'd cut them out of. He wondered in a kind of absent-minded way if dear Lieutenant Groves had any idea what a favor he'd done him by not pursuing him in uniform; cream colored cloth just wouldn't have stayed clean enough for this project. He also wondered if he'd paid the innkeeper enough to actually untie said Lieutenant by now. No matter. He'd gotten quite the colorful memory out of their night, and as he flexed his hands in their new gloves he chortled over tan thoughts of gasps and strangled cries. It was about time the Brits gave as good as they got, eh? Then again, he still didn't feel like he'd gotten enough.

Fortunately, some of those charming noises the Lieutenant had made were real words, and recognizable ones at that. Blackmail-worthy, or his name wasn't Captain Jack Sparrow, no matter what Anamaria called him when he set out his plan. They had plenty of time! There was no way Groves could have caught a boat fast enough to match his Pearl, and Jack would sneak into Port Royale and be gone LONG before the man arrived and raised the alarm. All he had to do was find one measly Navy first lieutenant, after all. It was a smart plan. It was a brilliant plan. It was a plan only an utter madman could have dreamed up. Jack knew it was one of his better ones from the way Mr. Gibbs' hand immediately went to his flask.

Therefore, everything went wrong. Somehow he ended up soaking wet, smelling like rosewater and lilies, and locked in a familiar cell deep in Port Royale's fort. Not only had Lieutenant Groves managed to get back to Port Royale before him, he'd also warned everyone that Jack Sparrow was in the vicinity and might possibly drop by for a visit. At least, that was what Commodore Norrington had informed him when he'd stopped in to gloat for a while. Jack could only assume that the Commodore had heard a heavily-edited version of the story, but he'd been too busy sulking to tell his own side of the issue, censorship free. He wasn't all that fond of lilies, and First Lieutenant Gillette's old mother beating him about the head with a bouquet of them hadn't made him any fonder. It hadn't helped that her maid had been shrieking for help and throwing whatever came to hand at him the entire time. If it hadn't been for the blasted rosewater she'd dumped over his head, he could have made it back to the window without slipping and conking himself out on the sill. Next time, he'd make sure the window belonged to the right person BEFORE climbing in.

On the other hand, a presumed threat to his dear old mum brought the First Lieutenant right to him, which would have been an even better plan to start with. Involved less iron bars and pistols being pointed at his head, it did. Gillette was quite a sight when he had his dander truly up, all ruffled and uniformed and starchy and glaring at him over a loaded pistol from outside of the dank cell. Jack was never weaselier than when confronted with a life-threatening situation, however. He calmly launched into a long-winded explanation of the situation—ie., he told, in torrid tan detail, about the fun to be had in bed with a certain lieutenant. Then he just as calmly reached through the bars and snagged the pistol from Gillette's slackened grip.

And that was how he ended up drinking rum and tea in Gillette's kitchen. Quite simple, really; who would think to look for a pirate and his hostage in the hostage's house? Having a discussion about a certain lieutenant, no less! Jack had been right about the potential blackmail to be found there, as it seemed that Gillette was most desperate to keep him quiet about Groves' little indiscretion. The price for his silence, Jack gleefully announced, would be for Gillette to explain to Groves why exactly he would be at all willing to pay blackmail. While the First Lieutenant sputtered into his tea in shock over the demand, Jack gave him a golden smile and mentioned that not only did he love weddings, he liked playing matchmaker as well.

He'd had to help the other man clear his nose of tea at that point.

As to how Gillette's uniform acquired a fine sifting of flour…well, only he, Gillette, and probably Gillette's cook would ever know. How Gillette's coat became stripped of its buttons was common knowledge, though. The rest of it was found tied to the pier where a boat had been moored until Jack sto—commandeered it, and when next seen, Captain Jack Sparrow's unruly mane had a whole row of shiny buttons braided into it. Because to Jack, brass was for First Lieutenant Gillette, and he smiled in remembrance every time he glimpsed a button out of the corner of his eye.

