Fathoms 13

Crossings

by

Manic Intent

Wandering in the past, his mind and body attuned to his ship, Jack had to blink when he realized Anamaria was standing patiently next to him and tapping his arm. "Hmm?"

"What ye do now, Jack?" she spoke in low tones, gesturing eloquently at Norrington, who was perched near the figurehead, looking down at the waves. "The two o' ye 'aven't exchanged a word, since we left dat place."

"Why does it 'ave t'be 'What did ye do, Jack', rather than 'What did 'e do t'ye, Jack'?" Jack asked, rather curious as to why the world seemed to enjoy attributing fault to him. He knew he cultivated his roguish image, but sometimes it seemed rather unfair. Jack reached up to hold onto his hat, at a sprightly gust of wind, and adjusted their course minutely, by instinct.

"Seein' dat sort o' man, 'tis more likely the former," Anamaria said coolly, folding her arms and daring him to challenge her word. Her hair was caught up in a long, fine blue scarf that Jack had purchased... er... acquired in Recife—a silent apology for having to dock there, no matter how briefly, and it fluttered in the breeze.

"Awlright," Jack said quickly, as the silence stretched and Anamaria began fingering the hilts of the daggers at her hips pointedly. It was really small wonder that he had such an issue with eunuchs, having such a First Mate. "See, I got 'im drunk, an' 'e said things. T'was all."

"Ye got him drunk."

"At th'rooster fightin'..."

"I knows where," Anamaria sighed, shaking her head, the bright cloth furling and whipping, a long pennant. "An' ye did it fer fun, didn't ye. Just t'see what would happen. Didn't think dat mebbe he would'a have reason, fer not wantin' t'tell ye... things."

"I knew 'e'd 'ave reason, but 'e never would'a said anythin' otherwise."

"Ye be fast t'jump t'conclusions," Anamaria looked back at the hunched figure, then at the working crew, scrubbing the decks. "An' he be a proud one."

"Yer suggestin', then, that I go apologize," Jack stroked the wheel by habit as he turned it slightly, then winced at the strong impression of agreement he got from his Pearl. "Missy, ye don't be cuttin' in now. I knows ye found it funny."

"If anythin', Jack, ye don't want t'have the Pearl mad at ye, do ye?" Anamaria reached forward and patted the wheel, her smile innocent. "An', if he's dis mad fer days more, an' the crew starts thinkin' o' jumpin' overboard, ye don't want t'have me mad at ye too, do ye?"

Jack stared at her, then swayed back a little, waving his fingers in the air and smiling conciliatorily. "Me dear Anamaria..."

"Don't ye 'dear' me, Jack," she snarled, the silky tone vanishing. "I'm tellin' ye t'fix it, before I get mad."

"An' is it right, fer th'First Mate t'be threatenin' th'Cap'n?" Jack wondered aloud to himself, and then flinched at Anamaria's deepening frown. "Awlright. Eheh. Don't ye worry yer bonnie head. I'd fix it. Promise. Really."

She smiled, and tossed her hair. "Good. An' there, Cap'n, see, ye knows yer in th'wrong. Otherwise, ye wouldn'a be afraid o' cussin' me out. Now move over."

"Women are bad luck," Jack muttered, but he surrendered the wheel without further complaint.

Norrington continued studying the churning white surf left in the wake of the black ship, and the deep sea-green water, one hand supporting himself on the rail, the other on his lap. His boots were wet with spray, coat missing, shirt half-open in the heat, hat jammed firmly on his head. The ponytail bounced in the wind.

Jack waited for a while, then leaned back further, looking up at the endless sky. "M'sorry I got ye drunk."

Another long pause, then, softly, wryly, "I'm beginning to wonder why you approach reconciliation on the assumption that everything is your fault, Jack."

Jack blinked, slowly. "So it ain't?" Hopeful now. "Ye seem mad at old Jack, though."

"No, I'm annoyed, at myself, for losing control. Especially since I swore I'd watch my drinking, after Tortuga. And then for blurting out all those... things, afterwards." Norrington picked at one cuff self-consciously. "I suppose you think that I'm a fool overly given to dramatic notions."

