But From Thine Eyes

or, Between Love and Hate

Chapter 2

by

Teardrop69

"Where do ye think yer goin'?" Jack bellowed after her.

AnaMaria turned and looked at her captain, her eyes wide with surprise. "Going down to the galley to get some supplies, of course. You ain't planning on letting him just lay there a complete mess like that, are you?" She continued on her way.

Jack grumbled, but went back into his cabin. He ignored the bed, and crossed instead to the table in the center of the cabin. He sat, tossing a booted foot up on the table in front of him, and proceeded to drum his fingers on his knee. Not me job to tend to the bloke. The wench can do it all by 'er onesies, that she can. He sat there for another handful of heartbeats, then grumbled and got up again. He walked over to the set of shelves next to the cabin door, and began to rummage through the various trinkets that filled one of several small chests. It's not like she ain't taken care of injuries before, after all. Although she's always a mite rougher than is strictly called for. I think she believes ye don't heal without the proper measure of pain. He tossed a small silver cross back into the chest and turned towards the bed, took two steps and stopped.

Growling, Jack shifted his focus slightly and walked to the large trunk at the end of the bed. Tossing up the lid, he began digging through the contents. The jawbone of a small shark was (carefully) tossed to the side, along with a small flask. A bolt of deep blue silk was also passed over, and a sheaf of multicolored ribbons. His slender hands continued to quest, then his eyes lit up as he found what he was looking for. He held up a small jar, filled with a clear, viscous liquid. I imagine that lass don't have this at 'er disposal. It's only fair that if 'e's gonna be on me ship, 'e should have a fightin' chance.

Jack had picked this up just recently, on Aruba. The locals there swore by it, an extract from an odd looking plant that was indigenous to that island. They claimed it would cure any wound faster than without, and hadn't been willing to part with it but for a very high price. 'E's gonna be owin' me a fair bit when 'e wakes up, 'e is. He returned to his foraging briefly, and grabbed a few small squares of cloth to be used to clean the burns.

Shutting the trunk, Jack moved to the side of the bed, finally looking at the figure lying there. His stomach lurched a bit, as he took in Norrington's lean appearance. The man's sandy hair was matted, and his face covered by a surprisingly full beard. There were dozens of insect bites all over his chest and arms, and he imagined there were more bites covering his back as well. Finally he looked at the burns on the man's leg, and knew they'd have to be cleaned before anything else. At least the poor prick is unconscious, 'e won't be enjoyin' this much.

Jack set the jar and cloth on the floor beside him, and then went to gather the wash basin and a pitcher of water. He set these next the bed as well, and was just about to begin removing the charred remains of cloth from the burned leg, when he heard a knock at the door. With a glance at Norrington to assure that he was still out, he left his cabin and pulled AnaMaria with him as he exited.

"What are you doing?" AnaMaria asked. "The longer you wait, the less chance he's actually going to recover, you know." She turned and tried to get around Jack and back into the cabin, but he caught her arm.

"Just get us movin', luv. I'll take care o' the lad. We still don' know who left 'im out 'ere, and I'm not wantin' to stick around to see if they'll be wantin' to check up on 'im." Jack wasn't really concerned, but he knew it would catch her attention, and he was right. She gave him a look that plainly said she suspected he was up to something, but she didn't argue.

Jack waited until she was calling out his orders to the crew, leaning against the wall outside his cabin. He knew AnaMaria wondered why he was insisting on playing nursemaid for the good commodore. Since he didn't have an answer for her, he did the next best thing, and a thing he was supremely adept at—he distracted her. Jack had never let things he couldn't explain lose him a wink of sleep, but when it came to his own actions, he was much more comfortable when he knew what was what. Not to say that he hadn't surprised himself a time or two in the past.

