A/N: Chapter 69. Because, you know, the prologue skews the numbers a bit. Nice.

I know it does tend to be the way of things that the second a female OC throws up in a fanfic, it means she's pregnant. I can happily say that it isn't the case here haha - Theo won't be getting pregnant, don't worry, there's enough drama fodder available in this story without me needing to shoehorn in a baby.

Jones' beast perished with an ear-splitting shriek that shook both ships gathered to watch it. Were it not for the discipline that James so prided himself in having, he might have flinched at the spectacle. The thing was a monstrosity and the world was a better place for its demise, even if they didn't need rid of it for what was yet to come. If James were forced to watch it die a hundred times over to see it truly dead, he would do so, but he was not made of stone. The thing had been summoned by its master, and then killed by that very same master - and there was something in its howling and crying that suggested it felt that betrayal more than an entirely mindless beast might.

Jones bore witness to the spectacle, silent and still, just as he'd been ever since he gave the order for his men to fire on the beast. Unmoving from the one spot on the deck where he stood, the Dutchman's Captain watched every moment of the attack upon his beloved pet, as Beckett called it, while every man aboard watched him in turn - both his crew, and the more mortal men gathered, all of whome had every manner of weapon directed at the heart. The message was a clear one. They could move to attack, but they'd hardly get far. All the same, James spent the entire duration with his hand resting atop his sword, and it did not move when the kraken gave one final cry before its terrible limbs slunk below the surface and all grew silent.

The crew of the Dutchman were almost as still as their captain, save for a small amount of uncomfortable weight-shifting as they waited for what might unfold next.

"Well," Beckett broke the silence, unbothered "That takes care of that."

James knew the man too well at this point to know it wasn't obliviousness that prompted his words. It was then that Jones gave the first sign of a reaction, the end of his tentacles curling just slightly and his shoulders stiffening where he stood.

"A word?" Beckett continued, turning without waiting for a response so that he could lead Jones to his own quarters.

Well. If James were forced to give him credit for anything, it was that he certainly wasn't a coward. Jones obeyed, but only after giving a low growl of anger. It had a few of the men fidgeting nervously, but not Beckett.

"Steady, men," James ordered lowly, allowing none of his own discomfort to show - not in his stance, and certainly not on his face.

His speaking up attracted the attention of Jones, though, as he stormed past him - and when his eyes landed on his face, they narrowed. Returning his gaze evenly, James didn't break the eye contact until the Dutchman's captain was well past him…despite how the look chilled him. The look wasn't one of mere intimidation. No, it was one of recognition. The man's - if he could be referred to as a man - eyes had narrowed initially as if struggling to place his face, and then they'd finally widened in outrage and James knew he'd succeeded. That would not end well.

But Jones had greater matters on his mind in that moment. It would not do to panic. After all, while his reaction to their seizing Theodora made it painfully obvious that there was something between them, he had no way of knowing that Beckett did not know the extent of Theodora's circumstances, nor any reason to begin a discussion on personnel with Beckett. Their secret was safe for now, but it may not remain so if James did not tread carefully throughout what was to come.

Jones' men, left behind on deck, bristled in the group they'd been huddled into by the soldiers aboard. While James knew all too well that the men surrounding them could do nothing to keep them there - he'd seen how they moved, the strange supernatural way they could come and go as they pleased - the men didn't know that, and they didn't need to know that. The crew wouldn't move unless ordered, and Jones wasn't here to give that order. Allowing his eyes to scan over them, his jaw set sternly, he recognised one or two. The one who had threatened him in order to take "the heart" back on the island, the one who had knocked Theodora unconscious on Sparrow's ship - but it wasn't one that he recognised that he was looking for.

He looks like Will - and he's a more recent recruit than the rest, so he's a bit more human. There's a starfish on his face. Theodora had said to him before he departed. If you see him on deck with the rest of the crew, it means the information I gave him to give Jones was enough to buy him a bit of grace.

Admittedly, James hadn't seen why it mattered much - whether Turner's father was in the brig or on deck hardly seemed to make much difference for the future, but she insisted all the same. The request was hardly a lofty one, either. All he had to do was look for the man and report back as to whether he'd seen him. It was surely nothing to worry about - she'd scarcely mentioned the senior of the Turners before now, so it was likely just an afterthought, a milestone she wanted to be sure they'd marked to ensure that things were going as they should. It was for that reason that James felt a pang of relief when his eyes landed on who had to undoubtedly be the man he'd been looking for.

Standing out through sheer virtue of being the least monstrous in their number, the man looked like he'd been drowned several times over, his skin a corpse-like shade of white and his lips blue to match. There was a resemblance to Turner there, he had to admit, but it was obscured by the sea life clinging to his face and the limp hair hanging about his face, constantly dripping as though he'd just had a pot of water turned out over his head. What troubled James more than his appearance, though, was his expression. The others sneered and glared, but Turner? Turner stared ahead dispassionately, like whether he was here, at the bottom of the ocean, or in the presence of the King himself made little difference to him. Indeed, he didn't truly seem to be here at all.

