Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, written purely for fun.

Author's Notes:This is part of the Your Move universe.

My Dear Commodore Norrington: If you want to see your wig anytime in the near future (and must say it looks rather fetching on me own head. Was right, the gray doesn't suit me nearly as much as the white. Brings out the kohl. A wet dream walking, mate. No lie.), meet me in your bedchamber on Thursday evening at 7:00 pm. I suggest a bottle (no, TWO) of rum. Might sweeten our negotiations. Wig nicking is thirsty work. Glasses optional. Just bring yourself, love. And don't do anything stupid now, like working late. Mr. Cotton's parrot has taken quite fancy to it, been having to beat him off. Or maybe it's Mr. Cotton who fancies it. Hard to tell. See you Thursday.


He was a dead man. I'd warned him, stated it in the King's English. My exact words were: "If you steal my wig you're a dead man." Bloody impossible to misinterpret that. He'd been warned.

A trip to William Turner was in order.

"James," William stood back from the fire and wiped the sweat from his forehead with an equally sweaty forearm. Mr. Brown lay crumpled in his usual drunken stupor in the corner. I sniffed in his direction to see if he was dead. No odor. Pity. "What brings you to the forge?"

"A commission, William, if you please. A pair of manacles. Custom order."

William raised one eyebrow.

"To fit wrists, oh, yay around." I held out my hands and circled my fingers just so. I'd held those wrists in mine enough to know the circumference by heart.

William raised the other eyebrow, but naturally was too polite to comment.

"And two locks if you don't mind. Inevitably the first key will be lifted from my person, the second key, well, I'll find a safe place to secret it." I tried to keep the glee out of my voice, imagining the horror when the first key went into the lock, yet the manacles didn't open. It would be delicious.

William's eyebrows merged into his hairline, and he lowered his mallet as if exhausted. "What's he done this time?"

"William, you laugh and you'll miss your own wedding, languishing in a barren cell in the fort. Stole my wig, if you must know. There are some affronts not to be borne. Thursday morning if you please, Mr. Turner."

He made one final plea. "You won't arrest him, will you?"

I hid the leer I could feel panting behind my teeth. "I'll have him begging for mercy, you may be sure of that."

I am not late. I am too excited to be late.

It is seven o'clock on a hot Thursday evening, the humidity so fierce that even the walls in my house are sweating. He is wearing the wig, naturally, and I admit to a childish satisfaction that he must be bloody uncomfortable with that scratchy wig smashed over that thick black mop he calls hair. How he got it over those baubles he's fashioned into his tresses is beyond me.

He does not see me at first, so intent on what he is doing. He is seated at the small table in my bedroom practicing card tricks. Only a fool would play cards with Jack Sparrow. His slight of hand must have been learned from the devil himself. Slender hands, calloused and scarred from years at sea, shuffle the cards so quickly that they are but a blur against those palms. And then, automatically, he's dealt out a hand for four. Whips the cards up off the table and deals again. Having seen him do this trick a million times, I now know that he's tucked the ace of hearts up a sleeve. Not that I've ever seen him do it. I just know because he's shown me the card at the end of the trick. Again, only a fool would play cards with this man.

Imagine the scene. He stumbles into a tavern. Orders drinks all around. Sloshes ale everywhere, trips several times over inconvenient chair legs. Somehow the idea for a card game comes up. Jack fumbles with the cards. Loses the first two hands. And then proceeds to win. Wins every hand from that point on, all the while ordering rounds, acting the buffoon, and inevitably cleaning out the purses of anyone stupid enough to sit at a card table with him. You will leave the table more drunk than you've ever been in your life, but well entertained, if very poor.

He reaches under the wig to give his head a scratch. Must itch like hell. Excellent.

"Really, Jack, you're an idiot. Stealing a wig when it's so blazing outside that even the ships are groaning with the heat."

"Jamielove," he coos but doesn't get up. He pats the wig with a protective caress to make sure it's securely wedged on that fine head. "Got my letter I see. Don't you think it suits?"

With anyone else he'd be batting his eyelashes, kissing the air, and wetting his lips with his tongue. He doesn't flirt with me because he knows I am immune to that sort of nonsense. We play a different game. What I am not immune to is the way his eyes challenge me with the question: Do you like what you see? And he knows that I like it very much. He knows that I cannot be within three feet of him and not break out in a sweat. He knows that the white of the wig is the perfect foil for his tanned cheeks and dark eyes. That he is, indeed, a wet dream walking. My favorite dream, by the way.

"Terms, Sparrow. Your terms."

Jack raises an elegant forefinger to his chin, cocks his head to the side, looks around my room, and then at me. "Don't see any rum, mate."

I bring my hands, which I've had secreted behind my back, to the front. Each hand clenches very firmly the neck of two exceptionally fine bottles of rum. In fact, the finest on the seven seas. Jack's favorite brand. The swag from the Isla de Muerta allows him to indulge his natural passion for fine things. Jack Sparrow, pirate, is a secret bon vivant. The pirate in him drinks rum, the sybarite in him demands fine rum. When he can afford it.