Jack walked back to his cabin and went inside. Closing the door behind him, he turned and took several steps towards the bed before he realized something was amiss. Unfortunately for him, it was at least one step too many. Just as he was turning back toward the door, and something crashed down on the side of his head, the thought flitted through his brain that he probably should have remembered that Norrington was as stubborn as a poorly bred mule. Then the sparkling lights behind his eyes went black, and he slid to the floor.

*****

James sat up, but then fell back. Nausea threatened to pull him back under, but he forced himself to sit up until the dizziness had passed. It felt like hours, but as he sat there, his eyes searched the cabin. He noted a heavy tankard on the table, and grimaced. Managing to push himself to his feet, though stabs of pain shot up his leg with every step, he limped to the table and grabbed the tankard, thanking the fates that it contained only water. He swallowed rapidly, before his stomach protested with a savage cramping. Voices sounded outside the door, and he shuffled over with the tankard still in hand, placing his ear against it.

I'm hallucinating. That's it. I'm still on the island, or maybe I'm dead and this is Hell. But I am NOT aboard a ship with Jack Sparrow on the other side of this door. He could hear footsteps getting closer, and he back up to the wall, pressing himself up against it. The door opened, and sure enough, in slipped Jack Sparrow. With his curiously seductive swagger, he moved towards the bed that James had just vacated minutes before; without conscious decision and with more stealth that he'd have imagined he would have in his condition, Commodore Norrington coshed Captain Sparrow over the head with his pilfered tankard.

Sparrow slid to the floor without a sound and James didn't waste any time, but slipped out the door that Jack had just come through. Considering he'd been unconscious only a few minutes before, the fact that he neglected to think things through could easily be overlooked. Because as he stepped out the door, it occurred to him that since Sparrow was here, he was most likely on a ship filled with pirates. Regretfully, this thought sunk in just as he ran full force into one of those very pirates. Who, without any regrets, quite promptly shouted an alarm, and grabbed James by his broken arm.

In an instant, several pirates surrounded James, and he prudently dropped his tankard and stood very still. Another pirate pushed through those surrounding him, but his mouth dropped open when he realized that this particular pirate was a woman. He'd heard rumors of such women, but this was the first he'd seen. He was pondering just what her rank was on this crew, when she barked out a command.

"Hold! The one who harms him will be in the brig faster than you can blink." She glared around, and he was surprised to note that the crew obeyed without question. No mere strumpet, then. The woman's eyes scanned the group then locked on his. "Where's the captain? I thought he'd gone back inside to take care of you."

James's eyes skipped from hers for only a second, but that's all it took. She nodded at one of the men. "Gunn, go check on the cap'n. He be wanting a word with you, anyway." The man scratched one ear and looked uncomfortable, but nodded and knocked quickly on the cabin door in front of him. When there was no answer, Gunn opened the door a crack, and peered inside. He pushed the door wider, and saw the figure lying on the floor, a trickle of blood running down his face. Concerned, he leaned nearer, and touched his motionless captain's throat.

Gunn let out a holler, and stumbled back out of the cabin. "'E's killed 'im! 'E's killed the captain!" An ugly murmur went up from the group surrounding the commodore, and they surged as one towards him. Several of them grabbed him by the arms again, and he winced as they roughly twisted his broken limb. James gasped in pain, but realized that the fact that his arm would need setting again was probably the least of his problems.

"Hold, blast you!" The woman shouted again. The gang of cutthroats fell back again, but this time Norrington didn't count himself lucky. He saw the look in her eyes, and he knew that he would receive no mercy from this member of the fairer sex. He was proved right with the next words out of her mouth.

"Tie him to the mast. Bring the cat." Her voice was as cold as ice. "And make sure there be water handy. He'll feel the lash until he's dead." She leaned close to him and spoke softly. "You had to see him dead, did you. Well, you won't live long enough to gloat about it. He should have let you burn. And more the fool I, for insisting he patch you up, you black-hearted bastard. Jack Sparrow would never have repaid a kindness with murder."

