the Dalaverse

5.

Norrington woke from the sunlight pouring in the window and onto his closed eyelids. He rolled his shoulders, feeling them crack painfully; he’d fallen asleep in the chair by Jack’s bed, and it was not exactly the most comfortable way to pass the night.

Jack twitched and grunted, looking for all the world like his uncle’s dog dreaming about chasing rabbits as he curled his toes – bare toes. Goodness. He was naked and he’d kicked most of the blankets away, leaving just a twist of sheet across his hips. Norrington felt heat spread across his face as his eyes took stock of that wiry body, thinner than it should have been and slightly jaundiced under the deep tan, but still appealing –

He gripped the arms of his chair in sudden panic. What on earth was he thinking? Sparrow’s body was not appealing, healthy or otherwise, nude or clothed. If he had kept such a close watch on the man for the past night, it was only for fear that his fever would rise again. If he had held Sparrow perhaps a bit too tightly on the way to the room, it was only in an effort to warm him and put a stop to his shivering.

Nothing more, he thought fiercely as he tugged a quilt over Jack, who didn’t stir

Catching sight of the sun’s position in the sky, he swore softly and hurried to his own room to dress. When he stumbled through the front doors of the fort, muttering apologies, he met only an astonished maid mopping the floor. She informed him that it was Sunday and as such, most of the officers were not due in that morning – including Norrington himself. After apologizing for startling her and tracking mud in, he went back to his horse and set off for home.

So it seemed he wasn’t going to be able to avoid home, and therefore Jack, after all. Of course he might have stayed; there was always paperwork to do. But he rather disliked the fort when it was empty. It was rumored to be haunted, and though Norrington had once scoffed at sailors’ superstitions, his opinion on such matters had quite naturally changed.

As he made his way home, he began to cheer up. He wouldn’t actually have to be around Sparrow, after all. No doubt he would sleep all day after his rather trying ordeal. Norrington could retreat to his study, his favorite room in the house, and be at peace from both overeager underlings and feverish pirate captains.

It seemed, however, that fate had anticipated his plans and found them wanting, for when he pushed the study door open with a grateful sigh, he found Jack Sparrow stretched out on the blue velvet chaise lounge next to the window.

Norrington stared open-mouthed for a moment as Jack grinned and waved at him. He’d dragged in half the contents of his bed, cloaking himself in blankets, and he was surrounded by stacks of Norrington’s books.

“What are you...” Norrington began helplessly.

Jack thumbed through the book in his lap – a collection of French poetry, unless Norrington was mistaken. “It’s terrible boring being shut up in that room all day, Gabriel my good man.”

“I am not your anything,” Norrington exclaimed indignantly, “and I don’t want you to use that name, and look at the mess you’ve made!” He knelt and began to gather the leather volumes in his arms.

“Oh, it’s not as bad as all that,” Jack muttered, sticking his tongue out at Norrington as his prizes were taken away. He clutched at the book in his arms when Norrington tried to reclaim it. “I’ve not finished with this one yet!”

With a weary sigh, Norrington let himself slide down into the small chintz sofa opposite the chaise. His day had been spoiled beyond repair and he might as well accept it. “What is it?”

Jack flipped the book around to show him a painting of a bare-breasted mermaid.

“I didn’t even remember I still had that,” said Norrington with the faint hint of a smile, recognizing the dusty book of fairy tales with its bright illustrations. “My aunt Rose bought it for me when I was small.”

Studying the picture critically, Jack frowned. “Isn’t the least bit accurate.”

“And I suppose you’ve seen a mermaid?” Norrington asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Seen? Almost married one, mate,” said Jack brightly.

“Really.” His voice dripped sarcasm, but his interest was piqued anyway, and he knew Jack could tell.

Jack nodded emphatically. Letting the book fall into his lap, he leaned forward to begin his story. “See, I was a lad of seventeen and I was sailin’ with the crew of a man named Roberts. We were on our way from the Carolinas to Barbados when we came across a spit of land that glimmered in the sun. Shouldn’t have been there – not on any map we could find – and yet there it is. I was curious about it, so I suggest we stop and have a look around. Roberts says boo to that plan and, more, decides he isn’t pleased with one o’ his crew asking so many questions.”

“I can well imagine how insufferable you must have been as a boy under anybody’s command, much less that of a pirate,” Norrington remarked dryly.

Jack smirked. “No, Commodore, you really cannot. Anyway, they set me ashore with naught but my clothes, a pistol – not the one I’ve got now, mind – and a few hunks of mealy bread.”

“I take it this was the first time you were marooned?”

“It was, and I wasn’t too worried, oddly enough. S’ppose it was only from bein’ young and stupid.” He smiled again and Norrington wondered at how easily it came, as if they were two old friends having tea over a familiar tall tale. If he’d had such an infectious expression, he didn’t think he would be so generous with it.

“So I wandered around for a bit,” Jack continued, “and headed back down to the beach for a swim to take my mind off things. I was splashing about when I heard a sort of low gigglin’ nearby. It was this mermaid, tucked behind a clump of rock and watching me. She didn’t look a thing like the pictures – oh, she was formed like a woman up top, certainly, but her hair was like tough seaweed, an’ her eyes were cold, fishy eyes that didn’t blink too often. Her skin was that milky blue a body gets when it’s just starting to rot in the water, and she stank like spilled guts.”

“And this is the creature you almost married?”

