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Gone Come Dawn (3/3): Red Sky at Night
by Curiouslyfic
Pairing: J/N
Rating: Overall NC-17
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean is owned by Disney, etc. No infringement intended.
Originally Posted: 11/17/07
Summary: James raises his eyes. Says to those gods he doesn't trust, "Just so we're clear, this isn't funny, either."
Continued from Part 2,
which continues from Part 1.
Privateer James knows exactly what's hit him. Fifteen stone of apologetic pirate, which he knows because the last thing he hears is Ragetti's, "Sorry 'bout this, Mr. James," and where there's Ragetti apologizing, there's no doubt Pintel doing something worthy of apology.
* * *
He stirs again to brightness and sea air and slapping.
"Ye left," a woman growls, and he's half-apologized before his squint's broad enough for identification.
"Anamaria?" he tries, and yes, yes, he knows the jut of that chin. Lovely. There's accursedness, then there's just bloody bad luck.
"Ye left an' ye didn't come back," she snarls.
Well, no, but hadn't that been obvious, given how he'd left? "I'm certain my absence has gone unmourned, if not unnoticed."
Pintel squeezes harder then, as though he's never been trained to best rum-soaked pirates.
"Ye were supposed to come back."
James is certain that was nowhere in that bloody accord.
Then again, neither was impressment at the hands of Sparrow's crew.
* * *
He wakes indisputably Shanghaied. By the last crew on earth he wants to see, no less, which proves yet again that the gods find him amusing if not worthy of aid.
He's sure there are worse ways to wake from a Shanghaiing than sharing a bed with sleeping Jack Sparrow, but the man's smiling and murmuring and it sounds like one of those dreams, so James is hard-pressed to think of any.
James raises his eyes. Says to those gods he doesn't trust, "Just so we're clear, this isn't funny, either."
* * *
"M'sorry," James says, and Jack clutches. Thrusts once, twice, hard as he can, and James keens. "Didn't mean it," James says, and Jack nods, mouth open for breath he can't catch. "Good captain, favourite pirate, mine, sorry, love you," James babbles, and Jack moves faster. Jerks his handful of James-prick and hammers them both into the bunk because they're close, so close, he can taste it coming...
"Ye've t'stay this time," Jack says and James nods, too, which Jack takes for encouragement. "No more leavin'. 'S hard. Don't like it." Jack scowls. Tries to, but he's in James, he's fucking James, and it's hard to scowl through something so lovely.
"Stay," James repeats. Closes his eyes, mouth searching, neck arching, and Jack knows what for so he leans in for a sloppy, awkward kiss that somehow makes the fucking better. He can't explain it but with James, it's always better. "Stay here?" James asks, and when he looks up, he's all kittenish eyes and an innocent's pout. "Like this, captain?"
Oh, oh, James rolls his hips like a Singapore whore and Jack thinks he'll die if he doesn't come soon. Innocent, whore-y James. Just the thought destroys him, but like this, when it's living breathing under him, Jack thinks he should go up like black powder.
"Aye, aye, jus' like that," Jack slurs. Remembers vaguely his James leavin' for some bloody confusion Jack can't keep straight and decides this is as good a time as any to remind Jack's Commodore why leavin's so terrible.
To which James says, "Hoist the colours," for reasons beyond even Jack's capacity to bend incredulity. Jack's hardly new to sex, even w' his own, but he's never had anyone consider that phrase saucy, so he's at a loss.
James says it again, but he sounds very much like Cotton's parrot.
It is Cotton's parrot.
Jack curses the not-James-ness of dreams before he's even opened his eyes. Snakes a hand down his chest t'palm himself another perfunctory spatter, his new favourite way to start the day now he's not waking pant-less on a beach somewhere. Relatively speaking, his palm's lacking, but what choice has he got? None, mate, not a one, more's the pity.
For a man so loved, he's spent too much time on his onesy lately and as always, he feels it worst in morning.
A hand clamps on his wrist before he's done more'n grip himself. If it's Gibbs, Jack thinks there'll be words, because long as his eyes are closed, he can almost feel James beside him. Can almost smell him.
"Stop that, Sparrow," he hears, and bloody hell, don't he know that voice? Hearing things, too, an' that ain't the parrot.
Jack smiles at nothing, at the strength of his own illusions squeezing his wrist. Bets if he peeks careful, he might even see his James, now he's hearin' him and feelin' him and whatnot. So he does.
And he does. And Jack says, "Best dream yet, luv," and pulls the man in.
Finds himself with an armful of something that's most definitely not-dream Commodore.
* * *
"Let go," James says. Shoves to free himself, but the pirate's all pickpocket hands and James can't find leverage. "Unhand me, Sparrow, or I swear, I'll..." Nothing. He'll nothing.
"Sh, James, opportune moment," Jack slurs in a sleepy smile and James has to move fast to duck that kiss. Jack's smile fades to sleepy confusion. "So it's seduction you want, then?"
"No." James shoves again. Really, he's trying, he silently tells an absent ex-sea goddess. Not breaking his word, he's not, he's tried to keep his distance, he's been Shanghaied, surely she'll understand Shanghaied, she's the bloody sea goddess.
