A/N: I have returned, after a prolonged absence, to the world of writing. Even this little story took me months to write, on and off, just because I haven't been feeling the muse lately I guess.

Anyway, this is a pirate AU and there will be a second part to it forthcoming sometime in the future (it's half written atm). This is the most descriptive writing I've done in a while so I hope it came out okay. My terminology might be a bit off, so apologies ahead of time for that.

For anyone reading this, may your 2015 be filled with love, laughter, and happiness.

Keeping his footing while the ship pushed through an onslaught of choppy ocean waves became second nature years ago for the renowned pirate bearing the simple moniker of Porcelain. Sunset happened to be his favorite moment of the day and for this reason every evening the pirate captain stood at the bow of his ship, facing due west, his eyes drinking in the soft hues of pink and orange painting the sky as would a man sighting an oasis after days of trekking the Sahara.

Memories of his dearly departed mother hit his chest full force as they always did during this nightly ritual. Her affinity for pink skirts and orange flowers, the way she always smelled of roses, the sound of her laughter, her smile, the soft melody of her voice.

He forcibly brought himself back to the present, wary of portraying any vulnerability to those of his crew still on deck. Emotions on a pirate ship were a dangerous concept. They could easily lead to death, mutiny, and a number of more trivial effects that Porcelain didn't bother himself with. The vitality of his ship came first, plain and simple.

Satan, his first mate since the beginning of his buccaneering career, kept vigil from her perch inside the crow's nest. He could hear her Spanish mumblings from where he stood and fought the urge to laugh aloud. Instead, he reigned in his mirth and called out to her.

"Lopez, anything to report?"

"More water only, Captain."

Porcelain sighed under his breath. He'd been getting the exact same report from his lookouts for the last three days. The sail time from England to France was estimated at ten days. He'd rather not wait that long.

France provided a safe harbor for him, along with the many luxuries only Paris could give. Being fluent in French came in handy as Porcelain could don the local clothing and charm any man or woman into handing over exactly what he desired. Whether it be provisions for his ship, liquor for his crew, or an indulgence in their more carnal instincts, he never failed.

This simple fact evoked respect from his men. His infamy in Europe mixed in just the right amount of fear. And his penchant to participate in their commonplace singing sessions (no sailor on Porcelain's vessel would deny their captain's natural talent) inspired the admiration that completed the perfect trifecta every ship captain aspired to.

While the sun set fully beneath the waves beyond the horizon, allowing the dark of night to take center stage, Porcelain watched as his night crew dutifully lit lanterns placed strategically across the main deck. His own cabin sat untouched, awaiting his arrival.

Satan gracefully slid down the main mast as she turned her station over to the graveyard shift watchman, a gruff man known as Puck. The two traded a pleasant insult as he passed. Once he seemed safely settled, Satan made her way over to her captain.

"You look more pensive than usual."

"Observant as always, bestie."

She shrugged. "It's my job to keep my captain fit to serve."

"Is it now?" he inquired, his tone a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

"Even if it wasn't, I'd still take on the matter, Kurt."

Kurt laughed despite himself. "You truly are a good friend to me, you know."

"We made a promise to another another, in the beginning" she murmured, her eyes shifting to survey their immediate surroundings. "I don't know about you," she commented, her voice again at its normal tone, "but I always keep my promises."

"Indeed you do," he replied. His mind flashed to a particular incident involving an angry Latina and a man being thrown overboard in the middle of the Atlantic.

"Get some sleep, Porcelain," his first mate softly ordered. Her hand laid across his shoulder and turned him in the direction of his cabin with a gentle kind of force. "I'll watch over the ship 'til morning."

Kurt sighed, loud and dramatic, but acquiesced to her request, knowing this was a battle he'd never win. Before stepping away, he laid a hand on his bestie's shoulder in return. A small wave of warmth filled him, a sense of love and affection he had thought lost forever after the death of his parents. Santana, bless her stubborn, brash soul, had found him destitute in that filthy alleyway and had given him a purpose again. For that, he would be eternally in her debt.

Four days late, after facing a sudden storm as well as an ambush from a group of lesser pirates mistakenly thinking they would emerge victorious, the Elizabeth pulled into French waters and docked within a harbor off the Parisian city limits looking no worse for its recent trials. Kurt took pride in running a tight ship armed with two small cannon and a crew trained in the arts of close combat.

He looked down upon the busy waterside market with masked glee. Finally, he had arrived.

.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.

Disembarking along with three of his most trustworthy men, Porcelain entered town with three main goals: acquire enough food and other necessary supplies to refill his depleted stocks, enjoy a nice lunch somewhere with a glass of fine wine, (it had been much too long since the last time), and pay a visit to his local connections.

