Diving for Pearls

Chapter 8

by

Kitty Fisher

A whimper.

Jack. Jack's body warmly wrapped around him. Too warm, slick with sweat and quivering. Norrington stroked his hand over skin, feeling the slight roughness of scarring under his fingertips. The body stilled, words, only half formed, totally incomprehensible, were muttered against his chest.

"Jack?"

His answer was another sound, one utterly filled with despair. A nightmare, it had to be. A man with his past must have more than a few demons. The bitter thought was instant, as was the ashamed rebuttal—for the nightmare could be of anything. Anything at all. Norrington ducked as a hand swept suddenly past his face, but he caught it, and with a twist of his body he flipped Sparrow onto his back, and was leaning over him, staring at his anguished face.

"Jack, please... "

Nothing. Though the body he was half lying on twisted suddenly as if trying to curl in on itself. "Jack!" Another sweep of the arm almost knocked him sideways, but he ducked in time so it merely caught him a glancing blow over one eye. "Jack, wake up!"

The panicking body stiffened. Then, shuddering once, was suddenly very still.

"Jack, it's all right. You're on the Pearl... please."

A soft gasping breath. "Jamie?"

"Yes."

"God." He tried to turn, found himself trapped under Norrington's body. "Please?"

Shifting to let him move, Norrington watched as Jack rolled to one side, and slowly, painfully moved to sit on the edge of the bed. His face dropped wearily into his hands. Norrington pushed back until he was sitting against the headboard. The sheets where Jack had been sleeping were clammy with sweat. He fingered them, wondering.

"We all get nightmares."

A short, ugly laugh was his reply.

Norrington flinched and looked towards the windows. It was getting darker. They must have slept the afternoon away. He touched his chest, fingering the scars on his own skin. He'd lain with a pirate—and it was the pirate who awoke from nightmares. He shook his head, and turned to one side, his hand reaching out to Jack's skin. The slim back arched away as if burned when he touched it.

"Jack, please?"

"I'm sorry. I don't usually sleep with someone. And the dream... " He shook his head slowly, and when he spoke his words were muffled. "It doesn't come that often."

It seemed cruel to ask what it had been about. What could cause someone to be so unmanned? A dream about being hanged, perhaps? Guilt made him press hard into the wood behind him, the carvings digging into the tender skin of his back merely a just penance. To dream of death after lying with the man who had tried to cause it? If it were so, did he want to know? As the ship swept into stormier seas, as the darkness deepened around them, he gathered his courage.

"I'm sorry."

Straightening, Jack turned his face, even through the shadows it seemed bemused. "What for?"

"For what I did." He reached out again, and was overwhelmingly comforted when Sparrow took his hand and shifted so he sat facing him, one leg curled on the bed.

"James, you're speaking in riddles."

He took a deep breath. "Your dream, there was such horror." Ah, where was his courage when he needed it. "I believe it was of being hanged, when I caused you to..."

"No, you're wrong." He wiped his hands over his face. "So wrong." He sighed then, the sound deep and long. "Jamie, trust me, that is not something I dream about. And even if I did, I would not be blaming you."

"Oh."

"Ah, for goodness sake, this darkness, I can't see what you're thinking." He reached for the table and found a flint. After a moment a candle sparked into flame. Then another.

Norrington looked at him, at his fine face in the stark light, at the bones that lay so close to the skin. A beautiful man. What could there be in his past that was worse than nearly dying at a rope's end?

"That's better." He smiled then, just a little, and leaning forward came close to James' face. "An' I can see you."

"You can't see what I'm thinking."

"So I can. You're racked with guilt and you think you're the cause of everything, from plague to storms at sea. Well, you're not."

A smile twitching at his lips, Norrington lifted a brow. "Really?"

"Really." He came closer still. "The dream was of long ago, and high time I stopped havin' it, if you ask me." Closer, his eyes seemed to dance with the candle flames. "But I am feeling a mite peaky, and in truth I can only think of one thing to make it better. Which, if you want to help, might just go better with two."

His cock was stirring already. The proximity, the heat that spun off the near body. "Jack... "

"Ah, you get my drift, Jamie."

"Yes... "

"A kiss then, to make it better."

How did you kiss a dream better? Norrington tried to think it through, but his lips were caught, trapped by Jack's and the thought fled into nothing. Warm and sweet, the tongue delved into him, opened his mouth and took possession. Offering himself, he eased back and down, as Jack—one hand braced on the headboard—pressed more closely, the fingers of his other hand cupped around James' head, bringing them closer, deepening the kiss. A thumb stroked behind his ear. James moaned then, hearing the sound slip into Jack's mouth, feeling the response as Jack gauged his need. The kiss became more insistent and he willingly opened wider, fingers knotted in the crumpled sheets as he was explored, Jack's tongue sliding across palate, teeth, under his tongue and over his lips, only to slide away so teeth could bite him, their sharpness enough to make James gasp, arching up, heady with need.