"Liar," Jack whispers in his ear, and James can't help how that tone affects him any more than he could help being clubbed over the head and dragged aboard.
* * *
Jack knows his dreams well enough by now and this, this is one of his favourites. Reluctant Commodore, seductive captain, that stretch of naughty "no" before he finds his opportune moment. Always does, every memory he's found ends in sweaty, salty James spending on him, panting, "Jack, Jesus, captain, god," like they're interchangeable.
Except the ones what end in, "I love you," but Jack tries not to think about those. Depressing, savvy?
Then James lands a stray elbow—bloody inconvenient, that, mate, he was making progress and all—and Jack loses ground.
* * *
"This isn't happening," James tells himself once he's achieved a safe distance from the bunk. Door's barred, portholes too small for exit, no hope of escape at the moment so he's settled for safe distance. A table between them should be enough until the man's woken properly and remembers he hates James with black, unending rage, because really, isn't this how he's left things? He's certain it is.
Only, Sparrow seems awake. And unraging.
"No more elbows, Commodore. S'cheating, that." Jack rubs his side, scowls pretty. God, James has missed that.
"Keep your hands to yourself, captain, and I assure you, that won't be a problem."
"S'no fun in that, is there?" Jack's smile's winsome. Heartbreakingly familiar. "James. Real James. You're really here, aren't you? On me Pearl, in me bed on me Pearl." Sparrow's expression is about as far from raging as James can imagine. "C'mere, luv. S'hard t' welcome you back properly when you're so far as all that, aye?"
"I shouldn't be here," James says. Tells himself he's not reacting at all to that guileless pleasure Sparrow's showing at his return. "There has been some mistake, captain. I'm not meant to be here, I assure you, and as soon as I've found some way out of this room, I'll take my leave."
"Mistake?" Jack's smile dies without fading. "Leavin' so soon, Jamie?"
"Yes, mistake." If Tia finds him there, well, he's not actually sure what she'll do, but he imagines it will involve the immediate dissolution of their accord.
He doesn't fool himself she'll leave Jack unharmed for her troubles.
"Enlighten me, Commodore. If you aren't meant to be here and you intend to leave as fast as you can, how is it you've come to be aboard me Pearl, in me bed aboard me Pearl, in the first place?"
* * *
When Jack's Commodore says, "Shanghaiing a cursed man? Worst bloody pirates," Jack thinks he should probably pay attention to more than the man's much-missed face.
"Ye were Shanghaied?" Miracle Jack has him back, then. The thought that Jack might've lost his Commodore for real, might've spent his days rounding the Caribbean without ever finding the man, sets a dark edge to Jack's thoughts. Hasn't counted on a Shanghaiing, who'd dare with Commodore Pirate-Hangin' Norrington?
"I am Shanghaied." James waves a hand at the door. Jack pieces it together. Laughs, though the intensifyin' o' James's scowlin' says he's not meant to be. But really, that's just ridiculous.
"The Pearl don't Shanghai," Jack says, feeling captainly once again despite the recent discovery his crew's locked him in his quarters with Commodore Scowl, which smells just a bit like mutiny. Jack's not so keen on mutinies, bad experiences with 'em, aye, but as he's still in his quarters, on his ship, and he's his Commodore to occupy him, he thinks this one might be square wi' the Code.
"Then explain this," Jack's Commodore snarls and waves a hand at what they both know is a barred door. "Christ, Sparrow. Have you no sense?"
Which drains Jack's laughter. "Me Pearl don't Shanghai. M'crew might be witless, but they're all of them willin'."
* * *
James falls into silence then, as Sparrow's made it perfectly clear his opinion won't change.
James has no clue what he's meant to do now but, he reasons, so long as he keeps his distance from the tempting bit of trouble eyeing him from the bunk, he'll be fine.
He'll... well, he's not sure what he'll do, exactly, but he knows his accord with Tia like he knows Jack's curse and he's fairly sure he's not meant to be here. For all the trouble he's gone to severing this thing with Jack, James is certainly not supposed to be this close again. Arm's reach, really. Kissing close.
He drags himself back to order.
"So if I'm not Shanghaied," he says, though he's not willing to concede that quite yet. "What am I doing here?"
Sparrow's mouth twists. James really shouldn't feel the man's every small expression but he does, for which he sarcastically thanks bloody vengeful sea goddess.
"Well, what are you usually doing here?"
"What usually brings me to your Pearl, captain?" James snorts. "Well, for a time there was that pirate hunting position. Short drop, sudden stop. Perhaps you recall?" He has no clue why Sparrow snickers but he suspects that escape in Port Royal's come to mind. Doesn't explain the flush, but it is Jack Sparrow. "A position I may have rescinded but continue to hold in highest regard."
Sparrow grins. Nods, does his best to seem solemn, but James strongly suspects Sparrow's still mocking him. "Rather fond of those positions m'self."
"Otherwise, I tend to encounter you and your ship, captain, when you've cursed yourself and require rescue."
Then he's staring at Sparrow gone cagey. When the man's had a moment or two to respond without actually speaking, James's stomach clenches.
"You haven't cursed yourself again," he says, as if the truth of it lies in the telling. When Sparrow looks his way, it's Jack's eyes. Jack's wince.
