Guardian Angel 10

Hell's Emeralds

by

Manic Intent

Ichiro smirked. "Do you know what are Hell's Emeralds, Miyako-sama? No? But I see that Captain Sparrow does. They are fallout from the last War in Heaven. Angel's blood. And the blood of the Archangels who fought beside or against Lucifer—with that one can, with the requisite knowledge, forge a weapon to be the bane of angels."

He drew his blade, flowing into a flat-footed stance alien to Jack's conception of footwork and style, the blade held with both hands before him. Along its edge was a thin yellow tracing that captured the pale light of the moon. "This blade is named Negation, Captain Sparrow, and it is the reason why Heaven has left me well alone for so many years."

"D'ye really have t'talk like that, mate?" The women—it probably appealed to women. Jack sighed. It seemed that, in defiance of all logic or expectation, his afterlife managed to involve even odder problems in the space of a few months than life ever had. And he'd thought that nothing could beat voodoo magic, undead pirates, sea monsters and various myths that weren't so mythical after all, all in the space of thirteen or so years... now he was having rogue Oriental angels, questions of his immortal soul and magic weapons, all couched in the backdrop of the issue of his current conscripted vocation. And ghost pirates. Couldn't forget the ghost pirates. If he wasn't actually experiencing it at this moment, he'd rather have thought this all a fantasy thought up by somebody who daydreamed a little too much about convenient adventure fiction.

And people wondered why he was daft.

The proximity of the edge of Hell's Emeralds on the blade was affecting Miyako as well—she was shying away from it, stumbling, white fingers clutching at her throat. Ichiro ignored her, instead beginning to circle—this, at least, was a dance that Jack knew well. With another deep sigh, he drew his own, rather battered sword. Step, step and step. A sudden quicksilver lunge from the other angel, and Jack barely had time to bring up his sword in a guard. The blow numbed his fingers and sent a bolt of pain through his suddenly sore frame—Jack cursed, and danced back, swaying precariously.

He darted around the next blow, hand outstretched as he sliced at an arm. Clothing parted, but the cut that the blade opened merely stitched itself shut. Ichiro looked bored. "You can't harm me with a sword that isn't real, Captain Sparrow."

Jack considered running. As Tia had said, this really was none of his business, and he wasn't sure why he had, as it were, interfered in the first place. There was no actual profit in it for him, and Miyako wasn't even really what he would call a close friend. Besides, there was no actual harm in it for her, was there?

It was the guardian angel thing. The invisibility. It made him far too inclined to meddle in things he didn't need to.

To buy himself time to think, Jack spent most of his time running (strategically retreating), or purely on the defensive. Parrying, dodging, and flailing around in the hopes of throwing Ichiro off balance by his apparently absolutely random style. It had worked before, on marines in particular—they tended to underestimate him from the yelps and the fluttering hands—but like William, and Barbossa, Ichiro wasn't fooled. Pity. Norrington had been easy enough, on that island, to convince that William was the larger threat.

"That all ye got?" Jack called, sidestepping another wicked slice.

Ichiro backed off gracefully, and began to circle again. Deja-vu—Jack followed his cue. "Actually, Captain Sparrow, I now have your measure. But it has been a while since I've dueled anybody of any skill. So good of your friends to invite me all the way into foreign territory, over the wards that Davy Jones used to stake out his claim."

"Don't holdin' that sword hurt yer fingers?" Jack asked curiously, ignoring the rather odd comment about wards, given that the blade seemed like a far more immediate problem. Simply looking at it was making him uncomfortable.

"With sufficient self-control, any pain is bearable," Ichiro informed him. Their blades met, in a cross. "And you misunderstand the basic tenet of fighting when both of us are in spiritual form."

"An' what's that be?"

"These weapons are but an extension of our faith in ourselves," Ichiro smiled. Cold, like a shark. There was a sudden lack of resistance, as though he was holding a stick of butter, to a knife.

Instinctively, Jack leaped back—but not before his sword was sheared almost in two, with a sound that made him grit his teeth and his ears threaten to mutiny. "Oh... bugger."

Right. There were so many important things that people always failed to tell him until the worst moment. Such as, say, the usage of giant squid pets as a method of collecting on debts, when drunk and agreeing to a contract. Or the fact that very pretty young ladies of society could have their morals corrupted enough by desperation to sacrifice pirate captains who thought a little too much with the lower bit of their bodies rather than the brain. Ahem. Irrelevant thought, especially at this moment.

