Diving for Pearls

Chapter 6

by

Kitty Fisher

He lay quite still, enjoying the lazy luxury, until he realised that the world was moving around him, so he was on a ship of some kind, and that the figure nestled so closely up to him was without doubt a man. He frowned, but memory was elusive. Tortuga. He'd been in Tortuga, yes that was it. Looking for Jack Sparrow...

His eyes blinked open as the floodgates of memory parted to let a hundred images into his mind. O'Connell laughing, the boy risking all to help, the moment he had seen Jack Sparrow standing in that ruin of a church. Capture, escape. The cycle repeated. And finally the long night on the beach, and the fever overwhelming him as he was brought on board Jack's precious Pearl.

He shivered, and the slight movement awoke the man next to him.

"James?"

Jack Sparrow. Holding him. A thousand complex emotions collided, resolving into a low groan as he tried to move. The arms slipped from around him, and the bed creaked as his companion sat up.

"Jamie!"

There was such alarm in the one word, that Norrington could have laughed. Awkwardly, and not without a low gasp, he shifted onto his back. The dark eyes of his fever-dream were narrowed in consternation. Norrington wanted to sooth the frown away, but his arm was too heavy to lift. Instead he smiled. "Hello, Jack."

A hand touched his forehead. It felt warm against his skin. "The fever's gone."

"I remember you talking to me." Blinking slowly, Norrington finally found the strength and lifted a hand. Jack took it in his own, one thumb rubbing slowly back and forth.

"How d'ye feel?"

"Fine. Sleepy." Bone weary, the thought of moving was quite unnerving.

"Drink something, then sleep for another hour or so." Gracefully, perfectly at ease with his nakedness, Jack stepped onto the floor and went to Norrington's side of the bed. "Come, it's just water."

Blissful, glorious, water. It stirred another memory. "You drowned me!"

"What? Oh, no. You remember that? We were tryin' to get the fever down."

"I thought you were a merman." He sighed as Jack helped him sit, holding the cup so he could drink.

"A merman?" The cup waited until he was ready, then tilted once more to his lips. "I hope I was a good one."

"Lovely." Jack was grinning down at him, and he almost laughed, though it translated as a slight twist of his lips.

Sipping slowly, he looked around. The cabin was quite large, with a tall window that was letting in the first glimmers of early morning light. Through the shadows he could make out that he was lying in a proper bed: wide, with curtains all about, linen sheets, blankets and a thick eiderdown folded at its foot. All of it undoubtedly pilfered. The bed was perhaps Spanish, the carving being ornate enough. Solid and probably nailed to the deck, it was a great luxury. But he supposed being a pirate was all about the search for the rich and the luxurious in life. The cabin was as large as his own on the far bigger Dauntless, and everything in it was of finest quality. Chests, boxes, bed itself, all fit for a prince—or a pirate.

It was strange to think he was on a pirate ship. Though for some reason it was less strange to think of himself in a pirate's bed. Jack took the cup from his hands and Norrington settled back onto the pillows, smiling as he closed his eyes.

Sleep wound around him, curled tight for a while, then slowly unfurled. He awoke again, less bleary, with Jack lying still at his side. It was as if no time had passed at all, yet the light was different and he must have slept again for hours. He stirred and Jack was sitting up at once, looking down at him through a tangle of dark hair.

"Awake?"

Norrington nodded.

"Water?"

All Norrington had to do was smile, and Jack had slipped an arm under his shoulders, easing him up, a cup held for him. Norrington drank eagerly, then lay back, panting slightly.

His back resting against the headboard, Jack cradled the cup in his hands. Norrington thought he looked tired. "So, after frightening me half to death, how are ye?"

A good question, one he didn't care to address too closely. "I just... ache."

"After three days of fever, that's no surprise."

Three days? Norrington let out a long breath. "You cared for me." It wasn't a question. Or even thanks, though that was how he meant it.

Nodding, Jack placed the cup at the side of the bed and twisting, leant over him. He gently touched one of Norrington's hands. "Your wrists were rotten with infection. We'll need to keep an eye on them."

Lifting his hands, flexing them, Norrington felt their weakness, the pain that seemed to come from deep in the bones. They'd been bad enough before the last session in the ropes, but now? He winced as he looked at their ugliness. So many scars. He laughed softly, humour a distant thought. "This is all for hubris. I used to congratulate myself on never having taken a wound."

"Well, you've enough now."

"Yes." Norrington nodded his agreement. Enough.

"A couple of tattoos and you'll be as beautiful as me!"

Sharply glancing up, he registered for the first time the marks on Jack's body. As the room grew light with morning, he could see the details of scarring as well as the dark patterning of tattoos. "Let me see?"

Obligingly, Jack peeled back the covers and sat up, folding his legs neatly under him, quite happily naked for James' inspection.

A life was there on his skin, painted in blue and welted in pain. With careful fingers Norrington touched the mass of scarring on one arm, then traced slowly up to the ship that sailed on the smooth chest, her sails shimmering as if in a fine wind as Jack took breath. Over, he lingered on what could only be bullet scars, ones so deep it seemed scarcely possible a man could live to survive them. There were no marks around the strong, fine neck to tell of a recent dice with death at a rope's end, which lifted his heart. He touched a braid, then let his arm fall to where a hand rested lightly on a knee. There were fresh burns on his skin there, and more on his wrist, though the brand was still clear through it all. A brand that, until the day Jack died, would proclaim him pirate.

