Merely Players

Act Four

by

Hippediva & Elessil

James stopped for a moment, looked up to see the audience. He had not before, focused only on himself, on remembering the text, and trying to ignore that Thompson sat out there. He had spotted him, right there in the separated part with the Governor and the Commandante, watching with delight. No pointing, no shouting, no guards. The guise as Tarquin obviously was safe, at least for the moment, if only he did not falter.

"Thy way, so bright and fair, lauded by the best of men,
Cheered, rewarded in contest where virtue should not strive,
Where reward received your spouse, not thou.
What thou gain'st was my gaze on thine,
Which chastely thou didst bow. And fie!
Foul demon in my heart that makes me long,
Long to hold, to embrace where it is not mine.
Yet, temptation all the greater,
The thought of thy white breasts, chaste until my hands do touch."

Certainly, Jack had little of chastity about him, the opposite of Lucrece, but forbidden all the same. And like Tarquin, James had given in to temptation, not against Jack's will, but against the law of God and man. Like Tarquin, he was driven into a mad frenzy, where his thoughts would not yield, where he could not forget the hot fingers, their frenzied coupling, where each of Jack's casual touches only seemed to beg for it again.

What was worse, to be incensed by virtue or by depravity? Better for sure to take in consent, but to give his own agreement? To sink so low to be ruled by bodily desires? Was that not the lesson of Tarquin?

"So be it then, let there be fire.
Burning brighter and stronger far than ice.
She shall be mine, and gone my honour in the wind,
Let hers be mine instead."

He spun around on his heel and rushed off the stage, the cheer of the audience ringing in his ears, wondering if Thompson's voice was among them, or if already he was alerting the guards.

Jack had been half-listening backstage, a smile on his lips as he looked over his lines and Fernando fussed over his 'provocative' night-dress costume for the rape scene. He didn't grin at James, only watched him with enigmatic eyes, as if he had heard every thought that accompanied Tarquin's impassioned speech.

"How could any gel resist?" he teased gently. "He's out there, ain't he?"

"He is. With the Governor and the Commandante." James looked dark, serious, as if convinced he was walking to his execution and still determined to keep his dignity.

Fernando clucked his tongue. "Now, now, my dears, the next scene is yours together anyway, so get yourself out there, Mariella. Shoo, shoo!"

Jack own long hair had been augmented by what had to have been the heads of two healthy Spanish girls and it tumbled past his waist in midnight clouds. "Don't worry!" He raced onstage, trying not to get lost in all those curls and cursing a blue streak under his breath. The back of his neck was sticky with sweat.

The rape was terrifying and James' carefully controlled fear had given way to febrile intensity as he stalked his Lucrece, heedless of her piteous pleas and tears. Jack lost himself in the lines and the scene flew, the audience on its feet when the curtain closed.

Almost dazed, he looked up at James curiously. Norrington was watching him with the strangest expression, as if he'd almost forgotten it was all make-believe. Jack understood entirely and shook off the spell while Fernando fussed and got him into the torn duplicate costume, handed him the dagger and pushed him into the wings. Jack hefted the knife. Not a bad blade for all that it was too dull to cut anything but butter. He waited for his cue, his breath coming in short gasps, feeling much as he did in the middle of a battle, waiting for the next shot, the next blow.

"Can Juno herself not weep with pity,
To see how foully my name is used!
Once praised and lauded, chief among her handmaids,
My will and my life bound to my lord's kind touch.
Will not the Furies beat back such cruel force
And hunt the hunter who has killed such prey?
No leman I, nor cowering slave to tread through dusty days
Until age shall paint my cheeks with chalk
And warbling tones send me to my grave.
Here and now, I choose my fate,
To live without honour that would be a death indeed."

Offstage, Jack thought Lucrece a complete ass but somehow, the words rang truer with those hundreds of eyes watching and suffering with her. One hand reached towards her audience; fixed eyes, dark as night and lit from within from places Jack never knew he possessed.

"Forgive that I should have, by mere existence,
Stained that bright shield of my married love,
My father's pride and joy all trodden to the dust.
Let now chill death himself comfort this heart,
Sore broke and longing only to cease to beat.
I cannot live or walk, talk or feel a touch,
But his hands defile and ravish once again.
No joy will I feel. No pain shall I suffer.
In cold emptiness, may I find my solace
And lay to rest so grievous a sin."