That wasn't the only ornament his hair got from Port Royale. A fine streak of gray wound its way into the otherwise black dreadlocks, and he only looked as wise as he was able whenever the topic of his age was raised. He never gave a straight answer in reply. He was starting to get on in years for a pirate, but that was hardly the point. It wasn't like the gray hair was HIS.

Although, he had to admit that it was a view for his future that motivated the earning of those gray hairs. Almost a year after freeing his Black Pearl from Barbossa, Captain Jack Sparrow faced the facts: he very much wanted a godchild. In fact, he kind of liked the entire idea of having Bootstrap's extended family adopt him as a sort of eccentric, non-eunuch uncle. Every family had one, after all, except that most family's strange relatives weren't perpetually being threatened with a noose when they snuck in to visit, no matter what the rest of the family might occasionally wish. No matter how much fun Jack had dashing around Port Royale and generally taunting the British Navy into frothing fits over their tea and crumpets, he did sometimes wish that he could relax a little when he went to visit the Turners. Last time, he'd actually been running down the street with Commodore Norrington a mere step behind when Elizabeth had called after them that she was pregnant. Luckily, that had caused the commodore to stumble enough for him to make a clean getaway; UNluckily, he hadn't been able to bestow congratulations on Lizzie and casually terrify young Will with a few horror stories about pregnant women and babies alike. It would be nice if he'd be able to stick around and hold the brat instead of tossing it at overeager British naval officers in order to make his escape.

So when the news about Governor Swann's kidnapping reached him, he knew exactly what to do. He leapt into action by buying the tavern another round and passing out a few hours later. When he finally woke up the next morning—night, whatever—he vaguely remembered hearing something about the kidnapping. A couple tankards of rum cleared his mind enough for him to realize that this was his opportunity!...to get something…he'd remember when he was sober. In the meantime, that inkling of brilliance that existed deep in the salt-soaked depths of his head was already churning out something like a plan, and it wanted him to get back to his ship. He'd figure out the rest later.

Six days later, he'd worked out what exactly he wanted to do. That was good, because by then the fighting was already over. As he pointed out to the slightly hysterical Governor Mr. Gibbs hauled aboard, no REAL pirate vessel would have taken on the Pearl, so it was more likely it was the Spanish. Feisty buggers, he had to admit, but none too good at imitating pirates. Now, any real pirate would have demanded a ransom and killed the Governor anyway. Live hostages became too much trouble after a few days, honestly.

He never understood why Swann collapsed right then. Fragile people, English aristocrats were. Ah, well. It just made it easier to talk them around to his way of thinking if they were off-balance.

Weatherby wasn't all that bad for an Englishman, though. Once he got over his original shock, he adjusted surprisingly well to the idea of being returned to Port Royale via the Black Pearl. It helped that Jack tried his piratey best to make the man comfortable while he had his way with him, as it were. It also helped that beneath the foppish noble there lay the man who'd raised Elizabeth in all her stubborn glory. When it came to negotiations, they found themselves toe-to-toe and unwilling to give ground either way. That gave them a rather nice middle ground to work in, but Jack wasn't sure he wanted to face the Governor over any less pleasant issue. The man knew enough legal weaselese to make the weaselest pirate step carefully.

Jack sailed into Port Royale only a couple days later with a Governor, a Letter of Marque, and a big grin. People in England probably could have heard Commodore Norrington's teeth grinding. Once again, Captain Jack Sparrow managed to pull one over on the British Navy. Not only had he rescued the Governor, but he'd escaped the noose and become something of a hero. The only thing he hadn't done was save Weatherby's wig, which had disappeared somewhere. Shame about that; the Spanish must have gotten it, regardless of the fact that Swann had still had his ragged wig in his possession when he was rescued. Jack looked his guileless best when that came up. The man had more wigs. Jack only had one memory, eh?

He fingered a lock of gray hair and stepped onto the docks a free citizen of the British Empire.

