Guess who's back, back, back. Back again-'gain-'gain. Shady's back, back, back. Tell a friend, friend, points for the person who guesses the song. So I know I haven't published in, like, a year. But I'm back and better than ever (I hope). I'm getting over some personal issues, so maybe you might see some more frequent updates. Who knows. And remember, more reviews = less update time. Simple math.

This is rated a VERY strong T. If you are homophobic or are under, like, fifteen or so, please turn back now. I don't think anything in here is bad enough to merit an M rating, but if anything is or if becomes so, don't hesitate to tell me. Also, I was struggling a bit with character so any pointers on that would be fabulous (pointers on anything really).

Disclaimer: I own....nobody int he first chapter.


James Norrington counted his lucky stars that a ship with a crew bedraggled as Captain Sparrow's was the kind that would not care about uniforms. In fact, James's mud splattered clothes fit right in with the rest of the lot's poor appearances. His hat sitting crooked on his heads and his tattered wig nearly falling off were not unusual features in this crew. The long, shredded sleeves of his coat from back in the Navy (was that really only a month ago?) were admittedly a bit odd in the height of the summer, but no one questioned him. He made sure always to carry with him several handkerchiefs because, he'd found, he would sweat like a pig.

Once, the good Captain Sparrow took pity upon the wretched soul and invited him into his rooms.

"It seems to me," he drawled, leaning up against one wall. "That you are quite uncomfortable in this weather and have no clothes other than what you are wearing, mate. 'N'I can't have any of my crew dying of sunstroke, now can I?"

"That is not necessary, Captain Sparrow."

"Please, James," the captain leaned over a pile of cloth-like objects, stale with sweat, "call me Jack. Ah, this 'ere beaut should do nicely."

James stared in horror at the shirt in Jack's fist, the thing must've resembled something close to clean once, but that must have been eons ago. The sleeves had been cut away to bare one's arms to the hot tropical sun and breezes. Repulsion widened his eyes as he stuttered out a refusal.

"Nonsense. Now put it on," Jack threw the offending piece of cloth at him. "Hurry up now."

A moment later when the ex-commodore still had not moved, Jack heaved a heavy sigh, "Need I undress you myself?"

Numbly shaking his head, James murmured, "No."

"Then put it on."


"Put it on. That's an order."

Those three words triggered the compulsive need to obey hardwired into his mind. But he could take off his coat, he couldn't. Nor could he disobey an order from his captain no matter WHO he was. Jack solved his dilemma by grabbing the blue shoulders of his coat and pulling it off the stunned man.

The shirt under it was just tattered rags and it fell off on its own. Leaving James's chest – and more importantly arms – exposed. Eyeing his crewman's forearms warily, Jack whistled. "Those're some scars, y' got there, mate. They got a story?"

James's brown eyes furiously raked the cabin for something of inspiration, finding none, he relied on a story he'd heard the night before in the bar. "Knife fight with a tiger."

"Was ol' Sam's story last night. What the story of these scars?" The shirt forgotten, Jack clung to James's arms.

There was a silence. A silence that answered the question far better than any words ever would.

"I can't have a crewmember of mine doing something like this, nor can I take away their weapons…."

Norrington shrugged.

"You'll have to stay under my surveillance. In my cabin."