Unlike their first impromptu performance, Solomon had added much in costumes and props. Jack only barely remembered the small bladders of pig's blood hidden under the torn chemise as he withdrew the dagger and held it high.

"Gods may forgive, but never men,
And stains so foul can ne'er be washed except by blood.
My own I offer, oh faint my heart and give me strength.
For thee, for honour and for shame.
Be stern my hand, as his was who tore my life in twain.
Forgive my weakness and end my pain."

There was a collective gasp as Lucrece stabbed herself and the white gown ran red all around when she sank to the floor. Jack's only thought was that it was cold and sticky.

All defense was useless and the crowd cheered as the wronged husband sought revenge, as Tarquin sank to the stage, his blood as red as Lucrece's. More cheers, and James thought they would cheer as much if they knew who he was, if the attacker were a guard and the blood his own. It wasn't, instead the curtains drew closed under roaring applause.

They were shoved forward for bow after bow, both dripping like a butcher's shop and both bemused, their eyes meeting in confusion. Jack was pelted with flowers and it was a testament to how absorbed he'd been that he did not notice quite all the silver coins tossed on the stage,

Backstage, after the din of the applause, Jack let Fernando get him out of his costume and back into Mariella's frock, his eyes distant and confused. What in bloody hell had happened out there? He'd completely forgotten where he was, so completely had he been involved in that Roman cow's drama.

He was unusually quiet as Fernando and Zelina cleaned away the splashes of blood on his arms and face, redressing his hair and repowdering his face. He looked up in the mirror and saw James' eyes, dark with their own distress. He blinked. Idiotic playacting! There were more important acts ahead and he took a deep breath.

"James? C'mon luv. It ain't gonna get any better waitin' fer it."

There was something of Lucrece's struggle in the way he squared his shoulders, ready to go and face whatever might come.

James had to wipe away the blood himself and stood fully dressed in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection. Would Thompson recognise him? Who would he see, Tarquin or James Norrington? No wig, the shadow of a beard, would that suffice as a disguise? He was about to find out, and there was no point in stalling.

If he waited for the other ship to fire before he did, a fight was as good as lost. He straightened himself and held out his arm. "Then let us meet the adoring public, wife."

Jack smiled and took it, biting his lip to feel how it quivered under the gaudy cuffs. He grinned. "Let's let 'em have it, husband."

He had his wits about him, more or less, and immediately took in Thompson, tall and straight. He nearly whistled. The man could almost have passed for Norrington's brother. He was handsome and dressed in the sober garments of a simple merchant.

Then they were whisked off in a carriage, this time to the Commandante's grand villa for yet another reception. There was no time to do more than press James' hand reassuringly, between forced laughter and inane chatter until they were ushered into the hall.

Fernando winked at them as they passed and Solomon positively beamed, then shooed them onwards to their kind host. Needless to say, the good Commandante was already leering at Mariella, rushing forward to greet her, then to introduce Thompson to her.

As James was presented and bowed, he could see the man grow contemplative. Not alarmed, no call for guards, but a line on his brow. "Greetings, Mr... Jefferson? Have we had the pleasure before?"

James tensed but continued the performance and smiled, using the bare inch he had on Thompson to airily look down at him.

"Indeed, Sir. Our troupe has been in many a port, and perhaps you have previously witnessed one of our tours?"

"Possibly. I enjoy the theatre. Although I do believe that I would remember your charming wife."

Jack listened with ears sharpened to their conversation and laughed softly. "Mr. Jefferson was the toast of Europe before he came here. I'm delighted to meet you, sir."

His eyes danced as he held out his hand and his smile was sweet, but there was something in Mariella that had been nonexistent in her earlier, a kind of dignity that surprised Jack more than anyone. He wavered between the smouldering glances of Don Jaime and the Governor's longing, to Thompson's veiled curiosity.

He pulled himself together with his most winning smile. "Now which of you lovely gentlemen shall take me in to dinner? My my, the choices a woman must make!" He took the Governor's arm, almost alarmed at his red-faced pleasure. Dear God, don't let th' bastard die of apoplexy on me!

The moment James' arm was free of his wife, he was surrounded by a cluster of females, until a resolute lady grabbed his arm and nigh dragged him off. Politely, he followed, glad to remove himself from Thompson at least for a while. As they walked in, he only hoped that the good Governor would not stumble over Mariella's skirt, so close did he press as they were walking.

Dinner was more of a performance than the play itself. James was alternating between the airy, arrogant artist, the gentleman with the infallible manners and the jealous husband while trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible.