James couldn't help but shudder at the loathing he heard in that voice. She was most likely right. He also realized that this wasn't the first time, nor even the second he'd repaid Sparrow's assistance in a reprehensible manner. Even when Sparrow had rescued Elizabeth Swann from drowning, and James had thanked him with shackles and the promise of a morning hanging, the man hadn't harmed anyone during his escape. And again, when stranded on an island himself with Elizabeth, with no obvious rescue in sight... well, he'd heard the story, and knew that he and Jack Sparrow had something in common. Both had been rejected by the same woman, and both had done the honorable thing. James couldn't deny either, that had Turner not saved the man the morning of his hanging, Norrington would have indeed let him hang, although he'd saved Elizabeth again, along with Turner and most of the crew of the Dauntless from the cursed men who had shamed the Black Pearl for more than ten years.

Had he really killed the man? A cold chill skittered down his back. He didn't try to fight as two of the pirates pulled him roughly toward the mast. They cuffed his wrists, and he let out a moan as they pulled his arms above his head to attach the shackles to a hook up on the mast. His broken arm felt as if it was being pulled off, and his burned leg threatened to collapse out from under him, but when he heard the crack of the lash behind him, he stiffened.

"Make yer peace, Commodore," said Gibbs from near the captain's cabin. "And pray for a quick end." AnaMaria raised her arm and let the first lash fly, and as it hit the commodore's flesh, he swore it licked at his skin with fiery tongues. He choked on a breath as his body slammed forward into the mast, and had barely caught it back when the second lash hit. And then it happened. His damaged leg refused to hold him any longer, and when he slid to the end of the shackles and his entire weight pulled cruelly on his broken arm, he cried out and blackness swamped him, and the last thing he heard as his cry faded was a familiar slurred voice call out "STOP!"

*****

AnaMaria shot a filthy glance at Gunn, who turned a pasty grey, and she hurried over to Jack. "Aye, Cap'n. We thought you were dead, and this one had killed you." She motioned at the mast behind her with her head, but her fingers were already on the nasty cut just above his left temple. He pushed her hand away and fluttered his hands at her, then pointed at Norrington.

"Not me! 'Im!" he rolled those brown eyes at her then wished he hadn't as his head gave an extra-special flash of pain for his effort. She ignored him and steered him back into his cabin, but Gibbs was already at the mast. With the help of Cotton, he released Norrington and for the second time in barely an hour, James was carried into the captain's quarters on the Black Pearl. Jack was sitting at the table, his head still cradled in his hand, and AnaMaria was still trying to get a better look at his wound. Jack watched Gibbs and Cotton bring the unconscious man into the cabin, and without a word, he pointed at the bed, ignoring AnaMaria's scowl.

"You're not serious? You'll let the snake take your bed? After he nearly bashed your brains in?" She spluttered. She was very fond of Jack. They had shared a brief affair shortly after Jack's reunion with his Black Pearl, but both of them had known it wasn't meant to be. Where as she'd known that Jack's heart wasn't in it, she'd also known Jack had never intended for his heart to be. She'd known before he had that it was over, but hadn't had the heart to end it, and so when Jack's restlessness finally took him away from her, she'd let him go gracefully. But although she wasn't in love with him, not anymore, she still cared for him. As family, and she was quite frankly irked that he would care more about the other man's comfort than his own. But that was Jack, always doing the unexpected.

"It'll take more than a conk on the noggin to do me in, luv. Now quit fussin' and let me see what damage ye've done to our guest." He pushed away from the table and returned to the bed, noting that the pitcher, basin, cloths and jar he'd placed next to the bed were still there. "Alright, all o' ye, out."

AnaMaria folded her arms and watched Gibbs and Cotton leave, but made no move to do so herself. Jack looked at her questioningly, but she shook her head. "I'm not leaving you with him again. You'll just have to take care of him while I'm here."

He gave her a long-suffering sigh. "Fine, fine. Yer stayin'. Just... go sit down or somethin'."

