mel☆

"You look awfully young to be out this late." A familiar voice interrupts your thoughts. You turn to see John Dutton standing behind you. Black cowboy hat planted atop his greyed hair, his face still as handsome as the first time you'd laid eyes on him some years ago.

"I'm old enough sir." You reply and he laughs. "You want to join me? Gets awfully lonely drinking on your own."

"Sure, let's sit at a booth." He says and you eagerly follow him.

It didn't take you long to realise that John didn't remember you at all, after saying your name you looked for an ounce of recognition in his eyes but found nothing. But why would he? He had four children to look after, he didn't have the time to meet all of their friends so your slight offence soon went away when he ordered another round to your table.

He introduced himself properly and you shook his hand like it was the first time meeting him. A part of you wanted to interrupt him and explain that you already knew him as you'd met years ago but you stopped yourself. It would make things a little awkward wouldn't it?

"I'll tell him later." You thought to yourself as you took a mouthful of the fruity gin that was brought to your table moments ago. "Of course I'll tell him." You thought as his fingers rested on yours 10 minutes later atop the sticky table of the booth. "Ok I'll tell him now." You thought when two hours of laughter and flirting went by and the bell rang for closing time. John held his arm out for you to take as he lead you to his truck, he opens the passenger door for you and playfully taps your ass as you climb in.

"Where you staying?" He asked when he turned the truck on.

"Motel down the road, got a room there for a few nights whilst I visit my friend."

"Maybe I shouldn't tell him." You thought when his rough palm rested atop your bare thigh as he drove, your legs parting ever so slightly in reaction to the touch. If it weren't for the alcohol in your system his presence alone could intoxicate you. With his rough voice and equally rough hands you felt your underwear dampen as John pulled into the motel car park.

Stepping out of the truck he wasted no time in rounding the vehicle and opening your door, holding a hand out for you to hold onto as you jumped down, your legs almost gave way underneath you as your feet hit the cold concrete below but John was quick to steady you. In the short walk from the truck to your motel door you'd decided to confess everything to your friend's dad. Standing with your back to the door after unlocking it you open your mouth to speak. "John I-" The overdue confession was interrupted by a kiss and just like that all regard for doing the right thing was thrown out the window.

Johns lips felt just like you'd imagined. His kiss was rough but his lips were soft. Carefully but quickly he moved you backwards, through the motel door and continued pushing until your legs hit the edge of the old bed frame. You both stopped and John turned, you thought for a second he was leaving but instead he closed the motel room door and locked it before returning to you. Slowly, Johns hands traced up your spine to the zipper that held your dress taut and he pulls the metal down, goosebumps prick your skin as the fabric falls off your body and gathers around your feet.

You're bare against him. The only thing covering you now is a lacy thong and your boots. "I feel a little under-dressed here Mr Dutton." You say dropping down onto the hard mattress.

He laughs, a deep but hushed laughter that makes you blush. With zero hesitation John removes his shirt, discards his boots and undoes his belt, letting his jeans drop alongside your dress. Despite his age he was still in incredible shape, strong arms and shoulders from years of heavy lifting, a broad chest speckled with hair and scars and strong thighs that painted muscle throughout years of horse riding.

"Let me get these off for you darlin." He says dropping to one knee and taking hold of your right ankle. Slowly, he slid the boot off your foot, kissing your knee as he did so and then moved to your other foot where he repeated the action.

Once freed from your boots you shimmy up to the top of the bed until you're led against the uncomfortable pillows situated there. John follows you and positioned himself between your spread thighs, his bulge pressing down onto your clothed pussy. His lips meet yours again in a hungry kiss and you feel his cock twitch against you when you run your fingers through his hair.

Pulling away from your lips John kissed down your neck to your chest where he latched his mouth around one nipple. A hand that was previously resting on your waist moved down into your underwear where he caressed your cunt before pushing two fingers into your sopping hole.

"Nice and wet for me aren't you baby?" He says pulling himself from your tit, voice aged and gravely from years of smoking, drinking and shouting.

"All for you Mr Dutton." You reply and he moans.

