No Pirate on Earth

by Circe

This is an AU *Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Pirates of the Caribbean* crossover.

*It is rated NC-17 and contains male/male sexual situations.*

Part 1: In which much silliness is introduced

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They're standing there in the filthy streets of Oxnard, and Xander can think a million places he'd rather be.

Like in bed with the vampire who's currently glowering at him. The only place he and Spike even remotely get along is in bed. Or against a bulkhead. Or on the deck with the moonlight shimmering down on a lot of bare, pale skin.

They certainly don't get along when they're not fucking. Which is how a lot of relationships are, but it doesn't mean he has to like it.

"And another thing ... Are you even listening to me?"

Xander de-reverie-s. "Huh? Oh, yeah. You want me to wait outside while you go in. Right." He snaps off a crisp salute, naval training courtesy of Mr. Ethan Rayne, first mate of the *Chaos*. "Gotcha. See Xander's feet firmly planted."

Spike's look can only be described as world-weary. And for a creature who's been alive seven times as long as Xander, it's kind of an accomplishment that of all possible things, it's Xander who's brought the vampire to this point.

"Don't be a prat, Harris."

"Hey! I'm being all cooperative! I'm cooperative guy! You're the one who insisted we sail to *Oxnard* of all places!"

"I'm the bloody captain, and I say where we sail."

"Fine. Whatever."

Spike sighs and gently touches Xander's cheeks, his chin, his mouth. It's irritating that after all this time a simple touch of the vampire's cool fingers can still have such an effect on him. "He's got the ring, Xander. This is the closest we've been in years. I need that ring."

His breath ghosts against Spike's hand. "I know. I just ... This is Jack Sparrow after all."

"You're worried about me." Spike's tone is all pleased surprise. Refusing to meet Spike's eyes, Xander looks up at the sign on the front of the building. "Fabulous Wenches Tavern, huh? Some guys get all the luck."

Spike laughs, and in a flurry of leather duster, sweeps through the door.

******

After half an hour, Xander's nerves are back. The crowds of people thronging the streets by the docks are rough and ill-mannered. Oxnard-town has never boasted a refined citizenry. He finds himself yearning for his home port of Sunnydale, though he knows it is foolish. He's with Spike now. And Spike can never go back to Sunnydale. Governor Summers would kill him.

But that seems kinda moot right now, since he's going to kill Spike himself if the vampire's not out in three-two-one -- Okay, what if Jack Sparrow's already dusted him? It's quite possible since the stories about the Captain of the Black Pearl are legend.

And rightly so. Part of Xander can hardly believe they've finally tracked Sparrow here to Oxnard. Three years. Three long, inexorable years of Spike single-mindly hunting the ring. And the man who got to it before them.

Spike might claim that Sparrow stole it, but Xander knows that Sparrow beat them, pure and simple.

He only hopes that this time, Lady Luck's on their side.

Xander eyes a brute with wooden teeth, tupping a whore in a nearby alley. The sailor sees him watching and gives him a hideous leer, causing Xander to quickly look away.

Fuck it. He's going in.

******

The tavern is smoky, dirty, and fetid. There's a rough wooden stage in one corner, where dancers are sashaying to the chants of the crowd. Xander does a double take. Okkkkayyyy. The dancers are men.

"'Allo, pretty lad," comes a voice from behind him. Greasy fingers pat at his shoulder. "Care for a good time?" The voice is masculine.

"Gah!" Xander wrests away and jostles through the crowd, looking for Spike. Then he sees the man they've been searching for, and he pulls up short, eyes wide.

Sparrow is just as Xander remembers him, sex and drugs and sea. His kohl black eyes are sensual smudges, his lips are curved into their habitual smile of bemusement. Sparrow always looks like he knows something you don't; and chances are, he does.

Carefully, Xander makes his way to the table. Spike is seated opposite the pirate, his blue eyes glittering with concentration as he surveys the well-worn cards in his hand. There's a mound of coin piled between them, and a sizable crowd of spectators -- women with breasts like melons, boys pretending to be men, sailors and artisans and layabout louts. Oxnard is home to the homeless, and they love their city nearly as much as they love a good game.

And looking at Spike's cutglass features, his sensuous mouth drawn tightly into a frown, Xander can see that this is going to be a good game. Not in the "good" sense of "good", but in the long, drawn out, essence of what a game should be kind of "good". A gamble. High stakes. Life or death.

"Sun's over the yardarm and Mr. Harris joins us. Hello, Mr. Harris. Been a while."

No one talks dirty like Spike. In bed, in the still of night, Spike will hold Xander close and whisper humid promises in his ear. Dirty, lewd promises in a voice that's smooth as silk and darkly bittersweet as chocolate. But sometimes Xander thinks that Captain Jack Sparrow could give Spike a run for his money.

Jack's voice is spiced rum and languid Caribbean breezes and the depths of an ocean best left uncharted. Eyes dark and fathomless, full of opium dreams. He'll offer you the world, but leave you at the first port, standing forgotten under the sun.

For all his faults, Spike needs Xander. He *needs* him. Jack doesn't need anyone, 'cept the wind in his sails and the *Pearl* beneath his feet.

Spike's a vampire, and more alive than anyone Xander knows. Jack's human, but unknowable.

And these two men are seated at a table, playing poker in Oxnard-town, while Xander Harris watches and wonders how this can possibly end well for any of them.

"Spike?"

"Not now, pet. I'm concentrating." Spike pulls three cards from his hand and tosses them onto the table.

Jack cocks his head, causing the beads in his hair to jangle together. "That's interesting," he murmurs in that mellifluous voice.

"What?"

Black eyes regard him with amusement. "Not talkin' to you, mate." Jack tosses down his own cards. More are dealt.

Stung, Xander retorts, "And where's Elizabeth?"

Spike's boot slams down on Xander's instep; a warning. Wincing in pain, he barely hears Jack reply, "Married her Commodore. Life of luxury, and good luck to the little bitch."

Yeah, that Jack, he's the master of insouciance. But Spike's the king of it. This by-play? Could go on all night. Probably will. Until Spike gets bored and tries to kill the pirate. Problem is, he's tried before. Captain Jack Sparrow is nigh unkillable.

A serving wench passes Jack another mug of rum, which he drains to the half-way mark without blinking an eye.

"Seems as though I'm out of ready funds, mate," Jack says, and he gestures expansively towards the pile of gold. It's then, in the midst of that mesmerizing, rolling movement, that Xander can see the Gem of Amara sparking prettily on one of Jack's long tanned fingers.

Spike sees it, too, because he smirks and says, "Put the ring in the pot, Sparrow."

"*Captain* Sparrow," the pirate corrects. He stares at Spike; for the first time, those dark eyes focus. "And if I am to put up such a prize I'll expect something of equal value, savvy?"

Spike grins, more feral than friendly. "Anything in mind?"

With one of his exaggerated movements, Captain Jack Sparrow swings around and smiles raffishly. Gold teeth glimmer in the lamp light. "Not the *Chaos*, for I've already the *Pearl*, an' she's a jealous mistress. But she does like pretty things, my little ship. So I'll be taking him, I think."

Silence falls in the tavern.

Xander looks around in surprise, wondering what Jack is pointing at. Then reality splinters through him like chain shot to a hull.

"Huh? What? NO!"

*Part 2: In which Xander ponders Dr. Phil*

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If Dr. Phil existed in this alternate universe, Xander feels sure that he'd have some choice words to say about Xander's relationship.

Okay, he and Spike have been together for five years now, three of which the vampire has been hunting down another other man, the one sitting at the table idly chewing a fingernail and waiting for Spike to make his decision.

If Dr. Phil existed in this alternate universe, his website might say something along the lines of "No love without trust," or "If you honestly believe the vampire you're fucking might sell you into slavery to *the* Captain Jack Sparrow, should you really be with him?" or "Trust needs an 'us'."

Would Oprah approve of Xander's current position? Hell no, girlfriend. Not even Ricki Lake would find it amusing, though he concedes, Jerry Springer might.

This is all just ... really crappy.

"Spike," Xander says. His voice sounds a little reedy. "Don't even think about it."

But Spike's not even looking at him.

Spike is sexy. Hell, he *is* sex. It took Xander a little while to piece it together, but finally he realized that Spike's secret is his intensity. When Spike looks at you, he really looks. He can sit there for hours, still as death, eyes glittering, watching. When he kisses you, it's like he's trying to absorb you, as though by breathing your breath he can draw you into him and make you his own. When you speak, and he listens, he's *really* listening, not just waiting for his turn.

And when all that intensity isn't turned on you, when it's directed at another man? Yeah, it hurts. A lot.

Jack toys with his hair, long fingers twisting here and there, drawing the eye. And Spike says, "All right."

"NO!"

"Xander." Spike's voice is empty, cold. "Don't worry, love. I know what I'm doing."

"No way. You can't do this. I'm not ... I'm not your fucking *property*."

Amused, Jack says, "Are you not?"

Xander follows the pirate's gaze down to his exposed forearm. The mark of Eyghon, the personal emblem of Captain Spike of the *Chaos*. Etched onto his skin by the captain himself, as Xander lay in a haze of post-orgasmic bliss.

"Stay out of this," Xander snaps furiously. Jack Sparrow makes an exaggerated gesture of contrition and calls for more rum.

"Follow my lead, Harris," Spike whispers urgently. "Spike! I know you! You can't *cheat* at cards with Captain Jack Sparrow!"

"Why not? He's cheating, too. Only fair."

With that, Spike turns back to the table. "Right, then. We on?"

Jack leans forward on his elbows, resting his chin on folded hands. His wide smile is his only answer.

*Part 3: In which the Captain of the Pearl Claims His Winnings*

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Ace of Spades. Jack of Diamonds. Jack of Clubs. Jack of Spades.

There's a pause, then Sparrow carelessly tosses his last card onto the table.

Jack of Hearts.

Spike doesn't even bother to reveal his own hand, he just says in a calm voice. "You cheated."

"Pirate," Jack replies, as if this explains everything (which it kinda does). Then, "You cheated, too, mate."

"Vampire."

Jack stands, swaying slightly. "Fair enough. I'll take the lad and we'll call it square, eh?"

Spike looks down at the cards, jaw tensed. Xander braces for the explosion he knows is coming, but not without a little excited anticipation. Any second now Spike is going to break the table in two, break Sparrow's neck, rip the Gem from his hand, and they'll be on their way back to the *Chaos*. And Xander can *finally* have his life back.

Spike jerks his chair away from the table. The noise is deafening in the suddenly quiet taproom. Spike's face is paler than Xander has ever seen it, and his lips are a thin line. Then Xander realizes what's happening. All these men here -- buying ale and dances and dalliance -- these are Sparrow's men.

"You knew I'd come here?"

Sparrow makes a show of examining the Gem of Amara, glittering in its gold setting. He cocks his head, as if considering a lie, then shrugs dismissively. "Aye."

"And you set me up."

Again, the pause. "Aye."

Spike makes a motion toward his sword belt; the entire room erupts with the sound of blade drawn from scabbard.

It's hard given the fact that he's now the property of the most infamous rogue in the Spanish Main, but Xander manages to choke out, "Spike! Let it go. For now, let it go."

"Good on you, son. You're a quick one, to be sure." Jack's hand fastens on Xander's shoulder; Xander can feel the light but deliberate touch burn through him. With the other hand, he rakes the rest of his winnings into a leather pouch.

At the door, Jack casts one final look at Spike and sweeps a mocking bow. "Better luck next time, mate." He gestures at the men closest to the vampire. "Don't kill him. Just ... delay him." Then those fingers are wrapped around Xander's wrist, and the ring that caused this mess is digging into his flesh, and they're out of the tavern, back into the tropical night, heading at a quick pace towards the docks.

"I can't believe you beat Spike at cards!" says Xander sidelong to his companion. Out of all the things he might say -- "Let me go, you scurvy bastard" being foremost among them --it's an odd choice, but then, this whole evening, this whole scenario is just odd. None of it makes any sense; that's the one thing he's sure of.

And *oww*, Jack's grip on his wrist is surprisingly strong.

Jack's ignoring him, humming something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like "... for I am the Pirate King, and it is, it is a glorious thing, to be a pirate king ..."

"So ... where are we going?"

"To the *Pearl*, mate, to the *Pearl*."

"And then?"

Jack's grin is blinding, white and gold and full of lunatic promise. Is the pirate drunk? It's nearly impossible to tell.

"We set sail, o' course. Sun, surf, solitude. Get shot of this dreary old town. I bloody hate Oxnard. Now, Tortuga! That's where the action is."

"Uh huh." Xander forces himself to think, to concentrate. Why oh why did Captain Jack Sparrow want to win him at poker?

He could have just had Spike killed. He had enough men in that tavern to make sure that the vampire would never come after the Gem of Amara again.

There's intrigue afoot, and Xander is, well, intrigued. But really though he just wants to know what the hell is going on.

*Part 4: In which Xander is confuddled, and realizes "Booty" has two definitions*

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"Swab" is a word that Xander never wants to hear again once he's shut of the *Pearl*.

He's always vaguely wondered where the word came from, but not enough to ever look it up. Now it has a personal meaning of its own, forever tied to a blazing sun, salt-crusted lips, and red rubbed-raw fingers. Xander can tell you exactly how many planks are in the deck of the *Pearl*. He can tell you the ship lists slightly to starboard when the first mate Mr. Gibbs is at the helm, but never when Jack is caressing the wheel. He can tell you that one of the crew has some kind of foul venereal disease picked up in Oxnard-town, because that sailor has been moaning about it all fucking morning to his friend with the parrot.

He can tell you more than you'll ever care to hear, except for what he most wants to know.

What the Hell is going on?

Xander's not entirely sure where it all went wrong. A day ago he was having a fantastic victory blowjob courtesy of his triumphant vampire lover. They had finally tracked down *Captain* Jack Sparrow; the ring would be theirs. Then Spike had gone into the tavern by himself - which Xander had *known* was a bad idea. Then Spike, unable to take the ring by force, had played cards with Captain Jack Sparrow. Again, a bad idea. Hadn't Xander said so, or words to that effect?

And now Xander is on board the *Black Pearl*, commandeered by the infamous pirate himself.

Now, any *normal* person would have plundered his captured booty by now. Not that Xander *wants* to be plundered by Jack - actually, he'd really rather no plundering of any kind occurred. But it's puzzling, not to mention a little insulting, that he's not dressed in perfumed silk robes, lounging in the Captain's cabin.

Everyone knows that Jack is a little, well, swishy. Not that Sparrow's gay - Xander's not either, he can relate. It's just that Captain Sparrow isn't know to be very ... selective about the company he keeps. And ... okay ... Xander's curious. He can't help it; he's heard stories.

Jack's not exactly known as the soul of restraint and sobriety. So why capture Xander if not to be his male concubine? Why is he - and here Xander shudders at the word - *swabbing* the deck?

It's mid-afternoon, and he'd keel *over* if he didn't think Jack would keel*haul* him if he dared. The great ship had set sail with the dawn, the crew having "delayed" Spike then clambered aboard. Xander had anxiously inquired after the vampire, but the men had just laughed.

Jack had been a little kinder. "Don't worry, lad. Vampires heal quickly." Then a sly smile had played over his mouth as he'd looked up at the brightening sky. "'Course, he won't be following us any time soon."

A shadow falls across the deck, and Xander accidently splooshes dirty suds all over the gleaming black boots directly in front of his nose.

"Ummm," he says. There's an annoyed sigh from above him. "You'll have to clean those now. Can't be disappointing the *fine* ladies of Tortuga."

"Tortuga?" Xander repeats blankly, and then thinks, *ladies?* "You're not deaf are you? I've already a mute, and there's only so much infirmity a man can put up with."

Xander stands up, determined to show a little defiance for once in his cowardly existence. "That *you* can put up with? You've kidnapped me, possibly killed Spike, and set me to scrubbing your freakin' deck all day long, and I'm sunburned and tired, and worried sick about my captain--"

"Ah, your *Captain*." There are worlds of innuendo there. Xander turns red underneath his painful sunburn. "Listen, *you*, Spike is gonna come after me. He's gonna come after me, and rescue me, and then he'll kill you for taking his booty." There's a long, pregnant pause. "And I mean booty in the Gem of Amara sense of the word, not in the, uh--"

Jack's hands are on his trim waist; his white shirt gapes, showing hard, tanned chest. "Are you quite finished?"

"Yes!"

"Good." Jack spins around, back turned to Xander. "Then I think it's time you came below, don't you?"

*Part 5: In which Xander spends too much time on his knees, and Captain Jack's fetish is revealed*

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When the call comes, "Land Ho," and Xander looks up from the bootblack and the rows of now-shining footwear, the first thing he sees is Captain Jack Sparrow, happily adjusting his leather tricorne and whistling that damn pirate king song.

Xander straightens, aching and stiff from being on his knees for long. "Land?" he asks. He's faint with hunger, with fatigue. Xander feels himself swaying, and Jack has to rush over to keep from falling. The pirate's arm is warm and heavy around Xander's shoulders.

"Tortuga, lad! Licentious lovelies! Rum! Illegalities overflowing the taverns and running through the streets like a--"

"I thought we were trying to outrun Spike," Xander says. He lets his confusion sound in his words. "If we stop in Tortuga, we'll lose our lead."

"But ... the rum!"

Xander thinks he might cry. He sinks down onto the edge of Sparrow's bed, oblivious to the fact that he's smudging the linens with boot polish and soap scum.

Looking perturbed, Jack protests, "No! No, no, no. Don't be like that, mate! Isn't right. Listen, I'll take you into Tortuga with me. We'll fetch you a bite to eat at the Laughing Whore. Must be hungry, eh lad?"

Xander just grunts. Absently, he rubs his thumb over his knuckles, then he cries out in pain. His hand is raw, red, and bleeding from all the damn scrubbing and the constant chafing of the salt water in the wounds.

"Got just the thing!" Jack finds a pot of salve and displays it to Xander, who tries to take it, but his clumsy, hurt fingers won't allow him to get it open.

"Allow me," Jack says, and there's something so soothing about his voice that Xander stops feeling sorry for himself, and looks up into the pirate's face.

Jack is kneeling between Xander's legs, carefully smoothing the salve over his hands. The cream is cool and numbing, the relief is instantaneous. Jack's fingers massage in gentle circles, and Xander finds himself fascinated by their movements.

"Am I a prisoner?" Xander asks quietly. He feels as though Jack has him under a spell. His thoughts are sluggish, his body attuned to the pirate's touch.

Jack cocks his head, a sly smile playing at his lips. "I'd call you more ... an unwilling guest."

"Then why have you got me doing manual labour? And how many pairs of boots does a pirate need, for God's sake?"

"Cabin boy stayed in Oxnard-town. Wasn't cut out for the sea. And a man can never have enough boots, mate." Jack releases his hands and moves away.

Just like that, the spell is broken. "Oh." Xander sends out a mental call to Spike. *Get here soon, you undead creep. I really, really need you.*

"Tortuga, lad, you'll love her."

"I've been to Tortuga before," Xander tells him, unable to hide the irritation in his voice.

"Have you now? Fancy that."

"And I'm no lad, Sparrow. I've been sailing for five years, ever since I left Sunnydale."

"Sunnydale, fine port. Lovely view." He smacks his lips. "*Excellent* rum."

Xander laughs bitterly, taking pleasure in taunting, "Not that you'll ever sample it again, you blackguard. Governor Summers will see to that. She'll have you hanged."

The pirate merely smiles. "From Sunnydale, and so passionate in the defence of your fair Governor. Yet you sail with Captain Spike. That's interesting."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing. Just that ... well, how does your Captain feel about your conviction that the Governor will be the one to kill me, not he?"

"Stop it! Stop being so damned tricky! We're not going to Sunnydale! We're going to bloody Tortuga!" Xander's head feels like it might explode.

"If you say so, mate. No offence intended." Jack gestures with a flourish towards the door. "Shall we?" Then he seems to remember something, for he rummages around in a sea chest, eventually withdrawing a pair of manacles. His grin is both evil and endearing, a lot like the Captain himself. "Nearly forgot these."

Xander squeezes his eyes closed and makes himself a promise. He's going to escape in Tortuga, irons be damned. He's going to do it, or die trying.

Because he really really REALLY can't take one moment more of this damnable pirate!

*Part 6: *In which the Pearl docks in Tortuga, much rum is imbibed, Jack shows Xander his bone, and the author plagiarizes lines from *Blackadder*

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"Another, I think," declares the magnanimous Captain Jack Sparrow, and gestures to the tavern wench.

Xander takes another huge ripping mouthful out of the leg of ... meat ... he's been given for dinner. Grease coats his chin, and he wipes it away with his shirtsleeve, manacles clattering loudly as he does so.

"Good?"

"Delicious," he mumbles between mouthfuls. He hasn't eaten since the morning before the *Chaos* docked at Oxnard-town, and he's *starving*. And the rum is going down nicely. He takes a chug from his third tankard, savouring the burn. He'll get his strength back up, pretend he's going to relieve himself, then hightail it. Then Spike will arrive, Xander'll be back aboard the *Chaos* in no time, and they'll chase Jack and his scurvy crew to the end of the sea and back for revenge. Jack may be clever, may be tricky, but no pirate on Earth will be able to escape the wrath of Captain Spike.

Jack just smiles and toys with the ornaments in his elaborate hair. The Gem of Amara glitters with every movement.

Xander's eyes follow. Aha! A crafty plan presents itself! A *cunning* plan! A plan as cunning as a fox who's just been made Professor of Cunning at Oxford University! In order to escape, he'll have to thoroughly distract Jack. And what's the best way to distract Jack, but by playing to the pirate's conceits! Well, one of them at least. To play to all of them might keep them here all night, which actually might work out okay in terms of Spike arriving to save the day, but he'll save that for Plan B.

Xander uses his meal to gesture. "Where'd you get that?"

Long fingers caress the length of the bone in Jack's hair. "What, this?"

"Yeah. Must be a story to it."

"There's always a story about our Jack," crows a nearby whore. The tavern erupts into laughter.

"If I'm to tell you the story of me bone, I'll expect payment in kind, savvy?"

Xander nearly chokes on some gristle. "What? You want me to show you my bone?"

"I'll want a story, mate. A good one."

"Um, okay."

"When I was just seventeen and innocent as the driven snow--"

"There is no snow in the Caribbean."

Jack waves his hands impatiently. "Of course there isn't."

"Then how could you be as innoc--oh."

"*As* I was saying, I was third mate on the *Bronze*" -- Here something tugs at Xander's rum-soaked memory, but he can't quite figure out what -- "and well on my way to making my fortune, for in those days Captain Angelus was the most ferocious rogue on the Spanish Main."

"Captain Angelus?" Again the tug. "Aye, and a right scurvy bastard he was. One night, drunk on moonlight and the salt-sea air--"

"And too much rum."

"--I was sent to the wheel. T'was my first time, and I was nervous as a maid on her wedding night. But the ship hummed under my fingertips, and she whispered to me, and the stars sang, and we steered on through the silent night without mishap."

Xander gapes at him. There's a strange rhythm to Jack's words, like the rocking of a ship, and it lulls and entrances. His cunning plan is kinda forgotten as he finds that *he's* the one distracted.

"And the bone?"

Jack's kohl-smudged eyes are vague with memory. "Ah, the bone. When relieved of my duty, I was filled with the song of the sea, and unable to sleep. So I walked to the bow, and looked out at the dark waters below. That's when I saw her."

Xander leans forward, sleeves soaking in the spilled rum on the tabletop. The chains rattle, but he ignores them. "Her?"

"The fairest woman I've ever laid eyes on. Eyes like diamonds, and hair as green as seaweed." Jack leans in, too, until they are practically nose to nose. "A mermaid."

Drawing back, Xander lets out a chuckle of disbelief. "A mermaid." He shakes his head. "There's no such thing."

"Ah, then where did I get me bone? See, she was watching me, the little coquette, gesturing with her lovely hands that I should come and join her. She wanted Jack Sparrow, savvy? And I had no choice but to acquiesce to her dark desires."

Crap. He's done it again; Xander's hooked. "So what did you do?"

"I jumped overboard and swam out to her. She tangled me in her arms and I could feel naught but her cool skin and an embrace as slippery and

seductive as the water around us. Her lips pressed onto mine in a kiss deeper than Davy Jones' locker. Now, I'd been kissed before, savvy? But never like this. Her breath was sweet salt, her wiles older than time itself. And she pulled me down with her, below the surface to the murky depths, and would have kept me there, too, had a fellow sailor not seen my peril and saved me. Next thing I found myself spluttering on the deck, nearly drowned by my own foolishness, and a bone from the mermaid's necklace clutched in my shaking fist."

Jack laughs in pleased remembrance. "Watery tart." Then, tilting his head, Jack salutes Xander with his tankard of rum. "An' that's where I got me bone. Now. Your turn, mate."

"What do you want to know?" Xander asks warily. Suddenly his need to escape becomes a little more urgent.

"Why, more about you, o' course. As my hostage--"

"Guestage!"

"--guestage, t'would be rude not to enquire as to how you found yourself in these dire circumstances."

"Meaning?"

Jack strokes his beard. There's a wicked glint in his black eyes. "How did a nice lad like you end up with a scoundrel like William the Bloody?"

*Part 7:* *In which the plot thickens, the prose is bittersweet, the author begins to take her story seriously, and Xander reveals perhaps more than he should *

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Xander's eyes narrow suspiciously. Okay, he's had rum, a lot of rum, and he's made a right cock-up of the whole escape thing (does it count if he hasn't even tried yet?), but he's not quite drunk enough to fall for this.

"You want me to tell you about the *Chaos*, don't you? How many cannons, cargo manifest, the hidden cay where we berth, crew numbers and special skills. Don't you?"

Jack removes his hat, balancing it precariously on the edge of his chair. He opens his mouth, and Xander will never know how the Captain might have replied, because a gorgeous woman is sashaying across the floor of the taproom. She stops beside their table, and proves herself to be truly striking.

Rearing back, she gives Jack a stinging slap across the face that has Xander wincing in sympathy. "Bastardo!"

"Anyanka!" Jack effuses. Amazingly, the woman then sniffs delicately and settles her perfect bottom onto Jack's lap. Under Xander's disbelieving gaze she helps herself to some of their bread and rum.

Jack catches Xander's eye. "Your tale?" he prompts.

"Huh? Oh, right." Jack's hands are on the woman's bosom, and he's unlacing her bodice with surprisingly nimble motions for a man who's drank an entire bottle of Tortuga's finest spiced rum, and who can't exactly see what he's doing. Now, Spike, he's more of a bodice ripper. Jack's clearly a bodice finesser.

"Your tale, mate?" The fingers pause, teasing Xander with the shadowed curve of tanned breast. "The tide waits for no one."

So Xander takes another fortifying drink, and starts to speak.

********

It's late summer in the port city of Sunnydale, and Xander Harris can't believe that Buffy - *Buffy* of all people - is letting Spike help her plan the deployment of the tribute ships to London.

"I can't believe you're letting Spike help you plan the deployment of the tribute ships to London!"

The vampire in question smirks and continues to examine the chart in front of him.

Sighing heavily, Buffy loosens the tight braid restraining her glorious bright hair. Her face is tired and drawn: the pressures of duty clearly weigh heavily.

"Xander." She motions for him to join her outside. The sultry tropical air is close and oppressive. Xander can see flashes of lightning over the jewel-like harbour, can hear the ripples of thunder sounding in the distance. Now and then the calls of sailors on their ships carry across the water.

For a moment he feels that familiar yearning, but with the ease born of years of practice, he shrugs it aside. His life here is fulfilling, important. He is close to the Governor, close as family. He is the rock upon which she can always rely.

And Spike? He is the interloper, enemy turned supposed ally, and though Buffy may trust him, Xander never will.

William the Bloody, Captain Spike, El Vampiro - whatever you want to call him, he's still pirate scum. And he's up to something, Xander can feel it in his bones.

When the study doors close behind them, and they are far enough along the balcony that Xander can be sure not even vampiric ears will hear them, he says to her in his blunt way, "This is wrong."

And Buffy sighs again as she has done too often of late and tells him (as she has done too often of late) that *she* is the governor, not him, and that matters of state often require expedient solutions. And that while it may indeed be more prudent to hang the vampire than to solicit his aid, *they need his help*. If there is the slightest chance they can get it, Governor Buffy Summers tells him that she will do all within her power to make it so.

The last two convoys have been ambushed, cargoes taken. The King's ministers grow restless. It cannot happen again. And who better to anticipate the actions of pirates than their very own pirate?

Who indeed.

He's waiting outside Xander's villa. It's two a.m. and the storm has yet to hit, though the wind has begun its warning gusts, rustling the palms and weaving their flat leaves together in strange otherworldly patterns.