“Haven’t mentioned the teeth yet, have I?” He bared his own teeth, sparked with gold, for effect. Norrington wrinkled his nose. “Teeth like a shark, up and down, and I’m not too sure I didn’t see a coupla shreds of flesh stuck on ‘em. She spoke a good sort of English, albeit with a funny squeaky accent, an’ she told me in no uncertain terms that she’d taken a shine to me. Well, now – and not that I could blame her, since I was as fit a lad as I am a man – I tried to beg off, in the most diplomatic way possible. She’d have none of that, thank you, and there were those wicked teeth to consider...”

~~~

Fifteen minutes later Norrington was blinking at Jack’s conclusion to his tale.

“And that’s how it happened.” Jack flopped himself back in his makeshift nest, looking quite satisfied with his own performance.

“But how did the dwarf get to the forest in the first place?”

With an indulgent sigh and a hand rolling on a wrist, Jack patiently told him, “That wasn’t the point of the story.”

Norrington had no idea how Jack had managed to hold his attention for such a ridiculous and meandering tale. It was some combination of the way his voice rose and fell, a spell woven by his never-still hands and his dancing dark eyes.

“I don’t know why I even bother,” he muttered. Jack chuckled.

“You’ll get no answers from me, mate,” he said good-naturedly. Before Norrington could ask the pressing question of whether Jack actually expected to him to believe this story of bloodthirsty, lustful mermaids, the other man heaved a couple of deep coughs before draining the glass of water on the side table.

The memory of how very sick he’d been the night before hit Norrington just then. “How are you feeling, Captain Sparrow?”

Jack tapped his fingertips idly against the glass in his hand. “Oh, not bad, considering. It’s just...” He winced and set the glass aside, rubbing at his left shoulder. “Me neck’s rather achy, is all, and right back between my shoulders.” Twisting one arm around, he set his face in a grimace of pain as he tried to work out whatever kinks were paining his back.

“You’ll never reach,” said Norrington, unfolding himself from his sofa to lean over the arm of Jack’s chaise. “Here, let me.” Jack pulled his unkempt thatch of hair aside to allow access to his neck, where Norrington lay both hands, flat-palmed, and started to knead gently.

“My aunt Rose got terrible rheumatism in the winter,” he explained. “I used to rub the ache out of her bones.”

“Same one gave you the book?” He nodded, pressing his thumbs into the knots on either side of Jack’s spinal cord. Jack let out a hiss at the relief from tension, half-pain and half-pleasure. “Must’ve been your favorite aunt, for you to go to so much trouble.”

“Actually we never got on. She was in her seventies, she despised all little boys, and she smelled like boiled cabbage.”

Jack’s shoulders lifted under his hands in quiet laughter. “Were you so well-behaved even then?”

Norrington shrugged. “She was my father’s elder sister and she more or less raised him, after my grandmother died. Everyone in our family did what she said. Stay still,” he ordered, as Jack wriggled into the touch.

“Sorry,” said Jack, sounding anything but. “Feels good, no doubt due to skill garnered from all that practice. 'Least now I know you’re good for something else besides snapping to.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” He slipped the shirt farther down Jack’s shoulders and balked at the long, thin scars etched across the skin of his back.

“Nothing,” said Jack innocently. He hunched his shoulders impatiently, but when he spoke again, his voice was quiet. “You must’ve seen ‘em. Last night, and before that – I imagine you’ve shown a man or two the lash.”

His fingertips curled uncertainly above the pale lines, witnesses to where the flesh had once been split and bloodied. He supposed he had seen them last night, but hadn’t noticed. He’d been far too busy trying not to focus on Jack’s body, a theme on which his thoughts had been centered during the bath. It had been his fault, after all – listening to Jack splash with only a thin wall separating them, losing track of time as he imagined those darkly tanned hands sliding across a lean belly, down his thighs, before reaching out to caress Norrington’s own bare skin...

As the color rushed to his face, he drew his hands away from Jack as though he’d been burned. Jack twisted around, but before he caught the look in Norrington’s eyes, a questioning meow echoed from the doorway.

Thank you, thank you, thought Norrington fervently as he went to crack the door open. Annabelle stared at him, clearly daring him to insult her queenly bulk any further, before he relented and opened it wider. She sauntered in with her tail flicking casually. If the damned cat had not interrupted...

He’d come very close, leaning over a relaxed and sprawling Jack, to losing control. Close to losing something else, as well, though he wasn’t sure what – dignity? Professional distance? Years of excuses and denial? His soul?

Jack was looking at him with hard, searching eyes. For an instant Norrington saw the killer as well as the charmer in him – the man who’d held a gun to Elizabeth’s temple reconciled with the man constantly drifting just a bit too close into everyone’s personal space.

Then the flash of – something – behind his eyes was gone and he was all solicitation once again.

“And this must be the lady of the house,” he said with a dramatic flourish, dropping his gaze to Annabelle, who stalked over to him with a wary sidestep.

“I’d be careful, she doesn’t take well to strangers –” Norrington warned. He fell silent as Annabelle leapt up onto the chaise.

“Cats generally like me,” said Jack smugly as Annabelle proceeded to knead his lap into a more comfortable cushion. “Easy with the claws, love.” The cat settled down and conjured up a rusty purr as she looked at Norrington. He could almost swear that her amber eyes were saying ‘See? It’s not such a bad place to be.’

Norrington backed up towards the door in alarm. He certainly did not want to curl up in Jack Sparrow’s lap. And his cat was a dear pet, but nothing more. The fact that she was strangely taken with his houseguest meant absolutely nothing.

Jack stroked Annabelle’s ears. “No wonder you’ve never gotten married,” he remarked. “Jealous, this one is.”

“Haven’t you got a sweetheart in some filthy port who could take you in?” Norrington snapped.

He shook his head and ran a hand down Annabelle’s back as she shuddered with contentment. “I need no mistress but the sea, Commodore – and the Pearl, naturally.” His mood turned palpably as he looked out the window and toyed with the end of Annabelle's tail, earning himself a swipe which he ignored. “I daresay she misses me now as much as this fine gentlewoman misses you when you’re off at sea.”

“You’re so devoted to that ship,” said Norrington, meaning to cut but finding his voice lacking any force. “What lover could ever compete?” He was surprised to hear his own bold words, not entirely sure what had prompted them -- that distant loss in Jack's eyes, perhaps.

“Whoever’s willing to try,” said Jack, his voice dropping low and his mouth quirking into a half-grin as his melancholy burned off like morning fog.

Norrington decided suddenly that they were not, in fact, having this conversation. With a curt nod, he ducked through the door and shut it behind him.


6.

“It’s such a miserably hot day.” Norrington flopped down into the sofa across from Jack, who glanced up from the map of the west African coast he was mentally critiquing. Sweat was pouring down Norrington's face and there was color enough in his cheeks that Jack briefly wondered if he was getting sick as well. Their eyes met and Norrington shook his head slightly.