"You were hurt in the fire?"

"Hardly."

"Enough. Thank you."

Jack shrugged, dismissingly. "Flame's a tricky thing, the marks are nothing, a few blisters is all."

Norrington hesitated. "I like the tattoos." He stroked the bird that flew daintily over a skin-born ocean, then looked up. Jack was staring at him, intense and hot. Not meaning to tease, Norrington let his hand fall away. These were things to be remembered, for when he felt whole again. "Do you carry your whole life on your body?"

"Aye, I seem to." Jack gave a single, sharp shiver, then he smiled and, with a jangle of coins and beads, peered down at himself.

"Tell me about them?"

"This is the Pearl." He touched his chest, stroking the galleon inked on his skin. "So she'll always be with me, you understand. This is my sparrow." His hand brushed his forearm. "So I'll never forget who I am, no matter how much rum I drink." He twisted, showing the back of his shoulder. "This 'ere's a Chinese word, amazing how they write, eh? It means freedom—or so they told me, though for all I know it could mean anything. I was in Macao—dangerous place that, full of magicians—well there I was 'appy as a lark, just about to find meself a pipe of opium and there, this sweetest girl comes up to me and asks..."

But the words faded, no matter how much Norrington wanted to hear the story, his eyelids were too heavy. He relaxed back into the pillows, blissfully closing his eyes, listening to the voice if not the words, hearing only comfort as he slid gently from awake to asleep.

"I let you sleep through breakfast, this is dinner." Jack was there, dressed in breeches and shirt and sash, standing by the bed looking very pleased with himself.

God, he was hungry. Pushing up into the headboard, he also realised something else. "Jack, I need to piss."

"There's a chamber-pot under the bed." Jack walked around and, pulling it into the open, held it in his hand, frowning. "Though I think you'll 'ave to sit up." He thought about it. "Though standing might be better."

"Standing," Norrington stated firmly.

"Right." Setting the pot on a low wooden chest, he came back to the bed. "Need a hand?"

"Please."

Sitting was easy, getting his legs out of the sheets no problem. Standing seemed a little more difficult, but Jack balanced him, held his arm until he was firm on his feet. "I feel weak as a newborn foal."

"Less messy." Jack made a face. "Come on."

Three steps to the pot and the relief was bliss. His piss was dark amber, feathered with traces of dark red.

"Better than it was—you were pissing almost entirely blood a few days ago."

"Oh." Norrington let himself finish then shook the last drops away. "How long have I been sick?"

"This is the fifth day, for three of them you were out of your mind."

"Oh." Time had slipped away again. Though this time at least he had the fever to blame. And he had been cared for. Cared for with great skill. "I thank you."

The dark brows lifted expressively. "What was I going to do, let you burn up, wither away into a corpse? No, Jamie, not after all the trouble I went to finding ye. See?"

Norrington thought he saw. Maybe. Turning slowly he closed the space between them. "So I'm your investment?"

"You might say that. And one I intends on lookin' after." Jack kissed him lightly on the cheek. "So come and eat up your stew."

Stew. That was the smell. His belly rumbled again. "I'm hungry."

"You sound like it's a surprise! Well, all we've managed to get down you for days is water and a little broth so no wonder."

"Was I a terrible patient?"

"Bloody awful. Though according to Gibbs, I'm worse."

"Imagine that." He smiled innocently, then cautiously went back to sit on the bed, supported by the pillows. The food was enough for a king. Or a commodore and a pirate. Balancing the bowl cupped in his sheet-covered lap he lifted the spoon, holding it in fingers that felt as if they'd been stuffed with straw and ate, slowly, doggedly. It was good. Fish with vegetables and a lightly spicy seasoning. He ate more than half before admitting defeat.

His own bowl done, Jack looked up. "You finished?" At the nod of agreement he took the half empty bowl and put it with his own, back on the tray. "Fruit?"

"No thanks." He was tired again, and while Jack sat and skilfully ate a mango, sucking the pulp from a slit in the skin, he let himself drift.

It was night when he stirred again, climbing out of a sleep tormented by darkness. Jack was in bed, warm down his side, and that was reassurance. After a while, he felt steady enough to climb from the bed, and this time he managed to use the piss-pot all on his own. Someone had left a bowl of fruit beside the bed, and standing, staring out to the night-hued sea, he ate a persimmon. Exhaustion was still there, dragging at his thoughts and limbs, but it was not the appalling weakness of before. He was healing. Flexing his shoulders, he felt the drag of scar-tissue on his back. It had been shaming, being whipped like a dog. Whipped and derided for his inability to hide the pain. O'Connell had enjoyed himself far too much. Norrington shivered, and wondered if he was dead, if the pirate had burned in the conflagration Jack had conjured in the old house. He hoped so. His dreams were too full of pain, and the memory of eyes that relished every moment of it, for him to wish anything else. He would heal, mind and body, in time. His body would always bear scars, but the bruising would fade, and the nightmares would hopefully leave him be. In time. Maybe he'd even regain all the strength in his wrists.