He'd expected a bit more trouble with his crew, but he'd underestimated the value of a safe harbor. Tortuga was, of course, the home of every pirate, but one simply could not return to Tortuga every time one needed a rest. All these rotten empires were reaching their prim fingers into the Caribbean, and a pirate just wasn't sure anymore if a harbor would stay safe overnight. He suddenly realized why his crew had agreed so readily to becoming privateers while in the middle of one of Elizabeth's long and boring social events she held so everyone could come congratulate her soon-to-be motherhood and cackle evilly over William's fretting (First Lieutenant Gillette and Lieutenant Groves had actually unbent enough to join him in telling true stories about Things Babies Had Done to poor Will. Elizabeth nearly fainted when her father trotted out his own horror stories about her babyhood, and Will began to turn distinctly green and desperate about the edges.). The problem was, as he confided to an indignant naval officer—or so he remembered by the amount of gold braid weighing the poor man down—that Norrington and his ilk were too bloody good at their bloody jobs. Knowing that they could sail into an English harbor whenever they felt like it gave a man, or woman in Anamaria's formidable case, a sense of security. And really, as long as they could raid and pillage everybody BUT the English, that left a tidy portion of the world open to theft, violence, and whatever other mayhem they felt like inflicting. It wasn't a bad deal for a pirate. Besides, Port Royale had some great taverns, along with all the accompanying necessities sailors liked to avail themselves of.

Elizabeth told him later that Norrington had started to flush an angry red when he'd gone into detail about the kind of amenities a sailor could find down at the dock pubs. Personally, Jack couldn't remember much else about the night. Drinking was about the only thing that made Lizzie's parties tolerable when she invited so many stuffed shirts. Seriously, at least he could tease the Navy gits who attended, but what was the point in showing up when so many people just flat out ignored him? Being pregnant made Mrs. Turner a petty tyrant whenever he showed up in Port Royale now, and he found himself being browbeaten into coming to far too many social events for comfort. At least he knew he wasn't the only one who thought so, though.

On quite possibly the weirdest night of his piratey life, not even excluding run-ins with his undead former crew, Commodore Norrington extended an invitation to dine with him at his townhouse. With many misgivings and a slap for good luck from Anamaria, he accepted. During dinner, the topic of dear Elizabeth's pregnancy and associated madness came up. In fact, Jack was willing to bet that her pregnancy was the entire point of inviting him over for dinner, because as it turned out, he wasn't the only one being terrorized into attending social events he had no interest in attending. It seemed that Norrington was willing to do just about anything to avoid one more night of being chased around by Port Royale's fleet of unmarried ladies, up to and including plot with a pirate-now-privateer on how to distract Elizabeth Turner.

And that was how Mary Jaquelline Turner, or Jackie as he immediately insisted on calling her, came to be born in Georgetown instead of Port Royale. He didn't know what Lizze fussed about the whole time. It wasn't like he had kidnapped her or anything, and he'd brought a bloody doctor on board the Pearl with them just in case the babe decided to try out her sea legs instead of waiting for dry land. When Elizabeth hadn't been lecturing him on his despicable, manipulative ways during the voyage, she actually seemed to be enjoying herself. He decided not to bring up the fact that he wasn't the one who'd done most of the work to get her on board. It always paid to have officers of the fleet in his debt. None of his crew dared say anything about women being bad luck since the first day out, when they'd inevitably come to the same conclusion Jack had: a pregnant Elizabeth Turner was scarier than a pack of sea monsters, Anamaria with a knife, and Satan on a drinking binge put together. The whelp had escaped up the rigging with a sigh of relief audible only when he was sure his wife wouldn't hear. It wasn't that he regretted marrying her, he explained sheepishly. There was just so much a man could be expected to take…

Jack couldn't think of a single regret on his own part when he was finally allowed to hold the pink scrap of life they told him was his goddaughter. Privateer or pirate, he managed to make the Turners seem like just another eccentric part of the stories told about him, but with Jackie in his arms, he reluctantly acknowledged how long ago those legends had started. He'd a face and body that seemed ageless, but he began to feel the years in his joints and back these days. The child slept in his awkward hold, drooling all over his shirt. He didn't mind. There was a brilliant plan growing in his bangled head, whispered by a black pearl nestled behind his ear, and he bestowed a golden smile on his sweet armful. Elizabeth and Will watched it suspiciously. No smile that wide could bode well for their peace of mind. How right they were, but he wouldn't enlighten them with his plan as of yet. Let them raise the girl into a woman with Lizzie's fiery passion and Bootstrap's pirate blood. He was Captain Jack Sparrow, and as such he didn't even think about retiring just because of old age. But if, say, a worthy apprentice were to come along in fifteen or sixteen years, as precious as the Black Pearl and just as dangerous beneath the beauty…well, he weren't one to stand in the way of destiny, especially when he'd be helping it along a bit.