“I feel fine,” he said in answer to Jack’s unspoken question. “I just hate this wretched climate.” He rubbed a palm across his forehead, looking down at it with a grimace of distaste.

Shrugging, Jack propped his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward. “Must be that pure English blood of yours.”

“God, I’d give anything for a proper winter,” Norrington groaned. “Rain and gray clouds and a bit of snow.”

Jack shuddered. Norrington, having grown up in a fine house with sufficient socks and coats and mufflers, was allowed the luxury of enjoying cold weather that somebody of Jack's own parentage was denied. “Can’t say as I agree with you, mate. Weather is one thing I was very glad to leave behind. Wouldn’t object to a nice cool sea breeze, o’ course...” He cast a hopeful glance at Norrington, who twitched an irritated eyebrow at him. Jack had been after him for days for a quick nip down to the docks, under the cover of night or a disguise, just to dip a toe in. Norrington was not exactly in favor of the idea.

“Still,” he said, letting his voice drop low and looking up from under his eyelashes, “heat agrees with me, and I’ve rarely had a man argue ‘bout that.”

He paused expectantly, waiting for a blush and a stammer. The comment had been on the more blatant side of his attempts at seduction, something not even this man could ignore.

But ignoring him was exactly what Norrington was doing, as he fiddled with the cuff on his sleeve and plucked at a curl of his wig, distracted by his own discomfort. And that – that would certainly not do.

“Commodore, if I may offer you some friendly advice?” Norrington glanced at him, surprised and no small bit wary – Jack had been a bit of a hellion lately, and he had no trouble admitting it to himself. Poking and prodding at Norrington's stiff sensibilities, trying to determine what would open him up and what would get Jack shut out completely. But for this tack, he needed subtlety and charm, at least one of which qualities he was never lacking.

He waved a hand vaguely at Norrington’s torso. “Naturally you’re overheated – look at what you’re wearing!”

Norrington glanced down at himself doubtfully. “There’s nothing unusual about my clothing.”

“Aye, but look how much there is of it. Yards of wool and linen, all heavy and encumbering. And that wig – however d’you manage to even draw a decent breath with that gull’s nest atop your head?”

Well, perhaps ‘charm’ wasn’t the proper term for it. More like charm in reverse – but if it earned him results, he wasn’t going to discount it.

Norrington’s chin had lifted defiantly and he was glaring at Jack, every bit the offended peacock. And oh, how Jack enjoyed ruffling his many feathers.

“I dress according to my station,” he said stiffly. “As you do to yours,” he added with a bit of a smirk, indicating Jack’s rather bedraggled clothing with a crisp nod.

At any other time Jack might have been offended, but that would not serve his purpose. “My rags’re a good deal cooler than your uniform, I’d wager.” The grudging hint of agreement creeping into Norrington’s eyes emboldened him and he tried a different angle. “‘Sides, who’s here to see you in all the glory of your station? Trying to impress old Captain Jack, are we?”

Norrington’s face immediately tightened, that little crease appearing between his brows, and Jack knew he’d won. “Hardly, Captain.”

He stifled a grin of triumph as Norrington, eyes doggedly fixed on him, reached up to tug the powdered wig off. His hair tumbled into his eyes as he raked his fingers through it, clearing it of the pomade used to keep it neat. He struggled out of the blue jacket, which Jack really rather liked, with its bright buttons and golden flash of braid. It might be in his interest to try the thing on one day, perhaps secure one for himself. He’d never gone in for the aristocratic airs some pirates tried to put on in their rich dress, but that coat of Norrington’s was nearly as fine as the man himself.

Damned fine, Jack had to amend, watching Norrington first untie, then unwind his spotless white cravat and toss it over the back of the sofa. The things that could be done with that long, long stretch of cloth, softer and more forgiving than rope or shackles...

He had to keep from letting his eyes glaze over, or his tongue run out over his lips, or some other overt sign that would give away the game before he got a better glimpse of that skin, glistening faintly in the waning afternoon light.

Norrington tugged at his collar, loosening it. Jack waited, but there he stopped.

Half-banking on Norrington’s sense of fair play and even stakes, half-sure that he’d ruin the whole show, Jack couldn’t stop himself from prompting in a measuredly idle tone, “Not the shirt as well? It sticks to you, I've noticed, and you’d be that much cooler.” The look on Norrington’s face was just short of suspicion, so he flashed gold and teeth in an attempt to disarm him. “It isn’t as though you’ve not seen me in such a state, and more besides.”

For a moment he thought he had indeed taken it too far. As Norrington’s wary eyes searched his own, he tried to hide his less-than-honorable intentions behind a veneer of laconic amusement and found it more difficult than he’d imagined. Whatever degree of success he managed to reach, it soon slipped his mind as a quick, hard decision was made in that piercing green gaze. Norrington looked down, following the path of his own hands as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt. And Jack found himself not paying the slightest attention to the newly-bared flesh, instead watching Norrington’s fingers, which were trembling slightly.

Was that a sign – did he know? Jack was convinced that he had to know on some level, that the dark glances and fleeting little touches were registering in a way he would not yet acknowledge. But his hands, even as Jack noted the faint tremors, stilled, steadied, peeled the dampened shirt from his shoulders.

Jack took the quickest of looks before he could be accused of staring – skin fair like he’d expected, protected by all that rich fabric whenever the sun might chance to fall upon it. Yet even expecting it did not prepare him for the reality of all that pale flesh, nearly glowing against the deep wine-colored silk of the sofa on which Norrington sat. Unblemished except for a scar extending from his ribs around his right side – Jack wondered if that skin could possibly be as soft as it looked, against hands and lips, if it would redden under a gently sucking mouth – he’d bet gold that those neatly-muscled shoulders would freckle if they caught a few rays...

It was a sheer effort of will to tear his hungry eyes away from the body he’d spent the past few weeks picturing unclothed. He’d been able to contemplate ravishing the good Commodore with a certain level of detachment, thinking more of the beneficial results than the act itself. And his illness, much as he hated to admit it, had put something of a damper on his libidinous nature.

That did not seem to be a problem any longer.

He dragged a pillow onto his lap and began to count silently, eyes fixed on the ceiling for as long as he could keep them there.

When he could look at Norrington again without being overcome by the need to leap at him, he found him flexing his arms with a surprised, relaxed look on his face, and that certainly wasn’t helping matters any.

“I do feel much better,” said Norrington cheerfully.

Jack offered a wan half-smile in return, hating him briefly for being that handsome and that unaware of it. People should not be awarded bodies like Norrington’s when they had no idea how to use them.