Turning from the window, he went back to the bed, standing there for a moment. Jack had removed the scarf from about his head, along with the whale bone, and his dark, ragged hair was spread on the pillow about his face. Norrington stared his fill, wanting more light but content with the shadows that set the high cheekbones into such stark relief. A merman in his bed. No fins or tail, but enough mystery to salt all the oceans.

Slipping back into the warmth, he shivered as a wiry arm curled about him and a soft snore sounded against his ear. He lay still for a long time, listening to the deep breathing, content to be alive. To be here. Now. The past was something he didn't want to recall, and the future? It hurt to even consider it. What he wanted, really wanted after a lifetime of doing and being what he believed others wanted him to be, was here. With this man.

And what insanity was that?

His own. Pirate borne.

The thought was strange, but of a certain sweetness, and he was smiling as he finally drifted away into sleep.

In the afternoon, after a meal of bread and cheese, he sat up in bed and examined himself. The bruises were all royally purple bleeding into yellow and green, but mending well enough. The burns on his chest and stomach were all healing, slick under the salve that Jack insisted on spreading so liberally. Everything would take time, the cuts and gouges, the muscle damage to his flayed back and torn shoulders, the deep scoring around his wrists that ached so under their bandages. He could flex his hands, though the fingers were stiff, as were his shoulders—hanging for so long had torn something deep, and from his shoulders to his finger tips he felt as if none of his body quite fitted any more. He could only trust that time would heal all that too. The weakness was trying. He had strength enough to stand, but little else.

Sleeping was far easier, and feeling worn, he gave in again and again, curling into the sheets that smelled of Jack Sparrow, letting his body rest there.

Jack returned with darkness and supper. They ate together, companionably, hardly talking at all. Afterwards, Jack placed the remains on a tray outside the door, then returned with the box that held his unguents and bandages. Patiently, Norrington let him work. The long-fingered hands were very gentle, and there was no pain, not really.

When Jack was done, Norrington lay back, regaining his breath, and smiled when Jack stripped and lay beside him.

"It's early..."

"I'm tired too." Jack kissed his neck, and wrapped a cool arm lightly around his ribs. "Sleep is good for us."

"Yes, Cap'n." And Norrington was smiling again as he slept.

The dreams were just under the surface. Nothing sweet, just the bitter rehashing of pain and humiliation. Of O'Connell laughing, and his own certainty that death was here, with this man, in this place. In the dreams there was no Jack, just himself and the men who laughed when he screamed. He was sobbing when he awoke, and it took him a moment to realise it was Jack's arms that were holding him, Jack's voice that soothed and comforted.

It took a long while, but he slept again, held tight this time, and the strong arms that held him somehow kept the nightmares away, so it was full morning when he awoke. Jack was sitting in bed, dressed in shirt and breeches, reading.

"Mornin' Jamie."

"Jack." Norrington licked his lips and swallowed. "I think I have sleeping sickness."

"Don't worry, I think you're past dying of it." Smiling, Jack closed his book and reached for the cup of water. "Here, drink."

Easing up on one elbow, Norrington took the cup. He drank it down gratefully, and handed the cup back. After a moment he realised he felt a good deal better. "Though it seems to have done the trick, I feel much improved."

"Good." Jack was peering at him. "Yes, much better. Your skin was exactly the colour of wet parchment yesterday."

"And today?"

Jack made a wry face. "Well, dry parchment at the very least."

Norrington laughed softly, the sound so unexpected that he stopped at once in surprise. "I do feel better!"

"Good." The smile was indulgent.

"What are you reading?"

"Words, words..."

"Ah, Hamlet?"

Jack nodded, the skin about his eyes crinkling in delight. "The Dane himself, though his bleakness makes me want to slap him."

"Better to laugh at the world?"

"Infinitely."

"What would you have done to Claudius?"

"Tripped him off the battlements and been done with it."

"No agonising?"

"None at all, after what he did."

An eye for an eye—a simple creed. He'd kill O'Connell himself, for what he'd done. "O'Connell..." Damn, it was hard to ask.

"Is he chasing us?"

Norrington sighed in relief. "Yes. He didn't die, in the fire, did he?"

"I doubt it." Jack shifted, making the bed creak. "I've told the crew to keep a sharp eye out for sails following us. Just in case. But there's no need to worry, we're not following any particular course, and the seas are wide enough to hide us."

"You think he'll try to follow?"

"Perhaps..."

"You burned his treasure."

"And stole you. He won't rest easy. But he won't find us yet, so we're safe enough for a while."

Norrington stretched, arching up as his muscles cramped, pain fading as he relaxed. Rotating his shoulders he gauged the improvement, for there was some indeed. The same with his wrists. "I want to be ready, when we do meet again."

"Revenge?"

"It shouldn't be that simple, but it is."

"Unless I kill him first." Jack placed his book on the bedside, and slipped down, curling onto his side. He was frowning. "I should've done it then, in that damned house."