Jack parried a feint that drove his guard low, then flinched as he realized his mistake. The longer sword swept back up with the momentum from the blow and whirled down again, in a deadly arc.

White, and brushing feathers. Miyako caught the blade between her palms, having darted between them, the edge slicing into the tip of Jack's tricorn hat. What looked suspiciously like smoke edged out from between her palms, from where they met the yellow line. Ichiro's eyes were wide in shock.

"This is the strength of my conviction, Ichiro-kun," Miyako said softly. "Of how wrong you are, at this moment."

Ichiro pulled the blade away, lowering it to his side. "No, Miyako-sama. Against you, my blade has no edge."

Jack muttered under his breath about melodramatic Oriental angels, catching one of Miyako's palms and turning it up to check it. There was a nasty-looking red line etched into pale flesh, like a brand. His 'P' scar itched. "Ye'd better be getting somethin' cold onto this," he said, just as he realized how... stupid those words were. Certainly mortal remedies couldn't affect an angel.

Miyako glanced down briefly at her palms. "They'd heal by themselves, Jack. Unlike some other wounds." Black eyes were cold as she looked back up at Ichiro. "You'd not kill Weatherby."

"The last time you felt so strongly that your role was not to intervene that you let me kill that fat brown woman," Ichiro looked piercingly at Jack. "You've changed, Miyako-sama."

"I didn't think you would kill her, simply to make a point," Miyako hissed. "I won't make that mistake again. Thinking that you still have a core of honor within you."

"Try and stop me," Ichiro smirked. "Captain Sparrow. Should we continue our duel? Men do not hide behind the skirts of women."

"Nobody's hidin'," Jack shrugged. "But th'way I see it, there's a wee bit o' an unfair disadvantage that ye've got, mate."

"Didn't I lend your friends a rather large Hell's Emerald? You merely have to hold it in your hands and challenge me," Ichiro traced a circle in the air. Will's emerald tumbled out, rolling to Jack's feet.

Jack picked it up, dropped his sword, drew his pistol, cocked and fired, all in one fluid motion. The bad angle, however, skewed the shot—it punched high up through Ichiro's left shoulder, the man blinking in comic surprise. There was a choked sound, then he coughed out something silvery that solidified into tiny grains of Hell's Emeralds when they hit the grass. Likely had bitten his tongue, poor thing. A snarl. "No honor at all!"

"Yer a pirate yerself, mate," Jack gestured with the pistol, ignoring the way the Hell's emerald burned like a coal in his hand. "Should be knowin' that swords an' honor, they ain't really th'way a pirate prefers t'fight. Now, what not ye be leavin' Miyako alone now? Seein' as th'lady isn't exactly inclined t'enjoy yer attentions. Oh, an' leave Gibbs, Marty an' Cotton where they want t'go, safe an' sound, aye?"

"You can't hold that forever," Ichiro sneered.

"I can, however, shoot ye full o' holes 'fore that," Jack replied evenly.

With a final hissed oath, Ichiro vanished. Jack quickly dropped the stone, wringing his hand and grimacing at the reddened mark. "M'don't care, I'm going t'find some ice."

"We can't just leave it there," Miyako pointed at the gem.

"Oh, hell... why not ye go get 'Lizabeth, suggest it's real important that she come down t'the garden right now?"

Blowing over the mark on his palm didn't seem to help, nor did wringing it. Jack finally sat down on the grass, poking around the edges a little miserably, looking up only when Miyako was back. Elizabeth bent down and picked up the emerald.

Elizabeth frowned down at Jack, but failed to look threatening when dressed for bed, with only a heavy robe thrown over her shift. "Why is this here? Where's Will?"

"He's fine. The original owner just repossessed it fer a bit," Jack shrugged. "Knowin' them, they're probably headed here right now. Hopefully wi' Gibbs an' th'rest, since I think th'Cap'n probably wouldn't be o' a good disposition right of this moment."

"Oh Jack... your poor hand!" Elizabeth bent down and grabbed his wrist, questions of her fiancé forgotten for the moment in horror. "We'd better get something put on it."

"I was told it wouldn't help," Jack glanced to Miyako for confirmation—then frowned. The petite angel was gone. Confused, he allowed himself to be dragged back into the Swann residence.

Ice actually made him feel better. Or it could be because he expected to feel better. Same thing. Holding the pack over the burn, he listened to and accepted a soft apology, then related, under her insistence, exactly how the emerald had gotten into the garden. They sat in the east parlor, with Elizabeth curled up in a chair and Jack cross-legged on the tea table. She pursed her lips. "I see. So that Captain was so helpful because he wanted directions. To kill my father." Eyes narrowed in irritation, and her hand tightened around the gem. "We'll see about that."

