"I rather like a green brocade. More than a blue brocade, in any case. Gold, of course, but red is fine too - so long as the red is more blue-toned than orange. Silver I'm not a fan of in the slightest, I must say, I've just never seen it done well, not on a lady's dress. On a man's waistcoat, perhaps? Yes, I think it can look quite lovely then, but of course so many of the men here are always in uniform that we never see much variation in their styles.."

One of the ladies gathered at this insipid late afternoon tea had been droning on for quite literally forty-five minutes - not an exaggeration, sadly - without so much as stopping to take a breath, and Theo's eyes had already begun to glaze over around thirty seconds in. Every so often she remembered herself, flickering her eyes towards the woman speaking and muttering a 'hmm' or 'of course', but that was the best she could do. Well, that and keeping the teacup in her hand steady every time she almost began to drift off.

To the woman's credit, Theo hadn't been sleeping particularly well. Not since her visit with Jack. Even the most exhilarating conversation would struggle to keep her present and completely conscious and…this conversation wasn't exactly that, was it?

"What about you, Mrs Norrington?" One of the others cut in "Are your opinions on brocade as strong as Mrs Spencer's?"

"Oh, er, I'm afraid not," Theo blinked herself back into the present.

She was going to leave it at that, but several of the women shifted at once then, and she suspected not adding a bit more would be some sort of faux pas - she had to at least be thought to be trying.

"It can look a bit busy if it's not done well, I suppose. And it's usually too heavy for these climates."

"I am partial to silk myself," Mrs Spencer resumed, and the entire group seemed to steel itself simultaneously, the women all shifting and stifling sighs simultaneously "Only in bold colours, it can look so cheap in lighter colours, you see? A deep, rich blue - not unlike the one you wore at the Governor's party that night, Mrs Norrington. Or a green, or red…definitely red, never purple though, it always looks gaudy. I saw a nice cream silk look phenomenal on Miss Swann once, but I've never seen a fabric look cheap on her, she has all of the finest pieces sent straight from London. The London tailors are always the best, although they can sometimes be outdone by the French-"

"What are the fashions in Ireland, Mrs Norrington?" The same woman who'd interjected before did so again now "We see so little of them here. Do tell us what it is we're missing."

Amelia Simmonds' lips pressed into a thin line and one eyebrow twitched upwards for just the slightest fraction of a second, betraying her opinions on the matter.

"Oh, er, nothing like here," Theo gave her best shy, self-deprecating sort of laugh "It's all much more function over form. Lots of heavy cotton, wool, that sort of thing."

The sentence was hardly an impressive one, but it was still an effort to string it together through her fog of fatigue.

"How nice it must be for you to find yourself here, then, with all of the options your new lifestyle affords."

"It wasn't so bad then - the lack of choice meant the lack of worrying over options. But there are worse things to think about than which of the pretty dresses to wear."

Such as the small army of men she'd sent to slaughter.

"Well, we've seen a bit of the Irish fashions - that strange necklace you always wore before you left. The silver one. A strange little pendant. We never see you in it anymore," Amelia cut in.

"I'm surprised you paid such close attention to my jewellery at all."

"I was simply curious over whether you sold it in Tortuga along with all of those fortunes?"

Theo gave a tight-lipped smile "No. I gave it to my husband as a token of good luck when he sailed."

"Another form of witchcraft?"

"A happy marriage is its own special form of magic," she replied drily.

Her own judgement was something that was proving hard to trust, as exhausted as she was. Maybe she should've been sunnier - played dumb to Amelia's shitty comments and just gotten through these boring little lunches as easily and quietly as she could. But she spent her days doing her utmost to keep her eyes open despite the fact that each of her eyelids felt like they weighed about the same as all of the bullshit on her shoulders. She kept herself busy with adding a "feminine touch" - whatever that was when it was at home - to the house, and she'd even visited Jack one more time - mainly just to test to see if they'd let her, and they had, but it hadn't given birth to anything particularly worthwhile. She knew she must look a right state, though, based on the looks he'd given her when he thought she wasn't paying attention.

Then the nights came along, and they were plagued by worse horrors.