Norrington shifted into a more comfortable sprawl on the sofa, causing the trim muscles of his stomach to do interesting things that made hatred the furthest option from Jack’s mind.

To his relief, a welcome distraction came in the form of Annabelle, trotting in with a hunk of something gray and ratty gripped between her teeth.

A very real smile lit Norrington’s face. “And the lady returns from the hunt.” He bent forward until he was on the ground, on his knees and one hand as he wrestled the cat’s prize away with the other.

Jack swallowed hard. Those Navy-issue breeches were certainly a tight fit. He’d never seen a fine back view of Norrington, the jacket being always in the way, but here he was, and here he kept Jack’s attention despite the danger of being caught looking.

The strange burbling sound he made in his throat caused Norrington to look over his shoulder – peering back at him with his rear in the air like that...

Jack thought that he deserved a medal, a royal pardon, hell, sainthood for keeping his head when faced with such a sight.

“What was that?” Norrington was saying.

Clearing his throat, Jack said, “That catch of hers, there, what might that be?”

He bit his lip and looked down, the tint of a blush to his perfect skin. Jack wondered desperately if some power on this earth wanted him dead.

“An old wig of mine,” said Norrington sheepishly. “I gave it to her to play with ages ago. I thought it might stop the parade of dead mice, rats, and birds that kept being marched into my bedroom.”

“Clearly they were gifts. You should be flattered.” And he could not keep the low shiver of desire out of his voice, could not stop his eyes from burning. There was no turning back now – consummation of whatever he thought he could feel between them was imminent.

Jack discovered that he didn’t mind that at all. He’d just keep looking at Norrington like this, offering him whatever pleasures he might dream up and many he’d probably never heard of.

Norrington was going to be his.

Any minute now.

Norrington blinked at him and sat back on his heels. “Are you feeling unwell today, Sparrow? You’re looking a bit flushed.”

He closed his eyes and covered them with his palm. “Fine,” he mumbled. “I am absolutely, positively, completely and without doubt bloody fine.”

“Well...all right,” said Norrington dubiously. “I’ll just go get you some soup, if you feel up to it.”

Up to it.

Bollocks.

Jack nodded without looking at him. He waited until he heard the door click shut before he opened his eyes again.

“This is not going according to plan,” he said blearily to the cat. She spared him a cursory glance before deciding that her newly regained prey was far more interesting. Jack privately agreed. He’d become nothing more than a house pet, harmless and purring, a – a kept pirate.

Plans, he knew from vast experience, could be altered, at the last gasp if need be. Claws could be sharpened.

It was astonishingly simple, once he thought about it: there was only one thing that could be done with a man like Norrington. As he watched Annabelle stalking her bedraggled old wig across the floor, he put the perfect words to the concept.

He would have to pounce.


7.

Norrington was awakened from a thankfully dreamless sleep by the sound of thrashing limbs. He winced and stretched, realizing that he’d fallen asleep in the chair beside Jack’s bed, rather than his own clean, comfortable bed. Nothing he wasn’t used to – he often fell asleep at his desk, and the armchair was a deal more comfortable.

Jack groaned and vaulted onto his left side, facing Norrington. In the moonlight coming through the open window, his eyes appeared sunken in his face. He looked up at Norrington in a haze of fever, shivering violently.

Damn. He had seemed to be much better these past few days, but now he was twisting around beneath the sheets in a way that was painful to watch. Norrington got up and leaned forward, brushing a lock of dark, matted hair away from Jack’s brow. His skin was hot to the touch, though not as hot as it had been when he'd first arrived.

“What is it, Sparrow?”

“Cold,” Jack replied, his voice rising in a whine, “so cold, so cold...hate the cold...”

Norrington sighed and rearranged the blankets. The other man tossed around again until his back was to Norrington, knees drawn up to his chest until he was a small shaking ball, mumbling piteously about the cold.

At this point Norrington couldn’t take it any longer. He drew the covers aside. Jack didn’t react as Norrington slid in beside him and took him in steady arms.

“There now,” he whispered in an attempt to soothe Jack’s whimpering, drawing the smaller man back against his chest, “is that better?” It was stiflingly hot, but Norrington ignored his own discomfort, vigorously rubbing his hand up and down Jack’s arm. The sooner he could get Jack warmed, the sooner he could get out of this bed and away from temptation.

“Aye,” Jack agreed sleepily. His body began to relax, muscles unclenching as he let his legs fall back alongside Norrington’s. “Warm.” He turned to face his makeshift bed warmer, shifting so that he was lying comfortably in the circle of Norrington’s arms, pressing his face in Norrington’s neck. He yawned, pink gums showing. Norrington, feeling decidedly sleepy himself from the close warmth, stroked his hands idly down Jack’s back. Strange – his body was cool, not nearly as heated as his face.

“Warm,” Jack repeated softly, letting his fingers come to rest on Norrington’s hip. It was just then that Norrington realized Jack had thrown a leg over him, and it was as this thought was exploding in his brain that Jack kissed him.

For a moment all Norrington felt was shock. Then he was aware of Jack’s tongue pushing his lips apart, one arm going round his waist while the other gripped the back of his head. The southbound hand found its way to his backside and squeezed gently, making Norrington start, but other than that he could not move.

Finally notions of protest began to make their way into his paralyzed brain; he pushed against Jack’s body, but this only caused Jack to hold on tighter, bucking his hips as his nails dug into Norrington’s flesh. And within that abbreviated thrust the extent of Jack’s desire was brought to Norrington’s knowledge, striking him dumb once again, this time with wonder at how much his body welcomed the sensation. Jack moved against him again, his erection pressing between Norrington’s legs in a nature of pleasure that Norrington had left behind long ago. Half-memories swam to the surface of his thoughts, schoolboy moments of stolen bliss he had spent years repressing. With them came the memories of discovery and punishment, provoking an aversion strong enough that he tried to imagine Jack – on top of him by now, effectively pinning him to the mattress – as a woman. He was certainly slight enough, but in all the places where their bodies touched he knew better: Jack’s cock against his own, the hard, flat planes of his chest, his mustache scraping against Norrington’s cheek as Jack plundered his mouth...

Norrington knew that he had the upper hand in this situation. He outweighed Jack by a considerable amount. It would take the smallest of efforts to shove him over, off the bed if he so chose. Instead he took notice of Jack’s mouth on his own. Experimentally he pressed his tongue against Jack’s; with a small murmur of encouragement Jack lent him courage, and he began to explore. He came into contact with Jack’s gold and silver teeth, discovering that they were the source of the exotic tang he detected. It was a taste that he felt should have been unpleasant, but in reality was far from it. He ran his hands under Jack’s nightshirt and up, feeling the network of scars he had so far only witnessed. Norrington touched them lightly, irrationally fearing that he would cause pain. Sight had not prepared them for the way the weathered skin of the pirate’s back puckered into little ridges and crevasses, balanced by the craters of the gunshot wounds in the front – a whole landscape under his fingertips, as warm as if the Caribbean sun had been beating down upon it.