He brushed chapped lips against little Jackie's soft forehead, as tender a promise as he'd ever made.

He sort of wished he could bring William with him that night because if anyone needed a drink it was the new father, but some things a man had to do on his own. A mug of rum or two brought his thoughts clear and slow to the forefront of his mind, and he walked along the docks as he pieced them together. Black for his Pearl, black for the sea; pink for England, pink for scars; white for Mary, near-white for Bootstrap. And something else, some color or form to hold it all together, to remind him of a promise to the potential pearl born to the Turners this day.

By the time he'd entered the tattoo parlor, his grin had been in full bloom again. He left considerably drunker and in more pain than he'd readily admit, especially after Lizzie hit him for worrying her by staying out late and staggering back drunk. She seemed somewhat mollified after he showed her what he'd had done while he was gone. It was touching, he told her, that a godfather would do such a thing. The oyster carefully etched out over his heart was a pale green, but shot through with pink and whitish streaks that made it look almost real against his darkened skin, and in its open mouth there lay a perfect black pearl. He gave both Turners a lopsided smile when he showed it to them, and Will looked thoughtful. Unfortunately, Elizabeth caught him out and stated firmly that if he came home some day with a tattoo of any kind, he'd be sleeping outside. Pity, that. There were a few tattoos of Bootstrap's that would look just as good on his son. Maybe Jackie would like them instead?

But that would be years from now, and Jack was coming to realize that the world was changing as time went on. England reached further, and the colonies were becoming restless. Piracy didn't pay as well as it used to, and navies seemed to be getting better at chasing down those of the brotherhood that were left. Things were happening in Europe that made the aristocrats uneasy. Perhaps it was for the best that a new generation was being raised ready for what was ahead, because Jack was thinking entirely too much lately about his future. Had being around the young Turners reminded him that much of the past, when things seemed so much easier? Before Jackie turned three, Mr. Gibbs approached him with an opportunity for a legitimate business, and Jack suddenly found himself part owner of a tavern in Port Royale. That didn't last long, as the man quickly earned enough to buy his share from him, but it felt so odd to witness someone leave the sea because of age when he remembered that same man swinging from the rigging and fighting undead pirates at his side.

He spent more time aboard the Black Pearl, trying to compensate for the strange happenings in world and port. It didn't seem to matter that he'd become a privateer instead of a pirate; raiding was raiding, and he never felt more alive than when he was at the helm, seaspray in his face and a running ship in his sight. He ran loving fingers over timbers worn by wind, waves, and tide, and behind his ear came murmurs of where to go next. The world was spread before him, and he was free.

He wondered if there was a color for that.

He might as well go look for it.

Starlight dappled the floor, but dawn wasn't far away. Jack stood on the balcony and looked down into a garden planted far too decoratively for his tastes. Then again, he wasn't much for gardening. Ah, but beyond the garden lay the open sea, dark and silent as it waited for the sun to climb up and light its depths. Yes, the sea was for him. It was nice that he had a place on land to return to, though. Is that all a home was? A place to return to?

"You didn't even say goodbye, you know," a sleep-husked voice said from behind him. "I found out in the morning that not only had you left my bed, but the harbor as well." Sheets rustled, and he heard the near-silent sound of feet touching the floor. "I would have been inclined to think you a ghost last night had you not immediately leapt upon me."

He leered over his shoulder without bothering to leave the balcony. He liked it here. It brought back memories of climbing up to it for the first time, what was it, five years ago? "Not that easy t' kill me, luv."

"Mmm, true. I've had enough experience with that myself. However, next time it would be appreciated if you'd send word of your living state, as rumors of your demise are almost as abundant as those of your exploits abroad. Many of them coincide, as a matter of fact." Footsteps padded across the floor to stop behind him, and he knew the fresh scars were seen when Norrington's light tone turned somber. "Is it true that the East India Trading Company hung you, for instance?" Cautious fingers walk along the marks up his spine, making him shiver from more than the predawn breeze.

