Author's Notes: Bless me. I need to take a stadium of seats.

I didn't want to mess up the stream of the regular TCW with this, but I felt the side stories growing in my head until I could not contain them, starting with this one. Just giving myself an opportunity to write some scenes that have been stuck in my head within this world.

I think I might do a #modern chapter! What do you all think about that? *Charlie Murphy shake*

#farewell takes place during Mother/Mourning. Or technically before? It intrigued me to entertain the idea of what "ensued behind the door" when Jess and James met briefly before he leaves. No, I cannot write smut/citrus very well. However, I don't think it's really supposed to be "smutty" as much as it is "holy quickie, batman!" But I feel it ends on a sad note that may be discordant? I don't know. Let me know!

Sorry kids, this is definitely rated M. And I have a feeling it won't be the last. (Even if I suck at it.)

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Loving you madly will be forever.
I see the ocean in your eyes when we're together.
There are no boundaries. There are no limits.
My heart has been embraced now that you're in it.

- Melanie Chisholm, "Closer"

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The Commodore's Wife: Alternate

#farewell

She stared at the door, willing herself not to shake. Before she could talk herself out of it, she reached out for the lock and turned it. The resounding click caused her heartbeat to spike, but an easy breath outward quelled the rhythm. When she turned to face him, her expression in its smooth lines emanated calm, serenity. The only thing that betrayed her were her eyes.

She walked toward the desk. With one hand she tugged on the pins that kept her hair in its efficient twist. Her dark hair fell free in a wavy cascade down her back and she felt emboldened by the weight of the strands on her spine. She placed the pins on the desktop, very close to his left hand. She marveled at the elegance of his fingers, wondering if this would be the last time she would feel them on her skin. Forcing herself to look into his face she pushed aside any misgivings.

"How long do we have?"

His voice came out softly. "Enough."

That was all the prompting she needed. She was careful not to tear any of his buttons, understanding the importance of perfection in his outward appearance. The waistcoat and jacket went first, thrown across his chair behind the desk. Having divested him of the major obstacles in the way, she unfastened his breeches and the sharp intake of breath when her fingertips met his flesh spurred her forward.

The taste of him never failed to tantalize her. Dizzy with want, she sucked and bit, eliciting strangled moans as she branded him from the inside of his left thigh to his left nipple. The onslaught left him weak and throbbing with the lack of release, and his grip on the edge of his desk was so rigid the bones threatened to rip their way out of his skin. When he could no longer focus to hold himself, his knees buckled, and the duo tumbled to the floor.

He pushed her onto her back and pressed his mouth to hers. He shoved her skirts up to her hips and dragged her against him. His nails razed her skin, leaving crimson in their wake. They both moaned when he sank into her wet heat, and with ragged breaths and heart galloping he pounded in and out of her with an intensity that felt foreign, and yet, he found himself too entrenched to stop. She prevented herself from crying out by sinking her teeth into his shoulder. She felt him shudder as pain and pleasure mingled.

He pinned his wrist above her head and attacked her mouth; her legs trembled as the pleasure built, threatening to explode. She wanted to prolong the moment but she had the heavy sense of time pressing down on them. His hand sought out her breast and when he found the soft warmth he shuddered again. Overcome with passion, she gripped his right buttock and met his thrusts with equal enthusiasm. His mouth left hers before the growl that threatened to escape could cross his lips and moments before they both reached completion he left on her a mark of his own.

They lay motionless in the aftermath. The fierce, blinding and desperate passion had been spent, leaving them weary, slightly cold, and dreading what was coming next. He sat up first, pulling up his breeches. She followed suit, leaning against the front of his desk and pulling down her skirts. Hating the space between them, she moved closer until their shoulders touched. He placed a hand on hers in response and squeezed.

"I'm sorry," she said, almost in a whisper.

He frowned. Of all of the things she could have uttered, he had not been expecting an apology. "Why?"

"I got carried away."

He brushed a lock of her hair out of her eyes. "Considering the circumstances, you have my forgiveness." He lifted her chin and placed a long, languid kiss on her lips. He broke away and placed his forehead against hers for a couple of minutes before pushing himself to his feet. He held out a hand to help her onto her feet. She stared up at him for a humming moment before accepting his hand and allowing herself to be boosted upward.