Xander ignores the slouched pale figure, ignores the tensing of his body, the anticipation in every breath. He fumbles for the key; the servants will be abed, and he's no wish to wake them.

"Xander." The word is a husky whisper, and his heart sinks even as his cock stirs.

"No," he replies, and turns away. "No."

Cool hands curl around his shoulders, pulling him backwards against a hard body. Lightning illuminates the courtyard, and in that instant Spike spins him around, so Xander is staring into the vampire's face.

Midnight blue eyes glitter with a familiar hunger, and something else, something Xander can't quite put his finger on. Spike smells good, oh so good. Like a summer night. Like leather and spice and forbidden pleasures.

Closing his eyes, Xander allows himself to be drawn closer, until he turns his face into the white column of the vampire's throat and whispers, "Spike. I can't do this anymore."

"Yes. Yes, you can." Fingers fumble at his britches, freeing his erect cock. Xander gasps, biting gently at Spike's flesh. The vampire moans and turns them again, sending Xander crashing against the garden wall; he rubs once, twice, three times against them, until they are both breathless.

"God," Xander chokes. His head tosses restlessly. The thunder growls above. "I hate you, God, I hate you." He massages Spike's balls through the constraining fabric, needing to feel their heated weight in his hands.

"Fuck, love, fuck. Oh, Xander, fuck me. God, yeah, do it again. *Xan*--"

They come together, hard, drowning in lust and want and *wrong* as the heavens break and the rain begins to pour down.

Spike's hands are trembling as Xander pulls away and finds the key. He lets them into the hall, out of the wet, and they stand silent and soaked on the Spanish tiles.

"I can't let you do it," Xander says without looking up. "I can't, Spike. I'm sorry."

The vampire says nothing.

"I can't prove that you plan on taking the convoy yourself, but I know you do. And I can't let you do it. Buffy is too important to me."

"How will you stop me?" Spike does not look at him. There's a long silence. The rain falls outside, drumming against the rooftops.

"I don't know."

Spike makes a soft sound, a breathy sigh. Then he says: "If you come with me, I will leave. There are other treasures to seek. But you must come with me."

And Xander flings open the door again and goes out into the stormy night. He is gone for hours.

They set sail, secretly, come the next dawn. And so they live, until one day, one seemingly ordinary day, things stop being *wrong* and become *right*.

********

Does Xander actually tell the whole of this story to Sparrow? The answer he wants desperately to give is "no." He'd never do that; he's not that stupid. Yeah. Right.

Of course, of *course*, the answer is "yes." This may be the Spanish Main in an alternate universe where vampires are pirates, and pirates swish instead of swash, women hold high political office, and there are no such thing as shrimp, but one thing remains constant.

No matter where you put him, no matter what the time, or place, or situation - Xander Harris will always be Xander Harris.

Of course the answer is "yes."

Besides, Jack probably already knew all that stuff anyway.

*Part 8:* In which Jack fondles the wrong woman's breasts, and the author commandeers a plot device from the final scenes of *No Power on Earth [4] *

* *

* *

Xander finishes his tale, and stares glumly into his tankard. "Or at least things *were* fine until you had to go and steal the damn Gem of Amara." He stares at Jack, who doesn't appear to be listening. The pirate has his face buried in Anyanka's ample bosom.

"Why'd you want it, anyway?" he asks, not really expecting an answer. He takes a draught of rum and feels the room spin and settle. It's a pleasant sensation, familiar after so many days out at sea. It feels ... odd ... to be on dry land.

"It's pretty," Jack mumbles against ripe flesh. Xander puts down his drink. "What?"

Pulling away from the whore, Jack leans dramatically across the table, pushing his outstretched hands right under Xander's nose.

"It's pretty, mate," Jack repeats. His attention is now fixed solely on Xander, and it's an experience that rivals Spike for sheer intensity. His dark gaze is almost hypnotic; the Gem is sparking fire in the lamplight.

With a real effort, Xander yanks his attention away and breaks the spell. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Trying to lighten your post-narrative melancholy?"

"Gah!" Xander throws up his hands in disgusted surrender. "I can't even stay mad at you!" He grabs his drink and takes a long gulp. "You're ... you're insidious!"

Jack shrugs. "Better than syphilis, mate."

"I thought I told you never to come back here, el gorrion!" It's a giant barrel of a man, deep of voice, thick of accent, and loud of temper.

Xander, surprised, spills his remaining rum all over himself.

The woman Anyanka twists around on Jack's lap and begins a furious shouting match with the man. Xander catches the word "padre" and if his rudimentary Spanish is correct, something about besmirched virtue.

"That's interesting."

Xander, inured now, just waits for the explanation.

"Innkeeper," Jack tells him over Anyanka's shoulder. "Last visit he barred me from returning. Though I really didn't think he'd remember after I hit him over the head with that bottle."

"You slept with his daughter and you didn't think he'd remember?"

"It was a full bottle."

Anyanka scrambles off Jack's lap and begins screaming in earnest at the furious innkeeper. Captain Sparrow then joins the fray, bravely attempting a defense of his honour (and presumably the lady's) in pidgin Spanish and spastic arm gesticulations that make him look rather like Roberto Benigni -- and yes, let's not get into the whole alternate universe spiel again, or the fact that Benigni's Italian; Xander gets it already.

Plus, he's got more important worries on his mind. Like the fact that if he's ever going to escape, now would be the time. Slowly, carefully, Xander inches out of his chair and makes his way towards the door and freedom.

Or that's what would have happened, if he hadn't have consumed altogether too much rum.

He lies there, cheek pressed against the sticky floor, manacled hands trapped awkwardly underneath his body, which seems to have become disconnected from his brain. Basically the only message that's being received by his nerve endings is: Don't even try to get up. Loser.

But hey, there are worse places to be than the grungy floor of a disgusting flea-ridden taproom with a low-rent pretentious name like The Laughing Whore. Because when you drink with the dregs of society and the scum of the Seven Seas, you can pick up some very interesting information. And if those gossiping sailors don't happen to see you lying there, or assume you're out cold, even better. The phrase "Loose lips sink ships" will not make an appearance for several hundred years, but that doesn't mean it's not a valid point throughout the ages.

From his vantage point Xander can see the peg leg of a sailor seated a nearby table. The man is whispering to his companion, but the words carry.

"The Scourge was seen out of Guadeloupe, I heard. Carrying a treasure of gold doubloons plundered straight from the Spanish king's coffers."

"Aye, but she won't be headed Tortuga way. These are dangerous waters what with the *Black Pearl* in port. And I heard--" The peg leg skitters across the floor, sliding as the unseen man leans forward.

Xander pricks up his ears.

"--that the *Chaos* has been spotted just beyond the straits."

Peg Leg's companion whistles long and low. "Spike and Sparrow, heh? Now there's an unholy mess."

They laugh together as Xander's mind reels. Spike! And so close! Captain Jack Sparrow might be sure of himself, almost ridiculously so, but he's overplayed his hand this time. Hubris will see him dead before another day is out; Spike will not rest until he's drank Jack dry.

This should make Xander happy, but instead he feels a strange kind of pity. Or is it reluctance. Oh, fuck, no. He's not *allowed* to like Jack. No no no. Three years of hunting the man. Days of captivity. *Swabbing*, dammit! Remember the swabbing. It's the rum. It's gotta be the rum.

He's so lost in this morass of denial that he nearly misses the sailors' next words. But then the word "Sunnydale" catches his attention.

Peg Leg says, "Heard the Governor's offering a reward for the capture of Captain Spike."

The other man grunts. "Don't mean much. Bounty on all their heads, ain't there?"

"Says amnesty for the one who brings him in."

"Amnesty!" There's a silence as both men appreciate this. "Just a rumour. But the bounty's real. Governor wants him hanged."

"Someone'll be a lucky bastard."

"If they catch him. Not so easy." There's some more coarse laughter, then the other man takes his leave.

Taking this as his own cue, Xander manages to extricate his manacled hands from underneath him, and totters unsteadily to his feet. But the room's swaying and suddenly the motion isn't that good any more. He falls straight at Peg Leg's feet (foot), and when he looks up into the face of the sailor, all the breath leaves his body.

"Rupert?"

*Part 9:* *In which an old acquaintance reveals certain hard truths, Jack orchestrates their exit from the tavern kerfuffle, and Xander serves up sarcasm with a side order of denial *

* *

* *

"Rupert!" Xander repeats joyously. He manages to slide himself into the seat opposite, goes to clasp the man's hand, and gets stopped by the manacles. He contents himself with another exclamation. "Lieutenant Rupert Giles!"

"Shhhh! Keep your voice down, Harris. Do you want to get me killed?"

Chagrined, Xander sneaks a glance over at the scene by the door. Jack, Anyanka, and her father have garnered quite the little group of spectators. It appears that bets are being laid, though no weapons have yet to be drawn. Xander finds himself almost feeling sorry for the innkeeper. Jack's no doubt got him in tangles.

Then he turns back to the man opposite him, a man he hasn't seen in five long years, and does a double-take.

Those years have not been kind.

The loss of the leg is new, as is the long knife scar bisecting the man's leathery cheek. Grizzly beard covers his face and his clothing is tattered and well-worn, stained by seawater.

"Rupert?" Xander whispers, disbelieving. "You're a pirate?"

A weary sigh, then the man tells him, "I go by Ripper now."

"Wha -- what happened? You left Buffy? I mean, Governor Summers?"

"Not by choice, lad. After you sailed off she was damn inconsolable." There's a certain amount of accusation in the old salt's voice. "Made some rash decisions; word got out."

"I didn't realize," Xander says. He feels a cold chill in the pit of his stomach, a lump in his throat. What if he didn't do right by Buffy, after all? He left his home to save her from disaster. But what if all it was merely giving in to his most secret forbidden desires?

God! He's too drunk to deal with this right now. Too. Much. Angst. Xander hates angst. He's anti-angst. "You remember Spike, don't you?" he asks, intent on explaining, on *justifying*.

Ripper's face registers disgust. "I'll never forget the scurvy bastard!"

"No! I mean, yes, he -- we -- hurt Buffy. But you don't understand. If I hadn't--"

"You don't know, do you, lad?"

Now there's a sinking feeling in his stomach making friends with the chill, a certainty that he doesn't *want* to know. "What?"

"How I lost my leg, my position."

Xander closes his eyes. "Tell me."

"We lost the shipment, Harris. All of it. Taken by Captain Angelus of the *Bronze*."

"What? But how? I didn't hear about that!"

Ripper scowls. "Been sailing with Captain Spike, have you?"

"Yes, but-- "S'pect he didn't want you to know. Spike sold out to Angelus for a tidy sum. He and Darla of the *Scourge* launched an attack on Sunnydale weeks after you left. Fleet was destroyed, tribute taken. The Governor barely escaped the King's wrath. She's different now, possessed by the need to eradicate all pirates. Surrounded herself by people who feel the same way."

"God." Memory slams into Xander. He *knew* the name Angelus had sounded familiar! Spike used to sail with Angelus. He was his protg!

"Sunnydale's the best guarded port now - full armouries, full coffers, full complement of King's Men. Governor's even taking shipments of rare treasures now, knowing they'll be safe. No pirate dares trouble her town."

Xander feels sick. For five years he's ignored all news of Sunnydale, content to live free of responsibility. He joined Spike's damned treasure hunt, and ignored his duty to his monarch and his best friend.

And can it be? Did Spike betray them all to Angelus? He's fearful of the answer. Because down he knows that Spike will always be a pirate. He'll never, ever change, and Xander should have remembered that.

Ripper's worn face creases with sudden sympathy. "I'm sorry to lay it all on you, lad. Enough. What brings you to Tortuga? And why the chains?"

A commotion breaks out near the front of the taproom, and Xander, shaking off the doldrums that have settled around his heart, sees Jack weaving across the floor towards him.

"Ah," Jack's eyes light up. "Just the man I need! You must help me convince Senor del Hoffryn here that Anyanka and I are merely friends."

The pirate clasps Xander by the arm and half-drags, half-propels him towards the glowering innkeeper and his saucy daughter.

"Friends."

"Amigos, comprendo?"

Xander sighs, pushing all brooding thoughts of Spike and Sunnydale from his head. There's nothing he can do about it right now. "And how do I assist?" He can't but notice that the woman's bodice is still unlaced.

"You tell him--" and here Jack points at del Hoffryn "--that we're together."

"Who's together?"

"We. Me and you."

Xander's mouth falls open. "What? Are you insane?"

Pointing to the manacles encircling Xander's wrists, Jack says airily, "Only repeating what everyone's been whispering anyway." He lowers his voice to a confidential whisper. "Between you and me, love, I think they might think you're into some kinky stuff."

Xander grabs Captain Jack Sparrow by the sleeve and pulls him aside from the little crowd. He glances at Ripper's table, but the old man is gone. Xander can hear Anyanka begin to argue with her father again. God, that woman can whine! God, he has a headache.

"I'm not gay!" Xander hisses. Jack gives him a look. "Whatever you say, mate."

"No, listen. I'm not gay."

"You and William the Bloody. Five years. Forbidden passion and frantic tupping against the garden wall, and you're not gay?"

"We're just friends. Who hate each other. And, uh, have sex." It sounds weak, even to Denial Boy himself. If he were sober, he'd have a better argument.

"There's nothing wrong with it, mate." Jack's brow furrows in concern. "You're not a eunuch, are you?"

"I'll have you know I've courted many women. The Lady Cordelia Chase, for example."

"A man can court many women; the true test is how many he's tumbled."

Xander folds his arms across his chest, chains rattling in time to his belligerence. "I lost my virginity to a whore named Faith."

"And I lost mine to a brothel in Singapore. What of it?"

"I'm not gay."

Jack laughs. "Have you seen yourself, lad? [5] You're the gayest pirate in the Spanish Main!"

"And I'm not a pirate! I just travel on a pirate ship!"

"Oh, so you *are* gay."

"GAH! Fine. I'm gay. I'm a gay pirate." Several nearby sailors shift away from him and Xander goes on the offensive. "And what about you, with your eyeliner and your swishing and your cabin boy boot fetish? If you're not gay, what are you? The pirate of sexual ambiguity?"

"Unpredictable."

Jack leans in and kisses him. He just leans in, lithe tanned body boneless and loose; wraps Xander in the delectable madness that is Captain Jack Sparrow and invites him to partake.

And Xander finds himself taking the lead, deepening the kiss, for there's almost an innocence to the soft warmth, almost a hesitation in the way Jack's lips are pressed against his. Here is Xander's chance for revenge, for victory, for escape, for plunder. And he takes it, letting out a harsh moan, feeling smooth enamel and slick gold and wet heat as he explores the Captain's mouth.

Jesus fuck, it's good. He's drowning; has to grasp the lapels of Jack's coat, has to twine fingers in thick black hair to anchor himself. The pirate's beard tickles at the corner of his mouth, and Xander looks up into impossibly bright kohl-smudged eyes. Jack ... he tastes of rum and sultry trade-winds and the wild tang of the mysterious east. He could kiss this man forever because to kiss him is to forget, to drink of the sweet waters of Lethe, to chase the dragon--

Then, dimly, as though from a great distance, Xander hears a man call out, "El Vampiro!" A roaring fills his head and he jerks away from the pirate, barely registering Jack's steadying hand clasping his shoulder.

"The *Chaos* has cleared the Straits," a sailor shouts. Xander reels -- Jack, the rum, the kiss, the betrayal, the sudden promise of rescue, overwhelms him.

The last thing he hears before he makes the acquaintance of his friend the floor for the third time that evening is Captain Jack Sparrow remark, "Finally! Took him long enough."

*Part 10:* *An Interlude: In which Love is a rose/but you better not pick it/It only grows when it's on the vine/A handful of thorns and/you'll know you've missed it/You lose your love/ when you say the word `mine'. *

* *

* *

One day, before they went into that cave and discovered that someone else had gotten to their treasure first, Xander knew true happiness.

He is recumbent in the calm, crystalline waters of the bay, and he can barely see the hulk of the *Chaos* on the heat-shimmer of the horizon. The sun fills the entire western sky, red-orange and ripe; its final rays caress his wet back. There is not a cloud in the sky and not a care in his mind, save for the passing thought that the sun is slow, too slow, in its sinking.

Since taking up with Spike, twilight has become Xander's favourite time. The shadows lengthen then are consumed by darkness, and Spike mounts the companionway. The call goes up that the Captain is on deck. And Spike speaks with Mr. Rayne, the first mate, in low, serious tones, then walks the ship surveying, inspecting, ensuring that the ropes are coiled and that the planks are clean and that there is no chaos save for the name of his vessel.

Every evening Xander is waiting for him in the bow, leaning out of the railing and looking out to sea. He never hears Spike's approach, though his body is tense with anticipation, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickle with the instinctive knowledge that his lover is close at hand.

During those long hot Caribbean days Spike captains his ship from his cabin below, both chart room and living quarters. Sleep he requires little of - napping lightly during the day; resting, wrapped cool and naked and protective around Xander's body during the small hours of the night.

Spike always sleeps on the outside, back to the door.

The waters of the bay are soothing; Xander floats without conscious effort. He closes his eyes, feels the warm embrace of the water around his naked limbs. The back of his eyelids are painted vermilion with the dying sun. Then slowly they fade to charcoal, and the air cools infinitesimally around him, and the golden chariot has journeyed beyond the boundaries of their world.

With swift, strong strokes Xander swims towards shore. Spike is waiting for him now, in the shallows, and each sluice of saltwater brings him closer those pale arms, those knowing fingers, that willing strength.

Xander finds him where the sea meets the shore, and he straddles his body, laughing in delight as wave after wave rolls over Spike. He feels as free as a child, and it becomes a game: how many kisses can they fit between each flex of the tide? *Onetwothree* before the wet rushes over them, a dark blanket covering them as they breathe each others' breath, bubbles floating up to mingle with the surf.

Then later, entwined on a blanket brought from the ship, they watch smoke from their bonfire curl upwards into the shadowy palms. The crackling and popping of the wood is the music by which little fiery incandescent ashes dart and flit and dance.

Spike's fingertips tickle against his ribs.

The snark is there in his smirk and in the careful movements of his predator's body, but his eyes are clear and blue/black with simple, uncomplicated desire. And Xander, seeing this, feeling the answering pull in his blood and his cock, lets things be.

He captures Spike's face between his hands, nibbles at the vampire's pouting lower lip with soft little bites. Occupies his lover so Spike cannot use mouth, his lips, that clever tongue for anything but loveplay.

Far too easily can Spike break a neck, break a mood, break a heart.

But between them, on this tiny island, on its yielding sand, they have passed the need for spoken language. Signals are moans and guttural growls, blunt teeth scraping jawlines, fingers tangling helplessly in silken hair and curling deliciously at the nape of a neck. Thoughts are *need you now* and *here* and *jesusfuckmore* told by greedy, grasping, clutching hands, and the roll and thrust of narrow hips.

They crest, one inciting the other; Xander's cock rubbing against the rough blanket, and Spike pushing deep inside of him.

It's so good, so sharp that it's almost painful. Their thin cries spiral upwards into the night sky, blending with the calls of the terns circling overhead.

This is love, lazy and loose and languid. For now, in this time and in this place, this is love.

*Part 11:* *In which much of Jack's nefarious plan is revealed, and Xander lays hands upon the Captain's effects *

* *

* *

*"... We kidnap and ravage and don't give a hoot ..." *

As Xander makes the slow drift into lucidity, the first thing he hears is singing.

*"... Pour, O pour the pirate sherry/Fill, O fill the pirate glass ..."*

He fights consciousness for a while, grasping Spike's slender wrists and pulling strong arms around him, shimmying his hips and his ass against that cool, hard body. It's a none too subtle form of encouragement. *Hold me. Let's ignore the dawn.*

*"... Drink up me 'earties, yo ho ..."*

But of course, he can't. Spike isn't here and there's someone singing off-key Disney theme park music--

*"... And it is, it is a glorious thing/To be a Pirate King ..."*

--and absolutely butchering poor G&S. Which all seems pretty damn cheesy, if you ask Xander's opinion, but of course no one has and no one ever will.

Besides, he's not big with the Spike approval right now, not at all. Once he's rescued there will be no shimmying of hips whatsoever until certain key issues are discussed. Like (1) Did you betray Buffy Summers to Angelus? (2) If yes, why did you lie to me all this time? (3) How *could* you? (4) Where do we go from here? and (5)What the fuck took you so long to get here?

*How could you lie to me and kiss me like you were drinking my soul?*

Hey ... the singing's stopped. Tentatively, Xander opens his eyes.

He's lying alone in what can only be the Captain's bed, and somehow he's surprised to find that while the linens are of the highest quality, they are neither silken nor perfumed. And wonder of all wonders, neither is he, though he's clearly been attended to during the night.

Clean bandages have been wrapped around wrists chafed raw by those damn manacles and his fingers, though stiff and reddened have recovered from the swabbing. Thoughtfully, he flexes his hands, and it's then he realizes that he's been washed *clean*. The salt and sweat and sticky rum are gone and he's dressed in what appears to be a fresh nightshirt.

*... the wet rushes over them, a dark blanket covering them as they breathe each others' breath, bubbles floating up to mingle with the surf. *

Clearly his dreaming reminiscences had some basis in his current reality.

And his headache? Yeah, it's still there, but not quite as hideous as he remembers it being last night. There's no miracle cure for too much cheap rum, and even if Aspirin existed in this dimensional plane, it wouldn't help. The headache definitely falls into the realm of sucks to be him and no sympathy 'cause you told him so.

Carefully, so as not to jar said head, Xander sits up a little and blinks in surprise. There's a copper bathing tub in the centre of the cabin, and in that tub is Captain Jack Sparrow himself. Naked Jack Sparrow.

The pirate's head is thrown back, and for a few moments Xander's frozen in that half-sitting position, eyes following the lines of Jack's throat. He's coated with a thin sheen of moisture that brings out the bronze in all that tanned skin, and one elegant hand is thrown carelessly over the edge.

Jack's asleep.

Moving as quietly as he can, Xander gets out of bed and dresses in the clean clothing waiting for him. Then he pads across the room, stopping just short of the tub. The water in the bath is opaque with soap; Jack's chest is hard and well-defined. For an insane instant, Xander finds himself itching to reach out and touch it. Gah! What's happening to him? Why is he so fascinated by the gentle curve of that Adam's apple, that trail of dark hair disappearing into the water? There's something different about the pirate, and it takes a moment for Xander to realize what it is. For the first time, he is seeing Jack Sparrow without kohl. He looks ... vulnerable. Younger, somehow, without those those darkened eyes. Less self-possessed.

Xander thinks of the kiss last night and feels his cheeks heat. Is this that thing called Stockholm Syndrome? Is he turning into Patty Hearst, for pity's sake?

There's a smallish fold-away table by the tub, and sitting on it is the ubiquitous bottle of rum, and a little pipe. Xander picks the latter up and sniffs. The pipe bowl is filled with a runny black paste, and smells faintly nutty.

Jack shifts, rippling the water and murmuring something under his breath. The little pieces of metal and beadwork in his hair jingle lightly together. Startled, Xander puts down the pipe and backs away from the tub.

When he was here before, polishing row upon row of buckled black boots, there had been no time to really look around. But now he was fascinated by every nook and cranny of Captain Jack Sparrow's cabin. There are brass sea trunks and a large oak desk with pigeonholes for charts, and quills and pots of ink. Nothing unusual here. But unlike Spike's quarters, Jack has filled every shelf, every spare space with strange objects. Skulls and scattered pieces of eight, feathers and fripperies and frightening statues with grimacing faces. Spike's walls are lined with weapons. Jack's are lined with souvenirs.

He's just reaching towards a gilt-edged book, curious as to what the Captain might read, when a lazy voice drawls, "You're not touching my effects, are you?"

Xander spins around. Jack hasn't changed positions but he's undeniably awake.

"Looking for something in particular, love?"

"No." Xander starts to approach the tub, then remembers all that bare skin and hastily reconsiders. "Thanks," he says.

"For what?" Jack sounds only vaguely interested in his answer. "For the clothes, the cleanup." What? Is it wrong to be polite? "Ah."

"We're at sea again," Xander says. Jack stares up at the ceiling. "Give the lad a prize."

"Why?"

"We're on a ship, mate. That's what ships do. They sail."

Xander furrows his brow, trying to remember exactly what had happened last night. "I thought we were going to Tortuga."

Sighing, Jack ducks under the surface of the bathwater, then comes back up, black hair dark and sleek like a seal's pelt. "We were. We did. We left."

"And Spike?" There's no answer. Suddenly, several things become clear to Xander. "How many days before we reach Sunnydale, Captain?"

"Three. If the wind is with us."

Xander shakes his head, impressed despite himself. "You've been planning this for years."

"Have I?" Jack picks up the pipe, lights it. "You stole the Gem of Amara to lure Spike into a confrontation!"

"Did I?"

"And then you arranged to take me with you when you sailed to Sunnydale, knowing Spike would follow us to get me back."

"An interesting thought."

"And now you plan to present Governor Summers with Spike, thus apprehending one of the most feared pirates plaguing the British navy, and earning yourself the amnesty reward."

"Sharper than you look, aren't you, mate?"

"Uh huh. But that bounty's been on Spike's head for years, and you've had the Gem for three. Why wait so long to set the rest of the plan into motion."

Jack shrugs. "I was busy."

"Busy?" Xander repeats in astonishment. Busy? "There's a flaw in your logic here."

"Oh? Only one?"

"I don't see why I'm so important to your plan. Spike would have followed you for the Gem alone. You don't need me."

There's a knock on the door and a woman enters the cabin. Xander recognizes her as Anamaria. There are almost as many stories about Jack's pirate mistress as there are about the Captain himself. Almost.

Jack pays her no heed. "I'll be the judge of what I do or do not need." A hard note has entered his voice, one that Xander hasn't heard before.

"Spike is going to come for me, Jack. And he'll kill you."

"Most likely." Sweet smelling smoke begins to curl throughout the cabin, tickling at Xander's nose. Silence falls, punctuated by the groan of hinges as Anamaria opens one of the sea chests. "If you look off the starboard rail you should catch a glimpse of your ship." Jack's expression is inscrutable.

Anamaria begins to pull charts from the chest, out onto the floor.

"Thanks," Xander says, not quite sure how to respond. He opens the door and starts to step through into the companionway. Then he hesitates and looks back.

Jack's eyes have closed again and Anamaria is seated at the Captain's desk. An azure scarf holds back her dark hair; blue like Spike's eyes.

Impulsively, he'll never be quite sure why, he asks, "Have you ever been in love?"

Anamaria doesn't look up from her maps.

"Yes."

And although Xander waits, Jack says nothing more.

*Part 12:* *In which nothing of grave import happens, and the author no doubt makes some egregious nautical errors, but hey, there's Jack, Anamaria, and Xander, and ooooh there's a storm coming *

* *

* *

Every ship has a character, a distinctive personality. The *Chaos* is a scrapper, cannon-heavy because Spike never runs from a fight. The *Black Pearl* is swift and elegant, a real lady.

But these are obvious things.

If Xander were a proper sailor, born to the sea, he'd be able to feel a difference in the ship underneath his feet from the one he's used to. Wood and caulking and cloth and rope to one man is poetry and beauty and freedom to another.

Looking at Jack -- right hand on the wheel, left holding up an ancient compass in the mid-afternoon sun -- there is no doubt in Xander's mind that Jack would die if he could not do this. Be this. Would rather be dead, than alive and landlocked.

Has Xander ever felt that strongly about anything? Has he ever enjoyed anything like that, loved doing it so much that it just felt *right*?

He thinks the answer's "no". Which begs the question, has Spike?

Xander's not stupid. He knows how Spike got his nickname. Awls and eyeballs aren't something a guy easily forgets about the person he's sleeping with. He knows about the raping and the pillaging and the plundering and the being mean to puppies. He knows that Spike's not only a soulless evil thing but that he's a pirate on top of all that. But, well, people can change, and though Xander is perfectly aware that if he's not stupid, he's at least nave, he honestly thinks Spike's changed these past few years. He's become a man. A man worthy of trust, and yeah, love as well.

At least, so he *thought*.

Gah. Angst, angst, angst. He stares gloomily out to sea. The white sails on the horizon are still at the same distance they were last time he checked. Not that he's been checking compulsively every five minutes. It's at *least* every ten.

With a sigh, he turns his attention back to the work he's been doing. One of the dinghies needed the bottom resealing, so he's been sitting here on deck, out of the way of the busy sailors. The ship's carpenter/powder man/general dogsbody, a dwarf, gave him the supplies without question. On this ship crewed by misfits and ragtag miscreants, no one seems to care about the finer points of Xander's status.

Here again he glances at the Captain, now staring at some distant point through a battered copper spyglass. Xander can't help but laugh ruefully to himself. No one cares - the Captain least of all.