* * *
Jack spins the tale fast. He's discovered things spun fast are rarely questioned, particularly if he hides the more disputable pieces in a string of less salient details. He's really not up t'questions on this just yet. Doubts he ever will be.
He has these dreams, see, and they're... consuming—yes, Jack thinks that's the right word, consuming—him. Bit of a run-in at Ile de Rêves, nothing he ain't done before. And, well, aye, there might've been a witch... who might've pointed at him and said a few fancy words in a language Jack doesn't speak... one of which might've been "eunuch"... and he might've been dreaming a bit more'n usual lately. All right, since, mate, since, s'been these dreams ever since. The consumin' ones, savvy?
And aye, James savvies. James savvies even more when the word "eunuch" makes its appearance, mumbled fast so Jack don't have t' say it much. Ugly thing, eunuchs.
"Could've happened to anyone, mate," Jack says then because he needs some distance from that "eunuch" thought, and his Commodore looks rather like someone's made him governor of his own island.
"Tell me you're joking."
"I'm..." And Jack can't say any more because, well... Well. Jack tries his very best "Ooh, shiny, mate" smile for distraction and finds his Commodore rubbing his forehead. "Funny thing, curses. Ain't met one yet what couldn't be countered, with the right touch."
"You're Captain bloody Jack bloody Sparrow," his Commodore growls, and Jack's hand lifts to arm himself some manner of defense, but his Commodore's not growlin' at him, so it's all right. His Commodore sighs. "These dreams of yours, Sparrow. The consuming ones. Are they of anything in particular? Or shall I presume?"
"You," Jack says fast, because this bit's wrenchingly easy. "S'always you, Commodore."
"Dare I ask the subject of those dreams?"
"Either you're very creative, Commodore," Jack says, "Or I'm creative on your behalf."
* * *
James isn't sure how to take that, but he thinks it'd go best with spirits.
"Where's the rum?" If he's discussing that year with this man, James is doing it soused, by God. Also, these are Sparrow's quarters, which really should be like a floating rum depository.
"S'no rum."
"Oh, for God's sake, Sparrow, I'll pay you back for it. I realize I lack the secure position of my previous engagement, but I can still afford to buy a round or two."
Jack's smile is thin. Meager. "Ain't that. S'no rum t'break out. M'guts might be weasely and black, Commodore, but they're no longer pickled."
"The rum is gone?" Jack nods. Seems smugly sage, which makes James feel incredibly foolish when he follows that with, "But why is the rum gone?"
Which doesn't prevent him from saying it, because this is Jack Sparrow, isn't rum his life's blood? James is sure it is.
"Because," Jack drawls. "Wasn't working, was it?"
"Not working." James repeats it slow. Finds it as irrational as ever. "Explain."
Jack does. James still doesn't understand, can't wrap his mind around the concept because a sober Jack Sparrow's a thing previously unimaginable. Practically ice at the equator.
Tastes wrong, Sparrow says. Don't get drunk, just get the head what goes with it. Rather like Barbossa's ash-taste misery, now he thinks about it, and James can tell that thought's only just occurred to him.
Now he's remembered, it seems Captain Sparrow can't drink to forget, and as that's his main purpose these days, he's simply stopped. Memories are bad enough, Sparrow says, no need t'make it memories and a bad head, savvy?
This, too, James savvies.
"All right, Sparrow, tell me about your dreams," James says, and he already knows they'll be bloody memories, he's no luck at all.
* * *
Jack remembers quite a lot. All of it, he thinks, but he's not made sense of it and he's not sure he wants to. Sort of likes the jumble, the way the memories cluster. Blended, some of 'em, so it's James under water and sucking salty collarbone in his bunk and rubbing healthy pink prick in the brig, all seamless transitions, all one sweet, impossible night.
So now he's got his Commodore here to hear them, Jack's not sure he wants to share. No sense askin' t'have his best nights dismissed, aye? Even Jack Sparrow's not so fool as all that.
He starts simple.
* * *
Jack squirms, impatient now he's an armful of ex-Commodore and this lovely quiet stretch of bunk with which to use him. His crew's gone ashore for the night, nowhere special, just some spit of land plopped mid-water and convenient, and Jack'd had half a mind to follow them out on the longboats until... Commodores by moonlight were disarmingly difficult to leave.
And despite the near-certainty he'd find himself slapped once more—or worse, this is his Commodore no matter what he's done wi' his wig—Jack reached for Norrington's hand. Said, "Stay?" and mumbled about wantin' words or something near as clumsy, and the Commodore, who they're calling James on account of him not bein' a proper Commodore anymore, his Commodore'd met his eyes and half-smiled like his Commodore's prone to do, like Jack's a twit but an entertaining one.
Seducin' his Commodore's so bloody easy, Jack feels like he's done it before. Kissing his Commodore's right like rum Christmas morning, touching his Commodore's scallywag simple. He's not surprised by what James hides under his gear. Breathless, maybe, but not surprised. Like he knows this body biblically.
Clearly, he's brilliant intuition, then.
* * *
Jack watches the Commodore all day, even if they've said he's not a Commodore anymore he still looks like one and that alone makes Jack want.