This he did mostly by keeping close to Jack, alert for whatever he might say or do. The other guests might pretend to listen, but their attention was occupied by the enigmatic smiles and winks, sparing her husband only a jealous stare. Envy, hate perhaps, but not for the reason he feared.

Jack teased the Governor about the lavish hospitality of San Felipe, shot dark, enticing glances at Don Jaime and chattered with Thompson about the West Indies, the weather and such a multitude of ships!

Mariella was in fine form, bewitching her admirers and sparing looks and talk with all, bestowing her favours like a queen with an avid court, always keeping one eye on James and, noticing how Thompson watched him, kept up a lively stream of conversation on a dozen subjects.

It was exhausting and Jack wondered how in hell women managed to do all of this, look pretty and not reach for the nearest belaying pin. He was going to be black and blue from the Governor's untoward pinches under the tablecloth and made a note to keep clear of Don Jaime alone. The Spaniard looked more fearsome than any Tarquin and Jack swallowed hard. It was impossible to eat. His jaws were far too busy with talk until even he, who never lacked for words, was ready to embrace monastic silence. At least for an hour.

Norrington carried himself like a true gentleman, conversing with the gaggle of hens around him with gentle propriety. For the first time in his life, Jack was both envious of his easy politeness and touched by its quiet charm. Must be more t'that gentleman business than he'd imagined. For one moment, somewhere between a mango sorbet and the game course, Jack remembered the wall of that room in the Governor's mansion, his back pressed to it, straining against those long fingers. He turned pink to his hairline and covered the lapse with a laugh.

James would have wished for a cover on his ears to ward off the high-pitched giggles that sounded more like a shrieks, for at least two more pairs of hands with which he could delicately remove roaming palms from his thighs; and for an upbringing that would actually allow him to do so with women. He didn't. He sat there and suffered them stoically, smiling pleasantly and entertaining them.

He wished he had Jack's gift for this, for certainly, if this lasted much longer, he would surrender himself to the Spanish and damn the consequences. At least it would involve a fight. Against men. Not against the forward Spanish widow so enchanted with his beard.

Dinner finally ended and Jack sipped carefully at the wines this time, refusing a second glass of any and hoping that they would retire soon.

He was out of luck this night, as the Commandante was determined to woo Mariella and they moved to the salon, still chattering and laughing, until the musicians began to play and the floor cleared for dancing.

Jack considered faking a faint but had no time before he was led to the floor on the Governor's arm for a stately gavotte that would not irritate the gubernatorial knees.

Minuets and chacons continued until he found himself swept onto Don Jaime's arm.

Goddamn. The paso doble.

He looked at James pathetically, wracking his brain to remember the steps. But the moment the music began, he was all fire and fury. He'd spent more than his share of time in Malaga and knew how the gitanes did it well.

His chin rose, eyes challenging as the proper ladies and gentlemen pranced around each other in stiff postures. Suddenly, he clapped his hands sharply, the high heels clacking on the wooden floor. They circled each other, dangerous and darting, arms twining, Jack's hands moving like birds in flight.

James would have helped, had he known how, imprisoned by ladies' arms that were more insistent than they should be, and eyes that seemed to swoon at his impression of the fierce torero who was quite thoroughly sick of this reception already and only hoped that Thompson was, as everyone, busily watching Mariella.

The paso doble finished to the delight of everyone on the floor, crowding to compliment the Commandante and Mariella. Don Jaime's gaze grew so dark and predatory, the hold of his arms around Jack so low that, determined to be unobtrusive or no, he had to intervene.

"A marvelous dance, Commandante, darling. Dearest Mariella, may I? It has been a while since I had the pleasure at such a fine reception."

Jack's eyes were glittering and he was panting softly, as though he'd just gone several bouts with an expert swordsman. Dancing was much like swordplay and just as exhausting. Jack had seen never seen James in action but he had little doubt that the Commodore was more than proficient. He tossed his curls, glad to unpry the Commandante's fingers from his waist.

"Of course, my love. Commandante." Jack was hard-pressed to keep the bloodlust out of his gaze.

Jack stepped close to James, ready for another gavotte or some such boring thing but the musicians began an allemande. A very fast allemande. He looked up at the green eyes and a wicked spirit took hold of him. If he had to dance, then dammit, he was going to dance, not that proper shuffling and bowing. The freedom of the gitano paso doble burned and he faced James, twining one arm around his shoulders.