Jack laughed then. The sound low and soft, wicked in its unashamed delight. He was still laughing as he bent, his mouth tracing down James' chin and neck, to lick and suck just where his blood ran so close to the skin, the teeth still sharp as he nibbled, the bite deepening as James groaned.

When his nipple was licked, he cried out, and he tried to pull Jack down, to touch, to have. The laugh, that same soft laugh, stopped him, and a finger tapped his cheek as Jack moved to straddle his thighs. "Patience, Jamie... "

"Monster... "

Another laugh, which was buried as Jack kissed him again, this time with one hand reaching under his balls, massaging upwards with sure fingers. He would have screamed, but he was too busy kissing, fighting to open his mouth wide enough, to take Jack deep enough. Another press and he was gasping for breath, his cock hungrily reaching up, blood pounding in his ears.

"Sweet, sweet, Jamie." A wicked smile, and Jack was bending again, licking downwards, sliding his legs straight so he was almost flat, his head raised enough to kiss and lick as he wormed backwards, skin against skin so glorious that James was struggling to breath, to think. No, not think, to touch...

But when he reached out fingers wove through his own and held them fast to the bed. A lick traced the line of his groin. A suck made his sac tighten. Another lick on his thigh and his muscles were trembling like a rope drawn overly tight. "Jack... " His mouth was so dry he couldn't speak, the sound no more than a groan that struggled from his lips.

His scream was silent when his cock was swallowed. He arched up, the darkness behind his tight closed eyes striated with colours as he was sucked into unbelievably tight heat. Not once, but again and again. He couldn't last. The pleasure... it was too much, too sweet, too powerful. His hands released, he touched the dark mass of hair, stroking jerkily as Jack raised himself slightly and simply took all his cock in one lunge. And held there, his nose tight to James' heaving belly as James' eyes flew wide open and he came, hard and fast into Jack Sparrow's throat.

Sweat dripped from his face. He shuddered as Jack slowly lifted his head, his mouth like fire on over-sensitised skin. Helplessly, James pulled at his shoulder, tugging him up the bed, his own hand reaching for Sparrow's groin.

"Touch me... "

The breathy word was command enough. Norrington cupped the heated shaft, fingers curling about its girth, thumb dipping in the slickness that dripped from the deep slit. He pressed hard as Jack shuddered and, as he squeezed, Jack groaned deep in his throat and came.

"Oh.'

After a moment, still breathless, Jack smiled at him, his eyes dark and lazy.

Hands cupped around Jack's face, James kissed the swollen lips, just brushing against them. The kiss was returned in kind.

Grinning, Sparrow sat himself back on the bed, his hand still wound around James' fingers. "I need to go up on deck. We're heading for high seas."

"The storm."

"Aye." He shrugged. "Mayhap it won't be too bad. You stay here, rest."

Norrington could already feel the need for sleep in his bones. "If I can help, come and get me."

"If I'm desperate I will—otherwise, stay here and rest. I didn't mean to... " He hesitated.

"To what? Make love again? I think I am well enough for that, Jack Sparrow!"

"That you are, Commodore, but I just don't want to wear you out. I don't know your stamina, yet, do I?"

"As good as yours, pirate."

"Good." A kiss was planted on his nose, and then Jack was up and off the bed, reaching for his clothes. He dressed fully this time; shirt and breeches, waistcoat, boots, belt and coat. The only piece of clothing he didn't wrap around himself was the sash. The last thing he did was to tie the scarf around his head. As he knotted it fast, he glanced at the bed. "Stop staring at me, Jamie."

"Why? I like looking." Lazily, curled on his side, James watched unashamedly.

"Even when I'm dressing, not undressing?"

"Yes. Though I think I'd like that too."

"Then look your fill." And he bowed, arms sweeping the air, as courtly as any lord. "Though now I must be off. Sleep well... "

Unlocking the door he opened it wide, blew a kiss back to the bed, and was gone. The room was extraordinarily empty without him. Pulling the covers over his shoulder, Norrington lay quite still. His body ached, all of it heavy as lead, but it mattered not at all. Staring at the candles he lay still, feeling the shift and lurch as the ship fought the sea. It felt strange to be hidden away, when for years he would have been the one out there drowning in rain and spray. Strangely, he had no sense of urgency. He trusted the ship's captain. Trusted him maybe more than anyone he had ever met. The realisation curled him deeper into the bed. Who had he last trusted? His first captain? Governor Swann? Neither. Certainly not Elizabeth. Maybe he had to reach back into his childhood, to his sister perhaps, who was long dead, or his tutor, but his trust for them had been different: his sister because he was the strong one and how could anyone not trust a child as innocent and kind as she had been, or his tutor whom he had trusted because the man had known so much, and he had been kind, gentle, so vastly different from his father. No one was like Sparrow. No one at all.

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