Never had a Commodore, has he? Thinks he might enjoy the experience, if only for the taboo of it. Pirate Jack havin' Commodore... Norrington, Jack thinks, because Jack doesn't recall the man's first name. There's a distinct possibility Jack doesn't know it.
"Your name," he says as he unlaces his breeches.
Commodore Nameless steadily watches Jack's face when clearly, any halfwit can see it's his fingers what's doing the interesting. Others might call Nameless Norrington unaffected but Jack sneaks a well-timed glance upward, sees Norrington's flush, the unnaturally rigid way he's standing. Posing. For Jack.
Who can't get his laces open fast enough, damn it, so he removes shiny heavy fingers, wiggles the Commodore in close.
"Y'work m'ship, aye?" Jack asks, eyes narrowed to dim Norrington's appealing English glow in moonlight. Pity the man's so pale, he's in for a bitch of a burn soon enough, Jack suspects, but by moonlight, he's something unearthly.
"So it would seem," Norrington says. Looks over Jack's shoulder, stares hard and squares himself like he's speaking to someone else. Jack knows distraction when he finds it, so he snaps his fingers and waves that hand before Norrington's gaze until it breaks.
"No workin' m'ship without givin' me yer name." When Norrington's lips twitch, Jack narrows his eyes. Says, "Yer given name."
He swears he sees a ghostly smile on Norrington's short-drop features. "New rule, then, is it? Or is the parrot's name really Mr. Cotton's Parrot?"
Jack grips Norrington's face, digs his thumbs into Norrington's cheeks in case the man tries to escape. He doesn't, a mystery Jack will work out later.
"I misspoke," Jack says, mouth so close to Norrington's he can almost feel that rumless breath mingling with his. Soberin' him up, he thinks, and he'd say that's ridiculous, can't sober Jack Sparrow unless he's a mind t' agree t' the soberin' but the longer he stands as he is, breeches half-laced and Commodore in hand, the less he thinks it's the rum tilting him. "No touchin' m'cock, suckin' or otherwise, until I've your given name. And make no mistake, Commodore," Jack's lips move against the Commodore's stubble. "There will be cock suckin' at this helm tonight. Savvy?"
He has to grin at Norrington's tight, tiny frot of anticipation. Has to wonder about the silent sadness in the man's eyes when he says, "James, it's James, I thought you knew... "
And because James's mouth is better than it looks, because James knows where and when and how to use that blunted tongue, Jack also graciously overlooks the way James doesn't pull back when Jack comes. Odd, that, Commodore takin' it all like that. Odder still, the way James swallows his last, then lays his head against Jack's belly and clings to Jack's hips like a lifeline.
Obviously, the Navy needs to explain the concept of matelotting better, if commodores are going to go about getting' so attached over a simple blow.
* * *
James ducks. Evades, and Jack lets him.
"But I knew yer name, didn't I?"
"I always thought so."
Jack sighs. "Heard Eliz'bef say it, aye? On that fort o' yers."
"Did she?"
"Aye. And maybe me Pearl, too." Jack frowns. Scratches his chin. "Don't remember, really. Suppose ye've heard that from me before, though, hey?"
"It's vaguely familiar, yes."
There's silence. Doesn't last long enough for either of them, but Jack says, "So that was just... fancy, then? Imaginin'?" because he can't hold it back. Needs to know he didn't do that, not to this man who's not tried to hang him or hit him or anything, really, even if he'd be square under the Code.
And as Jack feels himself lighten with relief, James says, "No," and Jack says,
"What?"
And James clears his throat. Says, "No, that's not fancy." He looks at Jack then, impossible sea eyes heavy like a hurricane's brewing behind them.
Which, well, Jack thinks one might be.
* * *
James hasn't considered which lot of memories he least wants Sparrow to recall until he's doing it. Then, God, then James is willing to do almost anything to turn the conversation.
Bad enough, expecting reminders of the good nights, James think, but Jack had plenty of bad nights, too, and explaining those to the man himself is well nigh impossible.
James still can't explain that year to himself.
* * *
Jack has more, of course.
"Did it always feel like the first time?"
"Not for me," James says.
"But for me?"
"I always assumed so. You never said, precisely, but some nights you'd chase me. Seduce me, like you had to. And if... " Oh, how James hates this memory. "A few nights, I'd forget something. Leave my scarf or my blade or—" Nothing on earth could compel him to discuss what happened the nights he'd left himself in Jack's reach come morning. "You didn't like reminders."
"I didn't know."
"Yes, well, no one debates that."
* * *
Chartin' James is like coursin' Shipwreck Cove. Requires patience and a steady hand, a clear set o' goals and absolute concentration. One wrong move brings disaster, a bloody, vicious death Jack doesn't want to think about now because if he's breathing on James's cock, he doubts he'll see anything so nice as a short drop. But there's a satisfaction in it like nothing else and Jack, Jack lives for rare satisfactions.
His Commodore don't seem to have that problem. Maybe he thinks Jack'll go easy if he reneges. To correct that misassumption, should his Commodore be so afflicted, Jack fists a tangle of James's hair and growls, menacing as he can, "Get on wi' it."