His eyes light up and a greedy tongue flicks his bottom lip. A rather fine lip that I know for a fact is quite partial to being bitten and nibbled while a hand slowly massages his balls.

"I believe you said glasses were optional."

He nods. "One for you, one for me. Though I don't mind sharing."

I unbutton my vest and pull loose the laces at the top of the shirt; my shirt falls open, revealing a sweaty shoulder. Eyes go half-mast. I smell his arousal. Cinnamon, rum, and musk. The heat, the game, the sheen of sweat on my forehead and shoulder, each one enough to stoke Jack's desire, but combined?

It was like shooting fish in a barrel. His greatest weaknesses: rum and me.

"Come here," he demands, raspy voiced.

I saunter over to the table. I turn his chair away from the table and toward me. I place one bottle on the table. I hold the second bottle up to my mouth, pull off the cork with my teeth, and spit it out on the floor. This is exceptionally cruel. It drives him mad when I throw things on the floor, abandoning my usual naval mania for neatness and order. I caress the rim of the bottle with my lips as if it were the head of a cock. His cock. He hisses. Taking an enormous swig, I do not swallow. I let him see I did not swallow. Now he is sweating. And panting. I lean toward him, letting the aroma of the rum tease him, nuzzling his lips with mine, the faint lingering drops of rum wets his lips. He opens his mouth and I smash mine against his. The rum sloshes between our months as our tongues fight with each other for dominance. The rum oozes out from between our lips and cools us as it dribbles down our necks and pools in the depression of our collarbones. Jack moans and runs his hands over my chest and the front of my breeches, then grips my hips pulling me to him. Oh Jesusmaryandjoseph, what this man does to me. I must confess that I almost don't go through with it.

But then a curl from my wig tickles my neck and brings me to my senses. What was I thinking?

I swallow the rum, relishing the burn of it as it cuts through my middle. I reach for his hands and enclose them in mine. I tear my mouth away from his and lave his knuckles, the alcohol must be soothing to these hot, hot hands. Returning to his mouth, I swipe my lips across his and plunge my tongue into his mouth, searching for his tongue. I maneuver one hand behind his back, then the other, clasp both of his hands in my considerably larger one, remove the manacles from my back pocket—must pay William a premium, these are exceptionally well-made, he even etched Jack's initials on them per my request—and then I calmly secure him to the rungs of the chair.

The click is one of the sweetest sounds I've ever heard.

I assume he has lifted the key from my watchfob pocket. I did not feel it, but then again I wouldn't. I pull away. He grins. I know he has the key. I grin back.

"Naughty, naughty commodore," he chastises me. Radiating confidence as evidenced by his usual cocksure grin, I can tell he is working his hands behind his back. Searching for the keyhole. Trying to keep eye contact at all costs so that I won't twig to the fact that he is working the lock with the stolen key. Surely after all this time Jack doesn't think I am that naïve? Apparently so. My grin deepens. "Think Mr. Cotton's parrot is going to get an early Christmas present seeing it's only summer. Commodores make rotten pirates."

I grab the bottle of rum and take a few healthy swigs. Strolling over to my bed, I bunch a pillow, place it behind my back, and settle myself on the counterpane to watch the show. Am curious how long it will take before Jack realizes that the manacles won't open. I was going to enjoy this. Very. Much.

He should have realized something was up when I continued to grin. But as Jack's ego is second only to mine, it takes him a while. I'd assumed about two minutes would pass before he'd figure out that one key wasn't going to open those manacles. And that they were slightly smaller in circumference than the standard issue manacles (of which he's slipped those delicate wrists out of many times).

I underestimated him. It takes only forty-five seconds.

"James," he bellows. "Why isn't the lock working and why can't I wriggle out of these, you twisted naval bastard?"

Jack is really lovely when he's angry. Shakes his heads so trinkets rattle, eyes darken to ebony and shine. My cock begins to throb.

"Need a second key. What was that about commodores making rotten pirates?" I reach down into my right boot, fish for the key, then throw it on the counterpane. His eyes widen. "Had them made especially for you. You may thank William. Some day. If you ever get free." He didn't like that. I know I've blooded him when the beard braids start to quiver. And they were quivering. And I know that he will devise some particularly devilish way to pay me back for this. That the beard quivering is a sign that retribution will be swift, without mercy. No quarter given. One can only hope.

"Now, Jack. I did warn you," I reminded him. "What part of 'Do not steal my wig' did you not understand?" This elicited a rather strangled sound from him, which I ignore. Crow is difficult to eat when you're a sparrow. "Wouldn't want to deprive you of any pleasure, Jack. Even if I imagine it's just torture wearing it. Is it torture, Jack? All itchy and hot?"

He levels at me what I've come to term as the you-are-a-dead-commodore glower. He then tries to shake off the wig but he's jammed it on too tight.

"What was that about commodores making rotten pirates?" I drawl.

"Terms, Norrington. Your terms," he hisses.