Freedom

Chapter 5

by

Garnet

All for as if he expected it to be falling in on him any moment now.

Jack sat up, but the other man didn't react to his movement at all, which wasn't a good sign. Almost, he reached out to touch him, but then pulled his hand back and rolled off the end of the bed instead. He walked across the room to a chest near the window, then bent down and fished in the narrow space between it and the wall. He pulled out an object wrapped up in a long grey piece of silk.

Norrington's eyes were on him now, feverishly bright, as he sauntered back across the room, unwrapping it as he went.

"That happens to be one of my best stockings," he said sharply.

"Aye," Jack replied, pulling the half-full bottle out of it and tossing the article of clothing in question over his shoulder to the floor. "An this here happens to be a fine bit o' rum. Fit for stashing in an Admiral's stocking, let alone a Commodore's."

He uncorked the bottle and took a long healthy drink, feeling the weight of the world lift as it burned its way down his throat. Or, at least, a goodly portion of it. The bit of it which included this room and those already somewhat regretful eyes.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, then offered the bottle to the other man, who gazed at it as if he were trying to hand him a poisonous snake. Jack let his hand drop briefly, then offered the rum again, this time with a smile and a raised eyebrow.

"Go on," he said. "T'will help, I swear to it."

Norrington grimaced at him, tight-lipped. Then he sighed and the tension abruptly seemed to run out of him like water, leaving an even greater weariness behind. He took the rum from him and stared at the bottle for a moment, before lifting it to his mouth and taking several largish gulps. Jack laughed softly; a few more like those and, even if the ceiling did fall in, the man wouldn't much care.

The Commodore politely offered the bottle back to him, but Jack shook his head. Instead, he crawled back on the bed and right over the other man, to settle back in the spot he'd just abandoned. His left hand immediately slipped down beneath the sheets as if it had always belonged there. He let it lay across Norrington's stomach.

Who said nothing either to protest or encourage the act, but simply took another drink.

"I still prefer brandy," he said then, easily enough. So easily it betrayed the effort of it. "Or wine."

"Of course," Jack replied. "I'm a mind to a nice Madeira myself sometimes, save that it leaves me with a frightful head the next morning."

"Pity," Norrington said. He offered the bottle back again and, this time, Jack took it. He lifted his head up slightly to take a drink and, as he did, the other man reached down beneath those same sheets and covered his hand with his own. Warm hands, plain and strong, seeming too strong for such a fine touch.

Jack handed the bottle back, then settled in more securely, laying his head on the other man's shoulder. Slyly, he reached over with his other hand and began to pull the sheet down, inch by inch, slowly revealing all of that fair flesh that he could reach. A body sturdily enough built, as sturdy as the prick he'd just had the enjoyment of, and still bearing the faint sheen of sweat and effort.

Norrington took another drink, watching this renewed attack on his virtue, though saying nothing—either to encourage or stop it—before he let the bottle come to rest by his side. One hand holding onto it and the other onto Jack.

"Why did you...?" he started to ask, then stopped as suddenly as he'd started, as if already reconsidering his own question. Or his curiosity.

Jack turned his head to look up at him, then burrowed closer still to the heat of the other man. Making himself right at home while he could. While the night and the gentle candlelight still held them hidden from the world outside. Anchored to this bed, to these arms, he suddenly felt oddly safe. An illusion, aye, but one he wanted to keep for at least a few hours more.

"Why did I become a pirate?" he chanced. "That what you want to know?"

Norrington hesitated, his eyes flickering, then nodded.

Jack turned his left hand over and the other man immediately threaded his fingers through his, as if it were entirely natural to him. As if he were indulging himself in the same illusion.

"Well, I could tell you there's a story in it," he replied. "But there isn't. Not an interesting one, anyhow. I signed aboard a merchant ship when I near on ten years old. Learned me trade there. Then, a few years later, we were set to by pirates. The Captain were killed an several others. Half the rest of the crew were forced to sign the articles. Including meself. Our new Captain were a fair enough man, but our vessel ran aground about six month later and he and a dozen other men died. The rest of us spent another three month stranded. Still, we had good luck. There were fresh water and fair hunting and we sighted a ship and managed to commandeer her without too much in the way of trouble. After we renamed and refitted her, we set to sea again under a new captain and a new set of articles. By then it seemed as good a life as any to me and better than some."

"What about your mother and your father?" Norrington asked. "Have you never gone home?"

Jack shrugged. "Me mother's dead. Hanged at Tyburn when I was but a lad. Me father and the woman he took up with after she died... well, they were glad enough to be shut of me. I weren't never much to them."

"I'm sorry," Norrington said quietly.

Jack shook his head, then pulled his hand away and sat up and looked back at the other man through the tide of his dark hair. He took the rum back and drank it eagerly, knowing the other man was watching him the whole time. It was empty when he lowered it again and wiped at his mouth with a languid hand.

"Don't be," he replied. "'M not. Twas meant to be. This is who I am. I doubt now it could have been any different."

Norrington frowned up at him. "You don't believe a man makes his own destiny?"

"I believe... a man should embrace it. If he knows what it is he truly wants. There's never so great a thing as that."

The Commodore shook his head slowly. "So your destiny is to be a brigand and a thief and to end up hanging for it. Not a life I'd wish to call my own."

"Well," Jack said. "Best that you're not me, then."

Norrington looked away, his face suddenly gone cold again.

