Hey.

Look, I gotta apologise for the delay in getting this up. I wrote it months back, and just never got round to typing it out. That's what I get for writing in notebooks...meh. So, it's up, though I doubt anyone's reading this anymore.... but hey, I'm gonna put it up anyway.

And I'd like a hand. This has sort of left GW now, as you might notice. Should I move the whole thing to x-over, or just this chapter, or leave it here? Help?

Awakenings V

He was standing in that cursed cavern, with mounds of shining silver, god and precious gems piled around him. But this time, things were different. He was alone, kneeling, his arms and legs tied tightly behind him. He could feel the harsh rope digging into his skin, could almost count the rough fibres. It was night, and a crescent moon lent a soft, shimmering illumination to the eerie scene.

Something clicked behind him, and he struggled wildly, trying to free himself. He stilled suddenly when a hand brushed along his shoulders, and a familiar voice chuckled

"Well luv, you are in a mess. How'd you ever get in this state, ey?"

He relaxed, recognizing his lovers' voice. Jack came around the front, beads clicking together in his hair, and his familiar scent wafted through the air: rum, oranges, sun-soaked wood, salt, a smell that was totally, and uniquely, Jack.

Jack knelt in front of him, a hand reaching out. Just then, an errant strand of moonlight caught him, and suddenly a skull surrounded with clicking braids leered at him, a cold, skeletal hand caressed his cheek, and the skull came closer, moonlight glinting off gold and bleached ivory as it pressed its cold teeth and lipless mouth against his.

James Norrington, Commodore of the British Navy, the most feared, and respected, pirate chaser in the Caribbean, sat upright in bed, hand groping for his pistol, ears alert to any sound, even before his eyes were fully open. When they were, he panicked for a second, before his sleep-fogged brain recalled where he was.

He wasn't in the cavern, wasn't in fact within leagues of the cursed Isle de Murta, but nor was he at his house in Port Royal, but instead rocked gently, cradled by his true home, the sea.

But, rather than his neat, rather Spartan quarters aboard the Dauntless, his eyes fell upon a scattered array of objects, most of which wouldn't have been allowed within miles of a navy ship.

A desk sat against the wall, piled high with papers that threatened to spill at any moment as the ship swayed softly.

A coat was thrown over a chair, loose arms trailing. Empty plates lay on a small table, tribute to an earlier meal. Shirts and britches were scattered in a trail from the table to the bed. A proper bed, not the hammock or bunk of most cabins, but a huge, soft thing, easily big enough to hold three of four bodies, piled high with cushions and throws in luxuriant fabrics.

And on the bed, next to him... well, that certainly wouldn't be allowed on a ship of Her Majesties Navy!

Jack lay sprawled over the bed, one arm draped over James, the other dangling off the edge of the bed, and taking up far more space than a man his size should technically be able to. His hair spread itself out over the pillows, trinkets glimmering in the moonlight streaming in from the window. His arm was turned, the brand and sparrow tattoo clearly visible.

James chuckled, lying down again. No, Jack would definitely not be found aboard a navy ship – unless he was stealing it, of course, James allowed wryly, which was why he was here, aboard the Black Pearl, in bed with her captain, instead of back at Port, where he was supposed to be. But he belonged here, he thought, as he drifted back off to sleep.