Every time she fell asleep, her brain conjured every slight thing that she feared, amplified it a hundredfold (which was saying a lot, considering some of those fears were monsters in their own right), and forced her to live through them. In some she waded through guts and blood on the deck of the Pearl until the gore, thick as molasses, rose and rose to such impossible depths that it left her unable to move and threatened to drown her. Sometimes James featured in those ones, trying and failing to drag her out of it until he perished in the process too, cut down by some faceless, cackling monster from Jones' crew.

Soon her mind grew tired of tormenting her with things she could only imagine, and began to bring forth things she had already seen - in a manner of speaking. Things she was terrified of seeing in person. It always started the same way. She was at the bow of the Flying Dutchman in the dead of night, she needed to get to the stern - to where James would soon have his run-in with Bootstrap Bill, and every fucking soul on that ship was hell-bent on stopping her from getting there. It didn't matter what plans she'd come up with in the waking world to try and help matters - in truth, none of them were solid enough to feel satisfactory anyway - all she knew in her dream was that none of them had worked, and now she needed to get there.

At first she'd resort to ducking and diving past soldier and sailor, man and monster alike, and then when that wouldn't work she would fight her way through, slashing and shaking them off until she reached the back of the ship, only to get there just in time to see Bootstrap's sword run her husband through. Where Boostrap faded to afterwards she didn't know, she never really paid attention, she was too busy screaming as she ran to James as he slid to the deck, crimson blood bubbling up onto his lips as he tried and failed to speak….and then eventually stopped trying at all.

She always woke up screaming.

It felt so real - every time, it felt real. There was no suspicion in her mind that she'd been through this nightmare already, and if it felt familiar it was only because she'd spent a great deal of her waking moments fearing it over the last year. The exhaustion soon felt preferable to going through it all again.

The afternoon light was already growing dull, and she knew that soon she'd have to excuse herself to return home. Then she'd dress for bed, despite having no desire to actually face bed. Amelia Simmonds might've made a clever comment in return to her jab - in fact, she was sure she had based on how the other women turned to look at her for a response. She was too busy shaking off her dread of the oncoming night to care.

James stepped into his home in the wee small hours with the barest hints of a tired smile on his face. He was glad to have made some progress with his goal - their goal - even if that progress wasn't quite as tangible, nor as linear, as his goals had once been, back before…before everything. But progress had been made, more than it might have been for his sitting back at home and doing nothing, and now he was back at home. And he was glad to be back at home.

The separation hadn't been half so bad as their last ones - the worst part having been actually leaving itself. After that all was well, partially because he had things to occupy and distract him, but also because it paled in comparison to the other separations they'd been through. At least this time, he'd known that she was safe and breathing, and he need not worry about saving her from Sparrow, Barbossa, Jones, nor the entirety of Tortuga. He'd still worried all the same, but at least this time he'd had a fighting chance at convincing himself that the worry was needless.

Although he had been curious as to what she'd been filling her time with - other than Sparrow. He refused to allow himself to think about that at all, knowing his mind would conjure images of escape attempts and the general chaos that the bloody pirate was always cocooned in. No, it was better to wait and see on that score.

It did appear that she'd been busy, though. The table in the entranceway now boasted a vase and a bunch of wildflowers native to the island in vibrant shades of pink, red, and white. Smiling softly, he removed his hat and then his wig, pausing for a moment. If Hattie was awake, she'd appear soon - but she did not, and so she must not have been. The sitting room was aglow with the light of the fire, he'd been able to see that as he walked up the front path, and he could see it now flickering warmly beneath the door.

Heading towards it, he gently eased the door open and was met with the sight of more changes - a green rug covered the wooden floorboard, just decorated enough in white floral designs to look fine without appearing too over-the-top, and with yet more vases of flowers on the mantle and the table by the window.

Theodora herself was slumped on the chaise lounge in a nightgown, her face tilted towards the fire and her legs stretched out before her, fast asleep. The pembroke table had been pulled before her and it was littered with silverware - also new - that she'd clearly been in the process of polishing herself. It hardly surprised him, but he did rather hope that nobody would witness it. It wouldn't make life much easier for her here if they did.

Pausing for a moment, he beheld her and wondered whether he should disturb her at all - mostly surprised that she hadn't yet even stirred. But then he spotted it. The knife handle poking out from beneath the cushion she rested on…and the way her hand slowly inched towards it almost too carefully to notice. Well. That was what he got for entering quietly.

"I confess," he murmured, and her eyes flew open immediately "I hadn't imagined our reunion might involve bloodshed."