"Ye won't be doin' any seein' to 'round th'lines o' goin' t'his ship an' tryin' t'kill him, are ye?" Jack asked cautiously. "'Cos, y'know, luv, yer a wee bit too much like yer Will sometimes."

"What else do you suggest?" Elizabeth arched an eyebrow.

"Mebbe some old fashioned parley?"

"Your parleys don't always turn out very well for everybody," Elizabeth said, a little snidely, Jack thought. "And besides, you can't hold this without burning yourself."

There was a knock on the window. Both glanced over to see William waving while clinging on to the ledge. Elizabeth unlatched it, and there were a few confused moments as William and Norrington were helped up over the sill. Gibbs nearly stuck in the frame, and Marty had to be lifted up. The parrot squawked irritably as Cotton, finally, was pulled into the room.

Norrington grabbed Jack's wrist—visibility issues had been briefly forgotten, in the pain—and lifted up the cloth-wrapped packet of ice. He frowned at the red mark. "How?"

"Turns out that pretty stone don't like bein' held by angels," Jack said evasively. Unfortunately, before he could say anything to stop Elizabeth, she had already begun recounting what he had told her. Norrington frowned, letting go of Jack's hand, when she was done—in concert with William.

"Right. We go back, shoot him, then have some hot chocolate and turn in for the day," William decided, opening his palm for the stone. Elizabeth refused to relinquish it.

"I'm going with you."

"Like that?" William grinned boyishly. "Your father's probably burned those boy's clothes by now, and, well, a dress is going to take you ages to change into. Not to mention it's inappropriate for boarding pirate ships and shooting their captains."

Months out at sea with his beloved had, Jack noticed, also rubbed out the rather tongue-tied way William used to get around Elizabeth. They now seemed to settle easily into the banter of partners, rather than two younglings in love.

"I'd have you know, William Turner, that I can shoot better than you even if I had to wear one of those damned London society dresses," Elizabeth retorted.

"Language, miss," Jack cut in, just as William opened his mouth to argue. When Elizabeth transferred her glare to him he added, quickly, "Though I like th'change. Now, why not ye be makin' th'hot cocoa, an' we be goin' t'settle business?"

"If I slap you holding this, Jack, I'm sure it'd hurt. A lot," Elizabeth said evenly, holding up the gem. Jack cringed behind Norrington, who looked amused.

"Now what?" Norrington asked.

"I don't believe he'd just leave like that," William frowned down at the surf. "He's probably gone to lick his wounds."

Elizabeth agreed with Will, when they returned to the residence, and also graciously extended Swann hospitality to Gibbs, Marty and Cotton. A sidelong glance at Norrington. "James. Could you... overlook their presence, for the time being?"

Norrington arched an eyebrow. "Ignore the presence of wanted pirates?"

Elizabeth pouted prettily. "All right. I can't really think of anything we have of value, except... what about if we give you the Hell's..."

"Wait, wait, 'Lizabeth," Jack sashayed forward and grinned, fluttering his fingers. "I be their Cap'n, so I'd do th'negotiatin', aye?"

She frowned at him. "Ex-Captain."

"M'still here so m'still Cap'n," Jack wrung one seemingly boneless hand dismissively. "So, Commodore..."

"What makes you think I don't want that emerald?" Norrington smirked.

"What makes ye think I can't come up wi' a better offer?" Jack retorted.

Norrington looked him slowly up and down, with no inflexion in expression or any hint of salacious intent, but Jack still had to suppress a shiver of anticipation. "You're dead, Captain Sparrow."

"Th'heart. I'd steal th'heart."

Was that a brief flicker of disappointment? Jack grinned. Norrington's face assumed its habitual mask. William, missing the subtext totally, protested, "But I want the heart!"

"Ah, an' ye have just th'thing to trade fer it, aye?" Jack pointed at the gem that was seriously giving him the willies. "That way everybody's happy, aye?"

"Oh. I suppose so." William blinked. "Okay."

"In that case," Norrington said amiably, "I suppose that, within the bounds of reason, I can fail to notice some of the additional... latecomers, to Governor Swann's soiree."

Gibbs blinked. "Say what?"

"Means ye have t'dress up," Jack glanced down at Marty significantly, who folded short arms. "An' behave."

