room service

On the third ignored knock, Gillette pushed the cabin door open, balancing the breakfast tray on one hand. The figure by the stern-window froze, left leg already over the sill.

Jack Sparrow, shirt unbuttoned, sash thrown rakishly over one shoulder, flashed him a golden grin. Ill see myself out, he said, before dropping neatly into the bay below.

Gillette looked blankly at the soundly sleeping and obviously naked form of his Commodore in the rumpled bed.

Filing the last moments away with ghost pirates and his lieutenancy examination, he pulled the door silently closed behind him.

He knocked at the door.