He would take care of his connections first. One or another would feed him and that would kill two birds with one stone. Then he and his men would walk back to the marketplace at the central square and retrieve the items needed for the ship before they embarked on their next run. Whether he felt generous enough to actually pay for those goods had yet to be decided.

Will Schuester ran the music program at the small school hosted every summer in the city. His wife, Emma, taught English to the grubby-faced farm children whose parents couldn't afford a traditional education. The couple lived a simple life in a simple home. Kurt had met the man years ago after a ruin-in with a group of particularly determined French soldiers, in search of shelter and finding protection in Will and Emma's unquestioning hospitality. Will had offered Kurt a safe haven as well as a few voice lessons over the week he had spent laying low in their residence. Though the couple were both a bit eccentric (Emma cleaned to the point of insanity and Will never stopped singing), Kurt found himself endeared. He owed them for their generosity, no matter how much they disputed this claim and insisted otherwise. It was for this reason that whenever he was in the area, he always made it a priority to stop by for a visit.

Will told him all about current events within France (apparently the crown prince had caused a scandal when he attended a royal ball with a woman, not his betrothed) as well as the progress of his music students (they were slowly getting the hang of things) over a cup of freshly brewed coffee, a delicacy in its own right. Kurt savored the taste of the rich, dark liquid smoothing its way down his throat, warming his belly as it entered his digestive tract. Emma insisted, in her sweet disarming way that made him feel guilty if he denied her, that he and his men stay for lunch. Kurt, though he hesitated at the thought of eating a chunk of the couple's food supplies, couldn't find it in his heart to decline. His men took seats at the tiny wooden table that served as the dinner table with words of thanks, knees tucked carefully beneath the tabletop and elbows kept against their sides in an effort to not take up too much space. The room was small enough as it was.

In total, the group spent two and a half hours in the quaint home.

By the time he had finally convinced Emma that he really needed to go, the sun had passed its zenith, following the path to its slumber. By the look of things, he had just a few hours until nightfall. Hopefully the merchants weren't in a haggling mood.

Walking confidently through the throngs of people heading in the same direction, Porcelain basked in the sights and sounds around him. Soon the scent of freshly baked baguettes hit his nose and he followed the aroma to its source oh so happily.

After this quick pastry detour, he acquired some milk, tea, and fruit to be added to the ship's bounty. He then sent his men back to the ship with their word they would deliver the goods safely into Satan's hands before allowing themselves any fun in town. Disobedience, as all his crew knew, would lead to punishments twice over. Porcelain took the mantra "all for one, and one for all" very seriously.

With his men thus dismissed, the captain approached the butchery all by his lonesome. The man who owned and ran this specific meat shop, Hiram Berry, was a close friend none of his men knew about. Kurt planned to keep them in the dark for a long time to come.

'Why?' you may ask.

Well, let's just say the butcher and the scoundrel had a certain inclination in common.

The chime hanging on the door jingled as Porcelain slid it shut behind him. Hiram, a man in his early forties, looked up from his knifework and smiled.

"Kurt! Come in, come in!"

Kurt allowed a small smile to grace his lips in reply at the sight of Hiram's blood-splattered apron. In any other circumstance the man's appearance was spotless, completely at odds with his day job.

The two shared whispered confidences and loud guffaws as the butcher finished quartering the chicken laid out before him. They then took their banter to the privacy of Hiram's storeroom, where their conversation continued in earnest.

A half hour passed with Kurt detailing his adventures in England to Hiram's amusement before the sound of a tinkling chime drifted into the room from the direction of the street front, effectively ending Kurt's tirade against the bitter liquid the English dared to call coffee. Hiram made apologies for the interruption., then moved out the door to check on the potential customer.

Kurt followed quietly behind, despite the fact his face and name held a bounty in this part of the country. He'd never been caught before and he didn't plan to start now.

All thoughts of evading capture at any cost fled the man's mind at the sight of the man now conversing with Hiram. Here stood a pirate as well-known across the European seas as Kurt himself, albeit for different reasons. Nightbird, thus called because of his tendency to attack at night and the signature whistle used by everyone among his crew, became infamous a few years ago for taking a Robin Hood approach to his thievery. Dark curls, bright eyes, and cropped breeches made the man unmistakable in the clear lights of the butchery.

Maybe Kurt didn't know Hiram as well as he had thought.

What type of merchant would do business with not one, but TWO sea rascals? Apparently Hiram Berry didn't eschew a little danger.

Kurt shuffled closer, carefully concealing his lithe frame behind a wooden bean. Keeping his eyes and other senses sharp, he focused his ears keenly on the discussion taking place before him.