His Commodore says, "We're out of oil." Flinches, and while Jack wonders how his Commodore knows the state of Jack's personal lubricants without looking, did his Commodore sneak in earlier wi' an eye to this, his Commodore says, "I mean, ungh," and rubs up hard on Jack, who rubs up hard back because he's Jack Sparrow, mate, he's not one to let a hard cock go unanswered.
Jack holds his Commodore's face. Says, "So use your mouth."
* * *
He remembers blood on the sheets, waking to find cuts on his knuckles, stripping his Commodore to find the man bruised and bitten. Remembers finding the man loose and eager, remembers calling him all manner of filth in jealousy he couldn't admit. He even, oh, God, he remembers reaching for his Commodore's arse some nights, intent on making a right proper fuck of it, and having his Commodore wrench away wincing.
He remembers how often he'd wanted to lay claim to the man, how often he'd been incensed to find someone had beaten him to it, how often he'd just taken and used and left James somewhere because he'd been a toy Jack wanted to keep, one who undoubtedly already had an owner James would never discuss.
And it's crazy and sickening and terrifying that all that jealousy, all that rage, had come over himself.
* * *
"I was rough."
James looks away without answerin', so Jack says it again. Forces a flush on that proud face. "Yes."
"I hurt you."
"Yes. Sometimes, yes." James looks at him, eyes burning with some message Jack doesn't understand, but he knows that intensity. Seen it loads, hasn't he, with each new piece of that year he discovers.
"Didn't mean t'hurt you." He wants to ask why James stayed, why James didn't ever hurt him back, but he thinks maybe he knows.
"Yes, you did," James says, and his voice cracks. "Sometimes you did."
Jack tries twice to swallow before he's successful. "But never when I knew."
"You never knew, Jack. Which was really rather the point."
* * *
James thinks Jack doesn't remember half of it.
* * *
Touching Jack's like petting shark, James thinks. Rub one way, he's wanton gamine arching hard, bucking fast, breathless and panting and coming just exactly as James wants him.
Rub him wrong, James thinks, and there's blood. James thinks this then touches the tip of his tongue to his split lower lip, which is burning but not, in fact, bleeding. Would that he could say the same for all orifices. James lays his cheek on the bulkhead, forces himself pliant and chokes back the sound trying to escape as Jack rams in deep and loveless.
Far cry from last night's affectionate petting, alarming polarity even for Sparrow, but it's no good saying anything, he won't know anyway, so James grits his teeth and thinks about how this feels when Sparrow doesn't want him fucking dead or bleeding. Sparrow twists, snaps his hips just so, and James whimpers, gasps, because Sparrow's found that spot and now James is burning, too.
"Y' like this, aye?" Sparrow growls in James's ear and James closes his eyes. Jack grunts completion in James's ear when James is finally, oh God, finally feeling that stir of pleasure and when Jack stops like that's it, James turns. Reaches back for a fist of elflock to drag those fathomless eyes near, because if he can't have that mouth, he wants those eyes, and bites, "What's not to like, captain?" as he moves Jack's bracing hand from the wall to his cock.
It takes two strokes to convince Jack to replace Sparrow. Takes about five for James to spend on the bulkhead, and this time when he sinks limp, Jack lets him down easy.
Next thing he knows, he's in Jack's bed being cosseted. Cleaned. He wants to close his eyes and sink into this unexpected sweetness but he doesn't. Can't. Last time he tried, Jack woke him at pistol-point and threatened the plank.
Next thing he knows, he's waking to an indiscriminate squawk from night watch what sounds like, "Wind in yer sails," and he's rolling out of bed, shushing Jack, promising he'll be just back, s'no worry, sleep.
Next thing he knows, there's Marty frowning at him and Cotton soothing his parrot and James, James hates this, knowing he needs to be pulled away each night because next time he forgets, Anamaria might not be able to talk the captain down to a quick keelhauling.
Next thing he knows, it's start of watch and Jack's at the helm with Gibbs asking what happened to his headscarf.
James can't meet anyone's eyes.
* * *
"I know I'll never square it with you, mate," Jack says, and he's got no right to ask for anything else from this man, this incredible James he's still discovering, but he does anyway because now that he's found his conscience, it won't seem to stop. "I know I can't ever... but if you ever need anything, ever," and what he wants to offer's so huge, he has no words to express it.
Everything. Anything. Just... James.
"It's fine, you're fine," and James pulls him in until Jack's head's on James's shoulder. For the first time in eight months, Jack feels right with himself, ecumenically speaking. "It's all right, Sparrow, it's done. Past. We're fine now. I'm fine."
Which Jack thinks is a bloody lie, because doesn't his Commodore feel this?
Then, because he has to, because if he doesn't, it'll fester, Jack says, "I've one more question."
His Commodore's grip tightens. The rise of his breath halts too soon. Then, one agonizing moment later, Jack feels James nod just so. "Go ahead."
* * *
"Please," Jack says one sultry night in summer, only the hint of breeze to tickle sweat-slicked skin. "Please, James, inside," Jack says. Babbles, really, words fumbling out while James tries to kiss him. Jack grabs James's wrist, draws James's hand to his arse because clearly James's hands are meant to stay in Jack's pants where possible.