"Aye, they tried. Buggers di'na care that'd I'd a pardon. Burned me Letter right in front o' me." He'd been overconfident of the safety the Letter of Marque should have brought him among Englishmen, and it had cost him two crewmembers and a good portion of the loot on board the Pearl to bribe their way loose of that fix. Of course, it had been worth it in the end, but he was sure THAT story had wound its way back to the Caribbean as well.

Fingers flattened to stroke as if to erase the scars, and Jack arched his back into the touch in a leisurely stretch. The morning air felt good. "For God's sake, man," he heard right before a sheet was dumped over his head, "have some decency!"

"Where's th' fun in that?" He tossed his head to free it of the sheet, and then wrapped it around his bare waist. A hesitant hand stroked through the hair swinging down to brush the sheet, cataloging the new glints and sparkles braided into the tangled mass, and Jack felt justifiably smug as he ran through the memories listed there. He could almost sense the questions on the tip of Norrington's tongue, and to his surprise, he thought that he might just answer if asked. Maybe it was the novelty of what was happening that made him feel so loose. After all, it wasn't every day that a British naval officer all but said out loud that he'd missed a pirat—privateer. At least, not such a high-ranking one, that is. He tried it out, "Admiral," and rolled it around his mouth, "Admiraaaaal. Admiiiral. Aaadmiral."

Norrington chuckled and leaned close to follow the sheet around the curve of one tanned hip. "Captain," he mocked. "Caaaaptain. Captaaai—"

"Rubbin' a man's rank in 'is face ain't how a proper gent's supposed t' act, mate," he grumbled, leaning back to meet a bare chest halfway. "Could get another boat if I wanted t'. 'N then I'd 'ave me own little navy." He stood straight, clapping his hands together suddenly. "Could ev'n—"

"I DON'T want to hear about it," Norrington said firmly. "Whatever mad scheme you've just dreamed up, I don't want the consequences to fall on MY head."

"Right. It'd ruin y'r poncy wig."

"Hmmph. I am not going to argue with you over my wig again." A golden-toothed smirk flashed as daggered glare was directed at the back of a bangled head. "And if I find ONE of them missing while you are in port this time, by the by, I will shave your hair off to make a new one."

For a second, just a second, Jack was tempted. The mental image alone made him instantly think of some new plans for wig-theft. "That'd be interesting. Where would ye wear it?"

There was a moment's silence, then a gusty sigh was blown into black dreadlocks. "Sparrow…you are without a doubt the most exasperating, irritating, childish, and completely daft pirate I have ever had the misfortune to meet, much less keep."

He wasn't sure he liked that last bit. A kept pirate? Was that all a privateer was, then? "Y' f'rgot 'incompetent' this time," he replied somewhat absently.

"Yes, well, I ran out of breath. Next time I shall be sure to inhale properly before beginning an account of your numerous faults." Norrington paused, and Jack could feel the clumsy attempt at something emotional coming even as it was breathed across the back of his head. "Jack…"

He cut it off, "How's th' lovely Mrs. Turner 'n family?"

There was another sigh, but Norrington let it go. "Growing, cheerful, and persistent, as you shall probably find when Elizabeth finds that you are back. Or does she already know?" He shook his head. "Ah. Should I feel privileged to be the first to see you?" He nodded, deciding not to mention that he'd visited Mr. Gibb's pub before climbing up this very balcony. Norrington seemed pleased by that answer, if his slightly-embarrassed throat-clearing was anything to go by. "She's pregnant with their third child, you know," no, he hadn't known, "and William is, of course, ecstatically happy. He's hoping for a boy, this time, but Jackie," heh, looked like the nickname had stuck, "has expressed in no uncertain terms that a boy would be most unwelcome. I believe her exact wording involved making someone 'walk the plank.'"

Strong arms squeezed him right then, and he had to protest being blamed, "Here, now! I wasn't ev'n here t' corrupt th' girl!"