John continues to kiss down your body until his face settles between your thighs. Effortlessly he pulls your underwear off you and dives face first into your pussy letting out a soft hum as he does. You're caught off guard, you'd half expected John to be the type of man to go straight to fucking but this was a pleasant surprise. He lapped at your cunt, tongue diving this way and that like he was trying to commit the shape to memory and you were loving it.

He'd already made you cum once and by the time he sucked on your clit again you were clawing at the bedsheets and wriggling around under him trying to move. "John, please." You whined and he laughed. Finally he stopped his torment and flicked your clit once more with his tongue before moving back up the bed. His boxers had been discarded now but you had no clue when he'd took them off.

With zero hesitation and precise aim built from years of experience John sheathed his cock inside of you, your gasp was stifled by his mouth pressing against yours. You could taste your cum on his lips and tongue as he kissed you though you barely had time to savour the taste as John began pounding his cock into you.

"Fuck." You sighed in ecstasy. You'd thought that maybe because of his age you would be doing most of the work but John proved you wrong. With your legs perched on his shoulders his balls slapped against your arse as he pummelled into you, snapping his hips in a fierce rhythm chasing his release which was approaching quickly.

In another quick motion John dropped your legs from his shoulder and before you could protest he flipped you both around so he was on his back and you were straddling him. "You good at riding baby?" He asked, voice low and accompanied with straggled breaths.

"The best you'll ever have." You replied and immediately got to work with swirling your hips and grinding on his cock. The curled mass of his pubic hair tickled your clit as you rode him and you moved your hands to find purchase on his thighs behind you, head rolled back and tits bouncing you were a sight to behold. John stared at you and forgot for a moment that your tight cunt was milking his cock, the way the light in the shitty metal room shone on you made you look angelic.

John shook himself out of his haze and landed a firm slap to one of your tits. You brought your head forwards and peered down at him. You lowered your face towards him and John took the opportunity to bring you closer to him. Your forehead was pressed to his as he gripped your waist and began to buck his hips upwards, his cock hitting that sweet spot with every single deep thrust.

With one final thrust John came deep inside of you. He wasn't quick enough to pull out but thankfully you'd remained on birth control after your breakup. "So good darlin'." He says with a grunt and gives your thigh a little tap to indicate it was time to get off him.

Your legs ached but you managed to throw yourself down to the empty space next to him on the bed. You didn't want to assume that John would spend the night though when he climbed off the bed and began to put his clothes back on you couldn't help but feel a little hurt at his lack of aftercare. "Sorry to leave you so soon darlin' but I've got a busy day tomorrow." He explains after seemingly sensing your hurt.

You accept his explanation and throw on a dressing gown to cover yourself as you walk him to the door. With one final kiss to your forehead John leaves the motel room with a soft smile resting on his face. "I'll look forward to bumping into you again John." You say testing the waters slightly.

"I have a feeling you'll come find me before you leave." He smirks. With that John steps to his truck and you close the door. His scent mixed with the smell of sweat and alcohol is plaguing the room. You should shower, but your feet are already pulling you to the bed and before you have the chance to fight back you're under the covers and drifting off to sleep. Dreams of John Dutton infesting your mind.

Fortunately it wasn't the pounding of a headache that woke you up in the morning. Unfortunately however it was the persistent buzzing of your phone on the crappy bedside table. Deice edging closer to the ridge of the wooden surface. Without checking you pick the phone up and press it to your ear.

"Hey you're finally awake, my dad's hosting a meal tonight, would you like to join?"

It's Jamie. His question makes you sit right up so fast the room spins slightly. "Oh, no thanks Jamie, I've got other plans." You stammer out an unconvincing reply.

"No you don't." He laughs. "He's not as grumpy as he used to be so you're coming, I'll pick you up at 6."

"Ok." You mutter softly. With a lump in your throat dropped your phone onto the bedside table and sank back into the pillows. Your head is taken over by thoughts of regret as you think back to the hours you shared under the assumption that he didn't know who you were and now you felt guilty. Guilty at the fact that you knew him all this time and still fucked him on the grotty motel bed that now had your suitcase rested on it.