Her eyes flew open then and she regarded him with astonishment for a moment, and then that surprise melted into a tired smile. James found himself powerless to fight against the one that rose to his face in return - then again, he didn't particularly try.

"James," she greeted, rising and rounding the table clumsily thanks to her tiredness "Eight days."

"Nine," he corrected - but only once he had her enveloped in his arms, his face pressing into her hair "It's gone midnight."

She'd once told him, not long after first arriving here, that home was wherever she herself was. He'd admired it at the time - especially having heard it from a woman, and one who'd been through as much as she had. Anybody in her shoes would have been well within their rights to spend their time weeping and wishing for home. And she had wept - eventually - but that wasn't all that she had done.

Other than admiration, though, her words had struck a chord within him for he felt much the same way, and never particularly expected to hear anybody other than a fellow soldier express such a sentiment - never mind express it so concisely. Despite his love for it, he did not long for England in the same way that many here did. Plenty of those people made sure everybody knew it, too, when the weather grew too hot or the food was not to their tastes, all of which he found especially tedious for it only served to make the heat all the more insufferable and the food…well, he'd never had much trouble with the food. Food was food to a soldier, and fish would always be better than hardtack. All in all, while he wouldn't be averse to seeing it again one day (and hardly doubted that he might, for he very much hoped for Theodora to show him Ireland one day, too), he didn't pine for it.

He rarely pined for any location - saved perhaps for the open ocean. That was likely the sole thing he had in common with Sparrow, but he took comfort in the fact that few seafaring men did not long for the beautiful and terrible vast expanse of the ocean. Overall, though, home had oft been wherever he stood in that moment. Although he'd never quite lended words to that sentiment. And now? Now home was wherever they were - the two of them. Whether that was Tortuga, the Black bloody Pearl, or here. And that was quite a thought indeed. A sore one when they were separated, but that only made the reunions all the sweeter, for the cheer and the warmth that spread through him as he held her was almost tangible.

"Eight and a half. It would have been nine had you returned in the morning," she pointed out, voice muffled by his uniform.

"Technically, it is morning."

She gave an annoyed groan into his chest. That was when James knew all of their time together had left its mark on him - for it warmed him to irk her almost as much as it did her to needle him. His grip on her loosened and he made to let go - so that he might look at her, or kiss her - but she held fast and he tightened his hold again, the first pangs of worry working their way up through his chest. It was his first sign that something was wrong, and he could not ignore that suspicion once it arose.

"I see you've been busy," he murmured.

While he hoped that she wouldn't lock up if she sensed that he knew something was amiss, not now that they were married, that was not something one could ever completely count on with Theodora.

"I kept it fairly plain and simple."

She did let go now, stepping back and brushing off her nightgown, still not quite looking at him. James' brow furrowed. Was he about to go upstairs to find Sparrow hiding in the attic?

"I would've gone plainer still, but Hattie had to coach me through it - said that if I went too simplistic, it would send the town the wrong signal about our ability to keep a household, so I had to walk the line between social acceptance and good taste."

"I like it. It suits us," he eyed her strangely - surely she wasn't so unsure over something as small as a rug and a handful of vases?

"Simple and plain is a good representation of who we are?" She returned drily "Who's which?"

He snorted "I shan't be taking that bait, as no good can come of it."

Smiling softly, Theodora tilted her face up towards him "I missed you."

James seized that opportunity to dip his own head down and kiss her, returning the sentiment without voicing it. Or so he hoped. It seemed to work, though, for some of the anxious tension that had riddled her body slipped away and she sighed, one of her hands sliding up his chest and then around to the back of his neck, her fingers threading through his hair where it threatened to come loose from its tie. When he pulled back he smiled down at her, only to frown again when he noted the dark circles beneath her eyes.

"Is there a reason you're downstairs polishing silverware like a scullery maid in the middle of the night?"

At first he was certain that she was going to make a joke - she seemed ready to do so, a sort of half-smile already rising to her lips, her shoulders rising slightly in a shrug…but then she paused, sighed, and allowed them to slump again, the corners of her lips turning downwards instead.

"I haven't been sleeping much."

He could see that well enough - and he could've sworn that she'd grown just ever so slightly thinner.

"Why?"

"Nightmares," she admitted freely, wrapping her arms around herself.