Jack shook his head and leaned off the far side of the bed to set the bottle down on the floor. Then he moved back over to the other man and ran a finger down the middle of his chest, before letting his whole hand come to rest on Norrington's still-moist prick where it lay across his thigh.

"Still," he said. "There's something to be said for respectability. For coming to a comfortable end in your own bed. Mayhap, you could convince me of it. Turn me from my wicked ways and into an honest man at the last."

Norrington didn't respond for a long moment, then he laughed softly. He closed his eyes, shook his head, and looked back at Jack.

"If I believed that, I'd deserve to have another ship stolen out from under me."

Jack smiled at him, then gently squeezed the other man's member and felt it twitch and grow slightly in response. He circled it with his fingers and began stroking it, not looking at what he was doing, watching Norrington's face instead.

Who was watching him in turn, a hint of amusement lingering in his eyes and his mouth slightly parted. His lips still swollen from Jack's kisses and his forehead damp with sweat and his skin flushed a pale rose.

Perfect as any blossom in his garden.

Not that Norrington were anything akin to a flower, though part of him were even now growing to full bloom. Rising and filling Jack's hand, sliding across his palm, weeping pearls that he had yet to know the taste of.

And Jack felt his own prick hardening again at the thought of those salty tears filling his mouth, at the thought of letting Norrington fill him as well. It had been even longer for him for that and he suddenly wanted it with an eagerness that he found both cheery and somewhat surprising. Though mainly cheery.

Without releasing his hold on the other man's prick, he leaned forward and kissed him. Lightly. Sweetly. Then started to move back again. But Norrington's hand shot out instantly and closed around his throat and drew him near again, long fingers digging in as the Commodore renewed the kiss. Never so lightly and not near as sweet, but lovely for all that. An arrogant kiss—rough and forceful and deep—with a tongue that thrust fully into his mouth as if bent on its own plundering. Salt and rum-flavored.

Finally, Norrington released his mouth again, if not his throat. He drew back far enough to stare into Jack's eyes and his own were more blue now than grey, storm-shot, almost oddly possessive. Then he pressed yet one more kiss on him, this one as dazzling in its gentleness as the other had been demanding.

Jack felt need move through him, slow and deadly as good rum, hot and dark and thick. It made his head spin and his lungs burn and the next he knew he was pulling the other man to him, rolling him beneath him. Then sliding downwards, slick skin on slick skin, until Norrington's prick were bobbing just there in front of him.

"Jack?" the other man questioned.

But it was too late. Jack closed his lips around the head of that scarlet prize and took it in, deep and hard and fast enough that Norrington came half up off the bed and gasped out loud with the shock of it.

And he did taste of salt, much more subtle than the sea, but rich for all that. Warm and throbbing against his tongue, caught up on the roof of his mouth, and then hitting the back of his throat once again as he swallowed him up a second time. Norrington moaning softly now, his face thrown back against one of those pristine white pillows, his hands clenched tight in the bedding.

"My..." he breathed, sounding appalled and amazed at the same time.

It was a pleasant thing to hear. But the muffled almost-whimper that followed was even more pleasant to his ears and Jack rewarded him with a few grand licks around the head of the man's prick. Before sticking the tip of his tongue into the narrow slit. Finding one last pearl there all his own.

"Aye," he said, pulling back a little. He closed his fist around the man's member instead and leaned forward to kiss Norrington's navel, then licked it thoroughly both in and out, finding the skin there nearly as full of salt. No doubt, the remains of both his own and the Commodore's earlier emissions.

It mingled on his tongue as it had mingled on their bodies and he smiled.

Norrington must have caught the flash of gold, because he looked down at him then. His face even more flushed now, more rouge than roses in his cheeks, and his mouth wet, his eyes sparkling. Sea bright and hungry.

Jack's prick jumped at the sight and his smile grew equally well. He tilted his head at the other man, silver and beads and bone jangling together in his hair.

"Well," he said. "Do ye want to fuck me, then?"

Norrington's eyes widened ever so slightly. "Pardon?" he asked, as if, in his shock, he had instinctively reverted to his obvious good upbringing.

"Do you," Jack repeated, carefully enunciating each and every word. "Commodore James Norrington, wish to put your prick up me arse?"

Blue-grey eyes blinked, only to be followed by this rather sardonic look. As if he wasn't entirely sure of what he'd just heard, but had rather wanted to hear it, and now found himself caught out by that same desire.

"Do you honestly expect me to say no?" Norrington asked.

Jack shook his head, his eyebrows raised slightly.

And was rewarded by the small, though sweetly anxious smile that crossed the other man's face. Matched only by the sudden flare of devout longing in his eyes.

"Honestly, I'll take that as a yes," Jack said.

And he slid back up to kiss him, winding his hand into the other man's hair, feeling his own head held between sure fingers. Lips to lips and breath to breath and expectation like some precious thing caught between them. More real than an illusion, but closer still to a dream. A wild fluttering in his chest, made even more careless by the soft moan the other man fed directly into his mouth.

"Please..." Norrington breathed.

He smiled and drew back, his hand dipping down to claim the flesh pressing against his stomach. Watching the other man's eyes slowly close as he stroked it, as he teased it back to its full length and breadth. With was fair substantial. He had noticed before, but now he took stock of it in an entirely different light.

"Salve," the Commodore said suddenly.

"Pardon?" Jack asked, with the same exact inflection and tone as before.

Eyes opened ever so slightly, an almost silvery gleam. "In the top drawer," he added. "A small tin. Fetch it, there's a good lad."