You stayed in that position for the majority of the day until 4pm rolled around and you were forced to get out of bed by another call from Jamie reminding you of the dinner. You took a shower and picked out a nice dress, one that hid as much as possible but still showed off your natural curves, ones that John had run his rough hands over some hours ago. Your phone pinged and you heard the beep of a car horn outside. Taking a few more deep breaths you plucked up what little courage you had left and stepped out of the room with your bag, tucking your phone into the side pocket as you walked down the steps to the car park.

"You seem nervous." Jamie says, eyes fixed on the road.

"I am, been a while since I've seen your family."

"You'll be fine, if any of them give you a hard time just give me a nudge." His reassurance didn't help as he turned down the road that led right to the front of the Dutton ranch.

You wanted to try and avoid John as much as possible. Try and reconnect with his kids, well, they weren't kids anymore, hell you even thought about running to the bunkhouse to make awkward conversation with the ranch hands, anything to make your stay go faster but it was pointless.

John was already waiting. He stood on his porch, staring at you as Jamie turned the truck off. You looked away for a second to undo your seatbelt and open the door but when you looked back John was gone. A part of you honestly thought you were losing it, but when Jamies hand pressed to the middle of your back as he motioned you inside the house you realised that it was no dream at all.

There he stood. Mr Dutton. The man who had fucked you not even a day ago in a shitty motel room, the man you knew all about but who couldn't remember you. It hit you like a freight train when he turned to look at you. Once soft blue eyes replaced with a stern gaze that made you feel small. He crossed the room, said hi to Jamie and then brought all of his attention to you. "I'm John, nice to meet you." He says holding his hand out. You take it into your own and his grip feels tight. He's definitely angry, but he's doing a fantastic job at hiding it.

Sensing some tension, though he doesn't know why, Jamie takes the opportunity to save you from his father's gaze and gives you an updated tour of the house. You'd been here plenty times before but the decor had become more modernised, some pieces still remained, things that were too nice or held memories that John wasn't ready to part with yet. After the tour Jamie returned you back to the living room where you were then forced to try and have a normal conversation with Beth. She asked a few questions here and there and you answered where you could until she asked if you'd gotten lucky since coming back.

You laughed. "Oh yeah, you have no idea. That's a story for another day though." You reply and she laughs. After some small talk, where you were practically glued to Jamies side the table was set. Everyone took their places and you were forced to sit opposite John who had been glaring at you ever since you'd walked through the front door.

The food was great, the wine even better as it worked its magic at surpassing your anxieties about being under the same roof as a man you had ridden to high heavens hours ago. Under the table you feel Johns boot tap yours and it makes you jump ever so slightly. Avoiding his gaze you continue eating and conversing with his family until he taps you again. "Sorry." You announce. "Can you excuse me for a moment please." Your voice is shaking as you stand from your chair and quickly make your way out of the room and to the bathroom down the hall.

You run the cold tap and collect water in your hands, splashing it onto your face in an attempt to cool yourself down. "You knew." A familiar voice makes you jump as you dry your face with the flannel. Looking in the mirror you see John stood in the doorway of the bathroom, he's leaning against the doorframe, hands on his hips and his eyes fixated on the back of your head.

You turn around and his eyes finally meet yours. "I'm sorry, I tried to tell you but I couldn't find the right time. If id've known beforehand that Jamie was going to bring me to this meal I would have said something straight away."

He laughs. "Sure."

You stood in awkward silence and contemplated barging past John and walking back to your motel but the sound of the bathroom door shutting brought your attention back to him. He'd shut the door and was currently stepping towards you, a smirk plastered on his handsome face as he closed the distance.

"Y'know, when I saw you at that bar I could've sworn I'd seen you somewhere before." His voice low. "Why don't you stay here tonight, I've got a bed that's much nicer than a shitty motel one."

"Hmm, you didn't seem to mind the shitty motel one though." You reply with a flirty tone and he smiles. "Plus I've paid for the week, can't really afford to waste money like you Duttons."

"I'll reimburse you."

She’s with Jack, now — chatting quietly in the evening air as they continue to plot a course by the stern. Far enough away that they’re in their own little world, as muddled and confusing as that thing between them is. Far enough away that James can stare, and wonder, and reminisce in heartwrenching loneliness.