"Nice work, boy."

Xander does a half-turn and looks up, shading his eyes against the bright sun. The woman Anamaria is standing beside him, examining his handiwork.

"Thanks." He's not really sure what to say. This is the first time he's even heard her talk, and he doesn't want to scare her away. So protesting about the use of "boy" is right out. Which is okay, he supposes, because by now he's used to much worse from Jack Sparrow, and from Spike, who's a hundred times more irritating than Jack could ever dream of being.

He continues to sand the bottom of the dinghy and, out of the corner his eye, watches her settle against the rail.

"Storm's coming." She's not looking at him, but there's no question she's addressing him.

So cautiously he says, "How do you know? There's not a cloud in the sky."

She laughs abruptly. "Thought you were Captain Spike's boy."

Okay, that was too much. "I travel with him, yeah."

"Storms grow, boy, blow in quick." She points off to starboard. "Wind's picking up."

"How long before it hits?" he asks. "Long enough to finish your work," she assures him. There's silence between them for a while. Jack's now talking to that Mr. Gibbs. There are wild gesticulations involved, and Xander can feel his mouth curve into a reluctant grin.

Jack Sparrow. He shakes his head in amusement. Jack bloody Sparrow. Then he shakes his head at his use of the expression. Too many British men in his life.

"You like him, yes?"

Xander says, "When he's not trying to kill me, capture me, or kiss me. Oh wait, that's all he does. So I guess I don't like him after all."

"He likes you. I can tell."

There's still not a cloud in the sky. "And you seem to be an expert in all things."

"I know the Captain."

Maybe she does. There are certainly stories. "How long have you been crew?"

He's not sure if she'll answer such a personal question, but without hesitation she replies, "Since the *Interceptor*."

Ah, the curse and the recovery of the *Pearl*. Everyone knew about the curse. If the late unlamented Captain Barbossa was the devil, then Jack Sparrow had the devil's luck. Narrowly avoiding living death then escaping mutiny, treachery, and Elizabeth Swann to regain control of his ship and his life. And conveniently, along the way, nabbing a king's ransom in jewels and doubloons.

"Been some adventures since then, haven't there?" Xander's thinking in particular of the time when he first made the acquaintance of Captain Jack Sparrow. Certainly that was an evening to remember.

"Aye."

"What's Jack after now?" He asks this casually, dropping in the question as though it logically follows the last.

Anamaria's eyes are dark brown and knowing. "His reward."

"His reward? What kind of reward?"

"A reward for hard work and perseverance," Jack says. "My just desserts. The fruits of my labour, and assorted other food analogies."

Xander starts guiltily. "Jack."

"Captain," he corrects mildly. "Are you pestering my crew?"

"Do you really think you'll deserve amnesty for betraying a fellow pirate? What about the Code? Doesn't it mean anything to you? What about honour among thieves?"

"They're more guidelines than rules."

"Uh huh. We'll ask what Spike thinks of your distinction before he kills you."

"You keep saying that. But strangely enough I'm still alive."

"Not for long."

Jack yawns. "My, this *is* exciting." He draws his pistol, hands it to Anamaria. "Be a love and make sure Mr. Harris here doesn't jump overboard. He seems overly eager to be reunited with his Captain."

"Are you threatening me?"

The pirate looks amused. "Just a little. But if I were you, I'd stay away from the water, savvy?"

Oh, Xander savvies all right. He savvies quite well. Apparently Jack cares about Xander's status after all.

Mustering up as much dignity as he can, Xander turns his back on the two pirates and sets to work again. There are clouds off to starboard.

Storm's coming.

*Part 13:* *In which Xander ponders sailors' superstitions and comes to the unpleasant conclusion that thirteen really isn't his lucky number *

* *

The storm's been raging for nearly forty minutes now, and to be quite honest, Xander's not entirely sure how he's managed to stay alive. A giant wave sweeps over the deck, nearly washing his feet from under him. Huh. Perhaps he shouldn't be counting his chickens just quite yet. Drowning is still a strong possibility.

He should be below deck, helping to stem the flow of water seeping in through the storm-damaged hull. That's where he should be. But Xander, reluctant to let the outline of the *Chaos* out of his sight, had been stubborn, refused to go. And no one had protested because there were far too many other things occupying their attention.

Now, with the storm in full tilt, threatening to blow them apart, Xander's in awe of the bravery of the crew. They've lashed themselves to the ship and are everywhere at once; doing what they need to in order to keep the ship afloat. He knows that over on the *Chaos*, Spike's crew are doing the same. And Spike--

Xander looks up and sees Captain Jack Sparrow at the helm. He's a lone figure against the storm, leaning into the wind, hair flying wildly behind him. He's got both arms straining to keep the wheel in place, to hold course despite the overwhelming odds against him. This is what Spike will be doing, too.

And since he can't be with Spike, Xander struggles up the stairs to where this Captain is, and as he nears, he's somehow not surprised to hear Jack singing at the top of his lungs.

"Mr. Harris!" Jack can't take his hands off the wheel, but if he could, Xander knows he'd be treated to a pantomime-worthy salute.

"How's it going?" Xander has to shout to be heard above the gale. "Slight problem, mate."

"Oh?" What Xander really wants to know is how anything could possibly be worse than wind, rain, and gigantic killer waves.

"We seem to have misplaced Beljoxa's Eye."

Hmm. On second thought, he didn't really want to know that.

Sailors are by their very nature a superstitious lot, and rely on many unwritten laws to ensure their safe passage. Bring a woman on board and face the sea's wrath; never start a voyage on the first Monday in April (for that is the day that Cain slew Abel); never step into a boat left-foot first for that brings disaster; never speak to a red head or bad luck will follow; beware the Slithy Kraken of Los Angeles; and, for the love of Poseidon, avoid Beljoxa's Eye.

Of all these fervent injunctions, this last should be the easiest to obey. After all, Beljoxa's Eye is one of the seven natural wonders of the world, having replaced Niagara Falls as Number Four because no one likes to fight through hordes of honeymooning Japanese tourists just to see some rainbows in some mist. The Eye is a giant whirlpool of such ferocity that score upon score of brave men (and parrots) have lost their lives in its roiling depths. To look Beljoxa in the Eye is to look upon Death itself, or so the tales say.

Needless to say, Jack's news isn't welcome. "What do you mean you misplaced it?" he bellows above the roar of the storm. "How do you misplace a giant sucking vortex?"

"Poor visibility?"

Xander's always been a great believer in the law of averages, an earnest proponent of inevitability, and resolved to the general cussedness of Fate.

So it's with resignation rather than with panic that he considers the high probability that Beljoxa's Eye is, in fact, skulking in wait off the port bow. He'd check, but really there's no point.

Instead, Xander struggles to make his way back towards the mast, intent on binding himself to something solid before he's swept away. Jack yells something to him, but he can't make it out, and shakes his head "no" to whatever it is. He's soaked to the bone, can barely see through the water streaming over his face. Dimly, he's aware of the crew trying furiously to reef the sails. There's an ominous cracking sound from above, and a spurt of lightning that touches down perilously close to the ship.

Jack's still shouting, he thinks, but Xander's down the steps now, and having enough trouble breathing that he doesn't bother to find out what the Captain wants. Waves are crashing onto the deck, thieving anything not tied down. It seems an utter miracle that the ship has yet to be ripped to pieces. Then, in horrific slow-motion, Xander sees a sailor fall from the rigging, and go sliding past him, headed for the sea.

"Crap!" He's not tied safely to anything, but that doesn't stop Xander from diving after the man. He gets a handful of hair and clothing, then nothing. The sailor disappears into the stormy waters below, and Xander nearly blacks out as he collides with the wooden railing. He goes under briefly as the *Pearl* lists sharply, then bursts free of the water, gasping for air, dizzy from the shock of complete immersion and the blow to his head.

And he's clinging to the railing, holding on for dear life, when the *Pearl* groans deep in her timbers, and shudders sideways, revealing a sight that makes Xander's eyes go wide with disbelief.

Behind them, framed against the purple-black thunderheads and clearly visible despite the driving rain, is the *Chaos*. Suddenly, there's a boom that's not thunder, and the air around him is filled with charred wood.

The rescuer's come at last, but it won't be much good if the rescuee's killed in the process. Only Spike would try to engage during a monsoon.

Then Xander looks to his right and sees, not too far away, the yawning great rend in the sea like the gateway to Davy Jones's locker itself.

"Holy fuck!" Xander exclaims, or tries to, anyway. But the sea water is filling his lungs and his fingers have lost their grip because the railing's been blown to pieces and there's some blood that could be his and most likely is.

Then he's falling, falling, falling into the churning sea below and he just has time to think *Spike, you idiot* and *Drowning sucks* before the salt sea steals him away.

*Part 14:* *In which Xander wakes from the nightmare that has become his life, and wonders exactly where the Hell (or Heaven) he is** *

* *

In an ideal world, Xander would wake up from this nightmare that has become his life, and find himself in a featherbed, with a plate of bacon and eggs waiting for him on the bedside table. There would be no maddening pirates in copper tubs overdosing on *Penzance* and syrup of poppies. There would be no pale limbs and sly vampire smiles tangled around his body, teasing him into breathless awareness. In an ideal world he'd have friends: normal, law-abiding friends who hated their jobs and liked to complain about said jobs down at the local tavern. He'd have a wife like that Anyanka -- big breasts, but smaller temper. He'd have children, maybe, that took after their mother and came to watch their father in his workshop.

In an ideal world.

Not this strange and confusing and often imperfect place in which he exists. Not this place where he wants where he shouldn't and longs for a peace that is just out of reach.

There is bright light all around him, and a silence which is deafening after the incessant pounding of the storm.

The storm. The *Black Pearl*.

Xander opens his eyes and wonders where he is for the second time in as many days.

Clean white sand lies all around him, warm and fine underneath his aching body. Green palms wave in the background, crystalline water undulates gently against an unknown shore.

Paradise to winter-bound Torontians or frozen Muscovites might be a deserted Caribbean island, but Xander hopes this isn't what Heaven is for him -- bottomless mai tais in coconuts with fruity pink parasols, and same old, same old for all eternity. He'd like to see snow. He's never seen snow.

"All by your onesies, mate," he hears Jack say, and then Spike's husky drawl, "Make the best of it, yeah?"

Unless they *all* drowned. In which case, Xander guesses he didn't make it to Heaven after all. Not in this company.

He blinks and looks around. There's no one there. The sea is calm as bathwater, the sun a lazy golden glow in the baby blue sky. Gingerly, Xander picks himself up off the sand and brushes himself off. His new clothes, so pristine yesterday, are in damp and ragged tatters. Idly, he wonders whom they belonged to; Jack, probably, though Xander is the larger man. He takes off the black waistcoat, a garment now in name only, and rips off a strip of fabric to use as a kerchief for his head. Just because he's in Paradise doesn't mean it's an excuse to get sunstroke.

Xander winces as his hands come into contact with the lump above his left temple. A few inches down and the blow would've killed him instead of the drowning. Yeah, he's a lucky guy.

Just as he's going to throw the waistcoat into the sea -- no point in littering the beach, but if a few dolphins choke, who's to know -- he notices something heavy in one of the pockets. He pulls out the object and discovers that it's a pocket watch of exquisite craftsmanship: gold filigree and an ornate engraving: JS. Somewhat unsurprisingly, the mechanism has ceased operation. This watch is no more. It has ceased to be. It's expired and gone to meet its maker. Bereft of life, it rests in peace. If it hadn't been sewn into the lining it'd be pushing up the plankton.

And yes, in answer to the obvious questions, Xander's delirious. But he's got multiple contusions, a bad headache (again), is most likely dead, and has dealt with a British vampire for five years who was bound and determined to prove to him that the Caribbee just didn't understand humour.

So if he wants to brutalize Python, it's his prerogative. Better than Gilbert & Sullivan, at any rate.

Xander stuffs the watch into his remaining clothing, and tramps off down the beach. He's not sure where he's going, but it seems like a good idea to start moving. He walks for a while in silence, just enjoying the sensation of "being by his onesies" for the first time in a long time. Ship life just isn't conducive to privacy.

It doesn't take long for Xander to realize why he took to ship life so well in the first place. He hates being alone. He's a people person, always has been, always will be. For all he complains about Spike's constant chatter, he loves it. Most of the time. For all he pretends to find Jack Sparrow irritating, he's amusing -- okay, *and* irritating, but still amusing.

After the company of two such rogues he finds himself ... lonely. And so, to occupy himself as he walks, he finds himself instinctually comparing Jack to Spike.

Sexy? Check.

Dangerous? Check.

Smart-ass? Check.

Liable to get him killed if it hasn't already happened? Check.

They both use sex to get their own way. They both pout like whores and kiss like drowning. Xander should know.

They're both poetry in motion when it comes to fighting. Spike has the edge over Jack here, to be sure, but not by much. Captain Sparrow knows how to handle his blade.

They've both created themselves from nothing, wrapped legend around themselves, so tightly it's impossible to see the truth from the tale. And Xander can't help but wonder whether Jack has the same tenderness and need underneath his persona as Spike does.

But there's more to it than this. A check list like this is misleading. There's a lot of similarities, yeah, but the main differences are to be found in the execution. Where Spike radiates menace, Jack exudes a laconic buffoonery. Where Spike uses sheer force of will and an uncanny understanding of human nature to get what he desires, Jack confounds, his unrelenting confidence in himself winning the day. He feints, while Spike persuades. Spike is pure kinetic energy, Jack is patience personified. If Spike is a panther, then Jack is a cobra. Both mesmerizing, but entirely distinct creatures.

Both impossibly, gloriously sexy ... Or did he say that already?

Xander is just beginning to speculate as to which would be the better in bed when he sees the villa at the end of the beach.

*Part 15:* *In which Xander discovers that in thunder, lightning, or in rain, when the hurly burly's done, when the battle's lost and won, those three will meet again. But at least they brought fruit punch*

* *

* *

The closer Xander draws to the villa, the more the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He's aware of an incredible thirst and hunger where before there was only headache and gut-whirling nausea. The pain is gone, however. All of it. But he could murder a shank of mutton and a flagon of ale.

The palms and foliage are thicker at this end of the beach, and Xander can hear the chittering of monkeys and the loud complaints of colourful birds in the trees above him. The villa unfurls before him like a fan seashell of the palest creams and pinks. Beautiful and delicate yet strangely alien in this otherwise deserted landscape. A house washed ashore by the vagaries of the tides and left there as beach treasure just for him to find.

Xander jams his hands in his pockets, searching fruitlessly for a handkerchief with which to wipe the sweat from his brow. He blinks, and the heat shimmer rising off the sand makes it seem for a moment as though there's nothing there. Then he takes his arm, and using his sleeve instead blinks again and the villa is not only there, but there is a tinkling fountain in a courtyard, and the merry sound of music. Starting to move faster, Xander passes through the last of the undergrowth, and suddenly he's there -standing on the smooth cream paving stones, gaping at the three gorgeous women reclining on chaise lounges and eating peeled grapes from silver platters on a mosaic table. A tiny boy with ebony skin sits on the edge of the fountain and plays wooden panpipes.

He's the beggar at the feast, and his mouth is bone dry.

The red-haired woman notices him first. "Well, hello," she says, and her skin is pale as alabaster and her voice is like the chiming of a bell.

The other two pause in their eating, and turn to look at him. Two brunettes -- one thin and pouting, dressed in silken trousers and tunic; the other, lush of figure with the kindest face Xander has ever seen.

"Welcome to the Island," they say. "Who are you?" he manages to whisper. "We are the Wicca," they tell him, "the Three--"

"Daughters of Proserpexa--"

"Devotees of Hecate--"

"Guardianes de la Isla Tiempo Olvidado."

"Am I -- am I dead?"

The pipe music trills in the background.

The red-haired woman rises, gliding towards him. Xander is rooted to the spot, half in fear, half in breathless anticipation. Her elegant hand closes over his wrist and her fingers are cool as a vampire's.

She smiles, and it is a perfect smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "You have travelled far, and must be weary. Come rest a while."

Unable and unwilling to resist, Xander allows her to lead him to an empty chaise. It's the most comfortable thing he's ever sat on.

"Milady," he says awkwardly. "My name is Xander Harris. There was a storm--"

"I am Willow," his hostess tells him. She sinks back down to her seat, and claps her hands loudly. "You look parched. Our servants will bring refreshment."

"Amy," the pouting one says. She places a grape between her lips, and swallows it carefully. Her pink tongue darts out, capturing stray juices. "You are most welcome here, Xander Harris."

"Um, thanks."

The third woman rises gracefully. Her soft, ripe figure is barely concealed by the sheer silk fabric of her gown, yet there is a captivating hesitation about her. "I am Tara," she says, and looks away immediately, out at the sea.

"I'm very pleased to meet you," he tells her, meaning it. Her head tilts back towards him and he is rewarded with a quick curving of her lips.

An ebony boy, the twin of the pipe player, arrives with a clear glass jug shiny with condensation and a tall frosted glass garnished with mint leaves. Xander takes the glass with a nod of thanks, and leaving his tray, the boy disappears so swiftly and silently it is almost as if he were never there.

Xander doesn't want to be rude, but he's drier than a priest on Sunday. The women watch him with avid expressions as he begins to raise his glass. Suddenly he freezes. A nasty thought has just occurred to him; apparently he paid attention in high school English, after all. "Uh, ladies? As a lone sailor shipwrecked on your seemingly hospitable shores, I gotta ask -- if I drink this, you're not going to turn me into a pig, are you?"

Willow laughs merrily. "Never fear, gentle stranger. I am no Circe."

Amy sniffs. "She calls herself a witch; more like a bi--"

"So you're okay with men?"

Two of them exchange what can only be described as Sapphic smiles. Huh. Well, the Isle of Lesbos is better than a swine pen, any day.

Xander chugs back the refreshing liquid. He's just so damn thirsty! His hostesses watch with approval on their gorgeous faces.

"Another?" Amy asks. He holds out his empty glass.

"So tell us, handsome stranger, what brings you to our shore?" Willow deftly pours and hands it him back.

"A storm," he says, draining his drink in one gulp. It's the most delicious concoction he's ever tasted, all fruity and frothy with a tang of lemon. And the best part is, there's no rum in it--god, he's sick of rum. If there's any alcohol at all in the drink, it's smoother than anything he's tried before.

"And men," Amy says, leaning towards him, lips slightly parted. "Two men." Tara's lovely brow is furrowed with concentration. "Yes, two men," Xander agrees. He holds out his glass again, and the woman named Willow gives that chiming-bell laugh and replenishes it again. "One kidnapped me, and the other coerced me, but that was really years ago now, and we're long past that. I mean, I have to admit, I *did* want him, but I just couldn't admit it at the time, what with the whole evil vampire pirate thing going on. And I should make it clear that I wasn't *actually* kidnapped so much as lost in a game of cards. Which is really not very cool, and I'm not exactly happy about it, but I was treated very well, a guestage more than a hostage, and--"

They sigh dreamily, all three together, like wind in the palms. Xander can hear the pipes mingling with the steady rush of the fountain.

"So young and handsome--"

"So passionate and tender--"

"Such an endearing mix of practicality and navet--"

"And desire! "And confusion!"

"Delicious!"

"Can I have some more?" Xander asks. His glass is empty. He doesn't even remember drinking that last bit.

The three women are suddenly standing above him, and Xander's head is filled with their scent and the sight of their unbound breasts swaying gently underneath their flimsy garments. He can see Tara's roseate nipple, the dark auburn shadow of Willow's sex. Overcome, he leans back into the chaise, allows their soft cool hands to push him down.

"Rest, stranger."

"Sleep."

"Close your eyes and dream."

"Be welcome," they say as one. Xander wants to say something, wants to thank them. But his eyelids are heavy, and his limbs lax, and he gets no further than one hand in his pocket searching for any token of his appreciation before he must give up and surrender to the currents of sleep. The last thing he sees before he drifts into deep unconsciousness is the woman Willow staring hungrily down at him. But he thinks he must be mistaken, for her hair is blue-black as the night sky and her beautiful emerald eyes are onyx and her skin is so translucent he can see the veins running beneath it like flawed crystal.

He falls headlong into sleep, and the taste of lemons lingers on his lips.

*Part 16:* *In which there is Amy, and there is Desire*

* *

He is adrift in a fog thicker than any he has ever encountered at sea. It is warm and fragrant and redolent with desire. There is no beginning and no ending - only the vastness of memory and imagination. Of possibility.

He is naked, and everywhere a thousand little touches caress him, tickle at him, taste his skin. Xander, floating bodiless, feels his cock stiffen and his blood run effervescent in his veins.

"Handsome stranger," comes Amy's whisper, and she is there beside him, brown hair occluding her face, voice greedy.

He moans as her lips brush his. And then--

Sprawled on the moonlight-strewn deck is a young, sodden Jack Sparrow.

He struggles to sit up. Goes to yank off his boots, shivering compulsively, and has trouble with the left one. And Spike is suddenly kneeling by his side, taking the foot in his hands, peeling off the wet leather, ripping the wet clothes from Jack's body.

*Xander's throat tightens. Spike looks the same. Fuck, he looks just the same.*

He's all jerky movements and furious, tight face. Jack, still shaking, lies back on the deck, sighing deeply. And Spike is there in an instant, chest to naked chest, arms braced around the young man's head.

"What the bloody hell was that?"

"Hmm?"

Spike growls, low in his throat. "You could have been killed. You might have drowned."

"Didn't though, did I?" Jack raises his head, presses his nose briefly against the vampire's. "Thanks for the rescue."

"Your skin is ice cold."

"Coming from you?"

"What the hell were you doing?"

There's a long pause. "She called to me," Jack says. Helplessly.

*There it is - that expression in Spike's eyes. Blind hunger, blind rage. Possessiveness, desire, need. Jealousy flares through Xander, spiking sharply. He can feel the woman Amy here with him. "Yes," she breathes.*

Spike grabs Jack roughly; stands up, dragging him against the bulkhead. Seawater rains down from both their bodies, pooling in shallow puddles on the deck.

"Bloody ... stupid ... git ..." Each word punctuated by kisses, harsh and demanding. Devouring.

And so it goes. Head thrown back, eyes closed. Spike's hands are tangled in Jack's short dark hair and his lips are curled, fangs elongated, as hips jerk in ragged thrusts against the other man.

"Don't ... sodding ... die ..."

There are bloody crescents where Jack Sparrow's fingertips drum staccato rhythm along the curve of Spike's spine. The tiniest drop of crimson slides down pale flesh to join the wet around bare feet.

Jack's head is turned to one side, cheek flattened against the wall with every thrust. His eyes are fixed on the horizon, looking out over the railing. There is nothing in them but the sea.

*A hunger roars within Xander, a hunger that must be slaked. He trembles with the force of it and feels the woman beside him smile.*

There's a copper bathing tub in the centre of the cabin, and in that tub is Captain Jack Sparrow himself. Naked Jack Sparrow.

Xander's eyes follow the lines of the sleeping pirate's throat. Jack's coated with a thin sheen of moisture that brings out the bronze in all that tanned skin, and one elegant hand is thrown carelessly over the edge.

Moving as quietly as he can, Xander gets out of bed, dressed only in a warm linen nightshirt that rubs pleasantly against his bare skin. He pads across the room, stopping just short of the tub. The water in the bath is opaque with soap; Jack's chest is hard and well-defined. He is fascinated by the gentle curve of that Adam's apple, by that trail of dark hair disappearing into the water. For the first time, he is seeing Jack Sparrow without kohl. He looks ... vulnerable.

Jack shifts, rippling the water and murmuring something under his breath. The little pieces of metal and beadwork in his hair jingle lightly together. Xander reaches forward and smoothes a finger along the slender piece of bone tangled amidst the black.

Dark eyes open, and focus on him. Amused. "Well, well. What have we here?"

Xander presses his hand against Jack's lips, feels warm breath on his fingers. He slips into the tub. The water surges around them, his knees slide slickly along Jack's thighs. His shirt sucks up the moisture, turning transparent and moulding to his body.

"Be quiet," he commands, and places open palms against Jack's chest; fingers rub slowly, contemplatively, over the small copper discs there. Then he leans down, mouth open and hungry, wet as bathwater. Takes one nipple in his mouth and sucks, causing the lazy form beneath him to tense, to buck. Strong, brown hands come down to lift his chin, to raise Xander's face to Jack's lambent gaze.

"Give us a kiss, love," comes the teasing whisper, and oh, Xander does. Feels the beard tickle his lips and the lascivious guile in the body under his. He kisses Jack with his eyes wide open, with one hand trapped between their bodies stroking them both to unbearable hardness, and can't help but wonder who is seducing whom.

And all the while, the steam from the bath wreathes about them, scented with the sweetness of opium dreams.

He is light, his body is melting, sliding away as he comes. He feels the water close over his head, and he yearns to give himself over to it, welcoming oblivion, this marvelous lassitude. Yet something is holding him back. It's cold and hard and slick under his fingers, and then he recoils with shuddering distaste as a squeal sounds out of the humid darkness. There's a brush like fur against his cheek, the curl of fleshy whipcord around his wrist, and then the woman Amy is no longer here.

But Willow is.

*Part 17:* *In which there is Willow, and there is Power*

* *

*The arch of her back and the jut of her breasts tease him. He rises up trying desperately to touch her, any part of her, with hungry lips. The woman called Willow dances away, just out of reach.*

Two men. One leans back, sitting against the overturned dinghy, bare legs splayed. The other frisks up and down the beach singing drunken sea shanties at the top of his lungs. Night insects hum from the trees. There is rum.

"When's His Eminence sending for us?"

A slight pause in the caterwauling. A turn so abrupt that the singer nearly falls over. "Don't see any boats yet. Alone in his cabin, I wouldn't wonder, reflecting on myriad sins. Shore party forgotten--Drink up, me hearties, yo ho."

Spike snorts, draining the rest of a bottle and casting about in the sand for another. "Bloody poof." He uncorks the rum and drinks deeply. "When I'm captain of my own ship, there won't be any brooding. Just booty."

Jack dips in close for a taste of the rum. Then gives up the fight and folds down beside the vampire with exaggerated care. The stars circle above them; the waves lap quietly against the shore.

"Booty?"

They exchange smirks. Spike's arm curves around Jack's shoulders. His shirtsleeve rucks up to reveal the tattoo above his wrist. Jack's fingers trace it with careful movements.

"Mark of Eyghon."

"Ethan's idea?"

"Yeah. We're gonna call my ship the *Chaos*, love. S'perfect."

There is silence for a moment, but Spike has never been one to long endure silence. "We'll get you one, too. Navigator should wear my mark."

Jack isn't facing him, but his fingers still move on Spike's skin. "Angelus gave you the ship we captured, then? Generous of him."

Spike's bark of laughter is full of loathing. "He's no idiot. He knows I'm done with him, learned all I can. Knows it's time to cut me loose before I cut him myself." He bends in, brushes Jack's cheek with his forehead. Cool breath in Jack's ear. "Me and you, love. Think of the joyous carnage, the havoc we'll wreke."

"Will."

"Gonna be captain of my own ship, Jack-o. None of that `Will'. William the Bloody ends with the *Bronze* and with Angelus. Gonna be `Spike' now." He turns Jack around in his arms, nimble fingers unbutton his shirt and peel it off. "Gonna make sure--"

Dead quiet. Deadly quiet.

"What's this?" Those nimble fingers, now furious, pluck at Jack's wrist. They squeeze tight, hurting.

"A tattoo, Will."

A bird in flight, set against the ocean and a rising sun. A sun that the captain of the *Chaos* can never see.

"There's a ship -- the *Black Pearl*. I'm going after her." There's apology in the last word: "Savvy?"

The only answer is the crash of glass, the shattering of peace. The splash as Spike swims back out to their ship with short, angry strokes.

The sough of Jack's breath.

He watches the spilled rum drift in rivulets across the sand. It forms clumps like little seashells, which break into pieces as he tries to pick them up.

*Her oxblood hair falls like a curtain along the bare skin of his chest. Xander feels the Mark of Eyghon on his wrist flare painfully. She draws back and her eyes seem to glitter agate in the mists.*

Jack careens up the stairwell, narrowly avoiding a burly sailor with a scar bisecting his cheek. He stops and stares drunkenly after the man, who looks as though he'd like nothing more than to crush Jack's windpipe, but knows better.

Smirking, Jack presses his hands together, rum bottle dangling perilously between two fingers, and bows to the man's receding back. He makes his humming way along the corridor.

"Hello, Miss Edith."

"Well, hello," the rouged whore purrs. She grabs him by his beard and pulls him in for a kiss. Beringed fingers, the ones that aren't clutching the bottle of rum, pluck at her plunging neckline.

She pulls away, shaking her head teasingly. "Aren't you a naughty boy then, Jack Sparrow?"