"Not at all," Jack offered, a little guiltily, knowing he hadn't exactly warned Norrington about the strength of the rum, "T'was hard t'hear. But we 'ave a lot o' time t'think it over."

"I've been thinking of priorities," Norrington looked up, to the far distance where the sea melded almost seamlessly with the sky. "What sort of man gives up a loved one, for his vocation? When I was a boy I resented my father immensely for it. For loving his work in Bombay. Eventually my mother could stand it no longer and took us over from England."

"An'?" Jack asked, when the silence stretched.

"And she sickened and died on the voyage," Norrington replied flatly. "I thank God my brother was with me. Though I suppose I resent him now for also falling in love with that self-same work. Now, however, I find myself placing so much value on my own vocation that it opens a choice where there should really be no choice at all."

"Ye came out 'ere wi' me, goin' t'Canton. T'aint exactly a career move," Jack pointed out, gently, wondering why his Jamie seem to enjoy torturing himself with abstract notions.

"If honor did not dictate it as well, I may not have," Norrington looked down again, his lip curling briefly. "I don't know. But it would have been a harder choice, to follow you."

"An' m'not so certain, say, that I could give up me 'vocation', either," Jack added.

Norrington looked at him, with a pained smile of self-mockery—you weren't the one to say 'I love you'—and turned back at the sea. "I'm not asking you to. Though of course I would rather you did, or at least took up a Letter of Marque, properly. But even if you did, sodomy is a crime."

"Doubt yer one fer public displays o' affection, even if I was a woman," Jack grinned wickedly. "But if yer goin' t'prove me wrong, m'open to it."

Norrington blinked, then rolled his eyes. "If this is a reconciliation, why aren't you taking me seriously?"

"'Cos yer confusin' old Jack, Jamie-luv. Yer not angry wi' me, but yer angry wi' yerself. An' then ye want me, but ye don't want me," Jack peered at his fingers, looking away at the industriously scrubbing crew. "An' ye want t'bed me, but ye ain't. So m'not sure if I should be th'one apologisin', or ye. But 'tis a long way t'Canton an' back, and I'd rather not 'ave this hangin' over our 'eads all th'way." Jack jerked his head at the slim figure at the wheel. "'Sides, me first mate 'as been makin' all sorts o' threats."

"What threats?" Norrington asked, apparently settling on that as the safest line of conversation.

"She don't want t'see ye mopin' about, since ye be scarin' th'crew," Jack drummed his fingers on the dark wood. "An' she thinks it be me fault. Entirely. I've seen her do terrible things wi' those knives. Made some men sing high notes fer th'rest o' their lives, even."

"Mr. Turner mentioned that you seem to have some sort of... fear, or preoccupation, with eunuchs," Norrington said thoughtfully. "To the point where he was wondering about your... whether you were..." A smirk. "Personally, I suppose I'm glad he wasn't right."

Jack wondered how the very polite and proper and respectful and innocent young William Turner had mentioned that line of conversation to Norrington, of all people. Did Port Royal have bachelor parties? Why had his Jamie been invited? And why was he sailing to the other end of the world to rescue someone who had entertained insulting misapprehensions as to the state of his manhood? So many questions. But at least his Jamie seemed to have recovered some of his good mood—he was chuckling to himself. "What?"

"You look like you just swallowed a rat," Norrington grinned. "You'd have to admit, Jack, with your mannerisms, and your distinct... swagger, sometimes one wonders."

"So ye say, when ye've 'ad some very close looks at me goods," Jack retorted, poking Norrington in the arm.

"I'm just saying you can't fault the poor boy." His Jamie was attempting to look serious, but his lips kept twitching upwards.

"After th'rescue I could go 'bout showin' him some proof," Jack suggested, then smirked in turn when Norrington's smile thinned instantly. The jealous sort. He laughed. "Don't ye worry, Jamie. If anythin', 'Lizabeth can be worse than Anamaria."

"Miss Swann?" Norrington said, disbelievingly. "Whatever gives you that impression?"