"There was no time. And you've done enough. You saved me, Jack. I owe you greatly."

"Hush!" A finger stopped his lips. Jack's face was tight, the skin thin over his cheekbones as he stared, intent, his eyes stormy. "You owe me nothing."

"Just my life, Jack." Norrington smiled, the words easy, the meaning utterly true. "Not just because of what happened. Or maybe it was through that, that I came to feel all the rest."

"The rest?"

"The wanting to be here..."

"In my bed, with me?"

It was a deliberate question, and Norrington gave it a deliberate answer. "Yes."

Jack shivered, a groan sounding deep in his throat. "When you are mended, Jamie, oh, when you are mended..."

There was such promise in the roughened voice, such passion. Norrington looked at him, and almost gasped aloud, the heat in the dark stare was close to scorching. "Jack..."

"I want you, James. Feel." And gently he took Norrington's hand and placed it to his groin. There was heat there too, and hardness. Norrington did gasp then, as his own body surged in response.

"Yes, Jack..." The distance was closed, and Jack was leaning over him, the kiss so light, so gentle as to almost not be there. Greedy, Norrington followed it, lifting his head to chase the lips that were already being taken away. "Please?"

"Oh, gods, Jamie, you're not well yet, I am a fool, and cruel as well."

"Jack, stop." With a hand on one taut arm, Norrington stilled the almost fleeing body. "I want... I want you to: See?" And he pushed the sheets back, baring his body, showing his own cock, uncurling thickly at his groin, not hard as such but hopeful. "I would, but..."

"Be still."

"I can't..."

"Don't move, don't do anything." And kneeling he bent, his face skimming down the skin of Norrington's chest and stomach, a kiss here, a lick there, all so gentle.

"But..."

And then there were no words. Norrington gasped in wonder as his cock was taken into Sparrow's mouth, as he was sucked and licked and teased, and around it all the soft scratchiness of his beard was deliriously sensuous. Despite his injuries, the moment was so arousing that he was hard, his length taken unbelievably deep into Jack's eager, wanton mouth, held there and cradled, mouthed and swallowed. It hurt when he came, but the sharp pain in his balls was nothing to the pleasure, to the delight that shook him deeply, that left him panting, eyes unfocused as the small shocks left his muscles twitching.

A face loomed over him, and blinking he focussed at last. Jack. Smiling. Norrington reached up and slowly ran a thumb over his reddened lips. Determined, he tried to sit up.

"No."

"No?" Norrington narrowed his eyes. "Fair's fair, Jack."

"And fair it was. See?" And he knelt back to show the front of his breeches, where the pale material was darkened wetly. He shrugged wryly, smiling like a boy. "I'm not usually so intemperate, but..."

Norrington blinked. "You came?"

"Aye. Like an angel."

"I didn't touch you though." The words were slurred. He was so tired, so content.

"You didn't have to, Jamie. I've been ready since you kissed me in the church tower."

"Sweet heaven..."

Jack was laughing softly as he shifted and came to lie back at Norrington's side. "Go back to sleep."

"Aye..." And held again, safe again, he did.

A pair of frayed breeches, along with a linen shirt, lay over a chair. He eyed them speculatively, and then stood up slowly, for even though the worst of the dizziness had left him, he didn't trust his balance completely as yet. But his body, though stiff, seemed obedient, and dressing was not too problematic. He buttoned the shirt and left it loose over the breeches. The pirate crew were hardly likely to chastise him for being slovenly dressed. The thought made him smile wryly. From what he recalled of their conversation, they were far more likely just to disapprove of his entire being.

Well, he had executed enough of their number, and disapproved of almost their every activity, so it seemed fair.

Opening the door, he stepped through into a much larger room, one as luxurious as an admiral's stateroom. Curious, he walked through the open doorway. Charts, bottles and various strange incunabula lay strewn across a wide oak table. All around were sconces for candles, books, fruit, more charts, all piled high, every ledge and surface littered with things, with shells and stones, with coins, crowns, gold glinting from everywhere. Jack's. It all had to be Jack's. He fingered a large lump of amber that lay next to a piece of carved tusk. A heathen god danced on one leg whist playing the flute, his eyes rubies. A necklace, its catch broken, lay tossed over an open book. Curious, he brushed the pages with his fingers, reading: At length we reach'd AEolias's sea-girt shore...

It was enough to make him smile. It had come as no surprise that Sparrow could read—his education was clear, if usually hidden under a multiplicity of disguises. That the slim volume was Homer should have been less surprising still. Who else to speak of the romance of distant places? Of travels through wild and perilous seas? Though did Sparrow, too, dream of home? Norrington let his hand fall back at his side, and stared around him in realisation. There was no brick and mortar home for the pirate, for this was it. A home made from wood and tar and hemp and sailcloth. Leaving the book he slowly walked over to rest his hand on the old, pitted oak that served as a wall. The ship hummed contentedly beneath his hand. He could almost hear Jack. Patting her conspiratorially, he headed past the great swathes of curtains that guarded the main doors and, opening them, stepped out onto the deck.