The reply was dry: "No, but all the stories the Turners tell nightly at bedtime have been a tremendous influence on her. Since you feature prominently in them, I still hold you accountable for the child turning into a bloody pirate before turning 7 years of age. Elizabeth despairs of making a lady out of her."

He couldn't repress a wicked grin at that. It looked like the Turner's pearl was about ready to leap from her oyster bed.

Norrington was continuing, however. "Pearl is a much calmer lady, for which I am sure William thanks God every day. He already has to rout his firstborn out of the shop every time he turns around, and I'm convinced that is the leading reason for his hope for a boy this time around—"

"Wait, waaaait!" Jack's hands lifted and waved extravagantly, one eyebrow raised as he half-turned to regard the pale man standing behind him. "Pearl?!"

Norrington's face assumed a mask of bored patience. "That is what her name is, yes. Pearl Maybelle Turner, born the April before last." The mask cracked with a tiny upward twitch of reluctant lips as Jack's own face creased in a delighted smile. Now his Black Pearl even had a namesake! With a name like that, the girl was destined to be her elder sister's first mate; if that wasn't fate, he wasn't Captain Jack Sparrow. Good thing he'd come back. It sounded like the girl needed some encouraging in following Jackie's example. "I could have used your assistance in, ah, entertaining," read: distracting, "Elizabeth during her pregnancy. She was incredibly…restless."

Ooo, 'restless.' Strong word, that was. "That bad, eh?"

"You have no idea." Green eyes studied the horizon, looking for the first sign of dawn over the dark ocean, avoiding Jack's amused gaze. "Why did you come back?"

The question was low but expected. He had a casual shrug ready, turning forward to study the sea himself. "Anamaria got 'erself a problem she wants t' keep. Thought Lizzie might help deliverin' it, seein' as she's got experience…an' th' guts t' make Anamaria do it right." He let the implications of that statement sink in, feeling the shock ripple through the hands laid on his stomach and the body pressed along his back. He'd felt much the same when it had first happened. "Met a man 'n Singapore, brought 'im aboard, but we lost 'im inna storm not four months ago. Good man. Better sailor. Took it hard, she did, an' worse when her belly started t' round. She di'na want t' stay in Tortuga when we could come back 'ere, savvy?"

"How could you be sure of your reception if your Letter of Marque was burned?"

The question was loaded, and he couldn't honestly say he'd been as certain as he acted now. Most of his doubts had been laid to rest the moment he got his grubby hands on the man behind him last night. His reception had been warm even for a Caribbean night. "Oh, I'm sure y've got a copy layin' 'round somewhere, luv, all ready and set f'r me."

Defeated, the new Admiral nodded. "Yes, I'm sure I do." Wheels were turning, though, and Jack slipped out from under his hands to search for his discard clothing in the gradually easing dark. The sun was waking, and Norrington's silhouette watching him from the balcony. "But you were already on your way back by the time she found out she was with child, or she'd need help with a babe, not the pregnancy. Why did you come back?"

"Was headin' for Tortuge, 'rignally."

"Jack…"

He tightened the sash around his waist and shot an annoyed look at the Admiral. "Came back t' see Will 'n--" A disgruntled snort cut him off, and he reached down for his hat to hide his expression. The man could see right through him, sometimes.

"Will you at least tell me why you left?" Norrington's voice was a little wistful, a little sad, and his heart unexpectedly ached for the sound.

How was he supposed to tell him that's why he'd left? For that matter, how could he tell the man that was why he'd returned?

He fondled the scored leather in his hands, staring blindly at a color he'd saved for himself. All of the colors, really, were for him alone. He'd taken them, taken something from everyone and everything he'd ever wanted to remember, but there was a color missing. What color it was, he didn't know. If he knew, this would be easy. Take what he wanted, and he'd be able to leave it behind if he had to. The problem was, he'd tried that, and he hadn't been able to stay away. More than that, he'd found himself afraid that when he came back, there wouldn't be anything to get a color from anymore.