Jack snorted, but did as he was bid. The tin contained a thick yellowish substance that smelled of chamomile and, ever so faintly, of other herbs which he didn't recognize. He rubbed some of it between two fingers and then brought them to his nose again.

"Tis some petal you'll be thinking of me, then," he said.

Norrington's eyes opened completely and he reached out, taking hold of Jack's wrist and pulling those same two fingers to his own nose. He inhaled appreciatively, his gaze never leaving him.

"Not a sweetling," he said. "Nor a bloom of a lad, true enough. I've ample proof of that."

And his eyes fell to Jack's own prick, before returning to his face.

"Well, thank ye for that," Jack commented.

Norrington shook his head, the corners of his mouth curving up ever so slightly. "Wrong it may be and not something I've occasion to indulge in personally," he said. "But I know of men and you'll be needing that, I think."

Jack returned the smile, his own with far more edge to it. "I'd full well tell ye it's a shame ye've never before had the pleasure, but that I am greedy enough to claim it all for me very own."

Norrington's eyes glinted, then they slid partially closed again as Jack took more of the salve on his fingers and closed them tight around the root of the other man's prick. The delicate scent of flowers filled the air as he stroked the ointment up and down his length, making sure he covered every inch of it. Before he scooped more of the thick salve out of the tin and brought his fingers to his own backside.

His own gasp made the other man's eyes open once more, an inquisitive look. Which Jack met with a dark gaze as he worked those two fingers in and out, well aware in that moment of his own prick bobbing and leaking its own salty little pearls on the smooth skin of the Commodore's stomach.

As it made suddenly aware of it, himself, Norrington reached down and took hold of him. His thumb rubbing square across the head of his prick, sending a sudden burst of pleasure surging through him. One that mingled with the feel of his own fingers in his arse.

"Ah, God," Jack slurred.

"You quite sure it's not the Devil?" Norrington asked, sounding like Old Hob himself in that moment. His hand still holding him tight and his thumb scrubbing across that spot over and over again.

"No," Jack replied, arching slightly into that touch. Unable to stop himself. Not wanting the other man to stop either. He took the fingers from his backside before it all proved too much. "But if it were, I'd gladly pay his price."

"Even if it was your soul?"

"Oh, but that were lost a long time ago now," Jack said. "And she a jealous mistress to be sure."

"The Pearl?" Norrington asked.

Jack shook his head. "The sea."

"Yes," the other man replied, his hand moving to stroke him now. Not quick this time, but slow and thoroughly. Watching Jack as he watched him. As Jack writhed in reaction to his touch. "The sea."

There was understanding in his eyes, along with a mild triumph. Which only grew as Jack gasped yet again and drove his prick hard through the other man's fingers. Tight, so very tight, and he was enough on the edge already with the thought of letting Norrington have him. Fire, he was on fire, and only this man could soothe him, only this man could save him. And that was as much frightening as it was pleasing. He would have named it witchery, if not for the fact that he well knew it sprang from a more earthly source than that.

He bent down to kiss the other man, then stopped just before their lips could touch. Watching the seas and sky melting within Norrington's eyes, blue and grey and silver and black. Finding a similar melting within his own flesh, one that he disguised by a brusque manner as he pulled back abruptly. From both those eyes and those lips and that warm hand.

"Enough," he said.

Norrington blinked up at him. "Sparrow?"

Jack smiled widely, knowing as he did that it would not fool the other man. Not for long, anyway. Perhaps, only long enough. He moved away from him, laying on his stomach and spreading his legs. Only then turning his head to gaze back at him.

"If you please," he said.

Norrington's face pinched a little, but then smoothed over once more. He moved on top of him, carefully resting his weight on him, his hands stroking up his sides to take hold of his arms. Jack let his eyes sink shut, feeling the other man's prick trail over him. Then one of those hands moving back down to take hold of it, to position it at the center of him.

"Jack?"

He nodded, his eyes still shut, then bit his own lip as Norrington pushed inside. It hurt more than he had expected, even knowing the size of the other man. Still, he shivered as that prick pushed further into him—inch by blessed inch, not giving any quarter, though he truly had not asked for any—sweat breaking out on his skin and the thud of his heart growing stronger by the moment.

Distantly, he heard the other man's gasps, and knew that the Commodore was attempting to be as gentle as possible. It was a warming thought.

Still, he couldn't stop the tiny hiss and shudder as Norrington finally pressed home. Feeling himself stretched to the limit and mayhap even a bit beyond. He swallowed and turned his head a little further, opening his eyes to look over his own shoulder. Seeing a matching fever in the other man's eyes, the dew of sweat on his brow and upper lip. A flush across his cheeks that had nothing at all to do with blooms, maidenly or otherwise.

"Ye all right there, Commodore?" he said, his own voice none too steady at the moment.

"Right enough," Norrington replied, though it was an obvious effort for him to talk as well.

But then this wasn't a time for talking.

Jack put his head back to the sheets and closed his eyes once more. He felt the other man's prick twitch deep inside him, and with that tiny motion came a tiny twinge of real pleasure. Ah, yes...

He clamped down on the presence inside him and felt another twitch in response, followed by the smallest movement of the Norrington's hips. Notching his prick ever so slightly deeper, making the fit all the better. Making the beat of blood in Jack's head sound even louder, a matching pulse in his prick where it lay trapped beneath the both of them.

But then he dimly heard the other man whisper something and pull back, only to push in yet again. Still slow and gentle, but the movement burned even as it sent another spark of pleasure through him. Jack clenched his hands down into the bedding and began to push back, keeping it just as slow, letting the Commodore set the pace.