He doffs his hat. "That's *Captain* Jack Sparrow, love.

She's still smiling, but there's iron in her tone. "No goods without payment. del Hoffryn's orders."

"Ah, but I'm here by very special invitation, love. The beautiful and bounteous Drusilla has summoned me from my ship."

"Drusilla!" Sour jealousy mars the whore's face. "What do you want with her? She's daft in the head!"

"Exactly my point."

Edith sniffs loudly. "You're mad!" Her smile turns malicious. "Enjoy your surprise, then, *Captain*." She grabs the rum bottle from his loose grip and flounces away.

Walking through the open door of the bedroom at the end of the hall, Jack stops short.

Drusilla's dark hair is thrown back, her eyes are wide open and staring as she watches the stars dance on the ceiling. Her body moves in exultant undulation above the man; little keening sounds emerge from her lips mixed with nonsense rhyme and snatches of song.

The man is Spike. His hands clutch so hard at her hips that they leave red marks on her pink skin. His mouth is fastened to one nipple, but his blue eyes are locked on Jack's face, and they are ice cold.

Jack leans against the wall, expression unreadable. "That's interesting," he says.

*Xander's head tosses wildly. He can feel the woman crawling up his body, nails biting. "More." *

Spike is kissing him and it's so good, Jesus, fuck, god, it's good. They roll over and over in the sand, fighting for dominance. Now Xander's on top and he can feel his lover's erection slide against his hip. Spike twists, sending them over once more. He's the strong one, but it's Xander who has the power because Spike is shuddering, burying his face against the warm curve of Xander's neck.

Xander has just told Spike he loves him.

He strokes one hand along the shining silver hair of his vampire, feels the coiled tension in the sleek muscles. When Spike looks at him, his eyes are bright, too bright. "Gotta have you," he grinds out. His cock thrusts almost painfully against Xander's. Wet need paints their bellies.

"You have me," Xander tells him, and it's as though he's removed from the moment, he's so calm.

Spike's lips are frenzied: nibbling, licking, worrying at Xander's eager body. Blunt teeth scrape along the pulse point on his neck, and a thumb presses hard at the Mark on his wrist.

"Say it again."

"I love you."

"Tell me you need me."

"I need you. Inside me. All of you. I want you to take me."

"Oh, God."

"Do it, Spike. I trust you."

He never would have if Xander had not asked. That's why Xander lets him.

*Sharp pain flaring to ecstasy, then a growing warmth, a lassitude, the crazy/wonderful knowledge that his body is feeding, nourishing the one he loves. Then there's a taint to it all; there's another leeching his blood, this glorious power that he holds over his lover. But Spike's thumb presses harder, and the Other flees, and he's coming, coming, rushing towards the skittering sunspots that dance in front of his vision.

Tara is there waiting.*

*Part 18:* *In which there is Tara, and a panoply of Possibility*

* *

*"My sisters are angry with you, stranger," comes a gentle voice as warm fingers stroke damp hair from his forehead. "Why is that, I wonder?"*

Xander clutches the wheel, feeling the hot varnish of the wood burn at his palms. Ranged around him on deck are the crew of the *Pearl*, held at swordpoint and pistol by the men of the *Chaos*. Mr. Trick has hold of a spitting and cursing Anamaria. Her shirt is ripped, baring one breast.

"Caught the headwind out of Tortuga, then, mate? Good sailing." Jack circles warily, blade held loose but ready in one hand. His hair is bound back with a red scarf, his dark face burnished by torchlight. Xander knows that this of all things will be bothering Jack the most. He doesn't like fire aboard his precious ship.

Spike's eyes glitter with feral pleasure and he's wearing that smirk Xander knows so well - the cocky one, the sex one, that supremely confident shit-eating grin that's so very decadent and so incredibly irritating.

"We don't really need weapons for this, do we, Jack?" Spike lets his blade tip droop, tilts his head invitingly.

Jack responds with a lightning flicker of his wrist. There's a metallic clang, a flurry of blades, then both retreat and resume their cautious circuit.

Anamaria snarls as Mr. Trick's knife takes a shallow bite from her flesh.

"I like them, mate. Make me feel all manly." Flames glint off Jack's gold teeth as his lips quirk into an odd sort of smile. "Lacking all that lovely vampire strength meself, savvy?"

"I'm going to kill you, Jack."

"So your monkey keeps saying." The pirate's gaze doesn't leave Spike, but Xander's cheeks burn hot at his words. He can't decide if it's the constant bad paraphrasing of *Blackadder* that upsets, or the implication.

"Smarter than he looks," Spike says, and glances for the first time at Xander. "Oi! Harris! Come here."

Xander's frozen at the wheel, his hands won't unclamp from it. Off to port he can see the shadow of the *Chaos*, the familiar lines of her hull, the safe refuge of the Captain's cabin where he's hidden all these years--

But now there's *something* in the feel of this wheel under his hands, and where there was love there is also bondage. And here there's something different, something he can't quite--

"Xan?" Spike's staring at him now, and Xander can hear the thread of uncertainty in his voice, and see it in the slight easing in his concentration.

"This *is* unfortunate, isn't it?" Jack says. "Lover's quarrels can be so embarrassing." In an instant, he's lunged forward, and there's the crash of sword against sword as they rejoin in battle.

Fingers finally unlocking, Xander rushes to the railing for a better view. Jack has Spike jammed into a corner, blade pressing perilously close to the vampire's throat, but Spike manages to whirl out of harm's way, turning the tables.

It's then that Xander notices that the spectators have grown remarkably quiet: the crew of the *Pearl* have ceased their struggles.

Only because he's looking directly at her, does Xander see Anamaria's almost infinitesimal nod at her captain. And it's only because Xander's looking does he catch the snicker-snack movement she makes with one arm, bringing a concealed weapon up and across Mr. Trick's throat, swiftly and silently.

As Trick slumps to his knees, life streaming from his jugular, Spike's head snaps up, nostrils flaring, distracted. It's all it will take.

Xander cries out.

Jack Sparrow pulls a wooden stake from the folds of his coat and--

*"You feel, don't you?" Her voice is wondering, fascinated.

"I feel pain," Xander says. She sighs, soft and low. Almost envious. "You are human."*

His feet hurt and he can't take any more of the screaming.

Xander pushes open the door of the Fabulous Wenches' Tavern and braces himself for what he will see.

He's not prepared for it. Every fucking time, and he's never prepared for it. Nausea threatens to overwhelm him. "Oh, God." He presses his hand to his mouth, fights to keep hold of himself. It's clear that God was nowhere in Oxnard-town tonight.

And certainly He wasn't watching over Jack Sparrow.

O, God Thy sea is so great And my boat is so small.

The Mariner's Prayer.

Though he thinks it every time, this is the worst. It will never get as bad as this. It can't, oh, *Jesusfuck*, it can't ever get this bad again.

Jack Sparrow is sprawled, broken, over the tabletop. Like so much flotsam. His dark eyes are open, staring at something that Xander can't see. As in life, in death.

O, God. Thy sea is so great--

A cold hand claps his shoulder, and he allows himself to be spun around. Spike's hair is dishevelled, sticky with blood. The vampire is insouciance in gameface, though maniac energy flows through his touch.

"Did it, love, you see? Killed the bastard. Killed 'em all. Worth tracking them for this, eh, all these years. Tried to steal the Gem from me, but I got it first, didn't I, and I found him in the end. Showed him--"

Xander turns his head away. He doesn't want to see the Gem of Amara on Spike's finger. He can already feel it cutting into his skin, through the thin fabric of his shirt.

It's like he's dying, turning to ash, to dust along with everything inside of him: his love, his honour, his dreams, his duty. He struggles, fighting, and the woman Tara is there with him, helping. He nearly cries in relief. He can see his body, and it is strangely shrunken, almost wasted.

"What's happening to me?" His voice breaks on these words. "You should be ours, stranger. But it seems that you are not."

"Are you sorrow?" he asks her. Tara's smile is a benediction. "No," comes her reply. "I am hope."

He doesn't understand. "But ... is this the future?"

"No," she says. "This is inaction."

As he digests this, she gestures to his wrist. "You have been marked, once--" She indicates his waist, and his hand goes down automatically, finds the slick metal in his pocket and retrieves it. "Twice. Two men have marked you."

"But--"

"They have prior claim--" Her tone is amused "--though ownership is yet unclear. I return you to them." She bends down and kisses him lightly on the lips. "Peace be with you, Xander Harris."

Then the sun is pounding down on his bruised and sea-battered body, and the satin sand burns his delicate skin.

Xander squints up into the blazing white light of a Caribbean afternoon. He lies at the end of the beach. There is no villa. There are no women. He is utterly alone but for the whisper of wind through the palms and for the turmoil of his thoughts.

The pocketwatch is still clutched in his left hand. He can feel the vibrations of its ticking. Broken no longer.

He is still lying there when the boats come for him. As he is rowed back to the ship, he thinks he can hear the sound of panpipes above the crashing of the waves.

*Part 19:* *In which we're not gonna take it/NO we're not gonna take it/We're not gonna take it ANY MORE!*

* *

Xander sits silently in the prow of the small boat, watching as the outline of the *Chaos* looms closer and closer.

When the ropes are lowered, and he clambers up onto the deck, there's no sign of Spike. This isn't altogether unexpected given the blatant antagonism of his rescuers--

captors?--but it's still irritating.

This irritation only grows when he turns around and sees the man advancing on his little group.

"Marcus." Xander's never liked the cold, quiet second mate. He likes him even less now that Marcus has a pistol pointed at his head.

"Well, if it isn't Captain Jack's catamite."

*Fuck.* Yes, he's graduated to real swear words. There's a time and a place for everything.

"Why doesn't my team ever win?"

There's a confused silence. Marcus still has the pistol trained at him. "What?" Marcus doesn't sound amused.

"My team," Xander says. "The good guys. Fighting for truth and justice and the right to get laid. Why do the people I can't stand always win?"

There's some laughter from the crowd of crewmen forming a circle around them. An easing, perhaps, of the tension of the moment.

Marcus lowers the gun a little and looks over at Mr. Trick, who led the shore party. "What the hell is he on about?"

"Dunno, Captain."

"Captain?" Xander smiles then, a stretched-thin expression that hurts his face. "Oh, I see."

"Don't know if you do, Harris. See, Spike and us, well, we had a little difference of opinion."

"Did you?" He's so calm. It's like there's a deep well inside him and all the fear, all the anger, all the what-the-fuckedness is sinking into the cold unfathomable depths within. He can't believe how calm he is. Emptied out. He's lucid, more awake than he's been in five years. Longer than that - he's awake for the first time in his sorry life.

He almost pities Marcus.

Almost.

Xander looks around, spots a blonde head amidst the watchful sailors. "Where's Spike?" he asks Harmony.

She looks far from happy to be singled out. "Oh, uh, Xander, he's--"

"Funny you should ask," Marcus interrupts smoothly. "He's not here."

"Where is he?"

"We had a little run in with a ship of the Fleet. Thought we'd hand him over and earn ourselves a little amnesty."

"Mutiny."

"We prefer the term `Expediency'."

"He was crazy, Harris." This from a sailor near the back of the muttering crowd. "Obsessed with getting that Gem. And you, o' course," he adds hastily.

Xander says, "He's been obsessed for as long as I've been aboard the *Chaos*. Nothing new."

A number of voices pipe up:

"But he's never taken us this deep into enemy waters before! Governor Summers, she nearly got the lot of us."

"Hanged us!"

"Or worse!"

"The ship's damaged - we couldn't have outrun them!"

"Enough!" Marcus sounds furious. "Tie him up. Take him below and put him in the brig with Rayne. I'll decide what to do with them later."

"I understand your concerns. Believe me, I do." Xander pauses. "But who put this idiot in charge?"

There's a tittering of nervous laugher.

Marcus bites out, "Should have left you to drown, Harris. Still might."

"Which brings me to another question." Xander paces forward a few steps. "How did you come to rescue me?"

No one answers. Finally, Harmony says, "The wind wouldn't let up and it blew us to that island. Marc - the Captain sent a party to find water. Instead, they found you."

Xander can read the fear in the eyes of the crew. There's no person more superstitious than a sailor. Such a strange coincidence so soon after breaking the Pirate's Code ... It's no wonder they're afraid.

And Marcus can see it too. He opens his mouth, no doubt to order Xander's imprisonment, but Xander is faster.

"What news of the *Black Pearl*?"

They're accepting his authority now. They're like lost little puppies, waiting for a master.

He recognizes it because he knows that feeling well.

The reply comes quickly. "We lost sight of her in the fog," says Mr. Trick. "No sign of her when the storm cleared."

*Beljoxa's Eye*.

"No more questions! Take him below." Marcus cocks his pistol. Xander shakes his head slightly. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"Shut up. Tie him, you miscreants."

"Interfere at your own risk, gentlemen."

The crew whisper amongst themselves, clearly unsure.

Marcus's face contorts with anger.

"You want Spike to know that you followed this asshole?" Xander asks.

"Captain's as good as dead. The Governor has him," says someone from the back.

"You really think Spike can be killed that easily?"

Silence.

"You really think Spike is not going to be majorly pissed if we don't at least try to rescue him?"

Absolute silence.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Listen to me - I'm going after Spike, and I'm gonna get him back. You're either with me, or you're against me. Quite frankly, Spike is not gonna like it if you're against me."

And that about sums it up, really. Xander might be all ready to kick some ass, but it's Spike who'll have to do the kicking, as per usual. Getting a mental whupping by three witches is certainly a step in the right direction, but he's not about to go all Matrix on everyone.

"But the Governor -" A babble of worried voices. "Leave Buffy to me," Xander tells them. "I can handle her."

"Like they'd ever follow you," Marcus sneers. "You, the damned ship's carpenter and vampire's whore."

No, he's not about to go Matrix on anyone. Can't. So when in need, rely on others.

"This isn't about me," Xander tells him. "It's about their Captain." He plays his ace in the hole, plays the "Captain, my Captain" card.

In the end, that old beauty, along with the quiet authority in his voice, is all he needs.

******

"Xander? Are you all right, lad?"

Staring out to sea, Xander jams his hands in his pockets, feels the coolness of the pocketwatch like a talisman. And really, it *is* a talisman, though its use outside of a dreamlike island has yet to be ascertained. The vibrations of its ticking tell him that the witches were real; what he saw were possible futures, possible pasts.

And it's up to him to forge the ones that he wants to carry with him through this life.

"Yeah, I'm okay." He pulls one hand from his pocket and stares at the tattoo on his wrist.

He wonders if Spike is still alive, and thinks that he'd know somehow if he wasn't. He wonders if Spike really did betray him, and hasn't got a fucking clue.

His voice is grim when he tells Ethan, "Double the guard on Marcus and set a course for Sunnydale. We're going after the Captain."

He ignores the urge to sweep the area first, looking for black sails and sweet-smelling smoke.

Xander's never on the winning team. Everyone else always gets all the damned luck.

It's about time he makes some luck of his own.

The only question is: who exactly does he want to be on his team?

* Part 20:* *In which Xander takes a trip down memory lane, with armed escort*

* *

* *

He hasn't changed one bit, though his insignia is perhaps a little more elaborate, and his hat somewhat bigger.

Wesley Wyndham-Pryce is still a snot nosed git, as Spike might say, no matter whether he's Captain or Commodore. No wonder Ripper looked so displeased about his successor.

No, the surprise isn't that Wyndham-Pryce made higher rank -- it's more that he's waiting on the dock when Xander steps down from the *Chaos*.

It's a good thing, though, that Xander merits a welcoming committee. Means he's still important to Buffy, despite all the years and all the mess between them. And if he's important to Buffy, that'll give him leverage.

Xander glances at the armed men accompanying the Commodore. Looks like he'll need all the leverage he can get.

It makes him glad that he didn't stick with the original plan. Not that it wasn't a cunning plan, because really it was. It involved anchoring the *Chaos* out of sight of the watchful soldiers at the fort, and sneaking into Sunnydale by dead of night with only a few trusted companions.

There were even costumes, though Xander's quite happy in hindsight not to have to wear Harmony's finest gown - she's bigger in the chest than he is. Though, it should be noted, they didn't abandon the idea of stealth entirely. But not important now, because Xander's mind is filled with the sights and sounds and scents of the town he once called his own.

Sunnydale's prospering. The cobblestone streets are bright and crowded with fat burghers and big-breasted fishwives, tradesmen and their sullen apprentices, gentlemen and their ladies. Mistresses out for air, and to flash about their new jewels. Servants scurrying home from the market with their masters' supper. Rough looking gents in ill-fitting clothing lurking in the alleyways looking for easy marks. And Xander. Coming home from too long away.

It really does feel like a homecoming. He can feel the right of this place unfurling deep in his ribcage, shooting warmth through his veins. There's a feeling of safety, too, and he knows he must watch this - that it's illusion - that he's never been in more danger than he is now.

On the *Chaos*, Xander held the position of ship's carpenter. It suited him, because Xander's never been very good at anticipating trouble. He's always been more of a fixer-upper - bring him in after the fact and let him assess the damage and make it right. Hell, it's what he's doing right now.

Sometimes he thinks it was his childhood that made him this way - his rum-sodden blacksmith father; his shrill embittered mother; and Xander doing nothing right, not even when he became friend and confidente to the girl who would be governor.

He should have married her, you see.

What seems to be an age ago, Xander wanted nothing more than this. Never mind that the blacksmith's son had already risen higher in life than by all rights he deserved. Buffy was the golden girl, the chosen one. And he? He was Xander Harris.

But he loved her, oh how he loved her. Would have laid down his life for her, and still might, if she asks. So it's hard to be here again; his loyalties lay on a razor's edge in the narrow byways of Sunnydale, the port they had sworn to protect. Hard because he's here to bargain for the life of the enemy. Hard because it's now the enemy he loves.

If Xander had the inclination he'd damn Jack Sparrow for bringing them to this point. He's surprised to find, however, that he has no desire to blame. They've been heading for this confrontation since that storm-ridden night years ago, when Xander sailed away with Spike. This is no one's fault but his own, and probably unavoidable at any rate.

*"You have been marked, once -- twice. Two men have marked you."*

Xander sighs heavily, causing the soldiers to shoot sidelong glances in his direction. With difficulty, he wrenches his mind onto the meeting at hand.

Buffy's always been difficult to predict, and it's so important that this time he understand her, read her correctly. All their lives depend on it. And it makes him wary that Wyndham-Pryce and their escort of men are not taking him to see Buffy at her mansion. No, it seems as though the Governor maintains quarters in the fort itself now.

Will he still know her when he sees her? Will she still know him? The anticipation is killing him - it's worse than any answer can possibly be.

Then, finally, they arrive at the fort at the top of the hill. Inside the walls are the main parade grounds, and Xander is disturbed to see a permanent gallows has been erected. This is ... new. As he suspects many other things may be.

When they are inside the fort, paused in front of the heavy oak doors that bar the way to Buffy's inner sanctum, Xander says to Wyndham-Pryce, "My ship and my crew have amnesty from the Governor. I ask you remember that."

The Commodore appears discommoded. "Of course," he replies stiffly, as though it is unfathomable that officers of the British navy not be trusted to keep their muskets away from a filthy pirate crew. He raps sharply on the doors.

There's a pregnant pause, and then a muffled voice. "Come."

Xander takes a deep breath, and follows the Commodore into the room.

*Part 21:* *In which Xander is presented with several unpleasant surprises, and is forced to think rather quickly on his feet*

* *

There's a man sitting behind the solid oak desk, a man Xander doesn't recognize.

Buffy is nowhere to be seen.

"What is this?" he demands, voice tight. Can it be that everything is going wrong, already? Doesn't his team *ever* win?

"So. Harris. We meet at last."

Xander can only stare blankly in the face of such cheesy dialogue. He can almost *feel* Wyndham-Pryce's smirk sliding greasily down the back of his neck.

He raises his eyebrows and strives for Spike-worthy insouciance. "It's not really a meeting until you give me your name."

The man rises to his feet in one smooth motion. Xander notes that the guy moves like a well-trained soldier. Great. Just what he needs: one more person in his life who can kill him with a pinky finger.

"I'm Riley Finn." There's a pause like that should mean something to Xander. It doesn't.

"Okay," he says, buying for time while he tries to figure this one out.

Finn looks pissed. "Sir Riley Finn. The Governor's husband."

Oh. *Oh.* Shit.

At this point Xander has approximately a second to decide how to play this. He wastes one-fourth of this time thinking dumbly, *Buffy's married?* Another fourth goes to a quick once-over of the man, wherein the soldier impression is confirmed and the word *lummox* is added. At the three-quarters of a second mark, Xander wonders just how this is going to affect his plans to negotiate with Buffy for Spike's release, and realizes it pretty much means he's got to throw them out the window into that very nice palm tree. And in the final instances before his pause gets noticeable too long, Xander comes up with his reply.

It may not be pithy, in fact, it may be an exact replica of what Jack Sparrow's said several times before in this tale of adventure. But hey, if it works, go with it.

"That's interesting," says Xander. There's a silence while Finn and Wyndham-Pryce mull these words over and find them somewhat lacking. Being of a military persuasion they no doubt prefer throwaway comments to be a little more explicit in meaning.

Though, Xander's quite happy with ambiguity right now, himself.

"Where's the Governor?" he asks. Her name was on his lips, but he changes it at the last second, respecting formality. He's not sure he has the right to her name anymore. He thought he would, back down at the docks, when he expected her to be standing here greeting him, for better or for worse. Now, not so certain.

"She's resting," come Finn's clipped tones. "When can I see her?"

"Silence," snaps Wyndham-Pryce. "No, no, our guest must be curious."

Xander asks, "Your guest?"

"Indeed." Finn manages to sound haughty and smarmy all at the same time. It's pretty impressive. "My wife wishes it so."

O-kay. Good. Sounds like Buffy's in charge after all.

"When can I see her?" he tries again. "Tomorrow." The reply is curt, but there is the briefest of hesitations before the word.

Now that *is* interesting. Sounds like the bad guys (and yes, Xander is aware that the use of "bad" means he's chosen a side - how about "guys who are not on his side when it specifically comes to seeing Spike go free" instead?) aren't entirely sure of their lines.

Maybe Finn sees it on his face. Regardless, his own expression lightens almost comically, and suddenly he's radiating bluff bonhomie and hail-good-fellow-well-met.

"We've lodgings prepared for you."

"Really. Already?" He lets his surprise show. "Buffy insisted."

Buffy, now, is it? There's too much happening in this room, undercurrents of *something*. He's having trouble figuring out where the balance of power lays. So maybe a temporary strategic retreat is for the best. He can regroup, catch his bearings, make contact with his ship. Figure out where Spike is being held. Maybe even rescue him without actually having that meeting with Buffy after all. Hah. Even Xander knows those last ones are wishful thinking.

Wyndham-Pryce leads him away, back through the fort, down the hill. Looking back as they pass through the walls, Xander catches a glimpse of Finn at the window, watching their progress. Finn and ... another figure. Xander slows, squinting, trying to see who it could be. But the Commodore is impatient, and the two shadows at the window move away and out of sight. Leaving Xander to stare at the ugliness of those gallows, and then at the stiff red-uniformed figures surrounding him.

They take him to a small cottage not too far away. He wonders what has become of his villa, remembers a storm and wet, desperate kisses against the garden wall. He wonders what has become of Spike, whether he's being treated well, or tortured; whether he has blood to drink and is being kept safe from sunlight.

Precious things. Parts of his past, maybe his future if he's very lucky. He wants them back, whole and his.

You can't always get what you want.

They leave him alone in the place but for one guard, though he knows that there are armed guards lurking behind every bush. And besides, he's never been truly alone. Not since William the Bloody waltzed into Buffy's mansion and laid down his sword on the broad dining room table. Not since Xander gazed up at the pirate with wide, disbelieving eyes as Spike declared to the Governor that in exchange for a share of profits he would help her with her little corsair problem. Not since those quick, bright eyes gazed back at him, and a scarred eyebrow quirked in silent amusement, maybe a little acknowledgement. Not since then.

These thoughts and a thousand others are crowding his mind as he strips off his waistcoat and heads for the bedroom. He can hear the soldier on duty shifting restlessly in the kitchen below.

"What the hell am I going to do?" he sighs, and sinks down onto the bed. He rubs a hand over his chin, idly testing scruff. "The plot's just getting more and more convoluted."

"Sickening, isn't it?"

Xander jumps up in surprise. Jack Sparrow's reclining back against the pillows, eyes shut. The pirate looks none the worse for wear considering he's supposed to be at the bottom of Beljoxa's Eye right about now.

"What are you doing here?"

"Ah," and here Jack's heavy-lidded black eyes open and fix Xander with an interested stare. "There's the question, isn't it? But I've one of me own. Where've you been, boy? There's a scent of sorcery about you."

"I can't decide if I'm really happy to see you, or if I'd like to kill you," Xander tells him. "Should I shout for the guards?"

"You could. Or you could listen to what I've got to say."

Xander sits back down on the bed, careful not to touch any stray part of Jack's lean, indolent body. "I'm listening."

"Or rather, let me show you."

*Part 22:* *In which words are bandied, options are discussed, courses of action are mulled, and the phrase "Damned if you do, damned if you don't" seems pertinent*

* *

The gentle sough of the wind rustles the palms outside the window. If it existed in this alternate universe, the air conditioning might stutter and hum.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"What do you want to show me?"

"I've reconsidered."

"What do you mean you've reconsidered? You can't reconsider. Tell me what you were going to say!"

Jack stretches languorously on the bed. He hasn't taken his boots off and his leather hat is thrown carelessly over the nightstand. He's clearly made himself at home in the time he's been here waiting - which is how long exactly?

The pirate is examining his fingernails, which are as dirty and ragged as Spike's. And no, Xander is not imagining how they might feel on his thigh.

"I'm in a far more advantageous position than you right now, savvy?"

Xander stares. "No. I don't. What the hell are you talking about?"

Sitting up straight, Jack says, "The way I see it, mate, you've two options." He gestures to himself. "Whereas I have manifold."

The sounds from downstairs have quieted, but out in the courtyard he can hear the faint murmur of conversation. Xander sighs. "Manifold, huh?"

"See, mate, you've one goal in mind - to retrieve your captain in one whole, delightful piece. I have several goals, each of which I'm willing to abandon if needs must be."

"Uh -"

"This gives you the aforementioned two options."

Voice wary, Xander replies, "I'm going to regret this, but my first option?"

"Your first option is to call the guards, have them arrest me, and trust that course of action won't make things worse for you and our pale friend. Then, provided of course that I don't have something up my sleeves," and here he theatrically displays his arms, "and provided that Her Lovely Governorship is willing to listen to a turncoat pirate - sorry, privateer - you may be in business. Can sail away, but not sweetly. Knowing that you'll never get your hands on the Gem of Amara because I reckon once that handsome husband of your lady takes it off me, his prisoner, it'll be a lonely evening in Tortuga before either the Gem or meself see the light of day. Savvy?"

Crap. Xander's not entirely sure if any of that makes sense, but enough of it seems to that he's suddenly feeling a lot less confident than he was moments ago. He tries not to give this away, though, when he asks, "And the second option?"

"Second option is that you throw your hand in with me, take my word as a gentleman that I'll see you and your vampire right. Put your trust in old Jack, and merely perform the merest trifling service when I ask. Bob's your uncle and we all three escape with our lives and our freedom, sailing into the sunset with banners flying and spirits high. What do you say, lad? Do we have an accord?"

"And you give me the Gem of Amara as a token of good faith."

"And I give you the Gem of Amara as a token of - very amusing! You've got a sense of humour on you, mate, I'll grant you that."

"What if I like neither of the options?"

Jack shakes his head grimly, causing the beads and bones to jangle together. "T'is a pity, but there's naught to be done."

Xander stands up and paces to the window. He can see the two men in the courtyard, playing dice near the kitchen entrance. One cups his hand to his chest, making squeezing motions. The other man erupts into raucous laughter. A half-empty wineskin lies between them.

"There is actually a third option," says Xander. "And what's that?"

"I kill you, take the ring, trade it for Spike's freedom. He and I leave on the next tide."

Jack frowns. "True, that could also work, provided of course you lay hands on my pistol." The pirate sighs dramatically. "I do hope it won't come to that." He winks. "I don't like people touching my effects."

"It seems, then, that we're at an impasse."

"Speak for yourself, mate." Jack fluffs the feather pillow - Xander's feather pillow. "I know what I'm going to do." And he closes his eyes and rolls over.

*Right. Of course. I threaten his life and he takes a nap.*

Xander throws himself into a chair in the corner and thinks for a bit. Time passes, and the candles gutter in their sconces.

He's startled out of his reverie by Jack's voice. Sparrow's hands are folded neatly across his chest, his kohled eyes a fathomless black in the growing shadows. He says, "What did you make of the ladies, then?"