"In addition, nobody would be able to see you. Or use it to hurt you," Norrington said over his shoulder, hanging up his coat.

"Ye think that don't sound suspicious t'the whelps if they ask ye why ye want th'gem?"

"They already know, Jack," Norrington said wryly, slouching into a chair to remove his boots. "William told me as much on the way here. It seems your friend Miss Dalma is very good at clairvoyance, and also very bad at holding secrets."

"Oh." Jack glanced quickly at Norrington—who didn't seem upset in the least. "Don't mind?"

"Don't mind them knowing," Norrington shrugged. "I suppose I might have. Before everything. But now... well, perhaps having a warrant over your head changes a person. It's so much more difficult to care about the niceties of society."

Jack scooted over to sit at the edge, pulling off his boots and using toes to knead an inner thigh. Norrington stopped in the act of unlacing his second boot, and looked up. Questioning. Jack smirked. "Expected me t'trade favors fer favors?"

"It crossed my mind," the Commodore confessed, shirking off his boot and leaning back against the chair, an arm over the back, the other on a rest, his legs casually open.

"Would ye have accepted?" Jack asked curiously. Toes moved a little higher, and he could see the beginnings of an appropriate response in Norrington's breeches. A soft gasp escaped the other man.

"What do you think?"

"Sexual favors t'shirk yer duties? Th'Commodore would never do that," Jack smirked, shifting a little, now rubbing the hardening ridge with the ball of his foot. Norrington's eyes were closed, his lips open, shaping hitching moans, hips jerking as toes squeezed lightly and slipped slowly up towards the tip. "Not sure 'bout James, though, seein' as he's quite th'libertine, nowadays. Could be a sign o' bein' daft, that, havin' two personalities, eh?"

"Speak... speak for yourself," Norrington gasped. "Jack, and... Captain Sparrow."

"Aye. A title, an' a name. Same as ye," Jack curled his toes, angled, and stroked up and down, leisurely. "Could be we're very alike."

"I very much doubt it," Norrington said, tiring of the teasing—he leaned up and pulled Jack bodily into his lap. A moan—possibly from Jack—as clothed erections were pressed up against each other, his legs curled a little uncomfortably under the rests and off the chair, wings outstretched behind him. He rolled his hips forward—Norrington growled, and snapped his own up, sharply. Ah. Impatient. Jack purred, stroking hands down from broad shoulders to muscular arms. Warm palms settled on his hip, then one trailed down to his rump. The purr became louder.

Fingers stilled over the cleft. "Sore?" Norrington whispered

"See me limpin'?"

"No." Both long fingers now fumbling with belts. "God. Must you wear so many damned belts?"

"Only sore near th'gem," Jack gasped when a forefinger inadvertently rasped against his prick. Fair's fair—he began to grind himself insistently against the delicious heat against him. Norrington arched, cursed when his fingers fumbled at the clasp, then yanked at it uselessly. "Hey, hey. Careful."

"Stop... stop that. Or help me, damnit," The other man managed to say, his eyes cloudy with need, then he frowned adorably as he attempted to focus on something Jack had said. "Something about the... Hell's Emerald?"

"Aye. Think it makes an angel near it a little more... human. Fer a bit. An' it ain't a very comfortable process, I can tell ye."

"Jack. Seriously. Stop. Or I'm going to..."

"To what?"

"Do something... uhh... utterly undignified."

"An' we aren't bein' utterly undignified at th'moment? Ye wi' a lapful o' pirate?"

A growl. Jack found himself lifted back onto the table. Norrington rested his head on a thigh, gasping, shoulders trembling, then he glanced up irritably. Jack smirked. "Want t'put that mouth t'better use?"

There was a snort, but Norrington, with steadier hands, removed belts and unlaced breeches, gently freeing the eager prick. Pressed a tongue tentatively to the dripping tip, then frowned slightly at the taste, so obviously rolling it in his mouth, eyes half-lidded, fingers stilled over folds of rough fabric. Jack found himself wordlessly entranced by the erotic sight—an insistent moan, and Norrington's gaze snapped up to him.

A faint smirk, and Norrington began slowly lapping up and down the shaft, exploring the vein, the folds of the foreskin, the taut flesh of the head, hot air from nose and throat bathing his work, Jack's abdomen. Nosing coarse curls, as a tongue wrapped partially around the base. Fingers pulled breeches down to Jack's knees, then cupped his back, urging him to tilt up his hips. Laps against the twitching muscle of inner thighs, then curiously around tightening sacs. Exploring. Jack's consideration of whether the man had done this before or not was slowly lost, unraveling, as Norrington sucked one sac, then the other, into his mouth, careful with teeth, mapping with tongue, then turned his attention back to the prick, chuckling softly as fingers knotted in chocolate-brown hair.