It was a luxurious feeling, the languid ebb and flow of the other man's prick moving in and out of him, the way the pain slowly began to give way to true pleasure. Bright and sharp as a blade, as the blade that was sheathed within him, and yet providing its own easement at the same time. As if there were dark places that had needed just this very thing and had gone unassuaged for far too long.

And the Commodore may regret this come morning, but he never would. It was too fine a thing. To have this man upon him, inside him, putting his lips to the side of his face in the lightest of kisses. Even as he began to thrust inside him harder, quicker, with a snap to his hips that made Jack gasp.

But then Norrington's breathing had grown harsh as well, shallow little sounds coming out of him each time he sank himself back inside. His hands moving to take hold of Jack's arms, fingers digging in with bruising force. Sweat dripping down on Jack's back, on the side of his face that the other man had just kissed.

His prick going in deep every time, deep as the man could get it, doing as thorough a job of this as he did of everything. Each stroke making Jack's body feel a little heavier, his head a little lighter, until he started to feel like he may very well split apart at the seams at any moment.

But still he wanted more. And more. And he must have mumbled something, because suddenly Norrington was jabbing into him harder than ever before. He was closing his arms around him and pulling him closer still, pulling him half-up on the bed before him. His prick slipping in at a higher angle, scraping across even more tender flesh, making Jack moan with the sheer shock and pain and joy of it.

Until he could see that horizon. Until he swore he could almost reach out and touch it.

The shimmer of the sun upon the waves, far and distant and rushing close and closer. Until, at last, the waves broke themselves upon the shore. The spray flashing up like diamonds, in a surge of white foam and spangles so bright they hurt his eyes. His bones aching within his body, his blood burning as it rushed within his veins, fast and faster, seeking, yearning, desperate for release. His prick rigid and angry before him. While Norrington's was rigid and potent inside him, thick as an oak and stronger still than steel. Filling him completely, sending him crashing into that shore over and over again. Until he thought he would die of it. Until he wanted to die and to live and to laugh and to cry.

Though he would do none of those things. Nothing except unravel at the last. As he fell into the cool-warm embrace of the sea—which welcomed him as always, lover and mother and mistress of the damned all at once, mistress of all he ever was and all he could ever be. And dark pleasure rose to entangle him, to drag him down with it to the greater depths. A pleasure black and bright at the same time. All but blinding him even as his prick surged and throbbed and pulsed. Heat pouring out of him, draining him, as unstoppable as the tide.

Jack shuddered, then shuddered again. Feeling the other man clasp him even tighter in response. Holding him for the prick still driving deeply inside him, making its own kind of heat and carnage. Norrington gasping in his ear, not words, but senseless sounds. As if he had lost all capacity for speech at the last.

Though not his capacity for movement, as each thrust testified to. The pleasure still resounding through Jack each time the other man slid home, receding only slightly with each retreat. A mouth closing on his shoulder now, teeth biting down, not hard enough to draw blood, but nearly. Arms crushing the life and breath out of him.

Before Norrington stopped altogether, pressed all the way up inside him as far as he could go, and then quit breathing himself.

And Jack felt liquid warmth flood through him, sending one last sharp little surge of pleasure through his prick, through his heart, though his lungs. A pleasure he yielded to without a thought, without a care. Without wondering if it would prove to be his undoing in the end. First blood, then. And a well fought battle it had been, if battle it was.

He turned his head and saw Norrington's eyes were shut tight, his mouth open, this look of rapture and utter transport on his face. As if he'd never before thought he could feel this way and had feared he never would.

It made Jack's own heart jolt in his chest, sudden and percussive as a cannon blast. Because he knew full well he had wanted the other man and now, knowing him like this, he had to admit that it was more than that. Else he would not have felt so much joy at the feel of being held like this, of having Norrington's seed spilled out inside him. At seeing the vulnerability on his face, plain as day and twice as damning.

What was a man to do with that? And him a pirate...

Though, mayhap, the Commodore wasn't much better off than he when it came to knowing the secrets of their hearts. Because he was saying his name even as he sank down, as he pulled both of them back down to lie, shaking and gasping almost as one, on the bed. He was saying "Jack" over and over, as if he'd never truly heard the name before. And wanted to burn it into his memory so he'd never forget again.

His prick still imbedded inside him and one hand moving down to touch his own member, two fingers gently stroking up and down his length, taking his own seed for their very own.

And Jack closed his eyes for a while, just breathing, just letting James Norrington touch him. Own him for a little while.

Even if it was an illusion.

Eventually, though, the other man's prick softened and slipped free of him, leaving an emptiness behind that he didn't wish to dwell on. Then the man himself moved away, turning on to his back and pulling him to his side. One arm laid heavy across his stomach and the other curled beneath his neck. Fingers just barely touching the side of his face.

They both lay there for another long time, before Norrington finally moved ever so slightly.

"You're not injured, are you?" The question when it came was soft, almost tentative.

Jack rubbed his chin along those same fingers, before he turned his head to look at the other man. Norrington's eyes were warm, concerned, still somewhat dazed. And though he had intended to make light of the moment, he found he couldn't.

"Aye, there's a little pain," he admitted, smiling slightly. "But it's the kind I'm rather honored to live with. You're a fine braw man, Commodore, there's no denying it. I'll be feeling ye in me backside for a while."