The furrow in James' brow deepened. Moving towards the table that boasted all of the silverware in the house, he lifted it and moved it aside and then encouraged her to sit with him on the chaise lounge.

"Nightmares…?" He hedged.

His tone gave him away, and the smile she offered him in return was a tired one "Just nightmares. Not big scary omens or signs from the powers that be."

"You're sure?"

"Positive. It's easy to tell the difference after a while, I can't really explain it, I just know. It's a…a gut feeling. This is my brain's work, not Queen Achtland's."

James took her at her word - and was happy to do so. It wasn't as though he had in his possession the same frame of reference as she when it came to differentiating between the two. Although he couldn't help but wonder if he ever would; and which outcome he would prefer as far as that possibility went. While he could not pretend that he wished to commune with ancient heathen gods and goddesses, the alternative was having his wife be alone in doing so. And apparently that was taking its own toll.

"What do these nightmares feature?"

She hesitated - and his worry heightened. There were plenty of things that could fill her dreams and make them unpleasant - Jones, his (now deceased) kraken, his crew, Beckett, or even any one of the horrors she'd been through since arriving here. Which of these options might be so terrible that she felt she could not voice it?

"Did…did you know that I didn't know? About Jones killing all of the men I'd collected for him?"

James blinked. The response had been so unexpected that it took him a moment to truly comprehend it. And then he grimaced.

"I confess, I knew not," he admitted "I considered it little, although I thought perhaps Jones might have taunted you over it, or that you would have at the very least assumed. I saw no reason, nor use, in dredging it up."

His hand fell to her back and she did not shrug it off - if anything, she leaned into his touch as it moved up to her shoulder and pulled her closer.

"I should have worked it out," she murmured, leaning her head on his shoulder "It was stupid of me not to realise."

"You had other things weighing on you," he replied "And I suppose Sparrow couldn't resist informing you of it."

It was obvious he was the culprit. Who else could have told her?

"He didn't mean to - closest I've ever seen him to looking guilty. He brought it up, but he thought I knew. Genuinely."

James wasn't sure whether to believe that. He'd never been as sure of Sparrow's benevolence as she. However…she had been shown how untrustworthy he could prove to be if he saw fit, so her judgement could very well have been sound. He was saved from voicing his skepticism when she continued.

"If you'd known for certain that I didn't know, would you have told me?"

"I don't know," he admitted frankly "It would have been the right thing to do, in a black and white world. I cannot say, though, whether I would have had the heart to bring it up and either ruin our happiness when we first arrived, or add to your woes when you were already mourning what you've left behind."

"That's fair."

He blinked.

"I wasn't trying to catch you out," she snorted at his reaction, shaking her head "I was just curious. I'm not angry - not even a little bit."

Whether she was leaning against him to reassure him or to reassure herself was difficult to say, but he was not complaining - in fact, he leaned back so that he could relax and she could recline against him, his thumb tracing slow lines back and forth on her shoulder.

"But it's keeping you awake at night?" He hedged.

"Sort of. It shouldn't. Well, maybe it shouldn't. What it's done for my standing among the pirates is…worrying, but the rest of it? They were all arseholes and idiots, but since when did that give me the right to sentence somebody to death? I don't even know why it's bothering me so much. I've killed with my own two hands before."

"They were trying to kill you."

"You're voicing my own thoughts now," she replied.

"Have your thoughts told you that it was Jones and not you that sentenced them to death? Or that the death they faced was one they took upon themselves by choosing to be pirates in the first place?"

"One could say the same for me. I've been a pirate here and there, too."

"That's different," he shook his head "There's also the glaring likelihood that the death they faced on the Pearl was a fair deal swifter and less painful than whatever rum-induced, disease-ridden demise they may have otherwise faced."

That earned him a slow nod, but she didn't seem much comforted. In fact, James was beginning to get the sense that this wasn't the only thing weighing on her. Perhaps being left here with all that they must soon do pressing down upon her in her solitude had taken a bigger toll than they'd anticipated. Or had Sparrow said something else to upset her?

"Was it quick?" She asked.

He sighed "I wasn't paying close attention - I was being dragged away and shackled so that I didn't kill Sparrow myself then and there."

Admittedly, he was now relieved that he had not witnessed it for it saved him from potentially providing an answer that did not help matters. Jones' men were not kind, nor were they honourable. Providing a quick and clean death would not rank highly on their list of priorities. Theodora offered no response, so he pushed on.

