the Dalaverse

Little Sparrington ficlet for commodorified's consent challenge. Barely PG-13. Title from Ryan Adams.



Answering Bell



He has to admire Elizabeth’s nerve. Not only did she invite Jack Sparrow to her wedding, she seated him next to James. Although he clenches his teeth in frustration, he cannot refuse her unspoken plea. Jack smiles crookedly at him, almost drab in a gray-wigged disguise. He’s clean-shaven for the event and James is surprised to see how much younger he looks in the face.

With a sigh, he leans back in the pew and allows the pirate to prattle on about weddings and toasts and church-appropriate kisses.

Jack sticks close to his side during the reception, rightly figuring that no one would dare voice suspicions about him if he appears to have the commodore’s approval. At least it means James can avoid the matchmaking mothers intent on wafting their marriageable daughters under his nose. Whenever he grows pensive, looking out at the elated bride and groom, Jack pokes him in the ribs and draws his attention back with a question about one of his vessels or a most unlikely story. Gradually James’ melancholy leaves him along with his reticence to speak with the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow, because he isn’t speaking with Jack the pirate, he’s speaking with Jack the man – a man who loves his ship above all else, a man whose murmured commentary on the dress and manner of various guests has James choking back laughter, a man who filches sweets from James’ plate and punctuates his speech with a hand on James’ elbow or a knee nudging his own.

He forgets himself so quickly and completely that he is genuinely shocked to find the pair of them in a deserted little antechamber somewhere off the governor’s ballroom. Jack watches the sea change in his eyes and backs off from where he has been tugging James’ cravat loose.

“James?”

Feeling like he has been sleepwalking, James lets his eyes run over Jack’s bundled-up hair, the wig clutched in his hand. He doesn’t remember how it came off.

Jack’s voice is uncertain, his breathing slightly off-kilter. His dark eyes are wary as they bore into James. “Sure you want t’ do this, mate?”

James pulls one finger-thick braid free, rolling a smooth bead in his palm.

“Yes,” he whispers, tilting his head to press his cheek to the other man’s.

Jack shudders, and for a moment James fears he’s going to pull away. Then he lunges forward to lock their mouths together, clutching at James’ shoulders. “Yes,” he pants between ravenous kisses, “aye, James – Jamie –”

He proclaims his agreement with everything James does – each stroke of his tongue, each twist of his hips, the touches ever more daring – as loudly as he dares. When the party breaks up, Jack follows him to his carriage without waiting for an invitation. It has been long years since James last shared his bed with another, but Jack assures him he won’t snore or kick. James snorts in good-humored disbelief and tucks the quilt more securely around them both.