Pleasure and embarrassment warred on Norrington's face, but pleasure finally won out. Though it was a near thing. The other man let his head settle back down to the pillow and his other fingers began a somewhat languid exploration of Jack's ribs. Silence growing between them, not uncomfortable, but uncertain.

Finally, Jack shoved the hair back from his face and shifted over to lay his chin on the other man's shoulder. His own hand began steadily creeping downwards across Norrington's stomach, stealthy as the touch of the thief he'd already been named more than once.

Still, the Commodore caught his wrist before his fingers could reach the flesh now lying red and slick and ever so innocent between the crutch of his legs.

"None of that, now," he warned, more mocking than serious. "What do you think—I'm made of iron?"

"Well, ye were," Jack retorted. But he let his hand be guided back to where it had first come from. "An ye may well be again, I'm thinking."

"It will be morning soon enough," the Commodore said. "And I can see that you're insatiable."

"No," Jack replied. "Just ever hopeful, if you like." And, with that, he pushed his own prick against the other man's leg, even though it was only partially hard again. And, perhaps, wishful thinking on his part that it may be more than that.

Norrington sighed, but it sounded rather more pleased than annoyed. His own hand moved ever so slowly down Jack's side, tickled across his stomach, only to drift to one side rather than touching his member.

"Here now," Jack chided. "I think was a little more to the right."

"And I think we both need to sleep," the other man replied.

Jack let himself fall flat to the bed next to him and put a hand to his heart. "Ah, spurned already. Tis a sadness I fear has no true measure."

Norrington gave him a look of almost tolerant contentment. "Blow out the candle, Jack," he said, then gathered him close once he'd done just that. Tucking their legs together, his nose buried within Jack's hair, and his hand moving to lay itself almost protectively over that still wistful prick.

Before he sighed and went to sleep. Jack following him a scant moment later.

Barbossa stepped out the shadows and up to the side of the bed, his hat tilted to a jaunty angle—the feather Jack had sliced in half, now whole and complete again—and his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "What have ye been doing? And with one of the King's own, no less?"

Jack glanced down at the man on the bed, then realized that it was his own bed he were looking at. His old bed in the Captain's cabin aboard the Pearl.

The same bed that Barbossa had slept in for nigh on ten years in his absence.

But Norrington lay in it now, fast asleep, his head pillowed on one crooked arm and the bedding slipped down to reveal the broad expanse of his back. His exposed skin was pale and seemingly flawless in the dim light of the room, as smooth looking as Jack well remembered it feeling against his own skin.

He looked back up then as he heard the sound of steel being drawn and saw that Barbossa had his blade in hand now and was standing closer to the bed. Far too near for all that vulnerable flesh to rest easy o'er long.

He took a half-step forward himself, but Barbossa only smiled at him and let the tip of his sword touch the side of the bed. Just a few inches from the Norrington's spine. Not quite touching it.

"Jack, be careful now." Barbossa shook his head, as the blade slid upward along the sheets. "An tell me, if you please. Tell me who decreed that ye should live when the rest of us did not? An who allowed that ye should find pleasure in the very man who brought about the end of so many of our own? Come now, you're one of ours. You'll always be one of ours. One of the brethren. Just as ye'll swing at the last like so many before ye, mark my words on it. Free pardon or no."

Jack made as if to move again, but the other man's eyes narrowed and the point immediately swung up towards Norrington's throat.

"No," he said, stopping in his tracks.

"No... what?" Barbossa's voice was soft, but steel for all that.

"Please," Jack added. "Don't hurt him."

Barbossa tipped his head, a sly look on his face. "So fond of the man already? You're losing your touch, Jack. Twas always them as was more fond of you. Even though they saw you would give your heart to none. An yet promise them the world."

"There were no promises between us," Jack retorted. "Save that of First Mate to Captain. A promise which ye broke when ye led my crew to mutiny against me."

The other man bared his teeth and it was the mocking grin of a skull, even if he were fully fleshed at the moment.

"Consider it payment in kind," he replied. "As will this be..."

And, with that, he thrust forward with the sword.

"No!" Jack jumped for the other man, only to find Barbossa gone as suddenly as he had first appeared and himself the one standing over the bed, a naked blade in his hand, and Norrington staring up at him from the tangled bedding. Despite this, the man's eyes were calm, as if it were something he woke up to every night.

"Well, Jack," he said, his voice equally calm. "Either run me through or come back to bed."

Jack dropped the sword, then dropped himself. Distantly, he felt strong arms close themselves around him as he laid there, curled up as tight as he could manage, shaking desperately, and sick to his stomach. By God's tender mercies, he had thought Barbossa gone with the rest of his fever dreams, but obviously the man was not done with haunting him.

"Jack, Jack..." Norrington's tone was puzzled, but soothing for all that. "What is it? Have you taken ill again? Should I fetch the surgeon?"

He shook his head and buried his face into the other man's thigh. And, after a moment, Norrington quit trying to draw him out and just stroked his shoulder, his back, his head, as if by touch alone he could cure what ailed him.

A lot of it was good, jolly good if the ache in his body was any indication, but the pleasure was overshadowed by his remembrance of the dream. Of Barbossa. Of Norrington's sword in his hand. Of how very vulnerable he must have seemed to the other man after his collapse. With him lying in his arms like that, as a wee child would after being frightened out of their wits by some bad dream, only to fall asleep on him at the last.

Norrington must have put him back to bed. God only knew what he thought of him for it.