Sitting on the bed next to Norrington, he took stock of the injuries all over again. That arm was going to need to be reset, and now in addition to the burns on his leg that had started to weep, there were at least two cuts across the broad expanse of back that were already seeping blood. Jack looked at these silently, and reached for the pitcher and basin. Pouring the water, he picked up one of the squares of cloth and began to clean the cuts. His hands moved carefully, pulling the cloth across the wounds just enough to remove the blood. Once he finished, he picked up the jar, and applied the thick liquid to the open cuts. He used a few more of the pieces of cloth to bandage the wounds, and then rolled the commodore to his back.

Pulling a knife from the sheath attached to the belt at his waist, he began to cut away the charred breeches around the burns. After rinsing out the cloth he'd used before, he started again. The flesh was red and blistered, but not charred itself, and covered the lower part of his thigh, across his knee and the upper part of his calf. Finishing the task, he slathered the burn with a good amount of the aloe from the jar, but didn't bother to apply bandages. As an afterthought, he cut the breeches completely away, reasoning that these were ruined beyond repair, and he'd either let the man borrow a pair of his trousers, or commandeer some from a member of his crew.

Now for the arm. He was going to need help for this, and he looked over his shoulder at AnaMaria. Glancing back at the now-naked commodore in his bed, he grabbed a blanket from the bed and covered him carefully, before calling her over. Jack didn't look too closely at why he would bother. Being the only woman member of a crew of pirates, AnaMaria had certainly seen her fair share of naked men. Though there wasn't a man aboard who had the nerve to force his attentions on her, and any man who would have tried would most likely have been dead at her hand or Jack's, modesty was often at a minimum aboard the Pearl. Likely she'd seen every man aboard pissing off the side of the ship at one time or another. That's different, though, ain't it. He wasn't really certain it was AnaMaria's modesty he was thinking of.

Jack called AnaMaria over, and with her help, had the arm set with little fuss. Once they'd finished and AnaMaria had left the cabin, Jack glanced around his quarters, looking for something to keep himself occupied until such time that the commodore awakened. His gaze skipped across any number of amusements; a pile of rolled up maps, a small bit of driftwood he'd picked up on some beach or another and had started carving with the knife back safely in its sheath at his belt, a dozen or more pieces of parchment that each consisted of a sketch or two, sometimes more, done with a charred stick. Instead, he wandered over to another group of shelves, this one covered with several books. He browsed, and pulled a slim volume from the lot, then returned to the table, sat and began to read.

Several hours, and another book later, there was a soft knock at his door. Setting his book aside, he got up and answered the door, letting AnaMaria enter. She gave him a questioning look, but he just nodded at the bed without saying anything. She went to the bed, and checked the man's wounds. Jack followed, and helped AnaMaria clean the burns again, and apply more aloe. Just as they were finishing, Norrington groaned and tried to push their hands away. James's eyes fluttered open and it took him a few moments to focus, but then his eyes shot straight to Jack. AnaMaria tensed, but stepped back when Jack motioned her back with a flip of his hand.

"Bloody hell. I really am doomed to spend eternity with you, aren't I." James glared at Sparrow, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper.

Jack gave him a quick grin. "Aye, mate. I reckon that's the truth. We're both dead, and wouldn't ye know it, I made it to the pearly gates. Since this 'ere be me idea of 'eaven, they sent me back to me beloved Pearl. But I'm afraid ye went the other way, luv, and since this be your idea of 'ell... well, 'ere ye are."

Norrington just stared at him, but AnaMaria couldn't resist a laugh at that one. James looked over at her then, and his eyes widened. A wild feeling of relief streaked through him, but was gone in the next instant. "Well, since you're here, and he's here, I assume I didn't kill him after all. More's the pity."