Jack was about to talk about the whole issue about kissing him and then chaining him to the mast, before his brain kicked him and told him that, as topics of conversation went, that would be a very bad idea indeed. On the other hand, now that he was actually fond of Jamie, he was somewhat guilty that the other man was still under the false impression that he had given himself up to save his crew. However, he knew that the truth, as it were, would be out, eventually. Elizabeth didn't look the sort who was too good at keeping secrets. "M'seen her fightin' undead pirates in that treasure room. An' members o' Davy Jones' crew." A pause, then a breath. "She's capable o' a lot o' things, that gel, when it 'as t'do wi' young Will. Like chainin' an' old pirate t'his ship, so that she an' th'boy wouldn'a get et fer lunch."

Jack wasn't looking up, but he knew Norrington was staring at him. "She did what?"

As confessions went, Jack decided, after all, not to mention the kissing. "Shackled me t'the mainmast, an' scooted off, tellin' th'crew that I chose t'go down wi' me Pearl." An affectionate pat of the railing. "Good thing, too. M'not sure I would'a done it otherwise. By the time I got meself free an' th'beastie showed up, I was glad. T'aint no man who'd give up somethin' 'e loves, out o' fear." A shrug. "But me Pearl, she 'ad other ideas, just when I was 'bout set t'fight—right booted me off, she did."

Silence, then an arm was wrapped tentatively under his chin, squeezing his shoulder briefly. His hat was removed, and a nose buried in his hair. Another long moment, then, quietly, "There is no courage, without fear. You left the ship, but you went back. You could have jumped when you got free, but you didn't."

Jack patted the arm, murmuring softly, wryly, "Well, m'Captain Jack Sparrow, mate."

A muffled chuckle, then his chin was tilted up for a brushing, tender kiss, sweet after days of abstinence.

Above, the stars provided mapping points with which Jack was easily familiar, enough that he could play, and steer, at the same time, while his Jamie fought to concentrate on the latter and slowly surrendered to the former. A moan, a hiss. "Jack, this is... is wrong. We're not even in private. Jack!"

An arch back against him and a shudder, as cool fingers found and played at a stiffening nub. Nails playfully scratched along a restrained length caused a curse and an involuntary buck. Flicks of tongue at the nape of his neck, a whine—a squeeze of callused fingers around thick heat, a growl. A thrust of his own, into the pert rump, a yelp, a rub of a thumb over a slicked slit, a whimper. Jack knew the Commodore's body as an endless fascination bookmarked by sound. "T'aint that right, love."

"And... and this is the wheel... Jack... of your Pearl," Norrington bit out, as he bucked insistently into pulling fingers. "It's... it's..."

"So very wrong?" Jack purred, flicking the tip with a nail. Another whine. Aristocratic fingers were white-knuckled over the spokes. "Bit t'starboard there, mate." The other man seemed to comply out of pure habit, if shakily. "As t'me Pearl, yer th'one wi' yer hands on th'wheel, love. Ask her if she minds."

"It isn't... oh God... about whether she minds." Breathing was shallower, harsher, as muscles tensed.

"Really? 'Cos she's encouragin' me t'do somethin' right scandalous at th'moment, Jamie-luv, an' mebbe ye'd like t'know," Jack said, rolling his hips suggestively. His Pearl laughed, as wild and unbridled with trappings of polite society was he was, not when they were so far and free over the waves. His hand left its methodical exploration of the warm chest, wet from sweat and sea spray, to grope into his pockets for the vial.

"That's why I said... that it wasn't about her opinion," Norrington said breathlessly, his breath hitching now, and then he let out another whine as the fingers stilled and withdrew. "Jack, don't stop."

"Make up yer mind, love," Jack teased, fumbling with his own breeches, then cursorily applying oil to his member, before tugging down the hem of Norrington's. There was a yelp as the other man's lust-fogged brain registered what he was trying to do.

"Jack! You can't be serio..." The rest of the protest turned into a hiss as slicked fingers moved into him, spreading, probing until they found the spot that effectively switched his Jamie's brain off. Jack smiled. Norrington was slumped against the wheel, head on one hand, that pretty mouth wide open and gasping harshly for air. He pressed a kiss on the arched back, and then another as the man whimpered at the inclusion of another finger. The vial tinkled and broke on deck, forgotten.