Xander blinks and stirs. Eventually, he responds, "They said you marked me, Jack." He falters. "Is that true?"

"No man can be marked without consent," the pirate answers, uncharacteristically somber. "If I'm in you, lad, then you let me in."

Outside, the guards are hailing their fellows. Shift change.

"They showed me you and Spike. How things used to be."

"Did they now? "They did."

They are silent for a few moments, then Xander gets up and comes right up to the bed. He leans over, looking down. Jack watches him warily.

"I'm going to take my chances with Buffy tomorrow. I've been told I can see her. But - but if things don't work out ..." He drags his hand through his hair.

"A fourth option, then." Jack's eyes are bright, his lips slightly parted.

Xander can't tear his gaze away from Jack's face. His voice sounds hoarse to his own ears. "Yes."

"I've me own goals, mate, as I've said. But if I can help you rescue your Captain with little risk to meself, I will."

Xander doesn't ask why. There's too many possible reasons, too many possible betrayals here. "Okay," he says.

Jack holds out a limp hand, and after the briefest hesitation, Xander takes it. It's warm and dry.

Sometimes making a deal with the devil can be that easy.

*Part 23: In which Xander turns whore, but don't worry, there's a very good reason. Or so Jack tells him. But we don't really trust Jack, do we?*

Three days pass.

On Day One, Xander awakens at dawn, dresses in borrowed finery after a cursory wash, and again makes the trek up the hill to the fort. Only to be told by Sir Riley Finn that, alas, his wife is still under the weather, and will meet with him tomorrow. Upon demand, Xander is assured that his ship and crew are being treated like guests, if not quite honoured ones, and that Spike's unlife is still his own. Grudgingly, he allows himself to be escorted back to his quarters, where he spends the rest of the day in nervous contemplation.

On Day Two, Xander is unsurprised when a smugly smiling Finn once again proffers apologies. This time, however, he demands that he be taken to see Buffy at once. It doesn't go well. The smile on Finn's face fades, and he refuses to answer Xander's shouted questions about Spike. When Xander is removed from the fort and taken back to the villa, he notices a distinct shift in the guards' attitudes. The word "prisoner" crosses his mind more than once. He doesn't sleep that night.

On Day Three, no one comes for him from the fort. He paces the courtyard outside under the watchful eyes of the guards. They have abandoned their dice games. He tries to think of some way to get a message to his crew. Sitting alone in his now confining bedroom, Xander wonders if he has any allies left in Sunnydale. He left so suddenly five years ago, under a cloud of suspicion. He remembers the tale of Rupert Giles - Ripper now, because of him. Maybe it's not so surprising Buffy won't meet with him, after all.

When evening of the third day rolls around, and the candles are lit against the dark of the tropical night, Xander takes one of the candles and sets it on the window ledge. Then he sits on the bed and waits. A few hours pass, and then he hears it, a strange cackling sound, like a drunken parakeet.

Quickly, he makes his way down the stairwell and out into the back courtyard. The guards are asleep at their posts, lolling on the stone bench as though they have just shut their eyes for a moment. An empty wine skin lies between them. Captain Jack Sparrow is standing with gleeful indolence astride the high wall that bounds the courtyard.

Looking up, Xander can see the candle in his window burning brightly in the gloom.

Jack reaches down and easily pulls Xander up beside him. Xander looks the pirate straight in the eyes. "We have an accord, Captain," he says. "I need your help. You aid me and I will do the same for you."

"Excellent, wonderful. Grand." Gold teeth flash in the dim moonlight. "Hope you don't mind wearing a dress."

******

"I don't ... see ... why this is ... necessary," Xander grinds out. It's hard to properly express his irritation however, because the gown is constricting his chest in a way that makes breathing difficult, let alone discussion of the matter. And the many coloured scarves he's got wrapped around his head like some gypsy girl's turban is making it nearly impossible to see where he's going. Not to mention the shoes! So he's clinging like a nervous debutante to Jack's arm as he totters along beside him up the cobblestone streets in one of Sunnydale's more disreputable neighbourhoods. Almost makes him wonder whether he was better off back at the house, waiting on that bastard Finn's pleasure.

"Got something to show you, mate. Something I think you'll be interested in."

"And it necessitates me wearing women's clothing why exactly?"

"I'm too recognizable in that getup, savvy?"

Xander hobbles to a halt and stares at Jack. "What do you mean, recognizable? You dress up like a whore often?" Jack's smile is so devilish that Xander holds up a hand to stop whatever words are about to come out of the pirate's mouth. "Forget it. I really, really don't want to know." He starts to walk again. "So we're going to the Siren's Anchor, huh?"

"Clever, mate, clever. Didn't think it'd be the kind of place you'd have frequented."

"I lived in Sunnydale all my life. I do know where its sleaziest taverns are, even if I didn't visit them."

Jack ruminates, "I always liked the Anchor, meself. Sunnydale's no Tortuga, but I always found a warm place to lay me head."

They arrive at the tavern. Though the street around them is deserted, the sound of sodden merriment comes from the half-open doorway of the tavern. Xander turns to look at Jack. "Just what am I supposed to see here, anyway?"

But the pirate captain is gone, having melted into the shadows with as little effort as Spike might have.

Swearing under his breath at his pinching slippers, Xander makes his way to the door and peers cautiously into the taproom. It would help if he knew why he was here, but obviously Jack is not going to be of any help on the matter.

The room is a swirling mess of sound and heat and sweating bodies. Laughter and drunken cursing fills the air. And sitting near the doorway, with a slatternly whore on his lap and a full tankard of ale in his hands, is a man with a peg leg. Rupert Giles. Ripper. Talking to Sir Riley Finn. Buffy's husband.

Huh.

*Part 24: In which Xander uncovers a scheme so diabolical that it will make your hair stand up on end, dear readers. Or maybe you'll just say, "Oh, for goodness sake! I already knew that. And it doesn't make sense anyway, you silly cow!"*

Desperate not to be seen, but equally desperate to hear what the hell the two men are saying --and how the hell did Rupert Giles get to Sunnydale so fast anyway? -- Xander presses his ear against the crack of the door.

"Your wife," he hears Ripper say. "I hear her illness is worsening. " Xander is slightly taken aback at the man's casual tone. This is, after all, the Governor's consort he's talking to.

"The matter is most grievous," Finn tells him, taking no offense. "In fact," and here he lowers his voice so that Xander is forced to lean even closer, "things are progressing even more quickly than we thought. Her stomach cramps are worsening. Appetite non-existent. Very, very sad to see such a beautiful creature brought so low."

"Extremely sad," says Ripper, shaking his head. "I trust you're keeping the King abreast of the situation."

"Of course. This could not have happened at a more inopportune time. The amount of bounty being held here for the treasure fleet is unparalleled. Plunder from the Orient -- gems, jade, gewgaws -- enough to keep the King happy for decades to come. I cannot help but think that we are asking for trouble. And all because of my wife's hubris ..."

There's something in Finn's voice, ill-disguised levity, that makes Xander move his eye to the crack. He knows it deep in his heart, but he wants to see it on their faces.

"Alas." Ripper's scarred visage creases with a broad smile. "Alack." Finn returns, beaming unctuously. "Goddamn," mutters Xander. "And with Buffy sick and unable to carry through with her gubernatorial duties, the King has been most impressed with my handling of His affairs." The two men laugh heartily, and call for more ale. "If only He knew how just how well I have matters in hand."

Xander reels, and only partly due to asphyxiation from the whalebone stays. Betrayal! Intrigue! Really cheesy expository dialogue! And Jack obviously knew all along, or why else would he have brought Xander here?

Clearly there's villainy afoot! Well, it was pretty obvious that Finn was a bad guy, with that twisty moustache of his and those white bread good looks, but now it appears Ripper is, too! Which is awful and heartbreaking, really, since Commodore Rupert Giles was a mainstay of his childhood, the role model, the shining beacon of colonial perfection to which they had all aspired.

He flashes to his conversation with Rupert Giles in Tortuga: *"Sunnydale's the best guarded port now - full armouries, full coffers, full complement of King's Men. Governor's even taking shipments of rare treasures now, knowing they'll be safe."*

"... there is talk of a stewardship of sorts. Though, of course, in the confusion of a transfer of power, some of his treasure might sadly be lost. 'Tis fortunate that we have the perfect explanation ..."

The bastards are planning an inside job!

No, no, maybe there's some mistake ... but damn it, Giles is now toasting with Finn to Buffy's continued ill health, and there's talk of time shares in sunny Ibiza, so it's fairly undeniable even to the Pharaoh of de Nile himself that these two miscreants are poisoning Buffy and plotting to abscond with the King's treasure.

Crap. This changes everything. Xander hates it when things get even more complicated.

He backs away slowly from the door, plucking indelicately at his constricting bodice, and wondering where Jack Sparrow got to. He needs to figure out what his next move is going to be.

But, of course, such considerations are abruptly rendered moot when sausage-fingers suddenly close around his waist.

"Gah!" Xander yelps, just as garlic breath whispers in his ear, "Aren't you a pretty one? Come join us, girlie."

And he's swept into the crowded tavern with the influx of rowdy new patrons. Who, naturally, in their exuberant rush towards the ale, force him right up against the very table he's so anxious to avoid.

"What have we here?" comes Ripper's voice. "A strumpet," replies Finn, aristocratic tones sounding bored. "And a particularly ill-favoured one at that.

"Hey! Watch it, buddy!" Horrified, Xander slaps a hand over his mouth, but it's too late, the damage is done.

"O-ho! The wench has spirit!" Ripper pats his knee. "Come sit with me, my dear." His eyes devour the curving line of Xander's bodice. Xander can only hope that whatever padding Jack used will pass muster.

He tries on a pretty simper, though he's pretty sure he must make him look like an epileptic narwhal. Both men are now looking at him with more than idle curiosity. "Come here, lass," Ripper tells him. It's not a request.

Xander feels a moment of panic -- his disguise is fine from a distance, but up close the five o'clock shadow will be a little obvious. All the rouge in the world can't cover that up.

"What's your name?"

Thinking quickly, Xander says the first thing that pops into his head. "Lavelle," he squeaks. What? It's his middle name, okay?

"Lavelle the belle." *Yeah, Ripper, laugh it up.* Riley Finn is squinting at him in puzzled recognition. "Do I know you?" he asks.

Eyes widening, Xander shakes his head with vehemence. He can feel the blonde wig on his head teeter precariously.

Just as all seems lost, the musicians in the corner strike up a merry tune. "If she's shy to be touched," Ripper says, "let the pretty maid dance for us."

Great. Xander can't believe there was a time when he *liked* this guy. Now there's no doubt in his mind that Giles is evil.

"Um," he begins. Both men are staring at him expectantly. Finn's bloody knee is even jiggling in time to the music. "I ..."

Salvation comes in the form of a gorgeous dark-haired woman with perfect eyebrows. "You stupid whore!" She slaps him hard across the cheek.

"Owww!"

The woman turns apologetically to the two men at the table. "I am so sorry, good sirs. This lazy slut is one of mine. She's disobeyed me again, the slattern. Her rudeness will not go unpunished, I assure you."

Finn looks vaguely embarrassed. "Oh, no trouble, no trouble."

"Please. Allow me to make amends." At the snap of her fingers, two young women with missing teeth but a pleasing lack of pox marks appear as if from thin air. They settle with giggles at the table.

Meanwhile, the woman is all but dragging Xander through the taproom and into the back of the tavern. "Who are you?" Xander asks dumbly when they pause before a locked door.

"I'm Jenny Calendar," the woman with the perfect eyebrows snaps. "And you're a bigger idiot than I was led to believe."

"Ah. You'll be a friend of Jack Sparrow's then," Xander says. She merely gives him a disgusted look and strides through the now-open door. With little other choice, Xander shrugs and follows.

*Part 25:**In which we are given a proper introduction to Jenny Calendar, Jack--*

*vain lord of wantonness and ease**--turns up in an unlikely guise, and Xander realizes the true depths of his troubles*

He's in a tiny back parlour, the most cluttered space he's ever seen. Every available space, including the furniture, is covered in piles of books and paper. There's a writing desk scattered with nautical maps in the corner. Also, a little girl.

Xander blinks at the child, who he can barely see behind the stack of yellowing charts. The little girl has large dark eyes that don't blink back. He takes a step toward her and she ducks backwards, out of sight.

"What are you doing?" Jenny Calendar is taking off her shawl, but she looks up to glare in his direction.

Suddenly, he's fed up. "I'm tarted up like Miss Tortuga 1725, and I think my lipstick's smudged, and Jack's conveniently disappeared to God knows where. You seem to know my business, so why don't *you* tell *me* what I'm doing, Jenny. Because I sure as hell have no clue myself."

Her expression is stern. "That's Ms. Calendar to the likes of you."

"Fine. Whatever." He's surrounded by madmen and fools.

She laughs then and throws her shawl carelessly onto one of the piles of books. "Where's the sense of humour on you, lad?"

And he's really, *really* sick of being called "lad".

"I think it fell overboard and drowned."

"Worried for your love, aren't you? That's sweet."

"You're evil, did you know that?" He's genuinely impressed. She must be a friend of Jack's. Only Jack could know someone this ... aggravating. And she's so pretty, too. Those eyebrows. Just goes to show.

A little smile curves her pink lips. "I've been told." She motions to the only chair that isn't covered in maps. "Have a seat?"

"Thanks, but I have a feeling it'll be more comfortable to stand. Haven't gotten used to the whole corset thing."

The smile broadens and she actually looks friendly for the first time since she rescued him from the taproom. "There's a reason they're called `stays'," she says. "Designed so the man can keep the little woman exactly where he wants her. Drink?"

"Yeah, please."

While she pours two fingers of rum, Xander leafs through the book uppermost on the nearest stack. It falls open to a well-worn page.

*Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave; Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease! whom slumber soothes not - pleasure cannot please - Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, The exulting sense - the pulse's maddening play, That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?*

He snorts. Byron. Figures. Of all the writers that exist before their time in this alternate universe, Byron is Spike's least favourite.

Xander remembers Spike going on and on about ol' George the last time they plundered a ship and found a copy of the *Don Juan* cantos ...

There's a lump in his throat. Spike. God. Spike. This business with Ripper and Finn casts a new light on everything.

*"Spike sold out to Angelus for a tidy sum. He and Darla of the *Scourge *launched an attack on Sunnydale weeks after you left. Fleet was destroyed, tribute taken."*

Except ... probably not. Spike never had betrayed Xander, had he? And Xander was so quick to believe the worst ...* *

Jenny Calendar hands him a glass, disrupting these maudlin thoughts. "He's not dead until he's dust," she says sympathetically.

Because he's feeling touchy, and well, because he's Xander Harris, he's not thinking when he responds, "You're not like any whore I've ever met, Ms. Calendar."

He meant it as a compliment. He really did. So he's unprepared for her slap. "Owww!" He spills rum down the front of his gown.

"Ass!"

"Hey! I'm on your side! Women of the Spanish Main Unite in Sisterhood!"

"I'm no whore!"

Xander thinks he must be bright red by now, and not just from that rather effective right hook. "Oh! I'm sorry! I just assumed--the girls back there, this place--"

"I own *this place*."

Ah. Open mouth, extract size 10 foot in beaded slippers.

"Have I not warned you a'fore now about bothering my crew?"

Xander whirls, just as Jenny Calendar snaps, "For the love of God, Jack. I'm not your crew and this is not your bloody ship."

"And more's the pity on both counts."

Jack seems inordinately cheerful. And Xander can only gape. Sparrow's colourful garb has been abandoned; gone are the bells and whistles of piracy. In their place he's wearing a plain brown cassock, and a large wooden cross. Even his facial hair is subdued and pious.

"What the hell are you supposed to be?" Xander manages after a moment.

Jack inclines his hooded head and presses his hands together in the prayer position.

Xander notices he's not wearing the Gem of Amara. He wonders where it is.

"Brother John, here to lead you down the path to salvation, good friend."

"Oh God."

"Just so," says Jack with no small satisfaction. "How do I look, Jenny me love?"

"Like a dissipated friar," she sniffs, and leaves the room.

"She's grand, isn't she?"

"Peachy-keen," says Xander. He eyes Jack's costume. "If I ask, will you tell me?"

"Have you made your decision?"

"Which decision?"

"One night. Two prisoners. And I a priest, and you a maid. Last rights can be delivered to either. Have you made your decision?"

"Spike." No hesitation. It's only been twenty-three chapters since he last saw him, but it seems like forever.

Jack cocks his head. "And here I was wagering on the lass."

"They don't want to kill Buffy. Not yet, anyway. But we don't know how much time Spike has before they stake him."

"Oh, they won't kill him," Jack says airily. "Not yet, anyway."

Xander is instantly suspicious. "How do you know that?"

"I've sources. Trust me."

"Famous last words."

"Got you this far, haven't I?"

"I was your prisoner!"

"And now you're Finn's. Interesting turn of events."

It's a Mexican stand-off. Though given their geographic location and the fact that Xander isn't totally sure what a Mexican stand-off is, it might not be.

Whatever the case, their little staring contest is broken by Jenny Calendar's return.

"Jack," she says. "The date's been set."

Xander turns to her. "Date for what?"

"Is my robe straight?" Jack asks.

"Date for what?"

Jenny Calendar's perfect eyebrows arch. "Ask him," she says.

"Is my robe straight?"

Xander lunges forward, grabs a handful of rough material between his fingers. He pulls Jack close to him, so they're nearly nose to nose. He can feel the pirate's breath hot on his face, feel that black gaze like a palpable touch.

"Date for what, Jack?"

Jack's smile flashes white and gold. "Why, the party, mate. The Governor's Ball. The big hoorah. During which I can only assume a great quantity of treasure will disappear and a scapegoat will be found."

"Spike," Xander says, feeling the blood drain from his face.

"To be sure, mate. Excepting o' course, that your Captain's been locked in the hole these many days." The pirate's grin is unholy. "Wonder who else they could possibly find to blame?"

Xander shakes his head in non-comprehension.

"Oh, come now, Mr. Harris. Don't be disappointing."

"Me?" he squeaks.

"Took him long enough," says Jenny Calendar.

*Part 26:* *In which questions are asked, and Xander ultimately provides his own answers*

The pirate is swaying along the street as though he owns it. Xander hasn't questioned how Jack's so familiar with the location and guard rotations of the Sunnydale gaol. It seems ... superfluous to ask.

Unfortunately, Jack looks as much like a cleric as Xander does a pretty woman; in other words, they're screwed.

This plan -- there *is* a plan, right? -- is doomed from the get-go. They're never going to convince the guards to let them see Spike.

Which is why he's come up with an alternate scenario.

But for now, Xander follows doggedly in Jack's wake, wincing as every rough cobblestone crams his feet deeper into the pinching slippers.

He has a sudden memory of Buffy Summers dressing behind an ornate Oriental screen with the help of her maid. She'd always insisted he stay in the room while she prepared for balls and state dinners. "Propriety be damned," she'd say. "If I'm going to suffer through the hell of being a proper lady, I need my Xander by my side. He, at least, understands."

At the time, Xander was pleased beyond the telling at this show of need and affection. However, looking back, and feeling just a wee bit fragile in his current get-up, he can't help but wonder exactly what she meant by that.

Still, that's years in the past, and it's all fond reminiscence now. Like how they'd place wagers to see how long Buffy would last before removing her slippers underneath the banquet table. Or how long Xander would go before the matrons descended on him - wanting to dance, to talk about their gout, or to (shudder) hand-feed him sweet meats out on the terrace.

No young and beautiful women ever wanted him -- not Xander. Nope. He was like a freaking magnet for the past-her-prime colonial Caribbean matriarch.

That is, until Spike came along. And that was a horse of an entirely different colour, as one might say.

******

"What are you doing here, pirate?" Righteous outrage fills Xander until he can hardly see through the red haze of fury that threatens to overwhelm him.

The blond vampire is leaning over the balcony railing, looking down into the gardens. "I've as much right as you to be here," he says. "Governor invited me, didn't she?" Spike smirks and straightens, arms lifting in a yawn. His fine linen shirt stretches taut across his chest, and Xander's cheeks flush with heat. Spike notices. "Something on your mind, Harris?"

"I want you gone." His voice is trembling, he's so angry. "Too bad, boy. Looks like I'm here until your little lady says otherwise." Spike lifts an eyebrow in challenge. *What are you going to do about it?*

There's a metallic ringing as Xander draws his sword. "I know what you're about, William the Bloody. You think to take advantage of Buffy's good nature. But you'll have to go through me first."

Spike is suddenly there beside him, crowding him. With grave deliberation, he slides his finger down the edge of Xander's blade. They both watch as a perfect drop of blood skates along the silvery surface.

"Not many things frighten me, love. Do you think you have what it takes to find one?" Spike takes a sudden, deep breath. When he speaks again his voice is rough, husky. He leans in closer, eyes heavy-lidded. "You--" he says. "You smell of fear and desire, all at once."

Spike lifts his wounded finger to Xander's mouth, and Xander shudders as he tastes the tang of blood. The hilt of the sword is slippery in his sweating palm.

"I wonder," the vampire continues, sounding almost dreamy. "Is it the desire you fear?"

Xander jerks away towards the balcony, putting as much distance as he can between him and Spike. He resheathes his sword with a clumsy motion. There's no point in killing him; no point in even trying. Not now, at least. The element of surprise is gone, and it will take at least that to get the edge over this deadly creature. And besides, he'll need more than a metal blade to do it. He'll need a heck of a lot of luck.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," Xander tells him through gritted teeth.

Spike laughs, a shivering, silky sound that rubs against Xander's skin. God. He's so tired all of a sudden. The strain of worry is finally getting to him. There's too much wealth in Sunnydale, too much rides upon that wealth getting safely to the King. Too many risks, too many chances for everything to blow up in their faces.

And Spike. Lately, for Xander, it's always come down to Spike. "I don't," he says. "I don't desire you. I hate you."

Spike is close again, crowding him against the heavy stone rail. He smells of tobacco and liquor and leather. "You've been giving me the glad eye ever since my ship put in to port. Watching me everywhere I go. Finding excuses to follow."

"I don't trust you," Xander manages. Spike's breath is cool on his face, lips mere inches from his own.

"Trust is a strange thing," Spike whispers. "Very few are deserving of trust. Would you say you were an honest man, Xander Harris?"

Xander is lost in Spike's eyes. They are blue. Deep blue. "Yes," he whispers back, feeling something within his chest clench at the intimacy of the moment. "I'm an honest man."

"Then prove it to me now," Spike says, and wraps his long fingers around the nape of Xander's neck. "Be honest," he murmurs against Xander's ear. "Do you want me?"

Blue, blue eyes. "God," says Xander, and he can't look anymore because it's making that thing in his chest clench tighter until he can barely breathe. "Yes. Yes, I want you."

Then he's straining forward, needing nothing more than to taste the other man, but Spike has stepped smoothly away, and is once again staring out into the garden.

Xander's knees nearly buckle with frustration and need; then he hears it, the sound of approaching footsteps. Buffy stands there, a small frown on her face.

"I thought I heard voices," she says. "Xander, I need your help. Surely whatever you were discussing with Spike can wait?"

He doesn't look at Spike. "Sure," he says, careful to keep his tone even. "Spike can wait."

******

"Now, you'll be needing to distract the guards, whilst I sneak into the gaol, savvy?"

They are nearly to their destination.

Xander stops in the middle of the street. Jack's still listing along, humming distractedly. He comes to a halt, however, when he loses his audience.

"What's troubling you, mate? It's not the best time, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I'm not going to the gaol," Xander tells him. "And why might that be?"

"Because it's a foolhardy plan, and you know it. I'm not stupid, Jack, no matter what you may think of me. If Giles and Finn plan on setting me up for a fall, the worst thing I could possibly do is go to that gaol. Conspiring with a captured pirate, yes, that'll look very good in my defence. And my ship! I've no idea if they're safe -- I can't risk it." *No matter how much I want to see him.* Xander finishes, "And Spike would say the same."

Jack Sparrow regards him with bright, black eyes.

"Are you an honest man?" Xander asks suddenly. "Can I trust you?"

"Hah!" Jack barks out a hard laugh, interest and amusement disappearing instantly. "Now that has got to be the worst question I've ever heard!" Wringing his hands in mock agitation, he dons a falsetto. "*Are you an honest man, Jack? Can I trust you, Jack?*" He grimaces. "God's wounds, lad! You can't ask a man that kind of thing and expect to get a proper answer. Now, I could just say `Pirate!' and be done, but that would be trite, savvy? And I may be many things, a scallywag, as me sainted mother might say, but strike me down if I ever become trite."

"What *will* you say, then? I need your bond, Captain Sparrow."

Jack sways to a halt and glowers. "Oh, you do, do you, Mr. Harris? Well, I need a summer home in the Leeward Islands, and a bloody crew I can trust not to mutiny the moment me back is turned. I need the wind in me sails and rum in me cup. I need the *Pearl* stuffed to the gunnels with gold and silver. I need jade aboard--"

"So it *is* treasure you want. You didn't plan to help Spike after all."

"Spike! Spike! Always Spike! You're more fool than I thought!" Jack shakes his head so furiously that his beads clatter tumultuously together underneath his cowled robe. "Enough! I have done!" He whirls around, and Xander takes advantage of the moment to hit him very hard on the side of the head with the hilt of the dagger Jack gave him earlier.

Jack crumples to the ground, a limp bundle of brown robes and dreadlocks.

"Sorry," Xander murmurs. And part of him is. But another part of him has been waiting a long, long time to do that.

Whistling under his breath, he steps over the pirate's prone body and turns from their previous course, headed in the opposite direction.

What was it Jenny Calendar had said? *Took him long enough.*

Maybe so, but he always gets there in the end.

Buffy needs him.

So be it.

*Part 27:* *In which a castle is breached, a dragon is stared down, and a Princess (well, technically, a Governor) is located*

The secret way into the gardens hasn't been blocked off, which in retrospect is not very surprising.

After all, only he and Buffy knew of its existence. And it's hard to believe that Buffy would have changed so much that she would get rid of her one effective escape route.

How many times had the two of them fled from lessons this way?

Xander smiles with the memory. He also recalls that Buffy used to hate maneuvering through the small gap in the wall wearing skirts. He'd always teased her, calling her a wimpy girl.

As he catches his own skirts on the clutching undergrowth for the fiftieth time in as many seconds, he decides he owes her an apology. Yeah. Possibly several apologies. For all manner of sins.

When he reaches the side of the Governor's Mansion, he hesitates. She's married now, he thinks. Where would her room be? She always preferred a smaller, more accessible chamber to an ostentatious one, but then he recalls the reality that is Sir Riley Finn. Would that dipshit pass up the chance to live in the lap of luxury?

Now it's time for another decision. Trust his weight to the fragile trellis underneath that window, or brazen his way in using his disguise?

Another memory: torches illuminating the garden. Shouts and curses from the soldiers milling below. Rupert Giles ushering Buffy away from the window, deeper into the mansion for safety. Xander watching as two armed men are pulled from the trellis and taken to the dungeons. Hanged the next day. They were clearly visible in the moonlight against the pale walls of the building.

Huh. Servant's entrance it is.

Through some benign miracle, luck with him tonight. No one challenges him as he walks through the kitchens like he belongs there. Just a really ugly member of the lower classes back from her evening off. No livery, but the proper level of subservience and grime. A down-turned head, an air of purpose, and a purloined tea tray. Nothing to see, move along.

This would not have been the case five years ago. As Xander climbs the servant's stairs in the west wing of the mansion, he reflects that Joyce, the old housekeeper, never would have allowed her household to fall into such disarray. He wonders what ever happened to her.

Five years. A lot can happen in five years. If anyone knows that, it's Xander.

*******

Xander can't figure out what he's doing here.

He sits in the crow's nest, clutching the rigging with one white-knuckled hand. Four gulls circle overhead, their cries blending with the rushing of the wind and the pounding of the surf against the hull of the *Black Pearl.*

Far off on the horizon there is ... nothing. Not land nor sail. Sunnydale is leagues away. And Xander is way out of *his* league.

Below him, on deck, the crew of the pirate ship *Chaos* are going about their business. He can hear them shouting to one another, singing snatches of song as they haul in the canvas. Over by the starboard rail, three sailors are intent on a pair of bone dice and a stack of copper coins.

Up in the crow's nest, things are very cold and very damp and very miserable. Plus he's pretty sure he's going to be seasick in a matter of minutes. Xander decides he'd better climb down. The solitude's been nice, but projectile vomiting on the heads of a crew of renowned butchers and fearsome buccaneers might not be the best way to start off this adventure.

It's the third day of this. Tiresome, much?