Jack wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Scourge of the Spanish Main... aye, that was him all right. Taken such fright by a ghost. By a ghost of a ghost. For Barbossa was dead, quite dead. He had killed him with the very pistol that the Commodore had taken from him. The pistol even now lying with his belt and boots in that little room that he had taken to calling his own. Blood there had been and blood there was and there was no coming back from that.

Heathen curses or no.

It must be the remains of the fever. Mayhap, it had damaged him more than the surgeon had allowed for. And if he were well and truly mad these days—mad all round the points of the compass, rather than just mad north-north-west, when the wind blew in from the east—then it would be better he left this place soon as he could. Before he did anyone harm. Well, anyone that he actually cared about.

Like Will or Elizabeth or... James...

"That's Commodore Norrington to you, Jack me lad," he mumbled. "Or... sir, if you please."

Though they had pleased each other well enough last night for any ten men.

He put his arms up over his head and stretched, feeling the pull of each and every muscle, as well as the dull burn of some that had not been so stretched in some time. It felt good, though, and he smiled to himself. Thinking of that look on Norrington's face, the one that he swore he would not soon be forgetting.

The look of delirious abandonment.

And of possessive delight.

He may be a fool, but he wanted to see that look again. Even if it did cost him his soul. Except that he could not be sure it wouldn't cost much more than that, for others if not for him.

He could have killed the man...

Jack signed and rolled out of bed. He went over to the window, gazing out at a blue sky not marred by a single cloud. By the looks of it, it was mid-morning already and the fact that no one had disturbed him here must mean that Knox had not returned from this evening in town. Either that or he had and Norrington had sent him off again with some excuse.

Speaking of which, the Commodore must have gone off to the fort already. Leaving his guest alone in both his home and his bed. It may not have been complete trust, but it was... well, it was a risk and trust enough. A trust that he didn't wish to abuse. He had to go. There was no other choice.

Jack rummaged through the bedding and found his shirt and breeches. He pulled them both on and then ventured over to the door. He listened at it a moment, then peered out. The hall beyond was silent and dark and he could see the door to his own room at the far end.

He walked as quietly as he could down the passageway to it and had just put out his hand to open the door, when the sound of footsteps on the stairs beyond made him pause. He spun around, ready to see Knox after all, or Emma returned early from her sister's home, but it was Norrington. Who seemed just as surprised to see him standing there as he was to find the man not only still home, but wearing just a pair of breeches and shirt same as him. And barefoot, as well.

"Oh," Jack said. "I thought I was on me own."

Norrington shook his head at him, but his look of surprise was already fading. Leaving the familiar mask of reserve firmly in place in its stead.

"Mister Sparrow," he said, formal indeed. "We must talk."

Jack stared at him, but the Commodore's eyes were unreadable by that dim light. As somber as his countless relations in their portraits on the wall.

"Aye," he said then, opening the door to his own room and ushering the other man inside.

But when he turned back around to face the other man, that coolness was already melting. Norrington took him by the arm and led him over to the bed, gesturing at him that he should sit down. Jack remained standing.

"How are you feeling?" he asked. "I shouldn't have..."

Jack shook his head. "Twas naught but a dream. My apologies if I led thee to believe anything more than that was amiss."

"A dream," the other man said, his tone one of obvious disbelief. Even verging on anger. "Of course. That explains it all."

Norrington let go of his arm and turned away. "I had thought..." he went on, only to suddenly stop, his back stiffening once more. "But I am rather late already. I'm sorry, Mister Sparrow, but I must leave you. I've a lot of work to do today and half the morning is already past."

"James, wait..." Now it was Jack's turn to reach out, even though he wasn't sure of what he wished to say. Only that he must say something. He laid a hand on the other man's back, but Norrington only stepped away from him.

Still, the Commodore's head went down and then he turned, giving him the briefest glimpse of hurt and mild confusion in his eyes, before they shuttered themselves again.

His voice remained soft, though. "Jack, please," he said. "May we talk of this tonight?"

Jack nodded, letting his hand fall back to his side. "If that's what ye wish. Commodore. Tonight, then."

It wasn't quite a lie, but it came close.

A final look, this one that even he couldn't read, and the other man walked out, closing the door quietly behind him. Leaving Jack to finally collapse onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling, wondering if he could truly bear the weight of Norrington's regrets as well as he had thought he could. If he could bear what the man might think of him when he returned home tonight and found him gone at the last.

Let alone if... when he discovered him sailing beneath the black flag once more. Or, worst still, standing at the foot of some gallows.

Jack got back up and roughly began drawing on his boots.

Still, he could no more be other than what he was then he had ever managed to forget the Pearl.

Even if it did take him right straight back to the noose.

He didn't look at the other man as Will sat down on the sand next to him and stretched out those lean legs of his. Instead, he watched as the Dauntless came about with ponderous grace and began to move off out of the bay. Her great sails billowing full of the wind. The same wind that Jack could see rippling the waters, carrying with it the rich salt scent of the sea, of distant shores and exotic places.

And there were no words for it, but he wanted to be on that ship, any ship, in that moment, going anywhere but here, and it was a wanting so strong that it hurt inside and out. He had told Elizabeth once about how much freedom meant to him, but he really didn't think that she'd understood.

Mayhap, no one could, unless they had salt in their veins already. Or pirate blood. The blood burning inside him even now.

Jack let his head sink down to rest on his knees.