At the sound of your voice, his head snaps forward along the horizon. He stiffens. James leans on the port banister and exhales.

“Have you come to mock me, then?” he replies in that same smooth voice you’d loved long ago — but it’s bitter and harsh, like the sting of an expensive whiskey.

You lean against the mass and cross your arms. The Eastern wind is cool — but it carries the edge of a coming storm. Give it two or three days, you reckon.

You cross your arms over your chest, and the barrel of your long rifle sways against your back. It’s cool through the thin cotton of your billowed blouse.

Your eyes slip coolly across his posture. The tumble of dark, salt-curled strands are pulled loosely into a blue ribbon. He doesn’t turn to face you, and instead turns his eyes to the honeyed-rose sunset dwindling along the horizon.

You deserve that.

You push off the mast and swagger forward. You come to rest beside him, and plant your calloused palms on the weathered wood of the Pearl’s railing.

“Pray, how is that mockery?” you say lightly, though your tone is sharp. Confident. Sure as the setting sun, “It is but the God’s honest truth.”

For the first time since he’s come aboard, he turns his head and looks at you then — truly looks at you.

James realizes then that you are not the woman he once knew in Port Royal.

There’s a new scar on your cheek. Your hair is different — styled in a more practical sense than perfectly placed like he remembers. You lack ribbons and rouge and petticoats. You’ve dawned trousers and boots and belts and sashes.

The only thing he recognizes is that rifle on your back.

You always were an impressive shot.

Though sport was rare on the island of Port Royal, your reputation followed you from England. Your father, the Governor’s Treasurer, took every chance he could to boast about his daughter’s accomplishments. James remembers many a dinner where you sat, as soft and doe-eyed and girlish as could be, and sported a bashful smile at the praise.

You were different from Elizabeth.

You always had been.

While Elizabeth had been infallible — high, and unattainable on a pedestal he’s half-aware he built himself — you had been present and interested and kind. It was clear you held a spot in your heart from the Commodore, even then. Even when he was intent on having Lizzy’s hand. Even when his attention was always wrung from conversation by her approach.

Even when he left, heartbroken and intent on chasing pirates.

You can feel his eyes on you.

His words are slow and very serious. “I’m not in the mood for jests, my lady.”

The jab doesn’t land. You continue on, unbothered.

“There was a time I would do anything for you to look at me like that, you know,” comes your easy reply as you move to crawl atop the cannon to your right. You perch yourself with ease. There’s a moment of silence that settles between you and James feels an uneasy itch crawl into his heart, “God, I would have thrown myself from the Fort’s cliffs, even.”

You never admitted your feelings for him.

Not before now.

He knew, God, of course, he did. Of course.

But, he’d been blind, then. Ignorant to the devotion of one woman, eagerly chasing the untouchable affection of another.

Finally, you look at him, and he feels like it’s ten years past again — and you’re chatting in a quiet room at a boisterous dinner party over the ethics and intricacies of Queen Anne’s privateering laws. He remembers the candlelight and the companionship and the comfort.

You were friends, once.

Your voice is quiet, carried away by the wind. You watch him, albeit distantly.

“Now look at us.”

Two tired souls, each as lost as the other.

With a flick, your gaze finds his. James’ eyes are the color of sea glass — they search yours for a moment before his jaw tenses and he drops his gaze to the water.

He’s quiet for a while, and so are you. For now, it’s just the calm swell of the sea. The sun has all but extinguished now, and the stars are creeping up over your back.

His voice is softer now.

“I doubt an apology would mend much of anything.”

You screw your face uptight. You move to pull your knees up. You’re quick to placate the assumption with a dry laugh. “I didn’t come up here seeking an apology—”

James straightens his posture and turns, fully allowing you to occupy his attention. “Then why did you come to me at all?”

His voice was colder than he intended.

You wince.

Years of loneliness, of regret, of shame, of guilt — they’ve all eroded the soul he had before. He’s as changed as you. Propriety would once call that this conversation be chaperoned; now, he finds himself yearning for a moment alone with you.