James doesn't say they are inside, they're in quarters aren't they, s'a full moon an' everything, because that's not what Jack means. Instead, James twists in his grip, drags Jack's hand to James's hard cock and says, "No, Jack, I want your fist." Tries his best to look like he means it, like he's not dying for a taste of Jack's arse while it's so rarely on offer.
But James once decided is James intractable, even Jack can't sway him, and for some fool bloody Navy bloody reason, James has decided there'll be no James-in-Jack.
So Jack gives the bloody pig-headed bloody officer what he bloody wants and if Jack's bloody tongue gets bloody involved, well, James can bloody well complain later, savvy?
* * *
Jack looks up at him, eyes big black glossy gleaming, and James knows. Knows. "Why weren't it ever James-in-Jack?"
* * *
"James. In. Jack," Jack growls into James's ear on a different moon. Darker, less James-gleam, but Jack hardly cares about dates or times or lunar rotations. He has naked James spread lewd on his deck, a shipful of pirates running rummy through a quaint beach cove, and one very specific act in mind with which to celebrate their latest Spanish conquest.
"Don't ask me for that, please," James says, and Jack feels that ironclad Navy resolve weakening in face of Jack Sparrow's "ooh, shiny, mate" grin.
"S'all I want," he says, words like water. "Keep a piece o' my Commodore when it's over, yeah? Tomorrow, when you're back off on whatever it is you do in m'rigging, I'll be at m'wheel and you'll know every time me Pearl rolls, I'll feel y'in me. All day. Maybe more, if you're hard. And tomorrow night, when y'do it again, I'll be expectin' ye, savvy?"
He uses his most charming grin. Strokes a finger over his Commodore's cheek, traces the chapped line of his Commodore's mouth. Can't explain why it's so important to him when he's only just stumbled over the Commodore hiding in his crew any more than he can explain what his words have done to his Commodore. Unsettlin', a man bein' so open on a ship o' thieves. Jack thinks he'll need someone t' mind him while he's aboard.
Then Jack's Commodore says, "Yes, all right, yes," and he's kissing Jack again and Jack shudders just remembering how good that felt, that kissing.
He wishes to Christ he remembered more. He'd dearly love t' know how it felt, James-in-Jack.
A year later, maybe more, Jack can't fix dates or times or places to any of this, Jack gets his chance to ask.
Does.
His answer's not what he's expecting.
* * *
James looks up at him, eyes dark and red-rimmed and accusatory. Jack's used to all three, even from his Commodore, but he's not used to the hollow.
"Oh, you felt it all right," James snaps. Jack's fingers curl in self-preservation. "Spent a bloody week convinced you'd been attacked. By one of the fucking crew, no less."
"What?"
"You tried to keelhaul me. Twice. Which is marginally better than the flogging you kept suggesting for Gibbs, let alone what you tried to do to Ragetti."
"I what?"
"You didn't remember, Sparrow. Not who'd done it, not how you'd begged so prettily, nothing. So you woke up that morning with a sore arse, shitting some stranger's come, and decided you'd been... " James can't continue. Buries his face in his hands and Jack's gut sinks when he sees those broad Navy shoulders shake.
Jack tries to say something. Knows he should, yeah, because James looks fair awful and there's no one else to do it. He opens his mouth. His glib tongue fails. All he can do is stand there watching James shake some horror Jack doesn't remember.
Finally, finally, Jack says, "Thought I remembered it all, hey?" He tries a smile, but it feels weak even to him. Ain't nothing worth grinning for in this.
James's eyes, when they lift, steal everything Jack's got with their intensity. "At this point, Sparrow, I'm not sure that's even possible."
* * *
"No more questions for me this time, Captain?" James doesn't want to trust this. Too easy, he thinks, because what's he done for this?
"Jack," he says. "Please. James... I know. All of it. Even why you... I know."
And James closes his eyes. Turns away because he can't, he's back on a beach with Sparrow's eyes on his, Sparrow's words so bloody clear James feels himself flush again, feels need well deep where he's hollow.
* * *
"You... " And James looks away for a bit, then looks back and he's collected himself something awfully Navy. "I can't be here," James hisses like it's a secret they'll keep between them, like it's not ghosting on the wind. "Tia said I have to stay away."
Jack thinks it's a bleeding shame James's vocabulary's gone, as he's wistfully fond of hearing he sharp missives from sharper-still mind. "Just t' break the curse, James," he says, and James's head swivels to find him. "S'gone now. Ye can stay."
"We had an accord," James says.
"Read the fine print, did you?" In this, at least, Jack's expert. "Go, yes. Stay gone, no."
* * *
"Found yer witch," Jack says, because James isn't speaking. Can't. "Had us a parley. A proper one. Never thought I'd meet anyone worse at parleyin' than Will Turner, but you, Commodore, are too bloody noble for your own good." Jack tsks him. Shakes his head and waggles a finger. "Some advice, luv, if you're goin' t' be around pirates and parleyin' and such: Nothing's forever unless you promise it is. And you didn't."
James freezes. Shock, then, at his own oversight. "I don't make promises I don't intend to keep," he says with all the English His Majesty's Service allows.