AnaMaria's eyes glittered and the only thing that stopped her from leaping on the injured man is the memory that she'd flogged him for a crime he hadn't committed. Granted, it had been two lashes, and the man undoubtedly would do the same or worse to her if their positions were reversed and she were in his custody instead, but pirate though she might be, she never had the stomach for causing pain to others. Only her temper could move her to violence, unlike some of the other crewmembers.

"AnaMaria, be a luv and go see what Mort 'as to eat down below. Bring us up something to eat, savvy?" His eyes silently asked her not to fuss, and with a low grumble, she turned to do his bidding.

James watched her leave, and then his eyes flew back to Jack's. He flinched away from the question he saw there, and instead let a sneer twist his dry lips. "Really, Sparrow. Do you treat all your captives this well?" He started coughing, and Jack got up from the bed to retrieve a tankard from a shelf. He filled it with water, and offered it to Norrington without a word. A flush creeped up James's throat, but he took the tankard and sat up carefully. The blanket across his stomach slid to his waist, and Jack's eyes followed, gazing at the too-sharp hipbones that appeared. James drank deeply, this time without his stomach protesting. He thrust the tankard back at Jack.

"Why?" He looked suspiciously at Jack.

"Why what?" Jack gave him an innocent look, but that question still lurked in the depths of those liquid brown eyes.

"Don't give me that. Why did you bother to pull me off that island? Why did you stop your bloodthirsty wench from finishing? Why bother to tend to my wounds? Not typical pirate behavior," Norrington sneered again.

"Really, mate. Would ye prefer I throw ye back overboard, then? No? I thought not. Very well then. Perhaps I felt sorry for ye. Lord knows I've spent me fair share of time marooned. Well, granted, not nearly as unpleasantly as your little holiday seems to 'ave been. Perhaps it were just the right thing to do." He raised an eyebrow.

James snorted. "Spare me your tales, Sparrow. Just tell me what you bloody want." He shifted and winced at the pain in his back, but with barely a blink, his eyes didn't leave Jack's.

Which is why he saw them grow cold, although Jack flashed him one of his incorrigible Jack Sparrow grins. "Not goin' to buy it then, 'ey. Very well then, 'ow 'bout this. Ye'll bring a fine ransom, ye will." He shrugged, waiting for Norrington's response. Not that he had long to wait.

James smirked, and nodded. "That's more like it. Alright then. You'll be needing what, a lock of hair, a finger? You're the expert, not I."

A quick flicker of hurt, so quick that James couldn't be sure he'd seen it at all. Heavens, but he has expressive eyes, James thought. Sparrow's grin, however, just got bigger. "Maybe yer thinkin' too small, mate. After all, I've seen ye in the altogether, I 'ave. Maybe we'll be sendin' another part o' ye along." He seemed to consider the idea, and then gave a mock sigh. "But no, we couldn't be sure that anyone would be recognizin' that part o' ye, fine upstandin' gentleman that ye are." He looked pointedly at Norrington's lap.

The flush that had heated Norrington's face was nothing compared to the one that graced him now. "You really have no decency whatsoever, do you." He sighed and lay back down. "If you're about finished, I really am having a horrid week. If you're not going to throw me overboard, or pitch me back on the island, or have your ship's whore finish the beating she was so eager to perform, might I at least sleep for a while longer?"

There it was. He'd managed to make Sparrow angry. The glint in those lovely—lovely? What the bloody hell?—eyes was the only reaction he was going to be gifted with, however. Sparrow stood up and crossed to the door, his gait fluid and his footsteps silent. "I'll be back when your supper is." He opened the door and was nearly out when he turned back. "Think what ye want about AnaMaria. I can tell ye' she's a good lass, and a good pirate. And make no mistake; she would have killed ye without remorse. Perhaps that's all ye'll really believe. But she is also the only other aboard who probably gives one whit what 'appens to ye, for reasons beyond me understandin', so I'd be very careful about what ye say to 'er face." His eyes caught James's again; then he gave him an oddly respectful nod and stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him.