He's back on deck, leaning out to sea and heaving like a whore's bosom, when Ethan Rayne comes up behind him. Actually, "scares the shit out of him" would be the more accurate term.

"Gah!" Xander can't conceal his surprise, and hurriedly wipes the back of his hand across salt-chapped lips.

Rayne, the first mate, and another damned Englishman, is looking at Xander as though he's some particularly fascinating species of circus animal. But there's humour there, and Xander's relieved to see it. Maybe he's not as unwelcome as he thought he was.

Or ... maybe he is. Because just then two of the crew pass by, and Xander catches the words "Spike" and "catamite".

Rayne reaches out, grabbing the nearest man by the collar. "Oi! There'll be none of that, Baker, or you'll answer to the Captain. You remember what happened to the last poor devil who answered to the Captain?"

The sailor looks terrified.

"There's no problem here, Mr. Rayne," Xander says, anxious not to make enemies. This, as it turns out, is the absolute wrong thing to do.

Both men stare at him: one with consternation, the other with derision.

And Spike says from behind them all, "Oh, I think I'll be the judge of any problems on my ship, Harris, don't you?" His tone is icier than the spray lancing over the bow.

*Fuckfuckfuckfuck.*

What is he--

******

"--doing here?"

Xander crashes back to the present and sinks as fast as he can into a little curtsy. He's not sure who the harridan with the gimlet stare is, but she's probably the new chatelaine judging from the keys hanging around her blocky midriff. And certainly of higher status than the bedraggled kitchen wench he's trying to pass himself off as.

"Her Ladyship rang for tea," he squeaks. "Indeed. And why has Annie not brought it?"

"I don't know, ma'am." Keep it simple, though he'd like to ask Her High and Mightiness why her household is in such chaos if she's so bloody conscientious. Maybe it's just him. He tends to bring out the "persecute" in people.

The woman sniffs and comes closer. "This is highly irregular. And what is your name, girl? I don't recall seeing you before."

Xander is about to hit the woman over the head with the silver salver when the door behind them opens. His breath catches in his throat.

A petite brunette stands there in a lawn nightrail, her hair down around her shoulders, her face pale and drawn. "What is this wretched commotion?" she asks in a peevish tone. "I'm trying to rest."

He almost says her name, but stops himself just in time. Instead, he sinks into a deeper curtsey, but raises his head, allowing her to see his eyes. It's a risk, but a calculated one. He waits.

He can see the moment of recognition clearly. Buffy blinks, once, twice, and her mouth opens then closes.

"That will be all, Mrs. Osborne." She doesn't look away from Xander.

"My lady--"

"Bring the tea," Buffy says, and steps back into her bedchamber. Without waiting for Mrs. Osborne to protest, Xander hurries in after her.

*Part 28:* *In which Buffy and Xander meet again for the first time in five years, and it becomes increasingly clear that the author watched the Johnny Depp vehicle `Nick of Time' recently*

The first thing Buffy does is to disappear through the connecting door to the adjoining bedchamber.

Xander stands stiffly in the centre of the room, clutching his damned tray in sweating fingers. He's located a small table, and is just setting the thing down, when Buffy comes back into the room carrying a bundle of men's clothing and some shoes.

Tossing them to him, she says shortly, "Put these on. You look ridiculous."

She stares out the window into the gardens while he hastily changes. It seems to Xander that judging by their quality, the garments must belong to Finn. Luckily, they are a close enough fit that he's comfortable for the first time in hours. Comfortable physically, that is.

Mentally, he's squirming. Buffy seems so strange - ethereal, even. Inaccessible; not the bright and straightforward lady he left behind. He wonders how he seems to her, then tamps down on the thought. He just came out of nowhere, dressed in tawdry women's clothing, after running away to be with his male lover, a sailor. Probably, he doesn't *want* to know how he seems to her.

Then he hates himself for making it All.About.Xander, yet again. There are no doubt other, more important, things she's seeing when she looks at him. Betrayer of trust, for instance. And in a few minutes, the guy who's gonna ruin her marriage.

He dips his head down and studies the patterns in the costly rug.

Bearer of bad news? Check. Harbinger of doom? Also present. Just please, oh please, Buffy. Don't shoot the messenger.

"Xander," she says. He can feel her eyes on him, and doesn't look up. "Yeah. Hi."

Silence.

So he steels himself, girds metaphorical loins, sticks his courage to the sticking place -- and where *is* that, anyway? -- and stares her right in her gorgeous green-hazel eyes. Which are clouded with pain, and so big in her pale, thin face that he's momentarily taken aback. And then filled with rage.

Those *fuckers*.

The silence drags on, but this time it's because he's shaking so hard he can't trust himself to speak. He knew they were poisoning her, they admitted it in his hearing; but to actually see Buffy like this, she who had never been sick a day in her life -- it's almost unbearable.

*God, she looks as though the slightest breeze might blow her over.*

"Do you want to lie down?"

Her lips are white with strain, but she says, "I'd rather stand." There's a trace of impatience in her voice.

*Get on with it.* "Okay." He looks up, into her face. Though he's been practicing this speech for five years, it's damn hard to get the words out. "Listen, Buffy. I'm sorry I left you alone."

"You are. How nice for you. Save it, Xander. I don't want to hear it."

"And I'm sorry about that, too, Buffy. But believe me--"

"If you say it was for my own good, I'll break every bone in your body. You know I can do it."

"Twice over," he says, and smiles faintly. Just like old times. Except not. She doesn't return the smile. "Spike ... I know you felt you had no choice in bringing him to Sunnydale, and who knows? You may have been right. But I couldn't trust that to luck, Buffy. I was sure he was planning something. We made a bargain. And part of that bargain was that I'd leave to. It was to ensure Sunnydale's safety--"

"You left because you were sleeping with him. You were bored of living with me, Xander. You hated it here. Just admit it. For once in your life, stop lying to yourself. You were bored of me and you were bored of Sunnydale, so you took the first chance you could and you left."

Her eyes are bright and her chest rises rapidly with the force of her bitterness. Xander can't meet her gaze for long; he paces to the bed and sits down, burying his head in his hands.

When he speaks again, his voice is muffled. "You're wrong. Not about all of it ... yeah, I was sleeping with Spike. It just ... happened. Things like that, they just *happen.* I can't explain it." He shrugs. "And yeah, I shouldn't have just disappeared like I did. I was scared, Buffy." There's a pause. "It's hard for you to understand, maybe, because you've never been scared. You're my hero, Buff. You always have been. I mean, how many other girls could deal with the responsibilities you've had. Girls - hell, how many *people*, period? I know it's not been easy for you, and you have my greatest respect--"

"But not your love."

He glances up sharply. "What?"

Her laughter is sharp as knives. "I always thought you loved me, Xander."

"I do love you, Buffy. I always did. But not in that way."

"You did once."

"That was a long time ago."

"You were my brother, Xander. The only one I could trust. The only one I could turn to. The only one who *understood*."

"I know," he whispers. "And at the time when I needed your help, your support, your guidance the most, you deserted me. Ran off with my *enemy*."

"No!" Xander runs a hand raggedly through his hair. "Buffy, I was trying to stop something like that from happening! And I did! Spike had nothing to do with Angelus coming. I swear to you, we were leagues away!" The minute the last sentence is out of his mouth he regrets it. Leagues away when she needed him most.

Her expression is cold. "Then how do you explain the fact that Captain Angelus had details of our defenses that only someone on the inside could know? Spike betrayed us. Who else could have?"

This is it. The opening he's been waiting for. His mouth is suddenly very dry. He says, quietly, "Rupert Giles."

Buffy laughs. She laughs and it's the saddest sound he's ever heard. "That's weak, Xander. Really fucking weak."

"It's the truth. Ripper's been working for himself all along - maybe things went sour at the last minute and he lost his leg, but I'm telling you, Buffy: He's the one who betrayed you to Angelus, and he's back here now to do it again."

"Rupert has every right to come back to Sunnydale if he wishes. It's his home." Buffy winces then, as though in pain.

He resists the urge to cross to her; instead, he says, "He plotted against you then and he's plotting against you now." He takes a deep breath. "And your husband is involved."

"My husband?" Buffy shakes her head, a faint smile playing over thinned lips. "So this is what you and that pirate lover of yours have concocted, is it? You knew about the wealth gathered in Sunnydale right now, and you decided that once wasn't enough? You had to have more?"

"No!"

"I must admit, Xander. I was surprised to see you here tonight. But I've been wondering when you'd show up here in Sunnydale, given that your lover is in my gaol. Did it spoil your plans, to have him captured? Are you here to plead for clemency? Because I should tell you right now: don't hold your breath. I have a grand finale planned for my ball, and William the Bloody is the guest of honour."

Oh, God. Xander feels the blood drain from his face at these words, spoken without an ounce of compassion, or hell, even interest. She's going to execute Spike and doesn't give a damn one way another.

Or maybe she does. Xander suddenly notices that she's trembling violently. There's a strain to her face that wasn't there a moment ago.

In desperation, Xander tries again. "Buffy, think about it! Why are you so sick? You're being poisoned! Finn is deliberately putting you out of commission so you can't find out what he's up to."

"That's utterly ridiculous. He loves me." But she's had to sit on a nearby chair now, as though her strength has finally given way.

"I swear to you, Buffy. I never intended to come back to Sunnydale like this. Neither did Spike. One day I hoped you might forgive me, but that's not why I'm here now. But I *am* here, and by luck--" and the confounded machinations of Jack Sparrow "--I've discovered what's going on. I can help you. Let me help you, Buffy."

"Xander--"

"You're not getting better, are you?"

There's a long pause. "No," she whispers.

"Listen," he says. "I'm staying at an inn here in town. Actually, hiding, to be perfectly honest."

"Xander--"

"Buffy. Please. You must listen to me. I don't expect you to trust me, but I just ask you to listen."

"You're jealous," she tells him. "You're jealous that I found someone to love me, who could deal with the fact that I was the Governor and he wasn't. You're jealous that I'm happy."

"Oh, Buffy," Xander says helplessly. "You're so wrong. Oh, you're so wrong. I want nothing but happiness for you." He rises off the bed and goes to kneel by her chair. He takes her cold hand in his, and she doesn't resist. She's so fragile-looking, it's breaking his heart. "But Finn--"

At the mention of her husband's name, Buffy goes stiff and pulls away. Slowly Xander climbs to his feet and jams his hands in his pockets. "Is Jane Davitt still employed here?" he asks.

Jane is of an age with them, and an upper parlour maid. Her mother was Joyce, the housekeeper.

Clearly baffled by this change of subject, Buffy replies, "Yes, of course. But--"

"Make sure Jane brings you all your meals, Buffy. She'll know who to trust in the kitchens. Don't eat or drink anything else."

"You're insane!"

"Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, what have you got to lose?"

Only your life, he thinks, but he doesn't say it.

"Go away, Xander."

There's no point in lingering. He's done all he can for now. "I'm staying at the Siren's Anchor if you need me." There's no reply to this gesture of trust. With one leg over the balcony railing, he pauses; looks back. "It was nice to see you again, Buffy," he says. "I ... I missed you."

He just hopes he hasn't made things worse.

*Part 29:* *In which there is a brief pause in action during the still watches of the night*

It's late when he edges carefully into the back rooms at the Siren's Anchor. Or maybe it's early. All Xander knows is that the still quiet of the darkest reaches of the night has settled over the town. Not even the whores are plying their wares in the deserted, windy streets.

He wonders how his crew his doing when he passes the docks. Tries to think of the best way to contact them without Finn finding out.

Wonders when the men and women of the *Chaos* became his crew in the first place.

******

"Close the door behind you." Spike's voice is curt and unfriendly, two things that don't do anything good for the queasy butterflies rioting in Xander's stomach. For a hideous, unspeakable moment he thinks he might throw up again, this time on the Captain's finely-woven Oriental rug - booty no doubt from a Dutch merchantman or perhaps a Spaniard's galleon.

Spike watches him dispassionately, then motions to a chair. Grateful beyond measure, Xander sinks down. Somehow sitting feels a little steadier than standing on the relentlessly shifting deck.

"You're bloody poor excuse for a sailor," Spike observes. "Yeah." He draws out the word into a kind of sigh. Really, though, it's all he can say. Of course he's a crappy sailor! What did Spike think? That Ma Harris's land-lubbing boy would take to the sea like a fish to -- huh. That's not the right expression, is it?

"Well?"

There's an expectant kind of pause. It takes Xander a second or two to realize this because he's too busy looking around Spike's quarters in astonishment. They're ... nice. And okay, yeah. He's surprised.

This is the guy, after all, who wears the same outfit every day. Even when faced with the state-dinner-planning wrath of the Caribbean's number one *fashionata*, Governor Buffy Summers. Even when it's broiling hot or storming wet. Leather duster. Linen shirt. Bleached hair. Boots. What this season's obsessive vampire sea-captain is wearing.

Take a peek at his cabin, though, and you'd never equate the simple elegance with his rough exterior.

"This is, uh, quite the place," Xander says finally. God, he hates this. He hates not knowing what to say or what to touch or how to stop lusting after the evil undead. He hates not knowing, period. He's spent most of his life clueless in one way, shape, or form, but not in the ways that matter. He's always been aware of his position in the lives of those people that were important to him. Here on Spike's ship? Totally and utterly adrift. And yes, he's aware of what a terrible pun that is.

Spike doesn't respond; just watches him now with the ghost of a smirk.

And because the only place any of this makes sense is in the vampire's arms, Xander gets up off his chair and kisses that mouth until the smirk fades completely away.

******

The room is lost in shadows, though one candle gutters sporadically on the table in the corner of the room.

Jack Sparrow is slouched in a ripped velvet armchair, the little girl a rapt audience at his feet. One long-fingered hand rests idly, the other is outstretched. He's maneuvering a golden coin so quickly through his fingers that it's a barely-seen blur. Only the clicking of metal against his rings - but still not the Gem of Amara - marks its passage.

When the door creaks shut behind Xander the girl is gone, faster even than the coin, which disappears into the folds of Jack's clothing. It's then that Xander notices that Jack's cream shirt gapes open revealing his hard, bronze chest, and that he's wearing sash on waist and scarf in hair. Boots and lampblack, too. His effects - pistol, sword, compass - lie close at hand.

The monk's robes are nowhere to be seen, likely in the hands of the redoubtable Ms. Calendar. Xander's pistol, appropriated from a negligent guard at the Governor's Mansion, is solid and cold in his coat pocket.

Standing there silently, Xander watches the pirate watch him. Jack's dark eyes reveal nothing, but his fingers are now rubbing with a gentle squeak against the velvet squabs of the chair.

Jack stirs and speaks. "And how was your lovely lassie?"

"Ill," Xander replies. "And stubborn."

A gold tooth gleams as the pirate's lips curl in a slight smile. "Women, eh?"

"Yeah."

They go back to the silent watchfulness. "I'm not going to apologize for hitting you," says Xander.

"Wasn't expectin' it, mate."

"Okay. Good."

"Nice hat."

Sheepishly, Xander reaches up to remove the ridiculous thing. Damn Finn. Should have figured him for the ostrich feather type. He's convinced Buffy gave it to him as some kind of warped revenge.

The instant his hand lets go of the pistol in his pocket, there's a sword tip pricking at his throat. Xander freezes.

Jack's on his feet, waiting with a smile at the end of the blade. He cocks his head invitingly. "How's about you drop that weapon, mate?"

Carefully, only daring to move slowly, Xander reaches for it. "I don't think so," says Jack. "Take the coat off, mate." The sharp tip of the blade dances across his skin; teasing, but not yet drawing blood. "Never trust a pirate, lad. Especially not one you've just brained of an evening."

"Pirates hold grudges?" He lets the coat fall to the ground and kicks it away across the room. Jack merely smiles and backs him up until Xander's legs hit the armchair, and he folds ungracefully into it. The sword is still at his throat.

"Pirates aren't stupid, mate; well, most, at any rate. What kind of deal did you make with your doxy?"

"Deal?"

"We can do this the hard way, Mr. Harris. But that cuts into me drinking time and we can't be having that. Not to mention, the lovely proprietor of this establishment doesn't like blood on her upholstery. Savvy?"

Xander leans back in the chair, trying to evade the blade. But Jack's not having any of it. His voice is deadly serious as he says, "If you've put me *Pearl* in danger, I *will* kill you."

Xander brings up his left forearm, shoving the blade out of the way, and feeling it cut lightly into his flesh. But with his right hand, he grabs Jack's pistol off the nearby table, and swings it up to aim at the pirate. "I didn't mention you, Captain Sparrow. You have my word."

Jack seems more amused than chagrined. "The word of a man who's aiming me pistol at my head?"

"It's the only word you're going to get."

"And what word is that, mate?"

Smiling, Xander stands up, letting the pistol drop to his side. Jack's lowered the sword, and they stand there, smiling and looking at each other.

"You're a devil, Jack Sparrow," he says. "So I've been told."

Xander crosses the room to stand close in front of the pirate. Jack smells sweet, like cane sugar and poppies. There's a current of something in the air; maybe it's anger, but he doesn't think so. Something akin to anger, then -- passion, desire. Genuine liking and mutual respect, which makes everything that much more dangerous.

Yes. Dangerous. Definitely.

Xander remembers the way Jack was that morning on the *Pearl*, the sheen of bathwater and the drugged lazy sensuality. The scented smoke in the air. He remembers the witch's vision, of him taking what he wanted. It's a heady memory. The mood here in this room makes it seem as though anything is possible with such intimacy.

He wants to kiss Jack Sparrow again. Taste the rum-flavoured lips. Touch that glorious dark hair.

He bends closer.

There's a cough from behind them. Spell broken, Xander whirls around, nearly falling in his haste to get away from the pirate.

Jenny Calendar is standing in the doorway, hands on hips. "You'll be wanting a place to bunk down, I expect," she says. "Or will you be sharing with our Jack?"

"My own will be fine," Xander replies hurriedly. Jack doesn't say anything.

"Everything's set for tomorrow, Jack," she continues dispassionately. Then she raises her eyebrows at Xander. "You're bleeding. Might want to see to that."

"Yeah, right. Thanks." He turns to Jack, whose eyes are heavy-lidded and watchful. "Tomorrow?"

The pirate shrugs with one of his expressive, fluid motions. "You weren't the only one making plans, mate."

*Part 30:* *In which it is the night before the night to end all nights. Plans are formed. And Xander frets, which is possibly his one good talent and no great surprise*

Xander's never been one for the speechifying.

He tries to explain this to Jack, using small, simple words and concepts so that even the most bewildering pirate in creation won't find a way to confuse them both. "Truth is," says Xander, "I haven't got the foggiest idea of what to tell them."

The Siren's Anchor is packed with raucous patrons, the evening crowd here for their evening's ale and wenching. Nothing out of the ordinary, but for the group seated at the table in the corner. And even then, nothing that might catch the eye of the casual observer, if one disregards their air of repressed excitement and expectancy. They're waiting, you see. Waiting for him to march on over, sit himself down, open his mouth, and rally them to the cause.

Question is -- and it's a life or death one, really - will they like what he's got to say?

"I wish you'd have mentioned all this to me before," Xander tells Jack, for the twentieth time in ten minutes.

But Jack's not listening. Jack's doing that damn swaying thing he does when he's been drinking too much - strike that, the damn swaying thing he does all the time. And he's drinking straight from a bottle that seems to have appeared out of nowhere, which, surprise surprise, he also does all the time. So wait ... maybe the swaying and the drinking *are*--

"See, mate, the entire point here was to be inconspicuous. You casting them the glad eye every three seconds won't help us to achieve that worthy goal."

"Sorry."

"Not getting any younger," the pirate observes. "Huh."

Jack smiles then, that hint of white and gold that can drive a grown man to yank the bottle right out of a certain pirate captain's hands and down it himself. "If you're waiting for the opportune moment, mate, *this* is it."

"Yup."

"So?"

"So. I'm going."

"You're pinker than a maid on her wedding day."

"I'm not," Xander mumbles, and shoots yet another anxious look at the table. It shouldn't be so bad ... Nothing to worry about. After all, he knows all of the people at the table, except for the burly, dull-looking fellow who's watching his companions with thinly-veiled suspicion and dislike. "Who's that?"

"Hmmm?" Jack's busy: there's a barmaid that he's been watching serve a nearby table.

"That guy at the table. Not one of ours."

Jack squints along the length of Xander's arm. "Oh, *him*." He goes back to watching the woman.

Searching for the happy, patient place, Xander says. "Who is he?"

"Member of the Governor's guard. Thought he might be useful to have on-side, savvy?"

Xander frowns. "What did you promise him?"

But Jack's already wandered off.

******

The night is warm and still. Xander sits outside and thinks that it might be the perfect time for a smoke, if only he did that kind of thing. Spike always used to walk the deck in the evenings. He'd come back to bed smelling like sweet tobacco and whiskey. And Xander would wrap his fingers around the leather collar, and--

"Nice night."

He glances over at Jenny Calendar, whose tall, straight figure seems even more imposing by moonlight than it does by candlelight.

"Storm coming," he ventures warily. There's such a fierceness to her pale face; he doesn't wish to offend.

But she seems in the mood for company, and laughs. "You sound like Jack. Is there really a storm coming?"

He offers her a grin and shakes his head. "Hell if I know. Probably not. Five years at sea and I still can't use a compass."

"I suppose you can't swim, either?"

"Not very well. Plus there's the whole scared of fish thing."

"I admit, I was surprised to see you with Jack."

Xander folds his arms and leans against the stone wall of the tavern. "It wasn't exactly planned. He won me in a poker game."

Jenny Calendar sniffs. "Everything with Jack Sparrow is planned. Mark my words. Not much gets by that man."

"What do you mean?"

She seems impatient with the questioning. "Exactly what I said."

There's silence for a bit. Xander bends down and takes a bit of dirt and gravel in his hands. Rubs it between his fingers thoughtfully.

"Grew up here, did you?"

"Sorry?"

She nods to the earth in his cupped palm. Xander feels a bit of heat rise in his cheeks. "Yeah. All my life. I ... I didn't know how much I'd missed it. What about you? Are you a local?"

She tilts her head, looks up at the dangling sign of the tavern with the first soft expression Xander has seen cross her face. "From Port Royale originally. Married old Snyder Calendar and ended up here. When the bastard died, I took over the Anchor."

"And prospered," Xander observes. "No thanks to scoundrels like Jack Sparrow."

He couldn't have asked for a better segue. "How long have know him?"

"Jack?" Another barking laugh. "Too long! And if you listen to him, he'll have you believing I'm one of his damned crew, though I've never been and never will be." Xander waits, not daring to press, but desperately hoping she continues. She gives him a bright look. "Met him years ago, when I was but a girl. My father was an innkeeper in Port Royale. Young Jack-o was one of his favourite customers. 'Course, back then, he wasn't yet a captain. Fresh from the *Scourge* and wet behind the ears. Been friends ever since, though if friendship's give and take, I'll let you guess who's done most the taking."

"Did you know Spike, too, then?"

"William the Bloody?" Her lips curve and Xander's reminded of what a pretty woman she is behind the scowl. "Every lady knew our William."

Yeargh. That could officially be filed under T for too much information. Something of his discomfort must communicate itself to her, because she laughs yet again and changes the subject.

"And how did your little meeting go? Convince them, did you?"

"Promised them money." There's a pause before he admits, "Threatened them with consequences."

"Your Captain Spike is not a man I'd wish to be on the wrong side of."

"No. He's not." *But how many people know the other side of him? The right side? The side that I know? The side we're going to save.* "It went as well as it could possibly go," he tells her. "According to the guardsman, Spike's being moved to the Mansion at dawn. Apparently there's going to be a big finale to tomorrow's celebrations. It would be a huge help if we knew we could count on the Governor's support." Xander winces. Then, because the words have to be said, and he'd rather say them to her than to Jack, he continues, "I doubted Spike myself ... how am I supposed to have convinced Buffy of his innocence, when I myself couldn't believe it?" Then he voices the fear that's been plaguing him all day. "This isn't going to work without her."

They stare at each other in silence and he thinks maybe he sees some sympathy on Jenny's face. Then, there's a flood of yellow light, and a crowd of laughing patrons -- finally, the last of them -- disgorges onto the street. With backslaps and belches they fade into the night.

Jenny Calendar sighs. "Well, I'd best be getting back inside. The preparations for tomorrow won't be making themselves."

"I think I'll stay out here a little longer. Goodnight."

She gives him an inscrutable look, but Xander feels as though some invisible barrier has been crossed -- they might never be friends, but now they are allies.

"Goodnight, Mr. Harris."

******

Xander's still leaning against the wall, staring thoughtfully at the night, when the black coach rumbles up the narrow cobblestone street.

And he barely has a chance to blink before three armed men bundle him inside said coach and slam the door.

*Part 31:**In which the final pieces of the plan fall into place. It's good to have a plan*

* *

The inside of the coach is shadowed, but there's no mistaking its occupants.

"Buffy!"

"Insolence!" comes a swift rebuke and a blow to the solar plexus that leaves Xander bent double, gasping for air.

"Wesley! Stop it! For God's sake!"

Outside the coach, there's a shout to the horses and the sound of the armed outriders scrambling back into place. With a creak and a rumble the coach starts up.

Xander straightens up, eyes still tearing. "Gee, nice to see you, too, *Wesley.*"

"That's Commodore Wyndham-Pryce to the likes of you."

"Have you told Spike to call you that? I can think of several names he probably prefers."

"Why you--"

"Boys!" Buffy's voice cuts through the tension in the coach. Her eyes glitter fever bright in the gloom. "Cease this arguing at once! We haven't the time, and I lack the inclination!"

Xander and Wyndham-Pryce lock gazes. The Englishman's expression makes it clear that he is less than pleased to be here. Xander got that message, thanks; he's got the bruise to prove it. But he doesn't give a flying rat's ass if Wesley the Wanker Wyndham-Pryce thinks Buffy's doing the right thing.

The important part is she's here. And that means ... what *does* that mean exactly?

The answer to that question comes with her next words. "It seems as though you were correct. My husband has been conspiring against me. Trying to mur--"

She can't even say it, but he can see the horror of it writ large upon her delicate features. "Oh, Buffy."

"Yes," she says. "Well. These things happen, don't they?" She looks away, out the window to the darkened street.

Xander fights the urge to take Buffy's hand. What he wants to say is "They don't have to" but he doesn't because no one knows better than he that loving the wrong person isn't something you can deliberately choose not to do.

Instead he simply asks, "How?" Beside him, Wyndham-Pryce stirs.

Still staring out the window, Buffy says, "I didn't believe you. Of course I didn't. But I couldn't understand why you would risk everything by coming to me. And I remembered--" Here she darts him a quick look. "You've done a lot of stupid things in your time, Xander, but you don't lie."

Wyndham-Price says, "Governor, I must protest--"

"Commodore." It's all she says. Clearly unhappy, the man falls silent. Buffy sighs and continues, "I decided it would do no harm to have Jane prepare my meals personally, as you suggested." Her fingers drum an erratic rhythm on the door to the coach. "I felt better almost immediately. Then Riley ... my husband ... then he came to my room and tried to get me to eat. I told him I wasn't hungry. He insisted." Buffy's face is ghost-pale in the gloom. "He was ... quite unlike himself. He said that tomorrow's ball was very important and that it was absolutely necessary for me to be there. That I should keep my strength up. When I said no, I didn't want to--"

"I'm sorry," Xander whispers. She shakes her head. "No. It's just hard--"

He doesn't say anything. Telling her "Yeah, betrayal hurts"? Will only end up reflecting badly on him.

"He shoved the food at me. Like I was a disobedient child! I had to ... I had to pretend to swallow just so he'd leave me alone. Then he spoke of plans for the ball. I told him that I had reconsidered bringing Spike from the prison."

Xander can't quite stop his sudden intake of breath. Buffy doesn't look, but he can feel the Commodore shift on the velvet seat cushions and turn to watch him.

"He grew even more agitated. Told me I was feverish, that I was in no condition to make decisions like that. He called for my maid, had her bundle me into bed! Then he told me he'd take care of everything. Not to worry my pretty little head about it. He'd handle my responsibilities while I was ill!"

Buffy makes an impatient, furious gesture, and Wyndham-Pryce hastens to pass her a flask. She drinks deeply, then she says, "I was ... suspicious. Angry. Hurt. So as soon as I was alone, I left my bed. I followed him."

"And?" Xander prompts, ignoring the intense disapproval of the man beside him.

"He went to his study where he wrote a sealed letter, then left it on the tray in the hallway to be delivered. When he was gone, I opened it!" This last is said with a trace of the old Buffy defiance that has been so missing from the woman in front of Xander. He could almost cheer to hear it, but he wants desperately to know the contents of that letter.

"It read, *`Ripper -- hope everything is set on your end. Don't worry about Buffy. I've got everything under control. -Finn*."