"Said you'd walk away, luv. And ye did. Never said I couldn't chase you, or that you'd never come back."
"Sparrow, don't be absurd. You can't just track people down and force them to hold parleys that contradict previously agreed upon accords, the Code is quite clear," and James suddenly has loads more to say but Jack cuts him off with a wave of many-ringed fingers and says,
"Ye're quotin' the Code at me?" like that's some sort of joke.
"Well, yes, you've apparently forgotten," and Sparrow cuts him off again.
"Ye're certain ye don't want t'be seduced then, are ye?" Sparrow pets his temple with that waggling finger. James shivers at the contact. Remembers his willingness to offer anything to feel just that. "Because I'll have ye know, Commodore, quotin' m'Code at me, s'a mite suggestive, savvy?"
And that, that James does savvy.
* * *
"I meant it." James looks over, sharpish, which makes it harder to keep going but somehow more essential that he does. "That morning. What I said. I... " And Jack, who's never out of words, finds himself speechless again. Oh, how he hates it.
James just watches. So long, in fact, Jack begins to believe James is put out by the whole mess, and Jack thinks he could understand that, too, sending Anamaria after a bloke's hardly right, after all, the woman's a termagant in breeches. And there's the whole pressgangin' t' consider, too, and the more Jack thinks, the more he's sure James is leaving fast as he can because really, isn't that the sensible thing?
Then James says, "So did I," and Jack feels relief wash like waterfall over him.
* * *
"What do you feel is required to break your curse, captain? This latest one. With the dreams and the eunuchs." He thinks he sees James mocking silently, that deadly-calm way he has, but Jack can't tell for sure.
There's only one piece missing, far as Jack sees it, so he says, "You." Means James-in-Jack and knows from his Commodore's gaping that James knows it, too.
* * *
Jack waits until James looks away, then there's an armful of pirate wiggling on James's lap, stained fingers lifting his face and precious dark visage hovering near enough to block the world.
"I'll remember this time, I promise," Jack says, and James has absolutely no defense against that.
* * *
S'different this time. Not like dreams or memories at all, just awkward and quiet at first. Neither of them quite sure how to approach now they've let all this cursing and time come between them.
Jack runs his hands over James's shoulders, down James's arms, over elbow and coat sleeves until their fingers link. Oh, that's nice.
James is warm and rough to the touch, workin' man 'stead of trumped up Commodore. This is a man who'd wear no wig, Jack thinks, and leans in to press his mouth to James's. That's nice, too. Comfortable, even if it's not much of a kiss by memory's standards.
They stay just so for longer than Jack likes, neither of them willing to move beyond this hesitant beginning, like it's their first time and they're nervous about it.
Which is patently ridiculous, James murmurs when Jack says as much. They've loads of first times between them.
Jack frowns at the reminder. S'always a first time for him, every single time he's had this man he's forgotten all the others, and since he's sorted where James likes to be kissed, how James likes to be touched, he's had no James to map. Clearly, that has t' stop.
"S'daylight," he says, nudging James's jaw so the good Commodore can see the porthole. Not that they aren't swimming in sunlight, but Jack wants access to that spot on James's neck and when James turns to look outside, Jack's on it quick, suckin' hard 'til James is wrigglin', too.
Jack rather likes wrigglin' Commodore. Goes so nice wi' the pretty sounds he thinks he remembers.
"No keelhauling?" James's hand slides down Jack's back. When James wriggles next, his fingers flex into Jack's side, into his elflocks, holding him still and steady and there, and when Jack's smile breaks suction, Jack says, "No keelhauling... if ye're good," just to hear James chuckle.
* * *
"How did I leave you?" James asks, because if anyone can answer the unreasonable, it's Jack.
"Had to, mate." Jack's eyes raise. "Told ye, Commodore, I know the curse."
"And what I had to do to break it?" Jack nods.
* * *
"But what does she want?" For the first time in ages, Jack snaps at Tia, who repeats back dispassionately what James has whispered in dreams for an eight-month. What him love most, Jack mocks with a snort, is near as ridiculous as that gone come dawn lark. "Him? She told him he was the cost?"
Tia evades in that gracefully irritating way she has, which usually Jack find obliquely charming. This is not usual.
"Well, she can't have him," he says, and Anamaria, had she seen his face, would have cheered.
* * *
"I... I didn't want to. You know that, right? That I would never have... She was clear, Jack. Not just leave. Take what you love most."
"You," Jack murmurs. Nuzzles into James's throat again like he belongs there. James thinks he does.
"Respect," James adds. If he's explaining, he'll do all of it at once, no matter how distracting that mouth is. They've sorted the going, but James needs to explain the rest. He tries and Jack kisses up his neck, finds his ear and murmurs,
"Did ye mean it?"
James shakes his head. "Not a word. Not anymore. Not since... No."
Jack pulls back. Smug grinning ensues. "Knew ye didn't," Jack says, and there's more kissing, James doesn't ever remember there being this much kissing, but they've got time now, no need to rush against dawn anymore. Then Jack leans back against the table, arms spread to brace himself on thick wood, defenseless and spreading and half-smiling. "But by all means, Commodore, feel free t' prove it."