James' lips thinned and he looked away, resuming his monitoring on the deck. The man was here, and he was not in the brig. He had the information he needed, and had no wish to gawk further.

It was a bright and scorching day, one ill-suited to what they'd come here to do, and it seemed to aggravate the men further as they had to resist the urge to wipe the sweat from their brows in order to never divert their attention from Jones' men for even the slightest moment. He shared in their discomfort, but only up to a point. All of the layers of his new uniform were taking some getting used to, especially now that they were out at sea and truly working, but it could never compare to the layers of muck and grime that had accumulated over his person in Tortuga. This? This was bliss in comparison - even with Beckett prowling about.

In truth, he was glad to be working again. Glad to be of some use once again, rather than sitting at home and planning for when that day might finally come. Talking was all well and good, and talking with Theodora was never something he'd complain about, but it was tiring when it took a good long while to amount to anything - while they were left to wonder if it would amount to anything to begin with.

Not for the first time, his thumb dipped inwards towards his palm until it met the warm, smooth metal of his wedding band. It had become habit more or less since the day his wife had slid it onto his finger, and he'd oft wondered since setting sail whether she did the same thing - and if they ever both did so at the same time, despite the distance between them. It was a fanciful thought, but it wouldn't surprise him if it had happened. Travelling between words was also rather a fanciful prospect, after all.

While he'd been surprised (and relieved) at how seamlessly he'd stepped back into his role - even if his role was a somewhat new one, what with his promotion - he was more surprised by how much he missed his wife. It wasn't that he'd expected to be overjoyed at her absence, but he'd considered this day before, long ago, in the days prior to his even meeting her. He'd pondered what it might be like to have a wife, any wife, waiting back at home for him while he worked. He'd hoped he'd find himself with the sort of wife that would make the prospect of returning home a pleasant one. Never did he dare hope he'd find one who he'd miss quite this much. And not only when he retired for the evening and found himself alone, wondering if she was yet asleep or what she had done that day. If she was currently allowing herself to think of him, too. Christ, if he didn't love her so much he might resent her for how much she occupied his thoughts.

How often had he found himself making a mental note to repeat to her something especially funny or idiotic or infuriating that one of the men here had said, so that they might laugh about it together? Too many times to count. It was strange - it was unsettling, and it wasn't altogether bad to find himself in a position where he no longer dreaded the day when Port Royal would grow on the horizon. When the sight would mean anything other than a few weeks of boredom and paper-pushing.

He didn't allow it to distract him in the ways that mattered, though. It had been a valuable expedition thus far, just as he'd hoped. Governor Swann had been brought along as it appeared Beckett was loath to let him out of his sight for too long. That would complicate things. More still, it forced James to cool his own demeanour when he spoke to his old friend, for fear that Beckett might see the rapport that lay there and regard them with further suspicion. But Weatherby Swann was not a dense man, and he took James' more formal nature with a knowing look and a response that matched. They may just get him free yet.

The day when they managed it couldn't come soon enough. With Sparrow and the Governor both living, and (apparently) Turner Sr. above deck, Theodora's goals would be fulfilled, he could weather the oncoming storm with the knowledge that she was safe in Port Royal, and then after would come. After sounded very good indeed. After gave him something to look forward to.

More than that, even the lofty Lord Beckett seemed pleased with James' performance. It shouldn't have surprised James - and it didn't necessarily stun him, in truth, he was a damn good soldier and he knew it - but Beckett was the sort who'd hardly crack a smile were the Crown Jewels bestowed upon him before all of England to see, so having him satisfied with his work didn't seem much of a worthwhile thing to sit and hope for. It was simply a pleasant surprise, and one that might hopefully make up for the manner of their meeting, along with his wife's reputation all in one. So long as Theodora didn't do anything outlandish during her meeting with Sparrow. Another unrealistic thing to hope for.

The door to Jones' quarters creaked open what felt like a lifetime later, Beckett stepping out first with Jones in tow. The former had his usual self-satisfied smirk on his face, and the other looked even less happy than he had when they'd last seen him.

"You," Beckett commanded, waving a hand at Dutchman's bespiked boatswain "Will show myself and Mr Mercer around this…ship so that we might know what we are working with."

The pause he gave before saying the word 'ship' suggested there were supposed to be a few adjectives there - none of them complimentary. Pausing and looking to his Captain as if for confirmation, or perhaps even orders to the contrary, the crew member hesitated. James tensed as he watched the exchange, a single bead of sweat running down from his temple to his jaw, hand itching to return to his sword as he waited for Jones to abandon reason and order his men to attack. Instead, he simply glared at the man who finally complied with Beckett's request, jerking his head with a low growl to suggest he should follow him.

With a few hand gestures, Beckett ordered for four of the soldiers to follow them - a wise decision, in all likelihood - before pausing and addressing James.

"Admiral, you may use this time to hand over our leads on the pirate threat to Captain Jones, here."

James offered little other than a nod in understanding. Taking a step towards Jones, he allowed none of his reluctance to show - for if he looked like he had something to be nervous about, no doubt he would soon be given something concrete to inspire those nerves.