His eyes snap away again.

“...It’s what I owe you,” he says — this time, purposefully softening each syllable to paint his intent; he tries to placate the ache he sees in your face, “You... You were always kind to me. Even when I hardly deserved it. Even now.”

His eyes are soft.

Your lashes flutter.

“...It was always impossible to be anything but kind to you, James Norrington.”

He’d forgotten how his name sounded on your tongue — coy, gentle and warm. Sweeter than he remembers now, punctuated by the briefest slip of a smile. It leaves with the passing wind.

With that, you slip down from your perch and slip away.

James watches you climb to the Crow’s Nest — agile and graceful — and wonders why he ever let himself forgo your affections in the first place.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

The storm rears upon them sooner than anyone expected.

It’s as if in an instant, the Pearl is swallowed by clouds darker than it’s pitch-colored sails. The electric snap of lightning splits the sky open, and in the span of five minutes, the Pearl careens into the worst storm First Mate Joshamee Gibbs has seen in ten years.

The winds send waves high — and in the chaos of bone-rattling impacts upon the deck, the crew is sent into a scramble trying to maintain the heading. They’ll lose day's worth of travel if they let the storm have her way.

The rain is coming down so heavy that James Norrington can barely see — all he can hear is the hoarse barks of orders by Gibbs and the roar of the thunder and his own thoughts.

Tripoli. The Dauntless. Hundreds of men.

Tripoli. The Dauntless. Hundreds of men.

Tripoli. The Dauntless. Hundreds of men.

His back burns as his hands grip the sea-slick ropes and he heaves, pulling taut the mainsail with four men at his back. A wave slams them from the starboard side and sends a line of sailors tumbling — and James gulps for air when the ice water strikes him hard. But, he stands firm. Keeps hauling.

Tripoli. The Dauntless. Hundreds of men—

It’s your voice, suddenly, that cuts through the roar of the storm.

“HOLD FAST!”

The starboard side is being battered by the wind and the waves and the rain. Hit after hit, the crew tries to maintain footing as they adjust the sails to correct the heading — and now, you’ve planted yourself at the front of the line.

James’ head snaps to you — and he watches a wave nearly ten feet high slam down on the deck, directly atop your head.

Somehow, you stay upright.

But, it’s like drowning.

Your hair clings to you in wind-whipped tendrils of snarls. Your shirt is soaked through, and the chill is settling into your bones. Still, better down here than up in the Crow’s Nest. The mast, at that thought, groans loudly under the push of the wind. Your boots slip, and you stagger back as you try to haul the sails back to the position — behind you, Gibbs is braced.

Your hands are bleeding.

Lightning cracks close, and you try to breathe.

“BRACE!” suddenly comes the hard call of Gibbs in your ear — but it’s neither too late nor too soon, it’s simply not enough.

The rogue wave hits the Pearl hard.

You hit the deck harder.

In a tumble of limbs and shrieks and pain, you’re rolled violently towards port — and as you gasp hard to try and get up again, you’re slammed with another cold shock of seawater. It seizes up your lungs.

It’s a whirlwind of panic that seizes you the second your back slams against the port siding. It’s water and wind and thunder and the dizzying confusion of pain crawling up your temple — and then, it’s James.

James is there.

James is there, wild-eyed and soaked and holding your face in his hands as he’s shouting something — but your ears are ringing and you’re trying to see his mouth in the downpour.

Then, just like that, the world swims back into focus.

“GET BELOW DECK.”

All you can do is nod.

He helps you, with a bruising grip, towards the lower deck’s hold — water is pooling down here, up to your ankles, and it sways and rocks with each pitch the Pearl takes. Your knees wobble as you descend, and you spare James a single, long look back as he slams the deck door’s shut with a rattle.

The animals one level down are panicked.

There are a few souls down here — most nursing injuries, some praying.

Your stomach tumbles as the ship lurches again and you stagger into a bunk on the wall. Your hands grip the ladder tightly, and it’s then that you realize you’re still bleeding. You haul yourself up, muscles still burning, into a vacant top bunk. It’s nearly dry here — but the noise of the storm and creak of the ship’s bones does little to bring comfort.