Jack’s lips left Norrington’s own to trace his jawline back to his ear, which received a light nip. Norrington heard a sharp cry but did not register it as his own. His shirt buttons were being undone or simply torn off, as Jack mouthed a path down his chest, his stomach, not stopping even when he disappeared beneath the blankets.

Norrington had more or less let his body respond to the attack while convincing his mind that this was not happening. Denial, however, was flung out the window when Jack lowered his mouth to suck at him through his breeches. Suddenly he had no mind, no body, only the heat soaking through the thin material to take him over.

Jack flung off the covers with one arm. The sudden flood of cool air evoked winter at school – his own slim adolescent hands shaking as they negotiated laces and buttons at the waist of a red-haired boy – the wine cellar – Jack tugged at Norrington’s belt and he remembered the belt of his father and its steel buckle –

He came out of Jack’s spell and shoved him off, away, not caring if he fell, scrambling out of the bed so quickly he was dizzy.

Jack sighed in irritation and reclined against the headboard, nightshirt pulled indecently up to his thighs. Norrington felt his gaze drawn in that direction and looked forcefully away.

“I knew it,” Jack told the ceiling lazily.

Norrington could do nothing but stare at him in incredulity. “Knew what?”

“About you,” he replied, turning his head and fixing Norrington with a cocky grin. “Knew it the minute I saw you, what you wanted, what you are –“

“Sh-shut up,” Norrington said, appalled to find himself stuttering, something he hadn’t done since he was a small child. He waited until his voice was under its normal state of control before he spoke again. Jack just lay back with that slow infuriating smile on his face, watching him like he was prey.

“You’re wrong, Sparrow, and you’re sick,” he finally ground out between clenched teeth.

“Actually,” said Jack, rubbing his chin reflectively and deliberately misinterpreting, “I think I may be on the mend. Had to nearly suffocate myself under the pillows to get my face hot so you’d crawl in with me. Not that you needed much prompting.” He smirked, eyes traveling up and down Norrington’s body, lighting between his legs at the spot he’d made damp.

Norrington discovered that he had backed up into the chair. He sank down onto it, pressing the heels of his hands against his closed eyes.

Immediately he could feel Jack’s warm breath against his skin as the other man leaned close.

“You’re shaking, Gabriel.”

“Don’t,” he whispered without looking at Jack. Whether he meant ‘don’t use my name’ or ‘don’t touch me,’ he wasn’t sure. Probably both. Jack had no idea what he had done – what he was still trying to do.

Cool fingers lifted Norrington’s hands away from his overheated face and laid them at his sides. Norrington looked down at the floor, Jack’s legs as he knelt on the bed at the edge of his vision.

“Look at me,” Jack said, his voice oddly gentle. He cupped Norrington’s cheek in one hand, but removed it when Norrington flinched away. “Let me help you –“

Norrington shook his head. “No, Jack.” His voice was firm again. “Please.” He could hear the desperation behind his words and he was ashamed, but not nearly as much as he knew he would be if he accepted Jack’s proposal.

Out of the corner of his eye, Norrington saw Jack sit back on his heels, seeming to consider.

After a moment he said, “All right, then.” Lulled by the even tone of his voice, Norrington made the mistake of meeting Jack’s eyes. They were snapping with anger and passion. “I’ll leave you alone.

“But you remember this, Commodore,” Jack continued, sounding vaguely threatening, his palms resting on his thighs. “We are who we are. You can’t remove the way you love from your blood any more than I can remove the seawater from mine. I’ve tried to leave the sea behind, lad – believe that if you believe nothing else. It won’t do. It would kill me, as this’ll kill you too, slowly, if you let it. Look at how miserable you are, mate – ”

“You are fond of self-indulgent speeches,” said Norrington coolly, getting to his feet. “Get some rest or your fever will return.”

With a long-suffering sigh Jack fell back onto the pillows. “Your wish is my command, sir.”

Norrington was at the door when he paused. There was something he had to ask, now that he knew what he knew, and knew it for certain.

“Captain Sparrow.”

“Commodore Norrington.”

“Did you – the blacksmith boy – were the pair of you...”

“No,” he responded flatly. “I loved his father. I wouldn’t’ve.”

Norrington nodded and left the room, collapsing onto his own bed. He slept in his clothes and dreamed of long black hair threaded with beads, and of saltwater kisses.


8.

Jack had been lying awake for hours when Norrington came in the next morning with a tray of tea and toast. He set it carefully down on the bedside table, eyes flicking quickly to Jack and then away, looking like nothing so much as a squirrel come down to the ground.

Studying him over the top of the cup, Jack tried to piece together the various thoughts and feelings that had run through his head over the night. He’d thought it might be easier to see the man again, but it did not simplify things. Norrington’s obvious nerves, for example, were serving the dual purpose of making him sympathetic and irritated. Jack hated when other people were complicated because it meant he was supposed to be simple, and that was one thing he’d sworn never to be.

“You don’t have to act so twitchy,” he grumbled, gnawing on a piece of buttered toast. “I’m not going to attack you again.” Yet, he added mentally.

“I am not twitching,” said Norrington, with a nervous twitch of his shoulders.

At first Jack rolled his eyes, but then a connection he had not made before made him drop the food in his lap. He’d seen that rabbit look before, in the eyes of youths and maidens who’d suffered at the hands of previous partners.

“Did somebody –” He was surprised to hear his voice come out as a low growl and paused to clear his throat. “Has anybody ever hurt you, mate?”

Norrington frowned at him, his fidgeting fingers momentarily still. “What do you mean?”

“A man,” Jack clarified quietly, noting how he blanched. “Taking what’s meant for pleasure and turning it to pain. Last night –”

“I don’t want to talk about last night, except to say that it will never happen again,” Norrington broke in harshly. “And the answer to your extremely inappropriate question...” He scowled and shook his head as if the very idea was an affront. “No, no one has ever – ever abused me, if that’s what you are insinuating.”

“Then why –” He waved his teacup in the air expressively.

“Has it occurred to you that perhaps I simply don’t want you?”

Jack wondered if he had any idea how much his blushing undermined a statement like that. But he decided to let it go, because dealing with whatever problems Norrington was hiding from had a tendency to induce headache.

“Nonsense,” he declared gallantly, spreading his arms wide. “It is mechanically, mathematically, scientifically, and in all other ways inconceivable that anyone could possibly not want Captain Jack Sparrow.”

Norrington stared at him, tried to speak, shook his head. Finally he managed, “How are you able to fit through doorways and hatchways with such an inflated opinion of yourself, Sparrow?”

“You know,” Jack replied thoughtfully, sipping his tea, “I don’t know.”