It had been more difficult than he had imagined to leave the Commodore's house. Not that he had run into any trouble. The guards had been gone from the gate and he had a small purse of gold to see him though. Plus his pardon and his effects—all but his sword, that is—but still he had felt at loose ends. Like the thief he had always been, but this time with the full weight of guilt that he had never before known.

It was an uncomfortable feeling and not much appreciated.

"Find me, you did," he said coldly. "Now, leave me be."

"No," Will replied, his tone as resolute as he had proved himself to be. "Tell me about the dream, Jack."

He shrugged and dug the heels of his boots down into the sand. "There's naught to tell."

"Now that was a lie," Will said. "Which warns me there is something to it, something important. Is it the Pearl? I know how you felt when you saw she was gone that day. When they'd left you behind."

"Worse and worse," Jack mumbled. Persistent whelp, William Turner; he got that from his father, no less. But still, he relented ever so slightly. "How can ye know what I felt, son. You have what you most desired, what you would have died for. I have naught left to me but my life, an tis not worth two pennies at the moment, let alone the price of the paper it were wrote on."

"Don't tell me you would have rather hanged?" Will's voice was mocking, yet still sharp for all that. Sharp as all those godsbedamned blades of his. Just like the one had made Norrington.

"No," Jack said. Though, in this precise moment, it felt more like his answer should be a yes. It would have been simpler, if not particularly pleasant. But then, when had his life ever been simple? If he had wanted a simple life, he never would have bedded a Commodore.

"Then what, Jack?"

Suddenly, Will's hand was on his arm, pulling him around to face the younger man. And Jack realized that the sharpness he had heard was because Will was little frightened, more than a little concerned, and quite determined to try and help him. As if both he and Elizabeth—and Norrington, for that matter—hadn't already gone far past the bounds of good reason, let alone good sense, where he were concerned.

He stared into Will's face, still so very young, so very earnest, as if all the world could right itself if he only believed in it enough, and sighed.

"All right, lad," he said softly. "I'll tell ye. But tis not a pleasant story."

Will nodded and released his arm, but his eyes were still intent, as if he fully intended to drag the truth out of him if needs be. But Jack were full ready to tell someone right about now, and better it be the son of Bootstrap than just about anybody else.

"Gibbs told ye it were Barbossa who fostered the mutiny," he said.

Will nodded.

"Well," Jack went on. "Twas for his own purposes and not all because he desired the Pearl."

The younger man frowned a little. "Yes?"

Jack let out a long breath and gathered his legs tighter to him, his hands laced over the worn leather of his boots. He rested his chin on his knees and gazed out across the water, the sun striking the waves silver and blue. Reminding him of a pair of eyes he dearly did not wish to be reminded of at this moment. Anymore, than he wished to be reminded of yet another pair of blue eyes.

He had never told anyone of this before, not in ten long years.

"Yer a good lad, Will," he said at the last. "An I know ye love Elizabeth dearly, but I doubt you've much experience with the ways a man loves a maid, let alone what a man may get up to with a man."

"Jack." Will's voice was soft, but a wee bit impatient for all that. "Just tell me, will you?"

Jack turned his head to gaze at the younger man. "It were me Barbossa wanted, even more than the Pearl, you see, and I would have naught to do with him. Not because I would have naught to do with another man, but because he were a cruel man at heart and with that cruelty I could not abide."

"He... desired you?"

"Aye," Jack said, just a whisper.

He watched as Will looked down, obviously disconcerted at the thought. Then he looked up again, but not at Jack. Instead, he looked at the ocean, as if seeking his answers there.

"I know," the younger man said at the last, slowly, as if picking his words with great care. "A little of what men may do with other men, even though I've never... well, I suppose I never really imagined that it may mean the same to them as what a man may feel for a woman or a woman for a man."

"You're speaking of love, lad?"

Will nodded.

"Aye, that betimes happens as well twixt one man and another. Same as between man and maid. But he never loved me."

"How do you know that?"

Jack sighed and let his head drop again. "The man only wished ever to possess. An what he could not possess, he would destroy if he could. Tis as simple as that."

"So, because he could not possess you, he took your ship and left you to die."

"Aye, an he fancied himself as captain well enough, not to be forgetting that. He were always ambitious."

"Hence, he took your offer of the Dauntless that day."

"She weren't never mine to give, mores the pity," Jack replied. "But, aye, I knew t'would appeal to him. More so than all the swag in the world."

"Just as the thought of you sailing under his command appealed to him," Will said.

Jack looked over at the younger man again at that. Will had this almost slyly pleased look on his face right at the moment, the same look he'd gotten when Jack had praised his quickness in learning how to help him sail the Interceptor on their little jaunt from Port Royal to Tortuga. All as if he'd never been given a compliment before in his life. Considering the man he'd been apprenticed to, mayhap he'd never had.

"That it did," he replied. "An a good thing it were or else both of us might be dead ere now. For which your missy would never have forgiven me."

The mention of Elizabeth made Will's eyes sparkle even brighter than the sun on the waves and he smiled, a wide, almost sweet smile. A smile that made Jack abruptly feel ten times older than the other man, rather than just a dozen or more years. Had he ever been that young? Even when he'd been that young? But then, at Will's age, he'd already been Captain of the Pearl and had crewed aboard a handful of ships before her.

But that vibrant smile faded all too soon. "So what does all that have to do with your dream?" Will asked.

Jack shook his head. Persistent indeed. "When I was ill," he said. "I dreamt of the curse, of the mutiny, of a lot of things I'd just as soon not remember. But I'm no ill now, an still I see the man."

"Barbossa?"