On his command, Groves stepped forth and handed him a leather dossier full of charts and leads and then stepped back again. James did have to accredit his bravery, though, considering he did so measuredly and slowly, rather than rushing through the motions simply so he could step away again as quickly as possible - especially considering Jones spent the whole exchange glaring at him. Most men on this ship likely would not fully exhale until they disembarked and were well away from the Dutchman. He wouldn't even pretend that he wasn't among that number - although he knew he wouldn't entirely relax until all was said and done in its entirety.

"Perhaps we might speak in your quarters, Captain," James ground out.

He hated affording him the mark of respect that his title bestowed, especially given all that he'd done (and would still relish in doing) to Theodora, but he hated the idea of angering him unnecessarily more. Especially when he had his own goals in mind.

"You've risen in the world, since last we met - Admiral," Jones all but snarled as they stepped inside the cool shade of his dank quarters.

"Indeed," James replied disinterestedly.

It was a remark solely intended to let him know he remembered him - but he knew that. His eyes had already more than given it away, and that had given James time to prepare in turn. If he left what he knew Jones had in his possession unmentioned, it would only spark suspicion and lead him to suspect that it was something he very much desired to be left unmentioned. However, there was every chance to quash the matter now - while Jones was preoccupied, too blinded by his hatred of Beckett and his grief for his beloved monster to truly consider his hatred for Theodora and her apparent title of witch.

"These are our leads," James offered the dossier to Jones, only to have it batted out of his hand and across the room with one hideous claw.

James watched the papers slide across the room with no reaction, turning a bored expression back to Jones as he glared at him. Water dripped constantly from above, and he feared that if he lingered for too long he would soon have to take off his hat to pour out all that had gathered there.

"You think I need maps and charts to know who sails my waters?"

It was a wonder that these quarters, spacious as they were, had been able to house the arrogance of Beckett and Jones both at once for the duration of their negotiations. They were certainly in for a time of it, dealing with both of them at once.

"I was asked to provide you with what information we have, and that is what I have done," James answered simply.

To return Jones' venom would be to rise to it. Every time he was tempted to do so, he simply reminded himself that he would outlive the monstrous man and that was comfort enough.

Scoffing in response to his words, Jones shook his head "Does that witch of yours bow and scrape to Lord Beckett as enthusiastically as you?"

Well, that saved James himself bringing her up.

"It's funny that you should mention my wife, for I believe you have something belonging to her. I would see it returned."

It was a gamble. A hell of a gamble. But he remained steadfast that it was the right thing to do - to leave it unmentioned would suggest to Jones that he desired it to remain unmentioned…and therefore Jones would take nothing but great delight in purposely mentioning it as much as possible. James knew he had to navigate this carefully, making his demand with the same bored indifference he'd gone into this exchange with, allowing himself to seem neither anxious nor even particularly hopeful.

"Wife?" He spat "A man who ties himself to a witch is just as bad as the damned wench herself. I may be forced to take orders from him, but I'll be damned if I cow to every notion of every poxy little cur under his command."

"You'll be damned either way," James returned.

Jones snorted - although it was difficult to tell given his lack of a proper nose - apparently not overly concerned about the destiny of his soul. To the surprise of absolutely nobody.

"Bring in your Lord and have him make the same command of me," Jones challenged "See if he cares enough to relay the wishes of that damned harridan you call wife."

Well. That wasn't particularly possible, was it? Indeed, nothing could make this current set of circumstances worse. Thankfully, he got the impression that Jones issued that challenge knowing that Beckett wouldn't care a whit for the photographs, and not because Beckett didn't know. It was a reasonable assumption to make, he supposed, that Theodora - in all of her witch-like glory - now worked for Beckett. It was not, however, an assumption he would operate under for long. Were he not so preoccupied now, James knew he might have already begun to doubt. Suspicion would inevitably follow that doubt, and he needed those photographs returned before that came - so that when Jones felt the desire to use it against them, he would have no evidence.

James' lips thinned "You will return them."

It was all he could offer in the way of an argument. If he panicked - if he showed even a hint of fear or worry, Jones would realise exactly what it was that he held, and it would all be over.

"Will I, now?"

"You will," he sniffed "Sooner or later."

So why not be reasonable and do it now?

"Then you've nothing to worry about beyond how you might exercise patience on the matter."

Yes. He should have seen that coming. It was futile to hope for a reasonable streak from Davy sodding Jones.

What was clearly destined to be his final statement on the matter - for the time being - brought about something worse than Jones' ire. He was smug. One corner of his lips twisted upwards into a pleased smirk and he turned, clomping away and leaving James wondering if he should have refrained from bringing up the matter at all. He lingered only long enough to not give the appearance of chasing after him, for appearing nervous or frightened would help matters not, and to cast a glance about the room, hoping against hope that he might spot the wallet. He didn't. Finally, lips set in a thin line, he exited the quarters, leaving the papers scattered on the floor where Jones had cast them.

It appeared he'd made the mistake of thinking Jones could only be consumed by hatred of one thing at a time.