~~~

His day, typically monotonous and looking to be even worse due to the events of the night previous, was thankfully interrupted in late afternoon. While Norrington wandered somewhere off to be antisocial, Will and Elizabeth kept him company in the study.

“Still can’t believe how big you’re gettin’,” said Jack with a wry grin. “Skinny little thing you are, and now look at your belly.”

Elizabeth preened, glowing and ridiculously pretty at the height of her pregnancy. “In some ways I’m enjoying it. The one time in our lives we women are not expected to be trussed up like a Christmas goose.”

Jack let out a contented chuckle. Elizabeth was more than refreshing after the morning he’d spent with Norrington. He noticed that Will’s head was drooping, his chin bobbing against his chest. “I think your husband has fallen asleep.”

She turned to Will with a sigh, drawing his head down onto her shoulder, an expression of indulgent exasperation on her face. “He’s been insufferable lately. Last night he was up for hours, fretting about some ridiculous theory that we’re all born with an instinctual fear of fire, so he thinks the baby will smell the forge on him and not be able to stand him. I know,” she groaned at Jack’s incredulous look. “And that’s not even the worst of it. Last week he kept going on and on about how he had nothing to contribute to the baby’s sense of its heritage because he can’t trace his family back beyond his parents.” She stroked a curl away from Will’s eyes and rubbed her stomach absently. “And he’s starting to hover around me, asking to help if I so much as bend over or reach for something on a shelf or sneeze.”

“It runs in the family,” Jack assured her. “Bill got a letter from Kate while we were out on a voyage, sayin’ she was expecting, and damned if he didn’t faint dead away. Man you couldn’t knock down with a ten-pound shot, but he fell right over the moment he read about young Will’s imminent arrival.”

Elizabeth got that light in her eyes, the same as her sweetheart's whenever he told them about William Turner the elder. He could never refuse the two their bedtime stories, even when the memories hurt as badly as this one did. Things had been strained between them on that trip, even worse so than usual once the news came.

“Drove everybody crazy for the next coupla months,” Jack continued, forcing a smile onto his face that was at least partially sincere. “I can’t imagine what she did with him when he got back. I would’ve walloped him at least twice a day.” A pause for the closing line. “Actually, knowing Kate, she might have.”

She laughed, as had been the desired effect. Judging by how relaxed she looked and how Will was out like a light, Jack figured it was a good time to make some of the inquiries he’d been turning over in his mind.

“So, my landlord of late,” he began, careful to keep his voice neutral. “What’s the story behind him?”

“Gabriel? I’m not sure what you want to know.”

“Oh, where he comes from, what he did before he came here – he courted you once, you must’ve gotten to know him at least a little bit.”

Elizabeth shrugged. “He’s not the easiest person to get to know, if you haven’t noticed.”

With a snort, Jack replied, “Believe me, I know it.”

“Well, he came over from England with us nine years ago. He was always quiet, but nice enough. I know his men respect him and are fervently loyal, especially the lieutenants Gillette and Groves.”

Jack remembered them from the Dauntless, mostly by the way they looked at each other. He wondered if the Commodore knew that two of his men were sporting behind his back, and seriously enough to be giving each other such hungry, love-struck looks in plain moonlight. Perhaps it was a spot of knowledge he might use to his advantage, as well as whatever else Elizabeth might tell him.

“His father’s Navy as well,” she was saying. “Retired in London if I recall correctly. His mother died when he was young – we had that much in common, at least.”

“Surely he isn’t the eldest son?”

She shook her head. “No, he has at least one older brother, maybe two, and sisters – one older and three younger. I think that may be why he often talked to me on the crossing – he must have missed them.”

Made sense, Jack thought. To come from a fairly large family and sail out to a strange place, another corner of the globe – he had probably never lost that loneliness. “How old was he?”

Pursing his lips as she thought, she finally hazarded, “Twenty or twenty-one? I believe he’s around thirty now...”

“Just a boy,” Jack murmured under his breath. He’d known Norrington had to be younger than he looked in uniform, but he hadn’t guessed that low.

Closing his eyes, he was struck by a sudden, crystal-clear impression of Norrington alone in his cabin on the great ship, his feet sticking out over the end of the bunk, impossibly lonely and perhaps seasick from the unfamiliar waters. It was so unsettling that he was only too glad to focus on Elizabeth again.

She was giving him a look he knew, an impassive one she used whenever she was rapidly putting things together in her head.

“No particular reason why ‘m asking,” he said with a weak attempt at a nonchalant grin. “Gets boring here, is all.”

Elizabeth said nothing, but if she believed his excuse, Jack would eat his hat. Just as she was opening her mouth to gift him with what were obviously some carefully-chosen words, Will stirred in her arms.

“No, there’s soot beneath my nails!” he shouted, jerking himself awake. He blinked at his wife, confused, as she rolled her eyes.

“Not again,” she said. “Will, the baby is not going to combust or suffocate or drown or anything else destructive when you touch it.”

He sat up sharply, glancing out the window. “We’d best get going, I don’t want you to have to walk home in the dark.”

Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut and appeared to be clenching her teeth. Jack fought off a snicker. “It is at least a half-hour until sunset, dear,” she said with exaggerated patience.