"Little to port now, love," he advised, his own breathing becoming unsteady.

The wheel turned under trembling hands, though there was an exasperated growl of warning. "Jack, if you don't get on with it..."

"Right ye are, mate," Jack purred, obliging, shifting his weight with the deck as he pushed in, the tight heat all the more pronounced amidst the cold breeze. Norrington muffled his cry by sinking teeth into a shirt cuff. Jack found his mouth working in moans as he buried himself to the hilt, thighs brushing, one of his hands gripping a hip, the other stealing back down to encircle the twitching shaft. "Ah, Jamie..."

"God," Norrington was whispering, almost inaudible, against his sleeve and the song of the sea. Tied hair a wet, thick curl against his shoulder, fringe painting trails on his cheeks "God."

Jack stilled, waiting, until there was an impatient buck back against him, and a soft growl, and he purred again, pulling nearly all the way back before thrusting back in, angling to make his Jamie jerk, and whine, fondling the shaft playfully, not enough to satisfy, keeping the other man well before the brink. It evidently occurred to Norrington that Jack fully intended to draw this out—the other man growled again, muscles bunching, but didn't object verbally—another whine, as he was filled. One hand stole down from the wheel, pushing nervelessly at Jack's fingers in a silent plea, pausing when Jack murmured, "Back up on th'helm, Jamie-luv. Yer steerin'."

A strangled groan, then a frustrated snarl when Jack stilled. The hand went back up. "Jack, please."

Jack bared his teeth in a grin, continuing to take his time. Fingers wriggled up the underside of the shaft, then traced a way down. Slow, deep thrusts. Norrington froze in his desperate attempts to force the pace when a bobbing lantern appeared at the deck below, moving to the gangway, showing that the night watch had started. A low, hissed, "Jack." A question. A warning. Jack ignored it with a squeeze of fingers that caused a constriction around his own arousal, and a harsh oath that could have been from either of them. The watch was moving away, towards the stem.

"So wrong," Norrington moaned, his wicked streak evidently enjoying the potential of discovery—his hips rolled invitingly. Another string of oaths. "Please."

Jack relented, the thrusts becoming shallower, marked by grunts and Norrington's muffled cries against his sleeve, ringed fingers handling him roughly, riding the bucking hips with soft snarls, finally leaning forward to sink teeth into a clothed shoulder. Drowning in pleasure, in lust, framed in something else—need, want, words that were insufficient in definition, choking gasps and the warmth of another body, of unrestrained coupling, wild as the sea. Tension, a sharp intake of breath, incoherent curses, a squeeze and a tug, and slippery, hot release. Jack slumped against the broad back, struggling to get his breathing back under control.

Eventually he pulled away, wiping at himself, then pulling up his breeches and looking up to the dark sky, painted with stars. "We're off course."

Norrington cursed him breathlessly, shaky against the wheel, as he attempted to dress despite his current state, stained and sated. He managed, however, to steer them back in the correct direction, with a look upwards and a brief consultation with the working compass in the pocket of the coat looped on the wheel. "Someday your... your games, Jack, are going to be my death."

"T'aint hearin' any complainin' back then, love."

"Miss bein' a celebrity, love?" he asked Norrington playfully, as they sat at some sort of seaside café near the harbor which had a virtual monopoly on its type of business in the tiny town, sharing rather decent tea, fresh fish and thick-cut strips of potatoes, deep fried and dusted in coarse salt. Even cutlery had been provided.

Norrington chuckled, watching the loading and unloading of cargo thoughtfully. "Not in the least. What about you?"

"It has its advantages," Jack admitted, even though his bright, roguish outfit had been drawing a few stares.

"Like?"

"Seems t'attract 'andsome Navy officers," Jack grinned impishly, as he popped one of the potato strips into his mouth. Norrington snorted.

"I was wondering how you were going to be able to dock in Capetown," he said, after half the fish was gone. "It's a Dutch port."

"One o' th'crew speaks Dutch, an' we need t'stop there fer resupply," Jack pointed out. He snorted. "Th'last time, Barbossa was 'ere, an' he spoke th'lingo fair enough. Doubt anything's changed much. Sugar an' goods from Jamaica, still welcome."