Jack nodded. "He claims my life is forfeit for my part in sending the crew of the Pearl to their deaths. That I owe them, an him, for breaking me word."

"Do you believe that?"

"Which part of it, lad?"

"Any of it, Jack. Because, if you do, then you're wrong. I was there, remember? My life being in your hands, as it were."

"I would never have let ye die, lad."

"Well, thanks," Will said dryly. "But tell me... if Barbossa's crew had succeeded in taking the Dauntless and if he handed the Pearl over to you thereafter, made you her captain again—would you have abided by the terms of your agreement with him. Sailed under his colors and split your spoils with him and named him 'Commodore'?"

Jack let out a long breath. "Aye," he replied. "Pain me though it would to call that man master."

"And would you have served him well?" Will was relentless, heartless, obviously determined to make him see his point.

"Well as any." His voice was a whisper now, harsh even to his own ears.

Will's sunny smile returned again. "Then there is no issue, Jack. You're as honest a man as you ever were."

Jack gave him a sidelong gaze at that, but it didn't put a dent into the younger man. Either his good humor or the intensity of those warm brown eyes.

"Aye," he relented himself before them, knowing full well the moment of surrender when he'd reached it. Though he didn't have to much like it. "Honesty and stupidity. Hand in hand as ever they would be."

"More often even than madness and brilliance?" Will shot back at him. "Jack Sparrow, did you actually think that rescuing my Elizabeth from the waters that day was anything but sheer stupidity on your part?"

Jack, for once, had nothing to say to that. Or to how Will suddenly took his hand and grasped it tightly between two of his own. All humor suddenly fading from his face, leaving nothing but an earnestness that was almost frightening. If Jack hadn't already seen the man face down a whole crew of pirates, knowing that he couldn't kill but one of them.

"I've never thanked you for that," Will said, his voice low, almost harsh. "For saving her, with no thought to the risk to your own life. If she had died..."

He broke off suddenly, as if more than his voice was failing him, his eyes falling as well.

Jack struggled with himself, some part of him wanting to make light of it, but in the end he couldn't. Not to the son of Bootstrap. Not to the man who had stood up for him at the last and saved him from the rough embrace of the gallows.

"You're welcome, lad," he said softly. "You do well by her now an that's all I'll be asking in return. Savvy?"

Will nodded. Then he let go of Jack's hand and glanced up, out across the bay again. "Are you going to stay?" he asked then, his voice still low. Serious.

Jack shot him a glance, but the younger man didn't look at him. "Here in Port Royal? Or do you mean, do I plan on keeping to the straight and true?"

Will shrugged, but the disregard seemed somewhat forced. "Both, I guess."

Jack dug a hand down into the warm sand between them and held it before him, letting the grains trickle through his fingers. "Tis a fair enough town. Good as any and better than some. But I doubt as there's a place here for the likes of me. Even if I wished it. As for the other... tis all I know. Mayhap, tis all I am."

Will said nothing and his eyes dropped to the sand at his own feet once more. As if he could find answers he liked better there. But Jack could sense the disappointment in the lad, as if he truly had come to mean much to him in just this short a time. More than he had meant to any man in a very long time.

Well, except for...

Jack roughly scrubbed the last of the sand free between both palms, then got to his feet. Will immediately glanced up at him and, when Jack offered him his right hand, he nodded and took it, allowing the older man to haul him back to his feet. Jack held onto his hand then, staring directly into those warm brown eyes of his, more aware in that instance than he had ever been before of just how like Will Turner was to his father.

"I'm sorry, son," he said in a much softer tone. "But I imagine I should be moving on. In fact, I'll be seeking passage out sometime in the next few days most like. Soon as I find me a likely ship."

Will nodded, but disappointment quite clearly crossed his face. "Where will you go?" he asked quietly.

Jack shrugged. He let go of Will's hand and turned to look out across the bay himself, then further. Out to where the sea waited. "Where ever the wind takes me. As always."

"Elizabeth will want to see you," the younger man said, sounding seemingly resigned now. "She'll be coming down to the smithy tomorrow. For some reason, she likes to watch me work. And we don't tell her father about how much she fancies the swords."

"And swordsmanship?"

A rueful smile, but oddly proud all the same. "She wants me to teach her. I'm not sure it's a good idea."

Jack poked his finger at Will's chest, leaning in close. "I'm sure," he replied, then smiled. "Teach her."

Will nodded. Jack drew back again, before he pulled the other man close so suddenly that he just about knocked him off his feet. He held him tight for several moments, then let go enough that he could throw an arm amiably about his shoulders.

"Come with me," he said with all the authority of his years. "We need a drink or three and I wish to tell thee more about your father. If you're interested, that is. In hearing about the exploits of a pirate and a scallywag."

He started them walking down the beach back towards the docks, the two of them wavering a little back and forth across the sands. "And, in return... you, young Master Turner, will have to tell old Jack whether or not ye've yet managed to steal some private time with your lovely betrothed. Or are ye still waiting for that opportune moment?"

"I believe that is none of your business, Mister Sparrow," Will replied, though his voice was good-humored enough.

"Ah," Jack replied sorrowfully. "I thought as much. Haven't even kissed the lass yet, have ye?"

"I have so," Will retorted, pausing to draw himself up straight as Jack's arm would allow.

Jack paused as well, staring up into the younger man's face. Which was blushing most fetchingly right at the moment. Though, he would never dare tell the lad so.

"Well, then," was all he said. "That certainly calls for a drink."

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