Immediately the breeze hit, he lifted his face. The air tasted sweet, the salt tang like mother's milk. He grinned at the sky, at the sea, and accidentally at a pirate walking past with an armful of rope. Raising a hand in greeting—which was ignored—he walked forward, then slowly made his way up the stairs to the quarter deck, his bare feet firm on the sun-warmed wood. There, one hand on the wheel, his eyes dreamily lost in the cloud strewn horizon, was Jack Sparrow. Exactly where Norrington had thought to find him.

"James!"

Climbing the last few steps, Norrington watched Sparrow hand over the wheel to a woman. She glared as Jack walked away, frowning first at her captain and then, with decidedly more enmity, at Norrington. One of the voices that had threaded its way through his fever dreams had been a woman's. The one who wanted to toss him overboard—without the grace of waiting for him to be dead first.

But then Jack was near him, and he was being embraced by careful hands. "I didn't think ye'd be up as yet."

They parted just enough to stand, still touching, with their hands light on each others' forearms. Norrington watched the breeze tug at Sparrow's hair, and smiled disarmingly. "I was restless."

"A good sign." Jack inspected the form in front of him intently. "You know, ye look altogether better." He sighed happily, and Norrington could smell rum strong on his breath. "Nice clothes. Not exactly uniform, are they Jamie?"

"Not exactly, no." Staring down at himself, seeing his own bare feet, pale and white next to Jack's sun-browned ones. "But I see you don't stand on ceremony when aboard."

"Ceremony? What's that?"

"I begin to think it might be something very overrated."

"Ah, careful Commodore, or ye'll be thinking less like a Navy man and more like a scallywag."

"If that means bare feet and cool cotton in the Caribbean heat, then maybe I'm ready to be seduced." He hesitated, the word there, between them before he'd really thought it through.

"Now, Jamie, is that an invitation?" The words were a whisper, but the bright challenge in Jack's painted eyes was loud and clear.

"I..."

Laughter, sweet and low, greeted his confusion. "All in good time. I'll not tease ye yet. First of all, I think, a tour of the Pearl! What d'ye say to that?" Standing back, he bowed extravagantly. "My ship awaits your inspection, Commodore."

"Before the rains start?"

"Aye." They both stared up at the vividly blue sky, then across to where the clouds were gathering on the horizon. Jack made a face at the growing storm. "I hate the bloody rainy season, and it'll be upon us soon."

"Better than the North Sea, though, surely?"

"Or the Channel—where you're more likely to get rain every day than any sun at all."

"Have you sailed past Greenland?"

"You mean up there with the ice and the snow and where the sea-monsters live in oceans the colour of four day old gruel? No, why'd I do that?"

"No idea. I went because I was ordered to. Can't say as I enjoyed it much."

Jack, shivered. "Hate the cold, nasty stuff. It gets in y'r bones and rots 'em from the inside. That's why I love the Caribbean. Sun, endless blue seas and plenty o' rum."

"And plenty of plunder?" A glance pierced towards him and Norrington felt ashamed. "Sorry."

"No worries. You're right, there is plenty o' plunder and all the good stuff that a scallywag loves." But his shoulders were stiff, and some of the ease was gone from his face. "No argument there."

There was a moment's silence that stretched. Then Norrington took an uneven breath. "I am your guest, Jack, and deeply in your debt. I apologise, it isn't my place to condemn your habits, not here and now. Please, try and consider the words unsaid."

"You've a sweet tongue, Commodore."

His mouth tasted of ashes. Why was truth so important? Surely the lessons of this strange time were of the importance of the now, and not the paths that led to it. "I... I really am sorry. Your life is your own."

"Is it?" And he stepped closer, his face smooth and calm, though the depths of his dark eyes showed the fires that were dampened within. "Jamie, my life is a feather, drifting with the wind. I am a creature of whim and desire, there is nothing in me of determination or purpose, other than those given by the moment, by the need for this or that—though mainly a ship under my feet and the sea spreading forever around me. Take what ye wants, give nothing back—that's what we say. Us. Pirates. And everything I believe is in those words. The whole damned world is my oyster, but this is the pearl. This," he tapped his own chest, just over his heart. "And this." His hand spread, encompassing the universe that was the Pearl.

"Jack..."

"I am an honest man, though I lie, cheat and steal. I know I can be both honest and dishonest, do you?"

"I believe you to be honest, Captain Sparrow. Honest and good."

"Then apart from my dear departed mother, ye're probably alone."

"You confuse me beyond measure, Jack." He frowned, a pain somewhere deep in his chest surrounded the thudding of his heart. "You..." He broke off, shaking his head. "Please, just forgive me."

"Ah, Jamie, I do that." Jack smiled a little then. "Ye know, I worked for a living once. I sat in a tiny office and worked on drawing charts for a man who had all the warmth of your icy Northern wastes." He turned slightly away, gripping one hand to the ship's side, the other to a shroud that ran up towards the mast. "I sat in that dim hole for twelve hours a day and barely had enough coins in my purse to feed myself or keep a roof over my head. All I dreamed of was freedom. Of being in the places I was drawing, of coral reefs and palm-fringes beaches, of towns with foreign names and people who didn't frown in misery every hour of the day. Even then I was odd. I talked to myself, I conversed with the stars and smiled at ghosts. Madness, they called it. Probably still do. But I got away. I'm here, and there is the sea, an ocean blue from sky to sky. And I have no office, no desk, and care not one jot if any man tells me I am wrong in the head—or in thought or deed." He tilted his head back, and his eyes were sad. "Savvy?"