James closed his eyes and swept his uninjured hand across his face with a weary sigh. Keeping Sparrow irritated was a Good Thing. Otherwise, he knew that eventually Sparrow was going to ask him what had happened, how he'd ended up on that island. Hell, he'd already asked the question, it had been there in those warm brown eyes, as clear as if he'd spoken the words aloud. That man could say more with his eyes. The black that rimmed those cinnamon-colored eyes only added to the depths. Enough with his eyes, you bloody idiot. He wondered how long he'd been unconscious, and looked out the nearest portal. The sun was still up, but he could see that it was low in the sky, and realized that the only reason the cabin didn't seem overly dark was because his eyes were used to the shadows. He also suddenly remembered the fact that he had no idea where they were, or what their heading was.

The commodore was concerned at the way his emotions were swinging so wildly from one extreme to another. He'd felt such an utter hatred tinged with fear when he'd first realized that he was Jack Sparrow's captive. He'd reacted with violence and cunning instinct when Sparrow had walked through that door, and he'd surprised himself. But when he'd thought he'd killed the pirate, he'd had such a feeling of emptiness and despair; he'd been willing to let them take his own life without a fight. And then just now, when he opened his eyes and realized that Sparrow was still alive, his first thought was taking the man into custody and seeing him get what all pirates had coming: a short drop and a sudden stop.

There was a soft knock at the door, and before Norrington could say anything, the door swung open, and the pirate lass entered with a covered tray. She looked in his direction, and saw that he was awake. She crossed to the table and set the tray down. Turning his way, she placed her hands on her hips, and regarded him with wary curiosity.

"Will you behave yourself if I bring the tray over to you?" AnaMaria asked.

He gave her an appraising look, which was spoiled by the loud grumbling of his stomach as the smells wafting from the tray reached the bed. She sighed and picked the tray back up, and carried it over to him. He attempted to sit up, and then stared at the arm she offered him, as she balanced the tray deftly on her other. James accepted her assistance, and then stared hungrily at the tray. AnaMaria didn't smile, but set the tray on his lap, and removed the cover.

"The broth is for you. Jack will be joining you, but he said to tell you that you're going to want to start slow; your stomach won't be able to handle it if you overeat." She turned to leave, but Norrington caught her arm. She turned back in an instant and gave him a silent snarl. He instantly dropped her arm, but said "I'm sorry. I just wanted to ask where we're headed." He hesitated, then... "Please."

AnaMaria rolled her shoulders and seemed to consider whether telling him could possibly cause any trouble. She apparently came to the conclusion that it couldn't hurt, for she shrugged. "We're going to Port Royal, of course. That's the closest place to get rid of you, isn't it? We should be there in less than a week, if the weather holds."

"A week? That's impossible. The Myrmidon couldn't have been..." He stopped. James wasn't ready to tell that tale yet. She looked at him curiously, but didn't push. It was nearly a part of the Code: Ask no questions. It made things much simpler.

Just then, Sparrow entered the cabin. He nodded at AnaMaria, and she nodded back. As he approached the bed, she took her leave. Sparrow stopped long enough to pull a chair with him over to the bed, and then plopped down and grabbed a piece of bread from the tray. He propped his feet up on the edge of the bed, and silently began to eat. He watched Norrington take a drink from the thick mug full of broth. Jack quirked a smile at the proper way Norrington consumed his first meal. The man was starving, surely in terrible pain, in the bed of a pirate captain, on a pirate ship, and he paused to blot his lips after every drink he took. Norrington glanced over at Sparrow, and Jack quickly pretended that he'd not been watching the commodore drink his broth.

Jack had to admit that he found the man exceedingly entertaining. He wasn't all that surprised by this, since he'd been going out of his way to taunt the commodore from their very first meeting. What did cause him some wonder was the fact that he also admired the man as well. He had no use for the king's navy, nor the men who sailed for the king. But Norrington was different. Now if he could just figure out why.

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