"Yer drivin' me crazy, man," Jack hissed, as Norrington rubbed the tip of his nose curiously over the slicked surface.

"You spent ten years waiting for your ship," Norrington retorted mildly, flicking his tongue over the folded foreskin again, causing Jack's toes to curl from where they hung to either side of the longer frame, out in the air. "Patience shouldn't be an alien concept to you."

"Right. Don't get on me case later fer playin' dirty, 'cos ye started it," Jack muttered, hands going down briefly to shirk the offending breeches off knees and onto the ground. His toes wandered back over thighs to Norrington's breeches, where by exerting all of his remaining self-control and concentration, he managed to maneuver open buttons. Norrington stopped nuzzling him to look down, chuckling softly, then helped him, and purred deep in his throat, like a large cat, when Jack stroked his big toe up the side of throbbing heat. "James."

"Mm?"

"Bet ye wish t'was me tongue here. Doin' this." Jack stroked toes up to the tip, then gently scratched down with a nail. He kept his voice low, husky. "Blow air over this..." a little toe against the head, "An' dip me tongue here." Toe over the slit. Norrington moaned, hot breath puffing over his own sensitized shaft. Jack continued to speak, stroking the other man's hair, green eyes focused rather unsteadily at his ribs, describing in explicit detail what he wanted to do. Occasionally, hips would jerk, and there was even, definitely, a whimper. Eventually, when Jack was finally running out of words, he tipped up Norrington's chin, smirking down at dazed, flushed features. "But what I think ye really want t'do now, James, is t'put this... inside me, aye?"

Green eyes narrowed a little, then Norrington shook his head wryly. "You probably have a mind dirtier than... than..."

"Aye. Well?"

"The oil. It's in my coat."

"Bit far."

"Mm."

"Oversight there, aye?"

"Mm... ah..."

"Here."

"...What? How? Oh. Jesus Christ, Jack, I certainly hope... Heaven isn't keeping tabs on your... your 'miracles'!"

"Handy thing, innit? Bein' all angelic. Which pocket? Yer coat's bloody heavy."

"Probably the most inappropriate use of ability since... since... uh. Mm."

Coat discarded with the breeches, Jack slowly lowered himself down on thick heat, closing his eyes, his free hand curled tightly into one warm shoulder. He squirmed a little when filled, breath hissing out through clenched teeth, toes managing to find purchase on the ground. Hmm. Not enough leverage. Norrington shifted lower in the chair. Jack arched, then smirked, and clenched. Definitely a whimper.

Shifting one knee up onto the little available space allowed him to move—slowly up, then impale himself down on jerking hips. Slender fingers on his waist, supporting him, and a callused hand around his dripping prick. Jack groaned, gripping the arm rests, and made it harder. Faster. A little shift, and the heat within him bumped against the spot that made his head snap back with a harsh gasp. "Fuck yes!"

That seemed to trigger something in Norrington—darkening green eyes seemed to burn, and Jack abruptly found himself bodily pulled from the chair—he snarled, from the momentary emptiness—and turned to face the desk. Understanding, he barely had time to brace himself before fingers curled painfully into his hips, his slighter body jerking forward involuntarily at each thrust. His back bowed, still able to feel the heat radiating from behind him, barely registering the gasping mantra moaned against his neck. Words. Whimpers, moans. Fluttering wings, trembling from an overload of sensation that centered between his legs. The hand at his hip jerked down, and began squeezing him, roughly, until he tensed, back curved, lips an inch from the polished wood. "James..." Exultation, a plea, a staked claim.

A nip at his ear, and a choked, answering growl. "Mine."

Completion made Jack sag onto his elbows on the desk, forehead against the cool wood, panting. From the sounds of it, Norrington had slumped into the chair, breathlessly chuckling.

Finally, Jack muttered, "What?"

"And to think just a day or so ago you were absolutely against debauchery."

"Aye, well, when ye've gone some o' th'way, might as well go all o' th'way. Don't see ye complainin'. 'Sides, ye need practice."

"I don't see you complaining."

"Just sayin' that yer technique could use some polishin'."

"I'm not the one currently sprawled in a compromising position."

"Ain't relevant t'what m'sayin'."

"Or the one who was begging to be done harder."

"... still not relevant..."

A snort.

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