“I’m being smothering again, aren’t I,” said Will apologetically, kissing her. “Right. I’m sorry. I’m calm. Whenever you wish to leave, I’ll agree.” He cast big pleading eyes on Jack, who let him squirm for a few moments.

“Hate to cut this visit short, but I’m feeling rather tired and I wouldn’t want to nod off like a certain blacksmith here,” he finally said with a wink at Will. The lad smiled at him gratefully and rose, keeping a hand on Elizabeth all the while.

She glanced back and forth between them as if she suspected something, but decided not to press it. “Good evening, then, Jack,” she said, bending slightly to kiss him while Will made panicked sputtering noises in the background and held on to the back of her dress.

“Get used to it, love,” he said, catching her frustrated sigh as he pressed his lips to her cheek. Rolling her eyes one more time for good measure, she walked out of the study with Will anxious at her heels and casting a distracted “G’bye Jack!” over his shoulder.

After an awkward, near silent dinner in which Jack stared unabashedly at Norrington and Norrington looked anywhere but Jack, he retired and tried to sleep, still processing what little information Elizabeth had been able to give him.

The conclusion he eventually reached was that his wooing was going to continue as planned, except that the motives were changed. Jack desired him as badly as ever, but he now wanted to have him for both their sakes. Norrington needed to be touched more than anybody Jack had ever met, and he was so shut up inside that it was going to take something drastic to draw him out. And yet draw him out Jack would, if it took him weeks to do so. Months was stretching it, maybe, but weeks he could handle. By then he ought to be well enough to go to sea, and he'd leave Norrington with the memory of a few sweet nights and a pirate he would think twice about hanging.

Despite this revelation, he was still incapable of sleeping.

Eventually he decided that rest was not going to come to him any time soon, so he dressed and went wandering down to the kitchen, hungry for something sweet and intent on seeing if the good Commodore was in possession of a liquor cabinet. He had passed Norrington’s door and decided that, as the light was off and there were no sounds issuing forth, a late-night stroll was perfectly safe.

He cursed his luck when he spotted Norrington in front of the pantry, but the other man’s posture quit of him of any thought of a snack. Norrington was kneeling on the floor, his shoulders rounded and his head bent. As Jack stepped closer, he saw the still body of Annabelle at Norrington’s feet.

“Hullo,” he said softly. Norrington made a sort of flinching movement, but he didn’t turn around. “Is she...?”

Norrington nodded slowly, fingertips gently stroking down the cat’s spine. “She – she always like to lie here in the sun. And it’s where the food lives.” He gave a little noise that was half-laugh and half-sob. Jack leaned down and hooked an arm around his elbow. Norrington didn't start at the touch this time.

“Stand up there, mate. You must be gettin’ stiff.” For once he kept all hint of lewd suggestion out of his voice. Pulling Norrington to his feet, he said, “She was a fine little feline, and she lived a long time for her kind.”

“I know.” He brushed at the tears on his cheeks with the sleeve of his nightshirt, clearly ashamed. The arm Jack was still gripping twitched, and Jack released him. “You must think me a fool,” he said bitterly. “Crying over a useless old cat.”

“No,” said Jack solemnly, “I don’t think that at all.” He wasn’t much of an animal person himself, but he meant it. “There’s no shame in caring for a creature.”

Norrington pursed his lips as he searched Jack’s eyes, seeking the double meaning in his words. Though Jack had meant none, he realized that there was nothing he could do to keep what had happened between them out of nearly everything he could say. The silence grew heavy and awkward.

Jack had a very simple solution to any awkward situation.

“Have you anything to drink, Commodore?” he asked. Norrington frowned warily at him, and he added, “We can give dear Annabelle a decent burial, and a wake to follow.” When Norrington didn’t stop with that suspicious look, he said with a sigh, “Believe me when I say it’ll make you feel better, and sleep easier.”

Glancing down at the small body at their feet, Norrington rubbed a hand against the back of his neck as he considered it. Jack felt an urge to offer him a massage and fought it down. If this new plan succeeded, he’d have no need for weeks. He squashed vague hints of guilt. What he’d said of the alcohol would hold true for any comforts he might personally offer.

Finally Norrington said in a reluctant tone, “I’ve got some Spanish brandy and a few bottles of wine in the dining room.”