The clipped tones of the Commodore break the silence that falls after this revelation. "My lady, I am appalled that I knew nothing of this disgraceful business. My failure is reprehensible. In fact, if you wish for my resignation for dereliction of duty--"

"Wesley. Don't be ridiculous. You know that I need your loyalty more than ever now." Buffy places her hand on his, and some unspoken message seems to pass between them.

"Yes, my lady." Wyndham-Pryce's ramrod shoulders relax slightly as Xander's eyebrow shoots skyward. *Well, well, well.*

Buffy turns to glare at him, anger feeding her the energy she needs to battle her weakness. "Xander, don't expect much from me. You are in no way forgiven for what you did. Nor is Spike."

"But?"

"But there are certainly more pressing issues to deal with tonight. Like treason." The coach sways to a halt. Buffy glances out the window. "This is where you get out, Xander." Reaching into her cloak, she pulls out a wrapped package. "Here are invitations, some money. You'll take your vampire, and you'll go. I never want to have to deal with you again." The door is opened by one of the guards. "Now go."

"Buffy. Thank you. This is more than I hoped--"

She's resting her head against the velvet squabs of the coach, looking paler than ever. "Just go," she repeats.

Xander climbs out of the coach. He looks back, needing to say something further to her, but Wyndham-Pryce is blocking the way. "This isn't over, Harris," the commodore hisses.

Xander takes in Wyndham-Pryce's set jaw, his clenched fists. "Yeah," he says finally. "It pretty much is."

When the coach is gone, Xander opens the package. The promised gifts, and something unexpected. His father's pistol, left in the haste of the flight from Sunnydale, five years ago. The only piece of his family life he'd ever valued. And Buffy knows that.

No forgiveness? Perhaps. But certainly trust. Xander just hopes he won't disappoint.

*Part 32:* *In which you are cordially invited to the Governor's Ball*

* *

Xander stares with bemusement at the champagne fountain. He tries again, unsuccessfully, to fill his fluted glass. All around him, the *glitterati* of the Spanish Main mingle and mince and show off their designer evening wear. On the orchestra's balcony overlooking the ballroom, Dingoes Ate My Baby, Guadeloupe's hottest dance sensation, is playing a funkadelic rendition of Pachabel's *Canon in D*. And here's Xander, admitted through pseudo-invitation and earnestly trying not to get delicate pink champagne punch all over his frock coat.

It's quite the party. In fact, the entire thing reminds him of something out of the opening scenes of *Mission: Impossible.* He and Spike went to see the flick in Maracaibo. Xander remembers Spike telling him dismissively afterwards that Tom Cruise had been captured and was now male slave to Donna Penelope Cruz, renegade daughter of the Spanish Ambassador, and a ravisher of booty more fearsome than even Captain Darla.

Xander just hopes things won't turn out as badly at this party as they did in the movie. Though an unscripted cameo by Emilio Estevez tonight might be kinda fun.

He's just spilled his third glass of punch, and nearly knocked the fruit platter off the table with the ornamental sword at his waist, when he notices a familiar face amongst the thronging guests. He kind of flattens himself behind an ornate pillar, and smiles vaguely at the hook-nosed debutante in puce giving him a strange look from beside the hors d'oeuvres.

Xander is supposed to be keeping a low profile in case someone recognizes him. Not that it's a huge probability, because other than the servants, the guests here tonight aren't exact the type who are big on noticing people other than themselves. The dark-haired guy Xander has just seen falls somewhere into a third category. It's Jonathan, Buffy's personal secretary. One of the kids he grew up with.

Surreptitiously, Xander watches Jonathan work the crowd, finding immense pleasure in the diminutive man's new confidence. Among the last things he and Buffy had discussed before he left with Spike was Jonathan's appointment as Secretary. It seems the work agrees with him.

In the background, Travers, the butler, intones, "Sir Richard Wilkins the Third. Miss Harmony Kendall. Lady Annie Swell-Jinnings." The band starts playing "Paint It Black".

Xander wonders about the whereabouts of Jack Sparrow. He hasn't seen the pirate since early that morning. Doesn't even know what Jack planned to wear. And since Xander still hasn't been able to get Jack's cryptic comment about being too recognizable in a gown from his mind, part of him doesn't even want to know.

He glances back towards the punch and sees that a servant has laid out a tray of already-filled glasses. Finally! He takes a sip and discovers that it's quite good. He takes a bigger sip. Yup. Only the best for Governor Summers. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Finn working the crowd. Ducking back behind the pillar he amends that thought. Only the best for the man who would be Governor. Gah. It's enough to make him ill.

Travers announces: "Lady Tracy Ransome. Mr. Warren Meeks, Esquire."

Xander fiddles with the stem of his champagne flute and decides he's actually more conspicuous hiding by the snack table than he would be if he just mingled. So he begins a leisurely circuit of the room.

"Lady Gwendolyn Post. Lieutenant Theodore Ellis."

Near the entry to the gold-and-ivory ballroom he spots a cluster of guardsmen. They are speaking to Commodore Wyndham-Pryce, resplendent in his scarlet dress uniform and a big pretentious hat.

Xander sidles closer in time to hear, "Commodore, Olaf the Destroyer is at the gate! He claims he lost his invitation." He can't stifle his grin, and unfortunately Wyndham-Pryce chooses that exact moment to glance up and notice him. The Commodore's frosty glare is enough to make his men shift uncomfortably, but Xander merely salutes mockingly and continues walking the periphery of the dance floor.

Needlessly antagonizing authority figures, huh? Clearly he's been spending wayyy too much time with pirates.

"Her Magnificence, the Dread Goddess Glorificus!" There's a note of excitement in the old butler's voice, and an expectant murmuring in the crowd. Xander cranes his neck, hoping for a glimpse of the new arrival. He catches a brief view of golden curls before he bumps into someone standing in front of him.

"Oops! I'm sorry! How rude--" Xander's apology dies on his lips. The woman in front of him is a vision in black lace and scarlet silk. Ebony hair falls loose and wild around her shoulders, in direct contrast to the upswept and powdered coiffures of the other women in the room. Her lips are the same sinful red as her dress, and by all that's unholy--is that the swell of breasts above her daring bodice?

Anamaria sure cleans up purdy.

She's staring at him with those fierce black eyes he remembers from his time aboard the *Pearl*, and he wonders how many concealed weapons this "lady" is carrying.

The band strikes up a remix of "Hot in Herre" on the harpsichord. She's still staring at him, only this time, holding up her hand to be kissed. No, not to be kissed. Showing him her dance card, tied with a black silk ribbon around her wrist.

"Might I have this dance, lady?" he asks loudly, for the benefit of any eavesdroppers. She curtsies and as Xander opens the little card, he can't help but marvel at the adaptability of these pirates. One part rogue, another part player, and to keep up with Jack Sparrow--

It's not a dance card at all. It's a message. One that reads *Third floor, second bedroom to the right.* They've found Spike. Xander nods slightly and pretends to fill in his name for the second waltz. Then he offers Anamaria a bow and heads for the stairs.

Looks like the party's just getting started.

*Part 33:* *In which the author proves that she can drag anything out. Anything. Especially the return of Spike to this story. And she can make you LIKE it*

* *

He's nervous.

He can't believe it.

Left life as he knew it to sail with pirates. Dealt with a crisis of sexuality.

Been given away in a poker game. Sailed into Tortuga with the buccaneer crew of the fabled Black Pearl. Seen Captain Jack Sparrow with his eyeliner off. Kissed him with it on.

Lived through the storm of the century. Spat Beljoxa in the Eye.

Faced three witches. Faced the past. Faced the future. Fought back a mutiny.

Stared down Jenny Calendar's frown. Confronted his mistakes. Found some semblance of peace with them.

And after this, after all this, he's nervous at the prospect of seeing his lover again. The one guy in all this crazy world he's supposed to be comfortable with.

Except "comfortable" and "Spike" have always been mutually exclusive terms, haven't they?

******

Spike tastes so good, feels so damn good. Dark smooth velvet mouth. Wet and slightly cool against his fevered skin. Strong hands kneading the tension from the muscles at the back of his neck. They kiss until Xander's light-headed, till the dizziness comes back. But it's a good dizziness. Not like the swaying, sick-making of this damn tub, but like he's losing himself in something greater than the sum of his pathetically unseaworthy parts.

He could kiss Spike forever, and he would, except the vampire breaks away after a long moment. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and goes still in that way that only a vampire can. Otherworldly.

"What are you here for, Harris?"

The question is startling. Unwelcome. Because Xander can't quite answer it, at least not in terms he's willing to accept. Somehow *Because I want you. Because I think I might love you, given time* isn't going to cut it right now.

So he, too, wipes his mouth, as though the kiss meant nothing. He looks around Spike's quarters, affecting nonchalance. When you're not going to get pity, there's no point in dwelling. He learned that on his second day aboard the *Chaos*.

"Looks we'll find out," Xander says. "In the meantime, I'm good with a hammer."

Spike laughs, and the tension breaks. For now.

Later, when he's lying half-asleep in the vampire's arms, listening to the waves against the hull, he thinks of a half-dozen other answers.

******

Gah. He's been standing here on this landing for far too long. Just vacillating - if that means what he thinks it does. Any second now he's going to be discovered.

Xander squares his shoulders. He reaches for a little of that surety he felt when he commanded his crew to sail for Sunnydale. And to his surprise, he finds it inside himself. He feels better. He's going to see Spike, to let the vampire know that he hasn't been forgotten. It's a good thing.

Hurrying up to the next floor, he peers cautiously around the corner. From the walls, generations of Summers' patriarchs stare down at him with pinched disapproval. Henry, Buffy's father, never liked him spending so much time with his daughter. Hadn't stopped him, though, had it? And better someone like Xander, someone of a lower class, but with a heart. Better by far than a toad like Sir Riley Finn.

Speaking of which ...

He can hear voices, clapping. A little way down the hall is a little decorative balcony that overlooks the ballroom. Xander goes there now.

Below him, on a raised dais in the corner of the room, stands the odious Finn. Beside him, on a little gilded stool, sits Buffy. Xander feels rage simmer within him at the sight. There's no doubt in his mind that Finn chose the visual carefully -the robust young statesman and his frail, sickly wife. It must be killing her not to stand on her own to feet, to be sharing the stage and her authority with this man. But he can see it in her body language: The reserves of strength she found to meet with him yesterday have evidently been exhausted.

Only because he's searching does he spot Rupert Giles, on another balcony, half shrouded by a thick, velvet hanging. The older man is watching the events below with a broad smile on his scarred face. Xander's hands curl into fists, but he forces himself to listen as Finn begins to speak.

"God Bless His Majesty the King!" he says, raising his champagne in toast.

"The King!" comes the reply from three hundred inebriated throats. "Welcome one and all. Tonight is a great night for Port Royale. Our treasure fleet sails on the morrow, with more wealth fit for His August Majesty. Our hopes and dreams for the betterment of this wonderful city travel with it--"

Blah blah blah. Xander can already see where this speech is going. Set it up so that when His August Majesty is disappointed after half the cargo of that treasure fleet goes missing, the prominent citizens of Port Royale are disappointed too. Hopes and dreams, his ass. Blame will be laid. Squarely on the Governor, who's failed before. And if the vampire and his human accomplice get away with it again?

But that vampire won't, will he? Riley Finn, the Governor's husband, will take charge. Recapture part of the treasure - the part that Ripper hasn't taken as his share. Stake the pirate. And reap the rewards of a grateful monarch - the power he so obviously craves.

It's a good plan. Too bad for Finn that Xander isn't going to stand for it.

Carefully backing away from the balcony, he continues down the hallway. He can hear muted laughter and then a moan from one of the bedrooms he passes; he's not the only one ignoring the rest of the speech.

When he reaches the second bedroom to the right, he thinks he may have made a mistake. There are no guards in sight. Then he realizes. Larry. The guardsman at the tavern. This was his handiwork. Xander whistles under his breath. The pirates were good at this; he'd give them that.

Well, this is it. Spike's return to the narrative that is Xander's life. He feels there should be trumpet fanfares or something, but all he can hear is the desperate hammering of his heart. Almost fearfully, he reaches for the crystal doorknob.

It turns easily in his hand.

*Part 34:**In which ... well, yes. Xander and Spike get it on. Present tense. And there is much rejoicing, until ...*

* *

Xander steps into a darkened room. Takes a quick step and feels the plush of the carpet under his feet. Then he gives a choked cry as a chain wraps around his neck, and he's pulled against a hard, unyielding chest.

"I haven't eaten in four days," comes Spike's voice, harsh and gutteral. "Do you know what that does to a vampire? Not to eat in four days?"

"Probably pisses him off something awful," Xander says into the darkness. He's incapable of being scared, though he probably should be - Spike must be fairly far-gone not to recognize him. But every cell in his body is singing. He's in Spike's arms!

The chain cutting into his throat loosens, and Xander can feel the surprise in the taut body behind him. "Xander?" There's disbelief in Spike's voice, along with a note of ... something. Something tremulous. Something he'd deny under normal circumstances. Something that Xander, long separated from this man, needs to hear.

It's all the impetus it takes for him to spin around in Spike's arms and start with the kissing.

Their reunion is not one of words. Teeth and tongue and lips do the talking for them, blind lust and desperate longing weave their exotic thrall. They should be escaping, getting clear of this place, enacting the final stages of the evening's careful plans.

But "should" has no place in Xander's priorities right now. Mainly because Xander's brain, and its accompanying common sense, are currently riding the "Pirates of the Caribbean" attraction at Disneyland, and are most likely laughing hysterically at the stupid dog with the keys in its mouth. They're certainly not here in the room with him, as his hands scrabble up Spike's body, tugging frantically at the buttons of his shirt, needing desperately to touch bare skin--

Wait ... Spike's not kissing him any more, which is just *wrong*, and needs to be remedied as soon as humanly (or rather, vampirically) possible, and--

"The keys?" Spike repeats. "The dog has them," Xander mutters and buries his mouth in the hollow of Spike's collarbone. Then Spike's meaning filters through the fog in his mind and he realizes that they've got no way to unlock the manacles.

Xander ducks outside the sheltered enclosure of Spike's arms, and examines the metal bindings. Spike's wrists have been rubbed raw, and he can't help but glance anxiously up into the vampire's blue eyes. What other indignities did his Captain suffer during his imprisonment?

But Spike's not telling. Instead, he says softly, "I missed you, Xander."

Oh, God. His breath hitches in his chest. His fingers fumble across Spike's face, tracing like a blind man. Xander shakes his head. "Damn it. Should have come sooner--"

"I'm glad you're here now."

And his voice, his words, they're oh so gentle, and of all the possible scenarios he imagined for their reunion, Spike being gentle was never one of them.

They fall backwards onto the bed in the centre of the room, and the restraints become less important when Spike's arms are pinned above his head by Xander's impatient hands. Richly embroidered clothing, so carefully donned earlier in the evening, becomes mere nuisance. Must remove waistcoat. Must remove shirt. Must remove Spike's plain-but-clean prison garments. Must feel skin on skin.

And ah, *finally*, he does.

He's hard. Spike's hard. It's been too damn long and Xander wants Spike so badly that he's dizzy. Need and want spiral into a mess of *must have*.

Everything fades away. Everything except the drumming of his heart against his ribcage and the taste of the perfect body beneath him.

Spike is throbbing with tension. When Xander's tongue traces the line of his throat, he rolls his head back, mouth falling open in a silent cry. It's as though it's been years since he's been touched. Xander, stretched naked across this perfect body, realizes that to one such as Spike -- full of passionate immediacy -- these past several weeks might well have seemed like years.

"It's okay, Spike," he says, meaning not just Oxnard, but well, everything. And all those doubts about whether in fact he *is* okay with it all seem to fall away; they scatter on the wind and drift away on the tide of *rightness* that is their two bodies grinding together.

Spike's response is to snarl possessively, nipping at the juncture of Xander's neck and shoulder blade. *God!* Xander's hips buck, forcing their straining cocks to rub and thrust. The friction drives them both mad until Xander manages to pull away, gulping for air.

Spike sits up; hands still bound together, a frantic expression on his face. The muscles of his stomach ripple with the motion. "Bloody what?"

"It's okay, Spike," Xander repeats, and this time punctuates his words with a wide, goofy grin. "I'm here to save you."

Giving him an incredulous, pained look, Spike flops back down onto the bed. "You're a daft bugger," he mutters.

"Yup." Xander's grin gets even wider and he dips his head down to lick Spike's cock from balls to tip. He gets a groan in response. "Though I'm not sure if we're going to have time for the buggering part. We really should escape at some point."

There's something pretty empowering about having the most feared pirate in the Spanish Main writhing under your touch, Xander decides. And a little while later, as Spike lays boneless beneath him, panting those unnecessary breaths in the wake of his release, Xander reflects, to hell with empowering -- it's a lot of fun, too.

"I missed you," he whispers into the smooth skin of Spike's belly. "I'm glad you're here now."

Spike's hands come down to tangle in his hair, but the chain gets in the way. "Hell," comes the muttered oath. "No bloody keyhole, is there? Must be some kind of--"

"Hmmm?" Xander asks dreamily. "What?"

But Spike's not speaking. He's tensed again and is glaring towards the doorway.

At Captain Jack Sparrow.

"Thought you might be needing a wee bit of help, Mr. Harris. With the password and all. Forgot to give it to you earlier." Jack flashes a smile. "Though I savvy you're liking your man's chains just fine. Funny. I never had you pegged for that sort meself."

"Sparrow," Spike hisses. He sits up, oblivious to his nakedness. The pirate doffs his hat and bows, insolence written on every line of his damnable, languid, sexy, pirate body.

*Crap.*

Xander stares. Then he pools the sheet in his lap to cover his still-raging hard-on and wonders whether he'll get a chance to kill them himself before they kill each other.

*Part 35:* *In which Xander gets SPANKed, though not quite in the ways you might imagine*

* *

Jack's peculiar swaying gait never seems more out of place than in these ornate surroundings. He notices this, too, because he says, "Interesting what fine accommodations our William merits. Last time I was the guest of the Admiralty it was less of a room with a view and more of a ... hole."

"I didn't ask for this," Spike snarls. The muscles are cording along his arms, and that vein in his neck is very prominent.

"No, it's the work of that bonny lass. The one the lad here admires so much. Had a lovely private chat with her last night, didn't you, *Xander?*" The emphasis on his name is no mistake, and all three of them know it. Jack leans against the cream-and-coffee wall and nonchalantly examines a hangnail.

Spike looks at Xander.

Xander raises his hands to ward it all away. "Whoa!" The sheet threatens to slip lower. "Whoa!" He grabs at it. "Hold on. Jack, shut up. Spike, listen to me."

Spike's eyes are ice blue. Not that there's ice in the Caribbean, but he once--oh, fuck it. Xander doesn't have time for this now. And does he *have* to be *naked?*

"Buffy's been really helpful. She's not the one who wants to dust you. Well, okay, maybe she is but not tonight. It's her husband, that Riley. He and Rupert Giles have been plotting for ages. They want you to be the fall guy. And I'm here to be the rescue guy. At least that was the plan until we, uh, got sidetracked."

"Bravo," says Jack. "Though I'm not entirely sure that made sense."

"You're one to talk," Xander mutters, as Spike growls, "I'm going to rip your throat out."

Jack seems unperturbed. So unperturbed, in fact, that he pushes away from the wall and moves closer to the bed. "I see Will's kept his girlish figure." He smirks and swirls his fingers in Xander's direction. "But you need to lay off the Krispy Kremes, mate."

"Shut up!" This from both occupants of the bed. "I'm terribly sorry," Jack says. "I thought I'd be doing you lads a favour. But it seems my presence here is unwelcome." He swerves to the left and heads to the door.

"Wait!" Xander calls, still clutching the damn sheet. "What was that about a word?"

"Thought you'd get him out of here all by your onesies, did you? The *word*, mate. Useful for the manipulation of all manner of magical manacles." The pirate grimaces comically at his dreadful alliteration. "And the door, o' course. Vampire-proof. Magic word works on that, too."

Spike's eyes narrow suspiciously. "And you know this how?"

Jack merely smiles, brushing his moustache with long fingers.

"Harris." There's more than a little warning in the name. "Spike." This is getting out of hand. Okay, so he made a mistake. But if he can just get Jack to give him the bloody word and get out of here, everything can carry on as planned. First step: clothes.

Xander edges along the bed and grabs for his shirt. Spike makes an impatient noise and stands, reaching down despite his bound hands to pick up Xander's clothing.

He comes up with the embroidered waistcoat and begins to pass it over. Then he freezes, eyes locked on the object dangling from the pocket by a thin gold chain.

Jack's watch.

There's silence while Spike runs his fingers over the casing. Then he looks up, straight at Jack Sparrow. "What *exactly* have you two have been up to?"

Jack shrugs expansively. "Making nice, as it were. Showing our young friend here the sights."

"Sights? What sights?" Spike steps towards the pirate. "I take it you'll not be wanting the word then?"

"Oh for -- Spike. Nothing happened between us."

Jack peers around the angry vampire. "Now, mate, that's not very gentlemanly. What about our kiss?"

"You *kissed?*"

"No! I mean, yes! Maybe."

"Just a little," Jack adds helpfully. Then something utterly strange happens. Looking back, months from now, Xander still won't be able to figure out quite what. But the crux of it is, the two pirates stare into each others' eyes for a long moment, and some invisible parley seems to transpire. Some unspoken accord, born of shared history perhaps, or maybe just simple expediency.

And Xander, gaze caught by the golden watch dangling from Spike's fingers, feels dizzy. He almost fancies he sees a flash of yellow beach and blue water; can nearly taste lemons.

He shakes his head to clear it, just in time to hear Spike say, "You either kissed him or you didn't." But there's now humour in the words.

Both men turn their full attention on Xander. Whose cock jumps to full attention even as his mouth goes suddenly dry.

He swallows convulsively. No fair. Nofairnofairnofair. One is bad enough. But two? He's gonna get *spanked* out here. And he's *still* not dressed.

Xander thinks he liked it better when they hated each other.

"You gonna give us the magic word?" he stammers. "Not quite yet," Jack murmurs. "We wait for the opportune moment."

How is it that the pirate got so close without Xander noticing him move? And why isn't Spike helping?

"And when's that?" God. His voice is crackling with nervousness. Jack's dark eyes are trained on his face. "We've unfinished business, you and I."

"Yeah. I mean ... we do?"

"Indeed."

Xander's skin is burning hot. His worry about being naked seems to be gone; now it's of the utmost importance for Sparrow's hand to be on his cock. Which is just *wrong* given the writhing that was he and Spike only a few minutes before.

But Jack's crowding close, and smelling of rum and sea and nights spent on the deck of the *Pearl* looking up at the stars. His head tilts and his lips move against Xander's ear. "What was it your lady o' the island said?"

He's trembling, he can't help it. "Two men have marked you. They have prior claim, though ownership is yet unclear."

"You've made your choice. But there's only one sure way to break a claim, love."

Xander turns his head, lets the black mass of Jack's hair slide against his cheek. "How?"

"Same as with a fever, savvy? Draw out the heat."

Jack's mouth moves over his own treacherous one, and then they are kissing, hard and furious. It's not like it was in Tortuga; there's no confusion about this desire. Xander's hands come up to tangle in that marvelous hair, and Jack's body seems to melt bonelessly into his own. He's wrapped in the hedonistic decadence that is Jack Sparrow, and ... it's not what he wants.

It's glorious, it's madness, he could lose himself if he so desired. But he doesn't. Desire's a fleeting thing. Love's stronger, and he feels its pull. Like a livewire from his heart to Spike's.

*Oh.*

Xander gently disengages, steps away. He looks up to meet Jack Sparrow's bright gaze. "You're a good friend, Captain," he says. He lets his fingers trail along the length of Jack's shoulder, then allows his hand to fall back to his side.

Jack flashes him a brilliant grin. "I'll let you two carry on then, shall I? Things to do of me own, you know." He strides to the doorway, but just short of the threshold he cocks his head and looks back at Xander with utter seriousness. "Wouldn't have worked anyway, love. S'better this way." Then, he mutters something under his breath that's lost in the clanging of Spike's manacles onto the floor and the huff of a dissipating barrier spell, and he's gone.

Xander lets out a breath he didn't even know he was holding before turning to Spike. "We okay?"

There's the faintest of smiles on Spike's face. "Yeah."

"You're still going to kill him over the Gem of Amara, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

Xander's mouth twitches. "We'd better get dressed and get out of here," he says. "You've got to get to the *Chaos* before anyone realizes you're missing. I'll go make sure Buffy's okay while Jack takes care of the treasure. Our people can help us deal with Finn."

Spike's smile has faded. "Jack is protecting the loot?"

"Yeah ... why? It's part of the plan. If it's safe and you're not here they can hardly blame you, can they?"

He sounds almost sad. "You've got *Jack* guarding the loot from plunder. And you expect *me* to go wait on the ship like a good little boy?" Sighing, Spike says, "You'll never fucking learn, will you, Harris?"

Xander looks up from buttoning his shirt, spidey senses tingling. Not quite quick enough, though. Xander never even sees the blow to the side of his head that lays him out.

And if there's a *sorry*, it comes after he's unconscious.

*Part 36:* *In which Xander really, really understands the consequences of failure*

* *

He wakes because of the ticking next to his ear, a relentless thrumming that jars his unconscious and forces him upright with a wince for his splitting headache.

Xander squints against the bright morning sunshine that's leaking through the gaps in the bedchamber's heavy window coverings. There's no need to fumble for the damn watch. It's dawn. It's dawn and the party's over and oh god, he slept through it all.

Spike hit him. Knocked him out. And now it's dawn.

He stands up. Runs for the door. Yanks it open and nearly trips over the dead guard lying there. Ragged neck wounds still leak blood.

It's dawn.

Xander begins to run. The Mansion is silent; when he passes the little balcony overlooking the ballroom he can see the debris of the night's festivities but there's no one in sight. He stops still, forces himself to listen.

There it is - distant, muted - but he can hear the sound of cheering. Spinning on his heels, Xander takes off down the grand stairwell, three at a time; he races through the deserted hallways and the empty kitchens, bursts out into the courtyard behind the Governor's Manor.

Where he nearly falls to his knees at the sight that greets him. A thronging crowd of people - some clearly guests to the ball, some raggedly-dressed beggars, still others tradesmen, apprentices, bankers, bakers, ordinary citizens of Sunnydale. And all of them happily applauding the couple standing on the wide verandah of the Mansion.

It's Buffy, looking more ill than ever, and pale in the bright sunshine. She holds onto the stone balustrade for support. And Riley Finn, gesturing over the heads of the crowd, shouting grandly about just rewards and an end to a reign of terror.

He's afraid to look. His eyes search the wide paving stones of the courtyard, as though in the cracks between them he might find the answers he's looking for; as if there'll be some magic word he can use like the one Jack used last night, a word that will send him back in time just a few hours so he can--

The crowd jostles him, people jockeying for the best position. He's spun around, and so, of course, he sees it. Sees why they're all there.

After all, everyone loves a good hanging.

But you can't hang a vampire, now can you? So beside the waiting gallows there's a cage. A big cage. Covered now, but with fine southern exposure.

*Oh, God.*

"I never thought this day would come to pass."

Xander looks up through tear-blurred eyes and sees Jenny Calendar standing beside him. She's staring fixedly at the platform, watching as they lead Jack Sparrow up narrow, makeshift, wooden steps.

"Our Jack, he's meant for the sea. She's his mistress as surely as he's her slave." Her voice breaks, but there's no other outward sign of distress. "We'll have to make sure he goes back to her. It's the least we can do."

Commodore Wyndham-Pryce guides the prisoner towards the waiting hangman. Xander meets his eyes, and sees unexpected apology there. A quick glance at Buffy reveals the same. They want to help but everything went awry; there's nothing they can do.

And this is how the story ends.

Xander wants to watch. At their end, he needs to honour his pirates by acknowledging the fierce joy with which they greeted life. Yet he's only a man, and a small one in the scheme of things.

And he loves one with all his heart and the other is precious, too, and he just *can't*. So he holds Jenny Calendar instead of watching as Spike's angry scream rends the air, and Jack's body jerks like a marionette on its string. He pointedly doesn't look at those clenching fingers, at the way the sun sparkles off jeweled rings until some grubby little urchin darts up to snatch them off dead hands. He doesn't even look when the wind gusts to catch and swirl the dust around the crowd, though it gets everywhere, in his clothes, in his eyes, in his hair. Dust, so much dust--

Xander sneezes violently, once, twice, and sits bolt upright.

Awake.

"Gah!" He scrambles to his feet, panting as though he's just run a marathon. The pain from the bruise on his head is excruciating, but he's so discombobulated he hardly notices. Time, time ... what time is it?