Your head is pounding.

And so you stay there, in the lonesome dark, and try to remember the quiet psalm some tired soul is whispering into a rosary. A sailor’s prayer.

Slowly, as time creeps a half past the hour, the violence of the storm begins to subside — and on the seventeenth repetition of the prayer, sunlight begins to peek through the slats in the deck overhead.

You’ve turned your eyes to marvel at the warm rays pooling into the water that has gathered below deck. Little flickers of light dance around the space — and it’s almost heavenly. Peaceful. Quiet.

Then, James.

He’s fast to make his way to you — as the rest of the crew dwindles down, wrought with exhaustion and pain. His hands are as bloody and spent as yours; torn to shreds from the coarse ropes. And still, despite this, his touch is so gentle you swear you could cry.

“Are you alright?” he asks, in a desperate whisper, as his hand finds your knee and he gestures for you to come down from the bunk.

Your nod is far from convincing.

Truth be told, you’re off. Dizzy and confused and your entire back aches. Your ribs protest with each breath.

James sees it.

He’s gentle — and suddenly, so gentlemanly — when he slips his hands beneath your arms and gently helps you down from the bunk.

You slip down his front, hands tangled around his shoulders.

The act is enough to wind you.

You plant your forehead against the sopping wet cloth of his jacket.

This moment is enough; it placates the yearning you’ve stoked for years. It’s horrible in that way — that you’re allowed this now, after so long. After so much. But, James doesn’t pull away.

Instead, his hands slip to push matted tendrils from your temple.

Worry is heavy in his deep voice. “You’re bleeding.”

You’re exhausted.

And so is he.

What he’d give to collapse into his own bunk now — to sleep for a day, or maybe more. But, his heart won’t let him. Not when you’re here, and when he... when he almost thought he could have lost you.

...But, truly, he never really had you to lose.

Nor you him.

And maybe that’s the poetic part of all this.

Suddenly, Elizabeth is calling your name from atop the deck.

You slip away, hands brushing his chest as you do.

His hands trace your arms, and you’re gone.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

You have no idea where you are.

All that matters — however — is that the Pearl is docked, your feet are firmly planted on land, and you’ve got a warm helping of food in your stomach.

The crew needed this after that storm.

You lean back in your chair, arms crossed, and loosen your grip on the bottle in your hands. It’s rum — cheap rum. But, to the dear Captain’s point: rum is rum is rum. You watch him, and Gibbs, and Elizabeth, and Marty converse about something with animated intent.

From across the crowded tavern, Lizzy offers a smile.

You honor it with a commemorative swig.

The bar is busy — working girls flit in and out with men on their arms, venturing upstairs for privacy. There are card games between tables, a fight in the back alley, and music blaring loudly from the corner. All in all, for being a small little port in the middle of nowhere, it’s good business.

Not very quiet, though.

James, all the while, is trying to ignore the gnaw of yearning the sight of you brings.

He’s staring — openly, now — from his position on the balcony. His own bottle is nearly half-gone. He’s by his lonesome up here, pestered every now and again by a woman or two promising a lovely evening. But, each time, he passes. And each time, his gaze lands back on you.

Had he been so stupid?

Had he been so damn blind?

He could have had you — you, beautiful and witty and charming and sharp. You, kind and gentle, as devoted as the sun is to the moon. He could have had friendship and love and all the things touted in a marriage.

But, no. He couldn’t have Elizabeth. And so, he went and he left and he fell apart at sea. He lost what he was, and drowned the man he used to be.

Sea-green eyes watch you stand from your table. You shrug on your rifle, drop your hat atop your head, and toss a few coins down for the barmaid.

So, James swigs the rest of his drink and follows.

The port is quieter — but still, the noise from the tavern bleeds into the town’s night air. Here, with music droning on as the waves lap at the dock, you find a bit of peace.

“Mind if I join you...?”

You turn, eyes pulled away from the moon.

James’ eyes are soft.

You give him a consenting nod.

It gives you a moment to take him in.

