the Dalaverse

Erasmus who? Landscape of Tudor Britain what?

Some things never change...like how much you bloody people adore Jack Sparrow and James Norrington, together or apart.


Noel Jack, James, a small, white, fluffy kitten with a big red bow on its head; doolabug

Christmas morning broke before dawn in the household of Commodore James Norrington, with a bloodcurdling scream.

Gretchen threw on her cap and dressing gown and bolted from her room beneath the stairs. Flinging open the commodore's door, fearing a pirate raid like she'd heard tell of two years ago, she was startled beyond speech by what met her eyes instead.

"You've frightened 'im!" exclaimed a man who, in Gretchen's opinion, looked quite frightening himself, with his painted eyes and wickedly curved sword. He was cradling a tiny white puffball with a bright red ribbon tied around it.

"It leapt on me," the commodore snapped, running a hand through his short dark hair. Gretchen blushed to see the open laces on his nightshirt, leaving most of his chest bare.

The stranger bounced the white puffball in his arms, causing it to mew in protest. "Bloody great Commodore, afraid of a mincing kitten?" When he grinned she saw that he was overwhelmingly handsome, though some of his teeth flashed gold. He seemed every bit the pirate she'd feared, except for the charm of his smile and his apparent intimacy with her master.

Norrington rolled his eyes heavenward and stretched a long arm toward the man. "For God's sake, Jack, let it go before you squeeze it to death, and come here to greet me properly."
The stranger's grin took a salacious twist as he set the kitten down, and he dropped onto the bed for what Gretchen woud not under any circumstances call a proper greeting.

The white kitten darted for her, narrowly missing death when she shut the door in alarm at the tableau on the bed. It did not seem to resent her, however, for it twined itself around her ankles and puffed its whiskers at her.

"Come along, then, puss," she whispered as she scooped it up, doubting the commodore would miss it any time soon. "I've some milk in the larder, and a drop of brandy for me own nerves."



Burning Bright Jack, James, confession; watersword

"I've a confession to make," Jack annouces, thighs stretched across James' lap, hands easily coaxing a little crack from his spine, between the shoulder blades.

James exhales with relief, his breath setting Jack's hair to chiming. "Oh?" he says, distracted by the slow, sinuous curves of Jack's hips. He frowns when Jack stops moving. "And what might that be?"

"This one ain't from Bombay," Jack replies, chin tucked to his chest. He places James' hand on his belly to clarify his statement. He blinks twice, very slowly, and James knows he is trying not to shiver from the gentle touch tracing the black outline above his navel. "It was meant t' be a lion," he adds in an aggrieved tone, keen eyes watching for the light of comprehension to cross James' face.

James pushes the lean body back and ducks his head to press his lips to the inked tiger, meaning to hide his smile -- but Jack catches a glimpse of it anyway, because it was the prize he'd sought to begin with.



An Officer and a Gentleman James, Jack, a glass of water; order_of_chaos

"Excuse me, Commodore, but might I trouble you for --"

"No rum," said James sharply, for the fourth time in ten minutes. The query was almost a relief from his mental self-flagellation over having taken a shift watching Sparrow. With the Governor, Miss Swann, and Turner occupying the spare berths aboard the Dauntless, there was hardly an inch of free space. As James had no wish to be responsible for murder in the brig, he hadn't been able to throw Sparrow in with his fellow pirates; however, he was suspicious of the young people's obvious sympathy for Sparrow, and so the latter was kept under a close watch in Lieutenant Gillette's cabin in addition to chains.

Sparrow let his head fall back against the bulkhead with a thunk and a sigh. "A glass of water," he finished in a low, dull tone quite different from any manner of his speech James had heard before.

"Mr. Keynes, a pitcher of water, please," he called, propping the door open with his foot and avoiding the curious gaze swung on him.



Road Less Traveled Jack, Barbossa, a second chance; order_of_chaos

"I like such order as can be had on my ship," said Jack Sparrow, pacing agitatedly in front of Hector Barbossa, who to his eyes seemed unnatural calm for a man that'd just knifed a mate in the back.

"He threatened me," said Barbossa, raising an eyebrow. "Ask Pat Murphy or Red Joe, or Bill Turner. Said 'e meant t' slit me throat whilst I slept."

Jack whirled on his heel, wishing he didn't have to look up to meet Barbossa's eyes. "If that be so, why did you not seek me out at once? The captain oughta hear such talk b'fore Pat or Bill!"

Barbossa nodded, casting his gaze downward. "Aye, sir," he said in that odd voice, rough as any sailor's but smooth as cream when it slipped in your ears. "In future I'll keep me temper stowed. But Cap'n, I ain't sailed on so fine a ship as this in many a month --" He grasped Jack's sleeve, watery blue eyes desperate and troubled. "Please don't put me ashore fer a moment o' blindness."

Jack felt a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He'd never much liked Jim Pruitt; the man had possesed a tendency to silent observation that unnerved captain and crew alike. Of course this was no excuse for killing, but if it'd been a true fight and the others would swear it -- Turner at least was as honest a fellow as one was likely to find amongst pirates...

"All right," he said, with a mixture of relief and apprehension, for truth be told, he did not much like Hector Barbossa either, defensible actions or not. "You've one chance with me, Mr. Barbossa. See that you don't waste it."

"Oh, I intend on makin' the most o' it," the man assured the young captain, taking up his bloodstained coat.