"Yes, I savvy."

"And what d'ye think, then Commodore?"

"That I am a fool. That you deserve your freedom, and though I cannot ever say that theft is right, or that piracy is anything other than a crime, I find myself envying your freedom."

"Then let yourself enjoy it."

Norrington nodded. Reaching up he let his hand rest next to Sparrow's where ratline met shroud. Their skin touched, and the shock of connection was bone deep. He gasped, biting his tongue to stifle the sound, and saw Jack's eyes widen in equal response.

But before anything more could be said, someone was at Jack's side. "Cap'n?"

It took a moment for the dark eyes to turn away, then Sparrow seemed to shake himself, and his hand slipped back to his side. He straightened, slim shoulders elegant under the worn cotton of his shirt as he faced his crewmember. "Aye?"

A glance at Norrington was full of curiosity. "What ye asked for, Cap'n, we found it."

"Ah." Jack's smile was sweetly secret. A finger traced over his lips. "Did ye now. An' ye knows what to do with it?"

"Oh, aye."

"Good and warm, eh?"

"Yes, Cap'n. We're already at it."

"Good man." He laughed then, and slapped the boy on the shoulder. "Well done! Off ye goes—we'll be along in a while."

With one last look at them both, the boy gave a shrug, then trotted away.

"More mysteries?"

"Ones you'll like, Commodore, believe me."

"I'm finding more and more I like, Captain."

"Really?" A speculative glance that almost burned, and Jack was turning, a grin fighting on his lips. "Then let's start with the beautiful mystery that is my Pearl."

As swiftly as it had gone, the ease was back, allied with a certain joy. With the sun heading into the clouds, they slowly walked the length of the deck while Jack lovingly shared every detail of the Black Pearl. Slowly, working from stem to stern, he showed Norrington his ship, and with bemusement Norrington saw how the crew without seeming discipline did the work that was needed, keeping the vessel neat and trim and surprisingly clean. Below decks was just as much a surprise, and though it was full of the strangest things, and the over-brimming belongings of every man on board, there was a sort of order. All the damage from the fights she had endured—and that which must have been there from Barbossa's tenure as captain—had all been made good. Perhaps even made better. Jack clearly had spared no expense on his beloved.

From beak head to cable locker, from galley to powder room, they walked until Norrington could feel exhaustion dragging his feet and finally they came back to the stateroom. Where, in the centre of the room, the table had been pushed to one side, and the space was now filled with a tin tub. A bath, in fact. One that was half filled with steaming water.

"Your wish, wasn't it?"

"Oh, yes..." Hot water. Norrington shivered in blissful anticipation.

"I thought you might like it." Jack was looking very smug. He stepped to the table and touched his fingers across the small array of goods laid out there. "And as I am a genius, I thought ye might like a shave too."

"You are more than a genius, Jack. I..." He stopped dead, it was all overwhelming. There was even a cake of soap. "Thank you." He felt humbled.

"Hush. Just get yourself in the water before ye falls over."

Grimacing, Norrington sighed. "You noticed."

"Pale you may be at the best of times, Jamie, but I'm sure you're not usually that lovely shade o' grey."

Touching his own face, feeling the beard encrusting his skin, Norrington shook his head. "I'm just tired."

"And still ill." Jack tugged at Norrington's sleeve. "Shirt. Unless you're getting in fully clothed?"

"No, no." Norrington started on the buttons, still amazed at what Jack had conjured. "Didn't your men object to doing this for me, I mean, they seem to have little love for me."

"I wonder why?" Tutting softly, Jack leant over conspiratorially. "Ye think it might be something to do with your being a man who traps pirates for a living?"

"Possibly." Guilt pricked at his conscience, but Norrington could not deny the charge.

Jack was smiling wickedly, teasing without any animosity. "One who usually wouldn't set foot on a pirate vessel for anything less than the execution of his duty?"

"That too."

"But who 'appens to be 'ere now, and is sharing the captain's bed?"

"Ah..."

"Still, they won't do anything daft."

"Not even the woman who, I believe, wanted me thrown into the ocean."

"Ah, ye heard that. I did wonder. They would argue over you like you were already fit for a winding sheet."

"I'm not sure she was caring to wait that long." Norrington thought back, though the memories of so much of that time were hazy, he recalled the voices speaking over him with clarity. "Though in her favour I think I was closer to being dead than I was to living."

"A fine fight I had with you. You can scare a man like that, Jamie. I'd be obliged if ye didn't do it again."

"I will endeavour not to, Captain."

Satisfied, Jack nodded. "That's settled. Now, into the tub with ye."

Unfastening the buttons on his breeches, Norrington nodded at the water. "What about you?"

"Later, though I usually prefer my water salt."

"As in the sea—where there are sharks?"