It wasn't right, an Admiral and a privateer standing together in a bedroom. The sun would rise soon and he would have to leave, a secret affair the law would condemn. Norrington knew it, he knew it, but the law wasn't what worried him. It was that 'kept pirate' idea, like he was whoring himself to the British Navy for the chance to walk the streets without fear of the redcoats. It worried him, but he couldn't seem to end it. This feeling kept him coming back, demanding he give where he always took before. It went against everything in his long life to give away the cards he'd kept so close. Especially when he had no guarantee that he'd get something in return.

A movement out of the corner of his eye turned his head, and he saw that Norrington was quietly getting dressed, apparently resigned to getting no answer. There was something there…acceptance. Patience. The patience to wait three years for a man rumor said to be dead, and the acceptance of his right to keep his privacy, even about those three years away.

That something, that ache in his heart…love. He'd found the color of freedom in the East these three years, but he'd left it because the price had been too high. The price of finding Norrington's color might be as high. He could only give his heart to one or the other. If he could just get something equally priceless in return, he'd know it had been worth purchasing.

The risk was great. But he WAS Captain Jack Sparrow. He'd pull it off.

He walked to the balcony, pretending that his swaying was on purpose, not because his knees were weak. The sky in the east was a delicate pink, and he put his back to it so he could beckon to the solemn man trying not to look like he was watching him. "C'mere, luv. Gonna do somethin' me mum tol' me never t' do."

"Do you always listen to your mother?" Norrington smiled faintly, obviously nervous but walking over nonetheless. He seemed wary when Jack took up both his hands. "What are you going to do?"

A deceptively placid smile took over his face. "Share, o' course."

"Of cour--what?" The hands in his grip jerked back reflexively, but he held on. "No wonder you became a pirate," Norrington mumbled.

He wondered abruptly why he never thought of this man with his first name. He didn't used it much at all, come to think of it. Good thing he'd never met anyone else in the Norrington family, or he'd end up confusing everyone. And his mind was wandering. Bloody Hell, he was edgy. That was probably what was making Norri--er, James so tense. He opened his kohl-lined eyes wide and locked them with James' green ones. "Look in me eyes, James."

Oh, that surprised him. He really didn't use his Christian name enough. For a long moment he looked deep into emerald, seeing confusion and…and…ah. Now that was nice to see. Suddenly he felt much better about all of this. Taking from his James would be like taking from himself, and so giving something would truly be sharing.

The look of confusion was becoming more pronounced. "Your eyes are very pretty, but what is this supposed to accomplish?"

He smiled, barely a upward curl of his lips, and didn't look away. "What color are me eyes, luv?" he whispered.

"What?" Norrington blinked and frowned. Eyes black as sin and twice as damning looked up at him, and he felt like he was falling into them. "Black. Why would..?" Those eyes crinkled at the corners with laughter, but Jack's head shook in denial. "Jack, you've assured that I've had an excellent view of your eyes, so you've no reason," a tanned hand released his and seized his chin, tilting it up and breaking their eye contact, "not to trust my judgment on…their…"

Reflected in eyes of green were the first rays of the sun, and Jack let his hand stroke from chin to pale chest. After a minute or so, James' head tilted back down, searching with new knowledge, and their eyes met briefly before Jack turned away to face the rising sun. It still scared him, he had to admit, that he'd given away this treasure of his. Only time would tell whether or not he'd made the right choice, but for now the price was paid. Norrington's color would be his, and mayhap he'd catch freedom in the taking. Always before he'd collected the color of the moment; it was time he invested in something that lasted a bit longer.

He threw one leg over the balcony railing, glancing briefly at the man he'd decided on. "Gonna 'ave a look-see at th' Turners, aye?"

"Aye," Admiral James Norrington agreed softly, looking out to sea so he wouldn't have to watch the daft privateer disappear over the edge. Something painful in his chest had unknotted. He had grown almost used to it, but in one dazzled discovery, it was gone. He would have never known had he not been guided, and he had the feeling that this secret was not frivolously given. It was a frightening thing that something so simple, just a color revealed in the first dawn light, could make him so happy. This color, this rich, dark indigo of ocean waters, was so intense he gathered it around his heart to guard and remember it.

Because this color was for Captain Jack Sparrow.

For him alone.