Even with all his effort, Kurt could only fully understand small snippets of murmured words. Something about fruit being overripe and Nightbird's men sending theirs thanks. Kurt concluded it must be some sort of code.

Just when he felt comfortable in his hiding spot, Kurt saw a shadow shift from the corner of his eye. Immediately he moved into a defensive stance, silently thanking his father for those few years of grueling fencing lessons on the beach near his childhood home.

"I see we have company," the man commented, seemingly amused by Kurt's presence. Kurt preferred another response altogether.

Seconds [passed and the man made no other move; he just stood there, smirking like the cat that caught the canary. Kurt warily relaxed his body, moving to match the nonchalance Nightbird portrayed.

The other man smiled. "I expect nothing less from a fellow pirate."

Kurt smoothed any involuntary surprise from his features before replying, "And who are you?"

Nightbird narrowed his eyes, the action emphasizing the dark line of his full eyelashes. "I am well-known in these parts, as are you."

Kurt continued to feign ignorance, adding a touch of disinterest just to see the pirate's reaction. So far he was enjoying this. "Well-known to all but me it would seem."

Nightbird released a puff of air, the tension leaving his shoulders just as quickly as it had appeared while his former glare became replaced by a smile. "Two can play at that game."

Kurt shrugged. "Whatever you say."

The other man turned his attention back to Hiram, confidently (stupidly, in Kurt's opinion) leaving himself vulnerable to anything his fellow pirate may have planned. Luckily for him, Kurt took his idiocy at face value and decided to see what else he could glean from the ongoing conversation.

"Well, Berry, thank you again for your assistance."

Drat! There went that plan.

"Not a bother at all," Hiram insisted. "You know you can come to me anytime you find yourself in need of a helping hand."

The two men shook hands, Kurt silently watching the exchange for any ominous signs. He found himself wondering about Nightbird's past with Hiram, what exactly the two had been through to establish such a seemingly warm acquaintance. What did Nightbird even do between runs? Did he have a wife and child sequestered somewhere safe from harm? What was he currently doing in France?

A throat being cleared brought Kurt back to his present situation and he internally badgered himself for letting his guard down. And beside an infamous pirate at that!

"Porcelain," at that Kurt tried to keep a blank face, "I believe you owe me a drink."

Kurt skeptically raised a brow. "Do I?"

Nightbird leaned causally against the pillar opposite. "Indeed you do. Remember the night of September 1st?"

Kurt followed the man's lead, comfortably resting his shoulder against the wide column of wood he had hidden behind just moments before.

He had a vague recollection of the night in question: a run-in with a merchant ship that surprisingly managed to keep his crew at bay for hours before escaping. Had that vessel been under Nightbird's control?

Determined not to give him an advantageous edge, Kurt merely shrugged.

"Allow me to enlighten you," Nightbird drawled. "Two ships, one called The Elizabeth, the other known as Pavarotti. Entangled in a heated battle, the two respective captains found themselves at a stalemate. The smarter of the two decided to save time and ammo, making a strategic retreat." night paused, cocking his head to the side and searching his listener's face for any signs of recognition. Kurt made certain he found nothing.

Their eyes met fully. Kurt couldn't help noticing how much Nightbird looked like a puppy despite his fearsome reputation.

"You damaged my ship," the man huffed. "Took two weeks to repair, two weeks. I should have been out on the water that entire time. I think it's only fair you buy me a drink to make it up to me."

Kurt lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug, giving no further response. He relished in the annoyed frown that subsequently overtook Nightbird's features.

"If you've suddenly gone mute, a simple nod of acquiescence will suffice."

Kurt took a long moment to analyze the pros and cons of the proposal. On one hand he'd no longer have the looming threat of Nightbird's presence on his mind. Plus he may end up garnering some valuable information once his fellow pirate became good and drunk. On the other hand he'd have to place himself in a dangerous situation: alone with a pirate. Were the potential benefits worth the definite risks?

Santana would kill him is he humored such a brash, irresponsible whim. He had an entire group of people relying on him back at the port.

But a part of him, a admittedly large part, wanted to get to know this man. Some, if not all, of the man behind the reputation. What harm could a drink or two really do?

The other man's stern gaze morphed into a sincere smile. Kurt quickly quelled the rebellious flutter of his heart at the sight.

As Nightbird extended his hand in wordless invitation, Kurt wondered what possibly convinced him this excursion was a good idea.

He took the man's hand nonetheless.

A/N: It feels good to have finally typed this up. Reminded me of how much I enjoyed writing this in the first place.

How is everyone feeling about the final season of Glee thus far? All the 'gleegoodbye' tweets from the cast are killing me softly.

Leave a review, good or bad, if you'd like and I'll very much appreciate it!