Shaking his head, Jack sighed. "There are places where the sharks don't go, and the water is warm and clear enough to see fifty feet ahead. You'll love it."

"Will I?"

Jack frowned. Head tilted to one side he looked disbelieving. "Unless ye can't swim."

"I can swim, Jack. I had no desire to drown if I ever fell in the sea, so I taught myself as soon as I knew I was going to be a sailor."

"That's all right, then."

"So one day I'm going swimming with you?" It was all very confusing.

"Oh yes. But first you're getting the rest of the way out of those clothes and getting' in the water before all the work of the crew—who as you noted were none too pleased at the task to begin with—goes to waste an' it gets stone cold."

"You ever take breath?"

"Waste of time. Now—get in!"

Smothering a smile, Norrington stepped out of the breeches and slid the shirt off his arms. Naked, curiously unnerved by the proximity of the other man, he stepped quickly into the water. Some sloshed over the side as he settled, knees bent, his head level with the tub's rim as he sat back groaning.

"Good?"

"Perfect." It really was. The ship rode the waves very sweetly, and lying back, looking past Jack to the tall windows, and through them to the sea and sky, he felt an emotion so strange that it took a long moment for him to understand what it was. With realisation came wonderment, so much so that he wanted to hug with amazement everything around him, from the day, the time, the sheer vibrancy of being alive, to the man standing over him.

So this was how it felt; happiness.

Strange to find it somewhere so foreign to everything he had worked for. Everything his life was supposed to mean.

"What're ye thinking, Jamie."

Rolling his head to one side, slightly giddy with exhaustion, he smiled up at the fine, concerned face. "Strangely, I'm thinking that I'm happy."

"Strange?" A slight frown slid between Jack's brows.

"Strange. Yes. 'Tis not something I knew I was lacking, but apparently so."

Shaking his head, beads and coins jingling, Jack looked close to disbelieving. "If all it took was a bath, Jamie, well..."

"I think it is more than just that."

There. An admission. He swallowed, and turned his face away. At once he started to clumsily undo the bandages around his wrists.

A hand stilled him, the fingers gentle, though the feeling of it made his whole skin tingle. "James."

Just his name, spoken softly. Norrington looked up, feeling hollow inside. "Yes?"

"Let me?"

Ah yes, that was what his lungs were for. Breathing again, Norrington held up his arm, watching as the long fingers stripped the dressing away, cautious at the last, peeling the strip of cotton away from healing skin. A gesture, and Norrington lifted his other arm, water dripping back into the bath, to reach across and let Jack work on that one as well.

"Don't soak them too long."

"No."

"And Jamie?"

"Aye?"

"I'm happy too." And bending, the pirate captain kissed him, his lips warm and sweet, tasting of sunshine and rum, of salt and the spice that was himself.

Norrington shivered, and brushed his fingers against the long neck, marvelling when his touch caused the other man to shiver in return. He parted his lips, and sighed as the kiss deepened. Under the water, his cock stirred and, wanton, he moaned helplessly into the other man's mouth.

Leaning back, wide eyed, his lips wet, Jack shook his head. "Bath first."

"Tyrant."

"Captain..."

"Hah." Swallowing as he slid his arms back into the water, Norrington let his head rest on the bath. He watched as Sparrow went to the table, returning with something in his hand.

"Soap. Knew it might come in handy when I found it in Barbossa's effects." He winced. "Hope that don't put you off?"

"No, truly." Nothing could put him off. Though the memory of Barbossa and the appalling fight with the skeletal crew rode high on his lift of worst days ever, too much had happened since for the memory to hurt. He took the offering from Jack's hands and sniffed it. Not lavender, more rose. A woman's scent, not that it mattered. He sank further down and let the water's warmth ease his limbs as the kiss had eased his soul. Pleasure simply given, yet more complex than alchemy. "Thank you."

"For the bath? Don't thank me, I just gave the order."

"For that. And just for the kind thought."

For once, Norrington knew he had disconcerted Jack, and he wondered if, under the paint and sun-tanned skin, the pirate was colouring with embarrassment.

"Well... I was bored with washing you in bed."

"Did you?"

Jack nodded agreement. "You were making the linen grubby."

"Oh." Norrington started to soap his arms, working slowly and gently around the healing skin. "Who does your laundry?"

"There's a boy, he sees to things like that."

"The one who seems to be almost pleasant to me?"

"Aye, he's new. Probably don't know your hobbies."

"One man to whom I am not an ogre, then."

"There's another." Jack grinned. "No, not me—though I don't think of you as an ogre either, come to think on it. Remember back in Santo Domingo, the boy who helped you? Nice child, name of Adebayo Smith, terrified of O'Connell?" Norrington nodded, looking up briefly from washing his feet. "Well, he tried to help again, and I told 'im to run. If 'e makes it, we'll pick 'im up in Tortuga."

"You're a kind man, Jack Sparrow." And a mystery with a thousand layers. Kind, good, fine and a pirate. What sense was there in any of it?

"Kind? I just needed another crew member."

"Of course." Trying to not laugh, Norrington ducked his head under the surface. He came up in a splash of water, a small wave just missing a nimble footed Jack. Awkward, his arms weighted as if with lead, he began to work the soap through his short, sweat-matted hair.