“I’ll fetch us a shovel.”

~~~

Twenty minutes later, Annabelle was at rest under a little fig tree at the edge of the vegetable garden. The two mourners were seated at one end of the large dining table, contemplating the collection of bottles laid before them.

Since Norrington was looking rather perplexed, Jack told him helpfully, “You’d best pick one and stick with it, else you’ll make yourself sick.”

“I’ll probably be sick anyhow,” Norrington muttered. “I’ve little tolerance for drink.”

Jack shrugged. He hadn’t expected anything else. “The white wine, then?”

“No,” said Norrington briskly, “I’ll take the brandy. Works faster.”

Jack couldn’t quite suppress a laugh of surprise. “That it does.” He had claimed the brandy for himself, but now he rolled it carefully across the table to Norrington. It would serve Jack whether he drank it himself or not. He watched in amusement as Norrington popped the cork and took a hearty swig. He choked on it, of course, and made a face.

At Jack’s snort, Norrington fixed him with a disapproving glare.

“This is a very bad idea,” he said.

“Oh, most likely,” Jack replied airily. “Going to give me that back?”

Norrington’s jaw set in a determination that Jack recognized all too well. Still staring defiantly across the table, he tipped the bottle back again. Jack cocked his head and thoroughly enjoyed the sight of Norrington’s throat working as the brandy slid down it, probably burning all the way to the pit of his stomach.

When he had finished his little display of competency, Norrington shook his head a bit like a dog shaking off water. But he was still clutching the brandy bottle, and did not look like he had any intentions of giving it up.

Jack hid a smirk behind his own bottle as he tossed back some merlot.

The brandy was very good indeed. It took only half of it before Norrington was effectively gone. When Jack pulled his chair over to the other side of the table, Norrington merely smiled mistily at him, and he grinned back. Happy drunks were his favorite kind – they were so friendly and open to suggestion. Jack himself got moody and depressed when he was truly smashed, which wasn’t often. Tonight he had no plans for that level of intoxication; his current warm, pleasant buzz was enough.

“Jaaaack,” Norrington trilled, licking at the mouth of his bottle in a way that made Jack’s trousers feel just a bit too tight. “You’re so pretty,” Norrington told him. He paused to frown, his lips and brows pulling tight together down the center of his face. “But you’re not pretty like a girl.”

“Am I not?” Jack asked, amused.

“No,” said Norrington decisively in his best Commodore fashion, “not a bit like a girl. But you’re pretty. Eliz’beth’s pretty too, ‘cept she is pretty like a girl. Turner’s pretty.” He paused as if Jack was supposed to say something.

“Ah, yes,” he replied, thinking that Norrington was entirely too fond of the word ‘pretty’ at the moment.

Norrington pursed his lips in a fine pout. “Prettier than me?” he whined.

Jack snickered. “No, never prettier than you,” he assured the man, who favored him with a dotty grin. His unsteady weaving brought him close to Jack.

“You know,” he whispered, one finger to his mouth, looking around as if he expected someone to be listening in, “you kissed me.”

It seemed Jack wasn’t even going to have to steer the conversation, such as it was, in the proper direction. “Yes, I remember it well. And?” he prompted, raising an eyebrow.

“And I liked it,” Norrington confessed fondly and tipsily. “Really I did.”

“That’s good to hear, Gabriel,” Jack purred. He let one hand creep up Norrington’s arm to his shoulder. “That’s very good to hear.”

Norrington chortled. “‘S funny! Haven’t been kissed by a boy in...” He looked up at the ceiling and stuck out his bottom lip in obviously confused thought. Jack was sorely tempted to close his teeth on it, but as he was now infernally curious about the man’s past, he waited. The way he had reacted to the bedroom advance still put Jack in mind of pain.

“Long time,” Norrington concluded with a bob of his chin.

“And when was that?”

“Back at school. Long, long time. Pretty, pretty red-headed boy with blue eyes...” He sighed and swayed again. Jack was suddenly afraid that he would start weeping with the memories and the alcohol. He’d seen it happen before. But instead Norrington shivered and his chin dropped down into his chest.

“Then w’got found out,” he explained. “And Father – my father – wasn’t happy, no, he was not happy a’tall.” He shook his head vigorously.

“He beat you for it?” Jack guessed. So that was it. Not something he couldn’t relate to, all things told, since his own father had been handy with a switch before he disappeared.

Norrington stopped the waving movements of his head, considering the dynamics of it before he began nodding just as enthusiastically. “Never struck me before, not in my whole life,” he said mournfully.

Jack shrugged. “Long time ago, like you said.”

“Mmmm,” agreed Norrington, seeming pleased that he had said something worth Jack’s repetition. Smiling vaguely again, he pressed his forehead against Jack’s. “I feel nice,” he confessed in wonderment. “Warm. Happy. I never feel like that.”

“I know,” said Jack, swallowing. He caught the particular paper-and-powder scent of Norrington again, their noses touching, and heat lanced through his body.

“Make me feel like that,” Norrington murmured, urging, breathless, and he kissed Jack, letting himself fall clumsily forward so that Jack had to catch him. He adjusted his armful of Commodore and deepened the kiss, tangling their tongues together, stoking the aching need in his groin with the taste of almonds and cream and really spectacular brandy.

He pushed back in his chair as Norrington managed to climb onto his lap, leaning over him so that Jack had to tilt his head up to keep their mouths from slipping apart. Norrington was making little desperate sounds in the back of his throat, Jack’s hands on his hips directing him – just – there – and it felt so damn good, and Jack...

Jack couldn’t do it.

He pushed Norrington away, back against the edge of the table.

“Burnin’ hell,” he hissed, pained to feel that blessed warm weight lift from where he wanted so badly to have it.

Norrington tried to kiss him again and Jack fended him off.

“What?” Norrington wanted to know, voice peevish. “What’s wrong?” He peered closely at Jack, bewildered.

Raising a hand to his temple as he felt another headache coming on, Jack sighed with regret. “God, I can’t b’lieve I’m doing this,” he moaned.

Norrington’s hands were creeping up the front of his shirt, nudging and stroking. “Don’t you want me?”

“I do,” Jack said, so upset with himself that he could barely speak. He batted at Norrington’s wandering fingers and got him to perch on the dining table rather than on Jack’s own lap, which was able to clear his mind a bit. “I do,” he repeated more gently. “But I can’t go through with it. You don’t deserve this.”

Norrington was looking at him with great big sad eyes. Jack slid a hand behind his ear, soothing him and trying to will his body into a calmer state. He shouldn’t have needed an explanation because he probably wouldn’t remember any of this later, but Jack couldn’t deny him one against the hurt and confusion in his expression.

“I wanted this, exactly this, and I thought it would be so sweet. But I can’t bear the thought of the shame you’d feel come morning, and how you’d hate me.”

“Oh,” said Norrington in a small voice. His face contorted and he clutched at his stomach. “I don’t feel very well, Jack.”

Jack rolled his eyes, feeling an irrational urge to howl at the moon. He tugged on Norrington’s arm. “C’mon then, we’d better get you horizontal.” Though not, he thought darkly, in the way the night had been meant to end.

Norrington leaned heavily on him all the way to the bedroom, so that Jack was panting with exertion by the time he could finally dump him on the mattress. He wanted nothing more than to get some privacy and take care of his own bleak situation.

But Norrington clasped his hand as he started to leave. “Stay with me?” he pleaded.

Biting his lip to keep from shouting at the drunken bastard, Jack pulled roughly away from him and started for the door.

“Don’t leave me alone,” came the tiny whisper from the bed. “Always get left alone...” Then he could hear the sobs he’d feared earlier.

Jack hated crying in any way, shape or form. Though he had forced tears to get out of or into situations in the past, he didn’t like to do it himself and he didn’t like to be around people who were doing it.

And yet he paused with one hand on the brass doorknob.

With a virulent curse and a swift mental kick at his own balls, he turned, went back, and gathered Norrington in his arms.

“I’m only doing this so’s I can witness the hangover you’ll have tomorrow,” he barked at Norrington, who had quieted once Jack settled in next to him and was now sleeping, head pillowed on Jack’s shoulder.

Jack lay beside him, burning and furious and extremely uneasy about how this ordeal had turned out.