James stared down at him, already prepared to begin the dance, but Jack was not where he was supposed to be, and showed no inclination to moving to his side. Oh bloody hell. Very well then. He settled one hand on Jack's back, arm beneath the one on his shoulder, and danced. The tempo was ingrained in his blood from many a dancing lesson, from any number of allemandes he had danced. It was Elizabeth's favourite, he recalled, and he did not know how often he had tried it until he found his skills satisfactory to ask her for a dance.

With the next measure, he took a step forward, then spun around, twisting with Jack in his arms. The pirate was quick to react, to meet each of his steps, and he wondered what it would be like to face him in a duel of swords, where each step was countered with another, perfectly in tune until the world only spun and all that mattered was the movement, the bright steel of the sword, the polished wood of the dance floor.

Jack moved with him fluidly, step for step, measure for measure, whirling and twisting with the notes, letting James lead him. Within moments, they had synchronised to a perfect rhythm and he felt like he was flying, turning in tight circles, the skirts billowing around him as he spun. His eyes were locked to James', but this was no duel. It was a duet.

Neither of the two took notice of Thompson, his curious gaze the only one in the room that was trained on James rather than Mariella, the line on his brow deepening as he watched the tall, straight figure.

The music, the steps, the spinning dervish of their movements stopped as the last notes sounded and Jack panted heavily, his eyes wide. Was that why women so liked it? He'd never thought of it before, but with James holding him, it had been exhilarating. Dimly, he was aware of applause and whispers. Shocking, indeed, to dance held in a man's arms like the common folk. Jack didn't care. All he could see reflected in James' eyes was their shared danger and the memory of their passion, jerking and wrenched in a whirl of wine and rum against a wall.

He smiled shakily. "I think," he panted, "I've done myself for one night." His eyes said something quite different.

James could hear the ladies chattering, if perhaps so close a dance was the newest fashion in Europe, certainly, the far-travelled actors would know such a thing, heralds of the continent. The whispers were distant, as if through a haze, and it took a moment for him to remember propriety and disentangle himself, dizzy and breathless from the fast spinning. "Let us excuse ourselves and thank our host," he murmured.

Jack took the Commandante's hand and thanked him for his hospitality and his kindness in elaborate detail, but he never even heard the words crossing his lips. He was aware of the dark, desiring gaze but it bounced off him like droplets on oilcloth. He was still thrilling and humming when James closed the door of their room behind them.

He turned, eyes so dark they melted into the night and made a grab for Norrington's collar. "Kiss me!" he rasped.

James wasted no time to seize him by the waist, pulling him in for a furious kiss. It seemed the Commodore was caught by the same thrill; a moment, a shared danger, the mad exultation of braving it by skill and luck.

James' hands were yet more insistent than the Commandante's, hot, even through the layers of cloth, gripping hard into the soft satin of his dress, pulling him close to deepen the kiss, a heady frenzy of fear and lust.

Jack was bent, almost breaking in James' arms, his own fingers pulling at cravat and collar, stronger than they looked and just as insistent. Words kept bubbling into his brain, but his mouth was much too busy to voice them. The chant in his head became a chorale and he didn't care tuppence for the hand-me-down finery or their precarious position in such a place. He knew one thing only, desired one thing and he would be damned to the depths if he was going to let Spaniards, spies or society get in its way.

James' head thumped back against the door when first cold air and then hot breath found his throat and his curse drowned in a groan. His blood seemed to boil, everything just as dizzy as it had been after the dance, only with even less breath and more heat. He chuckled brokenly and backed Jack towards the bed. It was the easiest, fastest; exactly what he wanted now.

Jack stumbled back the few steps and yanked the damned skirts up, revealing golden legs, at such desperate contrast to the white-powdered face, encased in scarlet stockings and green garters, slender as any girls, but strong, the muscles tensed and quivering.

His eyes were half-mad. "Do it. Now. Don't stop." James could feel his heart pounding beneath satin and lace, under the corset and layers, as bare as if they lay on some beach, naked and without shame.

A push propelled him back on the bed and within a heartbeat, James was atop him, eyes dark and predatory, mouth open in a dangerous grin. He yanked the dress over Jack's head and tore at the corset's laces. "You will need your breath." His voice was so rough, it sounded like a threat, but the words were followed by breathless laughter.

Jack kicked and squirmed, helping and grinding against the bulge in James' breeches to equal degrees. The corset landed atop an urn displayed on a table, the gown abandoned at the foot of the bed, followed by the chemise. Jack had divested James of coat and waistcoat and worked at the buttons of his breeches frantically.