"Come on, let me." And the soap was taken, and to his great delight Norrington found himself attended by careful hands that rubbed the soap through his hair, massaging his scalp in a way that left his mouth dry and his body more alert than it had been in a long while. Relaxed and warm, he let himself be rinsed clean. He sat forward, but a hand on his shoulder stilled him. "Not yet—shave first."

He had no objections. None at all. Especially as it seemed that Jack was as skilled with a razor and strop as he was with knives and swords. Anything with a sharp edge then. Or maybe just anything. The pirate of a thousand skills. As the steady hands lathered his chin, he looked up at the braids dangling towards his face. Amber and silver, stone and glass. "Is each one a story?"

"These?" A shake of his head made them dance.

"Yes."

"Mostly." The long razor blade started on his skin. "I pick things up that I like. Sometimes I'm given them. There's no rhyme or reason to it really." One hand rested on Norrington's neck, as the other swept the cold blade through his whiskers. Hot and cold, hot and cold. "Lift." A touch under his chin and he tilted back. Jack's eyes met his, and smiled, the corners crinkling as though under direct sun. Norrington blinked, and closed his eyes as the blade moved on. Cheeks and neck, chin and jaw, the movement sweet and smooth, not even close to snagging his skin, not even the last remains of the cut over his mouth, or the bruises that still mottled his skin. When it was done, Jack carefully towelled his face dry and patted his cheek. "Perfect."

His fingers were wrinkled from the water, but he smoothed them over his cheeks. It was a better shave than from many a barber. "That feels wonderful, thank you."

"Looks better too—you're not a man for a beard, Jamie."

"Unlike you?"

"Oh, I like these." He tugged at the braids that dangled from his chin. "Exotic, don't ye know."

Norrington laughed. "Exotic?"

As if explaining to a child, Jack spoke patiently. "Pirates need to be colourful—how else are we to be told one from another?"

"I can't see you ever being confused with another."

"Ah, but would ye be saying that were I just another would-be dandy like O'Connell?"

Norrington shuddered delicately. "There is no comparison. Ever."

"Oh, I think so too, but thank you." He bowed slightly, then held out a hand. "Out ye gets, or ye'll be like a prune."

"Too late." Norrington held his hand out, palm first. "Though I'm a very clean prune."

"My favourite kind, come on." So Norrington offered his hand, and allowed himself to be helped upright. Water cascaded from his body, but he stood, his knees quite firm. Though they weakened considerably as Jack eyed him, top to toe.

A mischievous grin, swift as a spark in the night, and Jack took a pace back, allowing Norrington to step out of the tub. He dripped onto the Turkey carpet, upright, though Jack held on, making sure his charge was steady before letting go. "There." He reached for a cloth, and shaking it open, held it for Norrington, wrapping it around him, and hence surrounding him in his own arms as well.

"Jack..." So close. Dark eyes, just there, serious, slightly narrowed. Norrington hesitated, then his mouth quirked into a smile. "For a pirate you make a very good manservant."

"Hmm, used to this from your servants are ye?"

"Well, maybe not quite this level of intimacy."

"What level would that be—this?" He rubbed his hands down Norrington's back, the fingers only stilling when they cupped his arse. "Or this." A shift of thigh and they were groin to groin.

"Ah, God." He laughed softly, alight with joy. "That's... good."

"Good?" Jack looked mildly indignant. "Good is nothing. Let's get to my bed and I'll show ye better."

"Better?"

"Or possibly best—though that might have to be worked up to. When ye're well." A hand smoothed his cheek, and Norrington leant into the caress. "Jamie, the things we will do..."

Almost blind, Norrington nodded. "Anything."

A laugh tickled his ear, and a warm tongue licked him. "Things you've never dreamed of."

Norrington shivered once as Jack pulled away, and let himself be led to the bedroom, to be laid on the bed. He stretched out, quite incapable of movement, or even any thought—if any purpose to that thought was required. He watched Jack strip and come and lie next to him, warm as summer, hot-eyed as first love. Curling onto his side, Norrington slipped a hand around the slim waist and tilted his head, smiling as he was kissed softly.

"Jamie..." His name on Jack's lips as they touched his own. Norrington smiled again as an arm curled under his head and drew him close. "Sleep now."

"No!" But the objection was soft, his body already half there, his arousal just enough to follow him through into a dream, a dream of Jack and waves and sunlight, of the sweetness of serenity. Of dark eyes that glinted with mischief, and of a body that held him tight. Most of all the dream was of whispered secrets; words shared, spun from shadows and the past, wrought into a different meaning, one by one, like jewels taken from darkness into light.

He awoke once, very late. The sky outside the window was dark, cast about here and there with the brightness of stars. Norrington stirred gently, and felt the arms around him tighten. Jack was dreaming, his face tight with tension, his skin damp with sweat. Turning a little, Norrington freed one arm and lifted it to smooth the deep frown. After a while the anxiety seemed to lift, and Jack went back to sleeping more easily. Lying awake, Norrington watched him for a long while, before he too gradually slipped back into sleep.

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