The two days in port have done him some good. He’s washed up, taken a bath, even shaved. But, the shadow of a beard has already begun to creep back along his sharp jaw. His hair is long, swept neatly away, and a few stray strands move in the cool breeze. His hands hang on his belt, loose and easy.

He’s always been tall — imposing. Very handsome. Even in that god-awful wig.

You remember that sandalwood cologne he favored back in Port Royal. Clean. Warm. Pervasive. Expensive. The sort of thing the salary of a Commodore could allow for.

Now, he smells like gun powder and rum.

His arm brushes yours as he sidles up beside you on the dock.

“It’s dangerous to be out here alone.”

Your eyes flick up to see him watching you — and you see humor there in his eyes.

You scoff. “Come to save me, have you? Once a dashing officer of the King’s navy, always one.”

His face twists into a bitter scowl. Like he tasted something sour. “I am inclined to disagree.”

You nudge him with your arm. “Fine. I amend everything from that previous statement, up to and not including the dashing part.”

For the first time in years, you hear him laugh.

Truly laugh. A real, low, thunderous chuckle creeps from his chest as he ducks his head and smiles.

It spurs you to muster your own laughter. You try to tamp it down, to keep it quiet and easy and light. The smile that digs into your cheeks intends to remain. The ache there is sweet.

He’s watching you again.

This time, you feel as though... as though this sort of look is different.

When he speaks, his voice is tender. His words are as sweet as a summer breeze.

“...I’ve made many mistakes in my life,” he begins, “But, I now believe forsaking you may have been my biggest.”

And it feels as if someone’s plunged a knife into your chest.

You aren’t sure how to respond to that. How could you have ever been prepared for that? In a thousand, heartbroken, lonely years, you never imagined you’d feel the returned affection of the man before you. And yet, here he is, bending to take your rope-burnt hands into his own.

“I am sorry.”

And again — and again, and again. The knife is twisted, and suddenly you feel months' worth of agony rush up. Words whispered between men at the docks, the HMS Dauntless was lost on the coast of Tripoli. That Commodore Norrington was declared lost at sea. He had left with barely a word. Hellbent and heartbroken.

You never imagined an apology.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles and your swallow roughly.

“James—”

Suddenly, there’s a hand on your cheek.

“Do not protest this,” he says quietly, “You know it is what you deserve. After all I’ve done.”

You’re shaking your head when his thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone. It’s enough to make your head spin. You find both hands clinging to his own now as you shake off the dizzying thought of him in your space.

You feel like a girl again.

“You had a duty—”

“To you,” he corrects sternly; his eyes are set in a serious manner, framed by dark brows that pull taught as he brushes his fingers against a stray lock by your ear, “And I should have seen that. And I didn’t.”

It’s then that you finally look up at him.

It’s his turn to be robbed of breath.

You speak quietly.

“...You’re a good man, James.”

“You need not lie to me,” he whispers back, the space between you both enough to send the moonlight spilling over your entwined shadows.

“I would never,” you insist, your hands moving to brace flat against his chest. Your thumb brushes a bare patch of skin just along his sternum. He feels as if he’s been set on fire.

“Then, tell me,” James breathes as his nose nudges yours, “Would you allow me this?”

His eyes flick to your mouth.

All you can muster is a nod.

And then he kisses you.

His fingers hold your chin, and the kiss is as chaste and gentle as any — it’s slow and kind and warm. It’s punctuated by a deep breath as you both sink into the feeling of one another’s hold.

He... He feels hale and whole.

In a thousand, heartbroken, lonely years, you never imagined you’d feel his lips against your own. And yet, here he is, bending to break your composure with a hand that ventures around your waist. His other cradles your jaw. You cling, and allow the chasteness to dissipate into a feverish sort of chase.

It’s your tug on his lapels, the bunched grip of your shirt, the stagger of boots against the deck as he bends at the knee and nips at your bottom lip. Your arms swim around his neck, and you try to kiss him like you’re not halfway to the depths of love.

You’ve tangled your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, leaped onto the tips of your boots, and allowed for his hands to grip the curves of your waist tightly as he hides a desperate kiss into your smile.

And then, a voice.

“’Bout time, I’d reckon.”

Captain Jack Sparrow — in all his glory — stumbles by.