* * *
"I lied, Sparrow," James says, then he takes Jack's face in his hands, pulls him close and presses small, soft kisses of apology on Jack's skin. Murmurs, "Good captain, best captain, favourite pirate, love you, missed you, need you," until Jack's curled around his Commodore. James lifts him up, settles Jack's weight in a comfortable press that puts Jack just where he wants to be, and moves them toward the bunk.
Huzzah the bunk.
"Don't go again," Jack says into James's neck as James rubs their cocks together with purposeful thrusts of his hips. James's neck tastes like sea. Jack loves the sea. "This time, you have to stay."
"Silly pirate," and James nips at Jack's mouth, cuts off Jack's pant. Jack's crushed into the bulkhead as James moves forward but when James's hand strays from thigh to arse, when James's finger pets Jack's sensitive pucker, bulkhead crushing is the least of Jack's concerns. "Finally have you right where I want you, why would I leave?"
* * *
James-in-Jack feels brilliant, Jack thinks, but he can't express that as he's appalling lack of descriptors. He's also a mouthful of Commodore throat, fistfuls of Commodore back, and an earful o' Commodore whimper.
James-in-Jack, Jack thinks, seems an ideal way t' spend his time.
* * *
"Shall I assume, then, your curse is now resolved?"
Jack knows an opportune moment when he sees one. Puts himself between James and the blades all the same, then says, "About that... "
* * *
James knows he should be mad that Sparrow's taken to inventing curses to trap him aboard the Pearl, perhaps win him back, but he can't bring himself to bear this grudge, even in pretense.
"Cursed as a eunuch?" James says. Peers hard and Jack's grin is feeble. "You?" Up come the fluttery fingers. James thinks they're moments away from yet another quipped, "Pirate." James rather enjoys the way Jack's cheeks flush, the closest to shame he's seen yet. "Jack, you were hard when you woke, remember? I had to stop you from tossing off right there in front of me."
Jack frowns. "Ye knew?"
"Strongly suspected."
"And ye stayed anyway?"
James touches Jack's face, traces the man's cheekbone with his thumb, toys the heel of his thumb over Jack's lower lip. Kisses Jack's nose and tugs at a beard braid lightly. "I suspect it's a full time task, keeping you uncursed and out of trouble."
* * *
Jack licks James's chest and says, "See, that's wha' t' rum's been missin'."
"I taste like rum, do I?"
"Taste like matelot," Jack says, matter-of-fact.
* * *
Shanghaiing for a shag. Who else but Sparrow, even if he still won't admit it?
* * *
When Anamaria comes at dusk to bring them supper, she turns on Jack's James with a mock-scowl Jack reads through too easily. "So ye're square, are ye?" she asks, and Jack thinks it's brilliant, how these two are trying t' pull one over on Captain Jack Sparrow.
"It seems my absence was not quite as unlamented as I thought," James allows, and Jack curls into him to hide his grin in James's neck.
Really, fakin' a pressgangin' to win him back. Might be a fair pirate in Jack's Commodore, after all.
* * *
"Well?" Ragetti grabs Anamaria's sleeve as she passes. Drops his grip at her glare. "S'he all right? Knocked 'im rather hard, our Mr. James."
She softens. Says, "He's stayin'. An' he won't need a new bunk." Which is as close as she'll get to explaining what she saw in those quarters.
"So it worked?" Ragetti turns to Pintel, who's puffed up smug until Ragetti hugs him. "Rum. Salty wenches on deck. An' rum."
Even Anamaria's mildly amused at Ragetti's one-man celebration, hanging as he is off mildly irritated mate.
"Does he know?" Pintel asks, because, well, now the cap'n's back, there's the small manner of minor mutiny t' consider. And the impressment. And the clubbin'. He has his doubts about the clubbin'.
Anamaria smiles. "Don't even suspect," she says, and Pintel feels something very much like vindication. "But then, he's daft as Jack."
* * *
If pressed, Ragetti talks of the dark days after Mr. James left the Pearl. Dead-eyed cap'n, Anamaria on the warpath, crew caught in a sort of misery they'd not encountered since Bootstrap went down the Locker and that curse took hold.
If pressed, Anamaria shuts him up. No need t' spoil a plan what worked despite the daft bastards who crewed it. Sticking him in the captain's quarters was, she thinks, bloody perfect. Plot worthy of the Pearl. And if Anamaria's still not sure how, exactly, they came to have Jack's James on the Pearl's deck that afternoon, well, some things just don't need answers.
If pressed, Pintel could clear it all up. How they'd lost something when James Norrington left, how utterly wrong the Cap'n'd been since. How they'd had whispers o' mutiny when he'd all-but dared the world to do its worst and how they'd all met below deck to plan potential fixes.
"Shame the Pearl don't press," Ragetti says. Rubs his chin. "He weren't like this when Mr. James was here."
Pintel raises meaningful stare. "Who says she don't?"
* * *
If pressed, Pintel could clear it all up, but he's Pintel, one o' the witless crew, and no one ever asks. He climbs the ratlines to take his watch. Allows himself a victorious moment of reflection as he heads into burning evening sky.
~fin~
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