"Too many bloody clothes!" James' skin was silky, white and clean with a thousand baths, tender under his fingers and trembling. "Shhh... dressin' table... whatever. Sack the bloody lamp."

Utterly naked beneath him, James could have no doubt that Jack Sparrow was a man, hard flesh poking against his stomach, the hard muscles on the heaving chest. It didn't matter.

Clumsily, he fumbled with the lamp until the oil spilled, half caught in his palm, the rest dribbling on Jack's stomach, gleaming with every hitching breath, stopping for a moment when he grabbed the golden calves and heaved them atop his shoulders, the fabric of stockings strangely rough on his skin.

It didn't matter either, and his attention narrowed to where he pushed into Jack, trembling with every fibre not to simply thrust, hard and frenzied to sate his dangerous hunger.

Jack knifed himself upwards, his legs around James' neck, crooning encouragement, curses, any number of obscenities spilling from his lips when they weren't otherwise claimed.

He grinned up at James, his paste-whitened teeth bared. "Harder. C'mon, ya bastard, do it hard an' do it now." He couldn't remember being in such a dizzy frenzy and he didn't care. He was moaning and cursing loudly, his amber skin lit and flaming hot.

"Hush," James groaned against Jack's lips, seizing them into a kiss to enforce the order.

His back curved and the sweat collected at his hairline, dripping down with every rough thrust of his pistoning hips. Jack whined beneath him until he grabbed his prick, palming it frantically. It still wasn't enough, only stoked his need until his rhythm grew desperate, pushing hard and arrhythmically.

Somewhere between the pushing and pulling, the sweating and cursing, Jack felt as though he were back on that dance floor, spinning to giddy completion. His teeth were sharp against James' shoulder and he cried out, long and loud, his voice throbbing as much as his prick when he spilled out over the long fingers. He drifted, weightless, as James moved, pushing him further and further until he felt the tall body stiffen and clung tight, his fingers tensing.

James shuddered atop him, eyes closed tight and face frozen for a moment before he sagged, panting heavily as Jack's legs slid from his shoulders and thumped to the mattress, loud amidst their harsh breathing.

Jack pushed the long chestnut hair away and smiled at him beatifically. There was something in his face that reminded James of a statue he'd seen of St. Theresa, shot through with the arrow of Christ. This had nothing to do with arrows unless they were they fleshly sort, and even less to do with Christ, but the look was sated, content and brimming with delight.

"Can we keep bein' married?" Jack's lips curved into one of their maddening smiles.

Another laugh, dark and warm and a little rough, then James hoisted himself off Jack to drop into the bed, sprawled on his back and attempting to gather his wits. "If you keep washing."

Jack laughed and sat up to peel off the stockings, tossing them carelessly. One landed on a statue of a Chin dragon and draped the creature's fearful jaws in scarlet jersey knit, the green garter like a cockeyed crown.

He curled up against James. "I can see why ye've conquered Jamaica, luv." He buried his face in the warm hollow of James' throat, ivory coated in salt sweat, sweet to taste. "I'll have to raid some port where they make fine soap."

James laughed softly. So much for the theory that the incident in the Governor's mansion had been an unfortunate misstep that would not happen again. Even without the lie, the pretense that Jack was a woman, his allure was just as strong, not something that he knew shipboard. The marks of teeth and nails, both on his skin and Jack's, stirred a strange possessive urge in him, and he shook his head to clear it.

"I did not bugger anyone to enforce England's claim on the island," he huffed indignantly.

"For England, James?" Jack rolled over to face him.

"Reminding me of my missteps may not be the wisest of ideas, pirate."

"Ah, but there is no shame in sayin' that you conquered this pirate most thoroughly," Jack grinned and James found himself wound in limbs the colour of rum and honey, claimed by lips that called themselves conquered and still kissed a challenge.

Jack's eyes fluttered closed and he could almost feel the roll of waves beneath them. "Let tomorrow worry 'bout itself. Tonight was perfect."

James was not quite so capable of pushing his worries away, but at least Thompson seemed not to have recognised him, and this was the closest he would have to be to the man. It seemed that their insane plan, for now, was safe. If Don Jaime did not unveil Jack.

With a frown, James drew the covers around them both so that no maid might chance over Mariella's conspicuous bits. Hoping that it would suffice, he tumbled into sated sleep.

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