As he tucked his shirt into his breeches she retrieved his waistcoat and jacket. Working in tandem, she assisted in redressing him, and when they were finished, he appeared as polished as when she entered. She began to adjust herself and he picked up her hairpin. He stared at her quietly, memorizing the slightly tousled hair and the faint blush of her skin. She retrieved the other pin to fashion her hair into its former style when he stopped her.

"Leave it," he murmured. She stared at him quizzically. "You have a mark right there." He brushed the side of her neck with a fingertip. A spot the size of a coin blazed a livid crimson. She reached up abruptly and pulled her hair over it to fight off the involuntary shudder at the remembrance of that moment—

"Is that satisfactory?" Her voice was stiffer than she intended.

He looked at her but did not respond to her question. After a moment, he nodded.

"Thank you." More silence ensued. The sounds from outside filled the space, reminding them what had to be done. She took a step forward and reached out to touch his coat. It was softer than it appeared, she mused. Another part of her, the rational part of her realized this was evasion, so she removed her hand and looked up at him. She suddenly grew tired of tiptoeing around what she wanted to say. "I am aware enough of how these things go to tell you that I really, really don't want to cling to the fear that you won't come home. So I will make the effort not to be—only if you do one thing for me." She raised her hands and cupped his face. She waited until he looked at her steadily. "You come home, James Norrington. Or I will go down to the Locker and drag you home myself."

Rash, too rash, darling. He had bound himself to this woman, and sometimes he wondered about his own sanity in doing so, but at this moment, with the shouts coming from outside and her staring up at him with that intense, determined gaze, he decided he would have no other person at his side.

"I believe Davy Jones would be ill-prepared for the likes of Captain Jay," he quipped. "So I'll save you the trouble."

She smirked at that. It went straight to his heart. "Good," she merely said, and then stepped up to kiss him. The kiss whispered of possession. You're mine. Don't forget.

Oh no—he wouldn't forget. The constellation of marks she had left on his body would remind him until time faded them. He hoped at that point he would be home again.

At the knock at the door, she settled onto her feet and smoothed out her skirt. She squared her shoulders and attempted to appear polished and serene. He didn't have the heart to tell her that her loosely flowing hair and bruised lips betrayed any sense of decorum she attempted to feign.

"Come in," he called out.

The gentleman at the door had been a herald: it was time to depart. He thanked the messenger, and they were left alone again. She could sense his reluctance to move, so she uttered the thing most fitting: "We should go."

He gave a resolute nod. "Indeed, Captain." He strode toward the door, and she followed, her steps slower. He opened the door and allowed her to go in front of him. She nipped his chin spontaneously and drifted past. His lips quirked but he didn't smile.

The man with whom she had hastily and fervently coupled had been replaced by the Commodore. She could see when his spirit entered the scene; her husband's spine stiffened, his shoulders squared. His face had settled into stoic lines, and even his eyes had gone carefully blank. She walked beside him, chin lifted and eyes just as empty.

Their walk together ended on the dock, at the gangplank leading to the Dauntless. They hovered near it and out of everyone's way. The wind picked up as they hesitated, blowing her hair back. Her neck and its telling imperfection were revealed. This time, however, he didn't bother to mask the mark. He decided the last image of her windblown hair, proud eyes and slightly inclined head would serve him well during the next several nights.

She flicked a glance at the small group of men looking at them expectantly, and then she said, "Godspeed, Commodore."

Where had she gotten it? Who had taught her this terrifying strength? He said nothing, merely squeezed her hand briefly before striding up the gangplank. He battled back his emotions and faced his duty, tucking everything away like a secret indulgence.

However, he couldn't help looking back, as they moved over the water, just briefly.

She grew smaller with every passing minute, but he could still discern her out of the others milling around on the dock. As if she could feel his stare, she placed a hand on her heart. It seemed much more profound than the frivolity of blowing a kiss. My heart is yours. He would make sure he wouldn't break it.

Even though he threw himself into his rank, his work, he moved with the knowledge in a corner of his mind she lingered there until he was out of sight.