The watch is on the floor by his head. It's stopped working again, and this does nothing positive for the lump of fear lodged in his throat.

Xander tears open the curtains. Moonlight streams into the room, softly limning the ornate furniture, and causing him to sag against the windowsill with relief. Then he picks up his clothes, sets himself to order, and ventures out to prevent disaster.

He's cautious coming out of the bedroom, but he needn't have bothered. These upstairs hallways are utterly deserted. Jack's inside man and Buffy's promised complicity have done their work. No one seems to have noticed that the prisoner is missing. At least, that's what Xander

hopes. He's just deathly afraid that Spike will have brought attention to himself in some way. Why else would he have gone off on his own?

Right now Xander figures he has one primary goal. Locate Spike and make him go to the *Chaos*. God, he wishes they could both go - just sail away from all this. But they can't. Not until he knows that Buffy is safe. He owes her that much, at least.

The party's still rocking on. The ballroom is half-empty at this hour of the morning, but the die-hards dance still. On their balcony, the Dingoes are playing away; this time it's Vivaldi's *Summer* suite.

At least he's not the only rumpled one. Some of the guests look drunk out of their skulls. Several are even tucked away in secluded corners, the chaperones having by now passed out from a surfeit of champagne punch and almond fancies.

Out of the eye he catches a glimpse of the officious Mrs. Osborne. He veers carefully away and ends up passing near a cluster of young gallants, each vying for a favoured position near that Glorificus woman.

"One thousand apologies! I did not mean to imply there was a gown more beauteous than yours!" stammers one buck. "Forgive me, shiny special one. I beg of you to rip out my inadequate tongue."

She ignores him and snatches a glass of champagne out of another's hand. "Gimme."

The man says, "Oh." Laughs nervously. "That was mine." She shoots him a look. "You should know, your elaborate marvelousness ..."

"Uh-huh." She's ignoring him now and fiddling with her slipper. She sticks one leg out, silken petticoats scandalously revealed. "Does this make my ankle look bony?"

"No! No, no, your terrifically smooth one, it is the epitome of ankles. To touch such an ankle would be -- but I'm not touching. I'm backing away."

Xander can't help but laugh aloud as the woman kicks out her foot and the slipper flies off it, hitting the young man *smack* in the forehead.

"Owww! Thank you."

Glaring at Xander, she asks the man, "Mr. Dreg, is it?"

"Yes. Dreg. Your creamy coolness has honoured me by speaking my name. Your voice is like a thousand sweet songbirds that ..."

Still chuckling under his breath, Xander walks on, spirits lightened. Suddenly he's feeling a whole lot better about *his* relationship.

Come on, really though? Vampire pirate. You've gotta expect some kinks to be ironed out in the inter-personal department. And he *will* get to work through them. It was only a dream ...

"Where are you going? And where the devil have you been? I've been looking for you!"

Xander jerks around, startled. Jenny Calendar is standing beside him, a mocking smile curving her lips.

She's wearing a silver and violet ballgown with her black hair piled atop her head. Artful touches of makeup highlight her eyes and cheekbones. Jenny looks cool and sophisticated; in other words, the trappings have changed, but the difference is barely noticeable. The woman makes these clothes, not the other way around.

"I'm looking for Spike," he whispers urgently. "Have you seen him?"

Her expression is scornful. "He was your responsibility."

"Yes, well, Spike prefers to do things his own way."

"As does Jack."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that perhaps you're not as in control as you think you are, Mr. Harris."

Xander rolls his eyes. "Everyone knows *that*." He's a bit disappointed though - apparently the camaraderie of the other evening has faded. This just pisses him off. "You know what? I'm sick of this obfuscation you pirates pull." He holds up a hand. "Fine, you're not a pirate. And yes, I'm not a complete idiot. I do know some big words. Whatever. It's always `Jack's got plans of his own' and then that's all you say! But I'm tired! I have a headache! My best friend is being poisoned by her husband! My boyfriend is off doing God only knows what, and the most infuriating pirate in this alternate universe is *apparently* wreaking unknown and *mysterious* havoc on an unsuspecting citizenry! So why don't you save us all a barrowful of time and some superfluous chapters, cut through the bullshit, and just *tell me.* WHAT IS JACK DOING?"

Jenny Calendar blinks at him. Then she says, "He's down in the storerooms making off with the treasure. Surely that was fairly obvious. What on earth did you assume he was doing?"

"Oh ... crap!"

And Xander takes off again.

*Part 37: In which there is Exposition, a flashback, Xander joins in battle with that complete and utter bastard, Riley Finn, and things get just a tad out of control*

* *

* *

If you dig far enough back in Xander's family tree, you'll find there's pirate blood on his mother's side. The Lavalles sailed from Guadeloupe, and each one of them was as vicious and avaricious as you'd wish a scurvy scoundrel to be.

Blood may be thicker than water, but Xander suspects that his got a little diluted at some point.

He likes to think that he wasn't taken in by Jack, and to an extent, he wasn't. Xander's been aware that Jack's been up to no good all along. He's been suspicious all the way through. It's just ... gah. Somewhere deep down he hoped that Jack liked him. That Jack still cared about Spike's well-being. That he wouldn't stab them all in the back like this.

Sometimes he wishes he had a bit more of that pirate blood. Maybe then he wouldn't take everything so damned personally.

These thoughts as he makes it out of the ballroom and down the hallway before the doors to the library swing open, and Riley Finn and Rupert Giles stride through them. They stop short as they catch sight of Xander.

Picture the most awkward tableau you can think of. Double it. Add the threat of instant death. Yeah, that's about it.

But Xander handles the situation with remarkable aplomb. He says: "The king's treasure is being raided by pirates. May want to get down to the storerooms to check it out."

Finn turns purple, even as Ripper watches with an impassive face.

"Where have you been? And how dare you come to my home and make such insinuations?"

"Insinuations? What--*Oh.* Hold it right there!" Xander's mouth drops open in astonishment. Maybe it's that his mind is still trying to find empathy with those long-dead Lavelles. Maybe he's finally beginning to understand the Byzantine workings of the mercenary mind. Or maybe he's just as big an idiot as everyone seems to think and he's the last one to figure this out. But suddenly everything is making sense -- horrible, undeniable sense. The last puzzle piece has just clicked into place. "You ... you dastardly *bastards!* You already know, don't you? You *know* Sparrow is downstairs right now. You were planning to blame me and Spike for the theft, but you've got Jack doing the dirty work for you!"

He can't fucking believe it. All along, all along he's been played.

Catching up to Jack in Oxnard. Being taken onto the *Black Pearl*. Jack ever so carefully leading Spike to Sunnydale, with Xander as the bait. Finn expecting Xander's arrival. Jack showing up oh-so-coincidentally to help him escape, to help him free Spike. Jack, against all instinct, keeping a low profile. Every bit an excuse to get him into the damn Mansion with enough able-bodied crew to abscond with most of the loot.

Credit where credit is due -- Captain Jack Sparrow is the best pirate he's ever seen.

But Finn and Giles?

"You are *so* dead."

Xander draws his sword.

******

The acrid stench of gunpowder hangs above the battle; a miasma of smoke and blood and fear envelopes the ship.

Xander desperately parries a thrust by the Spanish lieutenant, nearly impaling himself on the cutlass of the man behind him in the process.

It's a nightmare.

All around him are the screams of wounded men, the desperation of those fighting for their lives. An ambush - it was an ambush.

The ship looked to be a Dutch merchantman riding low in the water due to its cargo. That's what it *looked* to be. So Spike, hungry for plunder, had ordered his crew to engage. And now they were fighting for their lives. Not Dutch but bastard Spaniards flying false colours. Stuffed to the gunnels with soldiers, not trade goods.

Xander shouldn't even be here. There'd been an argument. Ethan and the rest of the crew saying he'd get in the way, make their job more difficult. Spike putting an end to it with one of his *looks*. "Easy prey," he'd said. "Let the boy get his feet wet. If he ever wants to be one of us--"

The implication clear. But this is no easy prey.

He can barely see through the battle-fog. Xander knows how to use a sword, though he's not very good. Buffy loves fencing, and made him practice with her. Now, as he cuts a bloody line across a Spaniard's arm, he wishes he'd paid more attention.

From his left, a quick glimpse of Mr. Trick, blade and white teeth flashing in the twilight gloom. He finds himself being forced backwards, and arm tiring, he slips to the edges of the battle. From here he realizes that unless something is done, and quickly, they're all going to die, their blood forever staining the deck of this infernal ship. What they need is a plan, a last-ditched effort. Then he sees it - the hatch leading below decks. Suddenly he knows what he has to do.

And if it gets them all killed? Well, at least he'll know he died trying.

******

Finn's a better swordsman than he is. Surprise of all surprises. Ripper still hasn't moved, is just watching the action with a smirk on his face. True, he's got a peg leg so probably wouldn't be that helpful, but Xander's ego is a little bruised all the same. They could at least *pretend* that he is threatening their evil plans.

"I can't believe you hired Jack Sparrow," Xander pants. "Are you a *complete* idiot? Do you really think he's going to give you a share of the loot once he's made off with it? He's probably been planning to double-cross you all along."

"He wouldn't dare."

"Clearly you don't know Captain Sparrow."

"What have you been telling my wife?" Finn demands, neatly side-stepping Xander's best effort.

"Just the truth. That you're a lying, cowardly, murdering bas--"

"It took me a while, but once I really thought about it? Kind of obvious. I'm assuming you're compensating for that other thing. You know. The impotence."

Both men whirl around. Buffy's standing at the end of the corridor; she's changed from her ball finery into men's clothing. Her own sword is drawn, and she looks really, really pissed.

"You are so dead," she tells her husband. "Already said that," Xander interjects with a wide grin. "You're bluffing," Finn says. "You're still ill."

"Try me." Buffy lunges forward. Sparks fly off clashing metal, and the battle is engaged.

However, there's no point in cheering because, of course, things are never so cut-and-dried. Not in this alternate universe, anyway, where an obsession with cliffhangers often influences events for the worse. Blade touches blade - and a bunch of Finn's guardsmen flood the hallway, Spike turns up with blood on his face, and Xander realizes that things are looking bleak indeed.

*Part 38: In which there is battle, bloodshed, and a Startling Revelation*

* *

* *

Eight or nine years ago, Xander remembers hearing about that party in Basseterre. The Bathsweavers, local Kittian sugar nabobs, were celebrating their wealth in a display of the grossest decadence when Captain Darla decided to crash the affair in a demonstration of just how little she liked slavery if it didn't involve velvet-lined manacles, her cabin, and an all-night fuck.

The few survivors told of unspeakable horror, monstrous indignities, and the most delicious *gateaux chocolate avec des framboises.*

As the action spills out into the ballroom, a load of Jack's and Spike's pirates appear, and the first screams rend the air, Xander can't help but think that the Governor's Ball may just top the Bathsweavers' soiree in terms of mayhem.

Plus, he can't help but feel sorry for that Glory woman. She's bound to get blood on her gown and that stuff's a bitch to get off.

But this is no time for silly thoughts like that. Back in the here and now, Xander's fighting a guardsman who looks older than his own father, for heaven's sake. The man is skilled with the sword, but slow with the movements, which makes him more Xander's speed, if you'll pardon the expression.

So Xander is able to pay some attention to what's going on around him, instead of just battling feverishly for his continued existence.

It's like the fight of good versus evil! Well, maybe not. More like the battle of the pirates of ambiguous morality who are really only in it for the money and safe passage out of here versus the soldiers who are merely doing their jobs following the orders of the Governor's husband. No one's going to win no matter who wins, if you get Xander's drift.

Buffy and Riley are fighting vigorously over by the band, which - crazy as it may sound - is still playing away. Sounds like Track 3 of the *Gladiator* soundtrack, but he could be wrong. The sounds of clanging metal, harsh grunts, and cries of pain are kind of interfering with the bass.

Spike is surrounded by a dozen soldiers, but he's holding his own, and not going too crazy ... yet. He's not in gameface, but Xander knows that after days of starvation and captivity, the vampire isn't going to be "polite" for too much longer.

Unfortunately, this is really Buffy's fight, not theirs. While they're up here slashing and bashing, Jack's down in the storerooms, making off with a King's ransom in treasure.

The soldier thrusts, and his left shoulder telegraphs the move an instant before he makes it. Xander notices, anticipates, and slides his own blade through the weakness in the man's defenses. Steel through flesh makes a sound that haunts his nightmares, but it's not a killing wound. He leaves the man groaning on the ground and makes for an open area.

"Spike!" he yells above the commotion. He tries twice more to get his attention.

Vampiric hearing should catch that - so Spike must be ignoring him. *Fine.* Not like Xander's got a life to lose or anything. He goes to maneuver closer to Buffy, then he sees what's got Spike's attention.

Rupert Giles is edging his way along the far-reaches of the ballroom, pushing past the few panicking guests who've yet to flee from the premises. For someone with a pegleg, he's making fairly good progress. And Spike is now fighting his way towards him, clearly determined to get to Ripper before the man disappears for good.

There's a look on Spike's face as he watches Ripper that Xander's seen only a few times before. And it's scared him shitless every time. This is *personal*.

Someone grabs Xander's sleeve, and he spins around, blade ready. It's Jenny Calendar, holding a pistol and looking palely overwrought. "Damn it! What are you doing? Get out of here!"

"You must come with me." She tries to pull him away from the battle, but Xander resists.

"What is it?"

"It's Jack. You must come."

Xander shakes his head impatiently. He can barely see Spike anymore through the swirling crowd and he needs to--

"Xander! You can't let him get away."

His attention swerves back to her and his eyes narrow. What the hell is that note in her voice? Panic?

"Weren't you the one who laughed at me for imagining I had any semblance of control whatsoever over Captain Jack Sparrow?" He brushes her hand off his arm with a rough gesture. "I know what he's doing. And at this point? I'm almost willing to let him get away with it."

God, he can just imagine the conversation if he marched down there and accosted Jack with his hands full of treasure and Mr. Cotton's parrot watching the entire proceedings.

*"Wait! Wait! Stop!"

"Stop plundering?"

"Yeah."

"Stop pillaging?"

"Yeah."

"Stop my rapacious assault on this booty?"

"Okay, that sounded really bad, but yeah. All of that. You're supposed to be *helping*."

"When did I say that?"

"You said you'd help?"

"I don't recall saying that, mate."

"You did!"

"As convincing as your presentation has been, Mr. Harris, I'm afraid I must decline to acquiesce to your request."

"Huh?"

"Means `no'."* Xander gives a full-body shudder. No no no. *So* not going there.

"You don't understand," Jenny Calendar hisses. Strands of black hair have come loose to wisp untidily around the oval of her face. "I need your help. Please. As a friend."

Shocked, Xander gapes at her. "Why?"

"He'll take--"

A great echoing snarl suddenly sounds out. Silence falls as everyone stops to look, swords lowering, almost forgotten, as combatants take in the events transpiring on the balcony.

Spike and Ripper are locked in battle on one of the balconies overlooking the ballroom. Though Spike has the whole preternatural strength and grr argh thing going for him, he's also half-starved and weakened from first the long sea chase and then his imprisonment. And Rupert Giles has desperation. Which makes him triplely dangerous.

Xander moves forward a few steps towards them, though there's no way he can possibly be of any use down here. Maybe, in the end, it's that tiny little move that's responsible for what happens next.

Ripper leans forward over the balcony, pulling away from Spike. And Xander, watching the former Commodore's face, sees that Ripper no longer believes he can escape Spike.

There's a pistol in his hand; Xander can see the gleaming barrel as it points downwards. Aimed at him.

The air grows impossibly thick. Breath catches in his throat. He thinks maybe he calls something to Spike, or to Jenny, or maybe even to Giles. He's not sure. But he does grab Jenny, trying to push them both down, out of harm's way.

At the same time, Spike roars again and grabs Ripper, and, in some grotesque parody of Xander's own actions, tosses Rupert Giles off the balcony. Someone screams as the man hits the floor with a sickening thud. That's over, then. Anticlimactic, almost, and strangely, Xander feels no relief.

Because there was still that pistol. And the shot is faster, of course.

Of course it is.

When time catches up to him again, Xander's fine. Unharmed. It's Jenny Calendar who's lying limp on the ground, her milky skin shiny with vermilion blood.

The shot went wide. *God.*

"Jack-"

"What? What about Jack?" He can see her fading before his eyes. "Jenny, Jenny, listen to me. Just breathe. I'll get help--" Xander falls to his knees, takes her cold hand in his own. It seems like an almost unforgivable liberty with this woman, but what can he do?

"No--" Her eyelids flutter rapidly; it won't be long. "Stop him. He mustn't. Don't let him."

"I will. I'll try, if it's that important to you. But I don't understand--"

"He'll take her--" Bright blood stains her lips as she forces her word out. "Jade."

Xander's eyes widen, even as Jenny's hand goes limp in his own, and her head rolls lifelessly to the side.

He has a sudden, vivid memory.

*"What's Jack after now?" He asks this casually, dropping in the question as though it logically follows the last.

Anamaria's eyes are dark brown and knowing. "His reward."*

And another. A rare burst of Jack's anger.

*"I need a summer home in the Leeward Islands, and a bloody crew I can trust not to mutiny the moment me back is turned. I need the wind in me sails and rum in me cup. I need the *Pearl *stuffed to the gunnels with gold and silver. I need jade aboard--"*

He'll take her. Not *jade*, idiot.

*The little girl has large dark eyes that don't blink back ... Jack Sparrow is slouched in a ripped velvet armchair, the little girl a rapt audience at his feet ...*

Jade.

*Chapter 39: **In which we bring our tale of adventure, intrigue, and rum to a rousing conclusion *

There's a lot he doesn't know about the woman laying in the crimson pool on the parquet flooring.

Is the little girl hers? Did she love Jack? Did Jack love her? Was she happy? Did she regret? What secret history brought that look of desperation to her face?

And glancing over to the other limp form across the room, Xander realizes the same might be said about the former commodore. Jenny Calendar isn't the only one taking secrets to the grave.

How long had he been in collusion with the infamous Captain Angelus? How long had he been playing Riley Finn? Was this all a personal vendetta, or did he merely hunger for treasure? And, more chillingly, had his final shot hit its mark, or missed it?

There's no answers to be found in the still, blood-streaked faces. Xander wipes his forehead with his sleeve, and looks around for Spike.

The fighting has ceased in the wake of Ripper's dramatic fall. Seeing his co-conspirator's messy end, Finn has surrendered to his wife, and the expression on the pathetic bastard's face is worth almost all the discomfort and irritation Xander's suffered at his hands. Almost. But Xander has faith -- Buffy will soon be well enough to make sure that the good solider gets exactly what's coming to him.

Almost makes him pity the guy.

Almost.

He feels, rather than sees, Spike come up behind him. Xander feels his entire body sway towards the vampire. It's been so long, and all he wants is a clean white beach, aquamarine water, a fruity cocktail, and a lot of really hot, sweaty sex.

"Xan."

"Yeah." He sighs the word, leaning back against Spike; feels the leather of the duster wrap around him, enveloping him. His breath whooshes out as Spike's chin rests on his shoulder. Xander can tell that Spike's attention is fixed on the dead woman. "I'm sorry," he says. "I know you knew her."

"A long time ago," Spike says. His voice is uncharacteristically soft. "She was quite a woman."

Xander waits for Spike to ask about the little girl, then realizes that Spike probably doesn't have the answers he wants. With a shiver, he understands that if Spike had known, she would have been used long before this as a pawn between the two captains in their deadly game.

Sometimes, because Spike is *Spike*, and Jack is *Jack*, it's easy to forget what they're both capable of.

His gaze travels inadvertently to Buffy. His oldest friend is cleaning the blade of her sword on her pink ballgown, weariness written in every line of her body. But she's always been the most stubborn person in this crazy old world and she thrives on adversity.

As though sensing his scrutiny, the Governor of Sunnydale looks up and catches his eye. It's not that the years and acrimony melt away during this silent exchange--too much has passed between them for that to happen. But the message is clear: he's played his part, made his amends. She'll survive. She always does.

Good journeys, she mouths.

Thank you, he sends her back.

Spike is saying, "If Captain *bloody* Sparrow thinks he's getting away clean with both the treasure and my ring--"

And Xander, despite everything, feels like laughing. And so it begins again.

*******

"I can't believe you did that. You *stupid* git!"

"It saved us, didn't it?" Xander manages, shivering in his soaking clothes. Spike paces the deck of the *Chaos* with ill-concealed fury.

"Oh, now he's gone and saved us, is that it? Arrogant ass. Do you know, you could have killed us!"

"You're already dead, Captain." This from Mr. Trick, standing there with that habitually insolent white smile gleaming in his dark face.

There's a smattering of laughter from the gathered crew. Black smoke stains their faces, and bloodstained clothing runs pink from soaking in seawater. Behind them all, burning red-gold on the horizon, is the Spanish ship; its shattered form slowly sinking beneath the waves.

"Setting fire to the powder magazine, with barely a warning to your shipmates." Spike comes to a halt in front of Xander. He's glowering, blue eyes slitted and unreadable. "Stupid git."

"Brave lad," proclaims Ethan Rayne. He comes forward and claps one hand on Xander's shoulder.

The third mate says, "Captain, the Dago survivors have been locked in the brig."

Spike shakes his head, and turns away, but not before Xander glimpses the smile spreading across the vampire's face. "Fine then. If that's how you all feel. Bring him."

Forty minutes later, Xander's drunk out of his skull, and quite oblivious to the throbbing pain on his forearm.

The captain gave him the Mark of Eyghon personally.

******

Xander finds Jack in the secluded cove five miles outside of town. The graceful lines of the Black Pearl can be seen anchored in the little bay, and the pirate crew is busily hauling the King of England's treasure into dinghies.

They don't even bother to disguise their activities as Xander's commandeered horse gallops towards them. Throwing himself into a dismount, he crosses swiftly to where Captain Jack Sparrow is examining the contents of a wooden chest. The pirate looks up as Xander approaches.

"What do you think, Mr. Harris?" Jack displays a heavy gold crown in one limp hand, and a silver-and-emerald torque in the other. "Which does the most for my complexion?"

"Don't do this, Jack."

"Do what, mate?"

"Spike's on his way to rendezvous with the *Chaos*. He'll be coming to intercept you."

"He know you're here?"

"Probably."

"Well, now. Is that so? Seems to me that you've had a change of heart."

"What do you mean?"

"Simply that from the moment you accepted hospitality aboard me ship, it's been all about how your vampire is going to rip me limb from limb. And now you're here--" Jack's eyes widen almost comically "--warning me to leave afore he does just that. Now what's all this about, the wise man might ask."

"It's not for your sake. It's for Jade."

"Ah." Jack makes a show of turning around, the pilfered trinkets and jewjaws in his pockets and around his neck creating their own special music. He gestures to the dark-haired girl playing in the sand by an overturned boat. "She's a rare beauty, is she not?"

"She is." Xander touches Jack's sleeve. "Listen. Jenny wanted me to stop you. She's ... she's dead, Jack."

There's genuine sadness in those dark eyes. Xander can feel its pull. "My just reward," Jack says solemnly. "But you can try and stop me if you'd like." Danger, now, in those eyes. Unmistakable. And Xander resigns himself. He's not going to get the full story here, in this time.

"So don't be a fool," Xander urges. "Take her and go. Leave the rest of the treasure before you lose everything."

"I'm no fool, mate, but I would be if I left here without full holds. My crew won't stand for it, savvy?"

"You *are* a fool, Captain Sparrow. And you, Harris? Colluding with pirates? I'm sorry, I've forgotten. You're one yourself, aren't you?"

Xander's shoulders slump and his hand drops from Jack's arm, even as Commodore Wyndam-Pryce brings his sword up to Jack's throat. Around them range a cohort of redcoats.

"I'm here to retrieve the King's property. You will stand down, or you will die."

Jack smiles toothily. "Aren't you an impressive young man? I don't believe we've had the pleasure ...?"

Xander says, "Captain Jack Sparrow, meet Commodore Wyndam-Pryce. Commodore--"

"I'm well aware of Sparrow's reputation, thank you very much."

Jack's smile grows wider. "Of course you are. My felicitations."

"On?"

"Being a raging imbecile."

The blade inches perilously closer. "You're trying my patience, Captain."

"You've left your lass in her hour of need. Seems like now would be the time to prove your undying devotion, no? Take her in your manly arms or whatever your sort does."

Xander can't disguise his astonishment. Now how did Jack know about *that*?

"Leave Governor Summers out of this."

"No need to yell, mate. Not my fault you've got the romantic instincts of a eunuch."

"For God's sake!" Xander bursts out. "This isn't something you can talk your way out of, Jack! Just give your word and get out of here!"

Jack's staring at him in consternation. "You're the worst pirate I've ever seen." There's a bit of interest in his voice, as though this is actually rather impressive.

"Yeah, well." Xander shrugs. "I've pretty much given up trying."

"Don't," says Jack. Strangely enough, it's one of the best compliments Xander's ever received.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Anamaria, Gibbs, and the others frozen at the outskirts of this little tableau. They're waiting for a signal, and Xander knows that this story will end in tragedy if he's not careful.

"Buffy," he exclaims suddenly. "Geshundheit."

Xander ignores Jack, focusing all his attention on Wyndam-Pryce. "Jack was the one who alerted me to Finn's plot in the first place."

The commodore gives him a sharp look. "Really."

"He didn't have to. In fact, doing so placed him in grave danger of discovery."

Jack nods vigorously. "Mortal danger."

"Captain Sparrow saved Buffy's life."

If looks could kill ...

"I hate you," the commodore says. Xander smiles apologetically.

The sword is lowered. Wyndam-Pryce motions to his men, and they all remount. "I will be back in several hours. If I find any of you here then, including you, Harris, you'll be hanged. If I find any more of this treasure gone, I will hunt you down personally and you'll be hanged. Invoking the Governor's name will not grant you clemency a second time. Am I quite clear?"

"Crystal."

Looking like he's just eaten a lemon, Wyndam-Pryce digs his heels in and rides off with his men in a cloud of dust.

If Xander never sees him again, it will still be too soon. Though the man seems to make Buffy happy. There's no accounting for taste, really. Just look at him and Spike.

Thoughtfully, Jack says, "You know, I only showed you that little plot so as to ensure myself a bigger share of the booty when it all fell apart."

"I know," Xander says. And grins. Jack Sparrow whistles shrilly. Immediately the crew of the *Pearl* cease their movements and begin to head back towards their ship. Mr. Cotton scoops up the girl, whose arms are filled with glittering treasure.

"You're a good man, Mr. Harris."

"And you do have honour after all, Captain Sparrow. I'm sorry I doubted you."

Jack cocks his head, his thick black hair falling forward as he detaches some trinket from the mass. He tosses the object to Xander, and gives him an off-kilter salute. His final words are laced with rich humour. "I wonder if you'll still think that in the morning, mate, I really do."

Xander's still standing there, watching, as the pirate ship passes out of sight. Only when he can no longer glimpse the curve of sail does he unfold his fingers and look down at the Gem of Amara, nestled innocently in his palm. He closes a fist around the thing. Remembers a vision of blood and death, remembers Spike's childlike excitement that morning five years ago. Shaking his head wryly, Xander puts it in his pocket, and sits down next to a rather ugly golden statue.

He waits for his boyfriend to come pick him up.

*Epilogue*

They're lying side by side, swaying in the hammock to the rhythm of the waves.

"You dressed up like a woman?"

"You better believe it, buddy. Petticoats and everything. There was even a plan."

"Oh, I can just imagine."

"Well, as much of a plan as I could come up with at the time. It's hard to think when the flow of oxygen to your brain is being cut off by a whalebone corset."

"You were going to march into the prison like that?"

"Damn right I was. Plan was to sing."

Spike's fingers halt their tickling descent. "Jesus."

"No, *Oliver!* actually."

"Bloody hell."

"See, I was going to distract them while Jack snuck in to rescue you."

"Already it's a stupid plan."

Xander smiles against Spike's collarbone. * "Pretty little Sally/Goes walking down the alley/Displays her pretty ankles to all of the men."*

"Sod off."

*"They could see her garters/But not for free-and-gratis--"*

"That Jack's done a number on you, hasn't he? You've gone round the bleedin' bend."

*"An inch or two--"*

"Harris, one more word and you'll regret it."

Xander captures Spike's mouth and for a little while words are the last thing he thinks about. But after a pause for breath, he can't resist asking, "What, afraid a little musical theatre's going to ruin your pirate street cred?"

"Don't make me bite you."

Propping himself up on one elbow, Xander says, "I love you, Spike." And it's the easiest thing he's ever said.

Then there really *are* no more words.

If Doctor Phil existed in this alternate universe, he might have even approved.

THE END -------

Better Buffy Fiction Archive Entry

No Pirate on Earth