"They were scum. You chose them thus. They are not worth losing sleep over, Theodora."

"They are a hundred men who'd still be breathing if I hadn't stepped foot in this world, James," she said, and then added after a slight hesitation "Who will join them, before the end?"

"None worth lamenting being rid of," he said - confidently.

Her lips twisted into a bitter imitation of a smile at that, but he continued.

"They are far less than the number of men I have sent to the scaffold across my career. A fair number of them probably had that destiny in store once this business with Beckett is done before Jones saw fit to give them a new one. Am I some terrible murderer for that?"

"No - of course not."

"You might start judging yourself by those same standards, then."

"It's not that. I'm not…It's not that I'm sitting here fretting over the fact that maybe they'd've ended up turning things around and becoming good moral citizens. But it had implications. I saved Hattie, and I saved Jack - and so surely that means we can save- we can save others and that it'll be fine. And I've killed, yeah, but that was self-defense, and it was on a smaller scale, and I'm pretty confident that at least two of those men would've definitely died anyway. But it…it skews the record, doesn't it? Who else could I get killed when I try to save someone? How much could I fuck up for trying to do right? What if for every one person I save, I get fifty killed? Or I sentence those people to even worse deaths somewhere down the line? Or I really fuck everything up beyond repair? Because we were lucky Jones didn't just kill us all then and there on the Pearl that night, looking back on it - if he didn't enjoy playing with his food so much he would have, and…"

She either realised that her fears were avalanching at an unsettling speed, or she finally saw the need to pause for breath. And then she forced a laugh, shaking her head.

"It's a lot. And it was all still a worry before I knew, but…I don't know, it feels realer now. It's- everything is breathing down my neck. And when I manage not to think about it, I dream about it. To think - I used to pride myself on my nerve. I'm sorry."

"For what? I won't grudge you your fear."

"This probably isn't the reunion you envisaged."

She reached across his lap and found his free hand, entwining her fingers with his.

"I envisaged seeing you again, and I have - so I can see no cause for disappointment."

The look she gave him was a rueful one, but it was softened both by the blush and by the smile that rose to her face at the same time.

"That's one hell of a line, James Norrington."

"A line of what?"

That pried a laugh from her, and he was content to go without an explanation as to why.

"I missed you," she sighed "Did everything go as planned?"

"More or less. Beckett trusts me around the Governor more now, I think, but we'll still need to be careful."

"We'll have to get him away soon. Very soon. I think if we don't manage it before Beckett next wants to set sail, we won't be able to at all," she sounded surer as she spoke now.

It was ground that was more comfortable for the both of them - not dithering over what might have been, or how things could have been done better, but what there was still left to do and how they might go about it for the best.

"That will require an incredibly pressing distraction, I think."

"It will," she agreed as though she'd considered it already "Such as the escape of the world's most notorious pirate."

James stilled. And then he sighed. He liked it less for how much sense it made.

"I can get Jack out while you get the Governor out - we take care of all of it at once. We need one to help the other," she said.

"You make it sound far more simple than it is," he said - but calmly, for even he could not argue that the sense of the plan was logical, even if not easy or safe.

Ordinarily he wouldn't have much of a problem with that last part, but with his wife wrapped up in these difficulties "Even if you get Sparrow free from the infirmary, there is little to no chance that you would not be implicated in the scheme. There is no way that you might do it without being seen by at least one person or another."

"I probably will get caught," she admitted.

She pulled away just to bring her legs beneath her so she could turn to face him, but she held fast to his hand and he did not loosen his grip on hers, either.

James nodded, glad at least that she would not deny that "And then I would not even be capable of helping you, for they'll think me complicit in it, too."

"Not necessarily."

"Of course they will, Theodora. While there are those here who think me tied to an…unruly wife, there would be more than enough room for suspicion, of which there is no room for with what it still to come, even if we do succeed in this. We're not merely discussing unsuitable remarks at a dinner party, we're discussing aiding and abetting piracy. It could come down on the two of us."

"Not if we do something about that, too. Not if we have a way of making them think there's no way in hell that you knew a thing about what I was doing."

"Such as?"

The look she gave him then was one he was all too familiar with - the slight upturn of her brows immediately giving away the fact that he would not like what she was about to say.

"You once told me that men are allowed to strike their wives so long as it's of a corrective nature."