"What does Capetown trade in?"

"Supplies," Jack shrugged. "Good enough. Other than that, it trades in lives, an' I'm not havin' anythin' t'do wi' that sort o' trade. We stop again in Seychelles, then trade in Colombo—or Madras—fer opium, then on t'Canton, to trade that fer tea, silk, an' meet wi' th'whelps, as well." A pause. "Somethin' wrong?"

"Opium." Distaste.

"An' worth its weight in gold in Canton," Jack said mildly, "Or even at World's End. Could buy our safe passage in there." And he still had the silver from Barbados, hidden in the hold.

A deep sigh, some poking at the grilled fish with a knife. "I don't like it."

"An' ye be havin' problems wi' tradin' t'the natives o' Canton, or t'the pirates?"

Norrington's lips moved, soundlessly, then he blinked as Jack pushed a sliver of potato into them. And grinned, flashing gold teeth. "Profit, mate."

"By spreading vice." Norrington muttered, eating.

"Not yer province, is it? An' there be fewer alternatives wi' as much good coin," Jack said reasonably. "'Sides, it's available in London, mate. Not very illegal."

Norrington conceded the point, taking a sip of the black tea. "I suppose so." A faint smile. "But if you ask for my preference, I would rather you traded it at the World's End."

"Pirates bein' already too steeped in sin, hmm?"

"Very, and it's contagious," Norrington said dryly. "I should impose limits on your games before they corrupt me further, and I lose all Commodorial material altogether." Another sip. "So, we're stopping at Madras instead of Colombo?"

Jack pouted. Norrington hadn't missed that, after all. "Madras is a wee bit on th'way, as compared t'yer Bombay. An' Barbossa prefers Madras t'Colombo, we might catch up wi' them there. An' I didn't say we were stoppin' there, mate, just that it's a possibility."

"I'd prefer that," Norrington said thoughtfully. "Though of course I still prefer Bombay."

"Why? Thought ye'd be wantin' t'stay away from yer da', an' all."

Norrington smiled rather wanly. "When it's been a decade, Jack, sometimes things change a little." A shrug. "I suppose Madras is better. Safer, and as you say, en-route."

His Jamie was beginning to confuse him again. Jack nibbled at his lower lip. Did the man want to go to Bombay, or not? Why would he want to? Besides, he was effectively at the moment in the company (and in a relationship with) a wanted criminal. Who was male. Not exactly the sort of thing he could mention at a dinner table with his father, was it? A shout over at the harbor distracted him, and he looked over sharply—some cargo had slipped, but hadn't caused much mishap. Confusion as crew and laborers strove to right the crate and the pulley. "Jamie. Do ye want t'go t'Bombay? Suppose we could stop, on th'way back." A grin when Norrington glanced at him in surprise. "M'like curry."

"I'd... I'd think about it," Norrington gaze dropped to his tea, the sweet, unconscious smile making it worth the concession.

And the worst thing was, his Pearl didn't seem particularly curious as to whether they were engaging in piracy, or in nominally merchant behavior—her only preoccupation was with freedom over the sea, preferably with all her favorite crew. It made it somewhat harder for Jack to consider exactly what he valued—his status as a pirate, or as a freeman, and what it meant to be either.

The rigging swayed. Jack's gaze remained fixed, though at one point he reached a hand downward to help Norrington up. The other man balanced perfectly, face on level with Jack's upside down one, hat slightly askew. Jack swept his own hat off—held previously to his head with his other hand—in a gesture of mock greeting.

"Is it healthy to have all the blood going to your head that way?" Norrington asked blandly, as he followed Jack's gaze, out and over the blue.

"Don't know," Jack said, distracted, looking out over nothing and everything, all at once. There was silence, marked only by soft breathing, too quickly whipped away by the wind.

"We'd get them back, and take care of that soul, too," Norrington said, finally, taking a stab at Jack's preoccupation, and missing the mark. The pirate smiled, however, encouraging the mistake.

"Aye, Jamie-love." It was what could happen afterwards, between them, which worried him.

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