Marooned, 25

In Which Jack Requires Sanctuary

by

Gloria Mundi

He didn't mention the scaly thing on the beach, or the eyes in the night, or the bloody mermaids. Not that they'd care that he was gone.

But, Christ, there were a lot of 'em, this little private Navy of Norrington's, and Jack was a little out of practice at keeping quite so many entertained. Out of practice with the rum, too, though that was a skill that he'd enjoy honing afresh. Hate to make Norrington feel his welcome-party wasn't properly appreciated. And it was early yet: the moon was only just above the yard-arm, and it had risen almost as soon as the swift tropical dusk had faded to black.

"How are you enjoying yourself, Mr Sparrow?"

Bloody Norrington. Jack twisted around and scowled up at him from his seat on the top step of the poop-deck stairs. "That's Captain Sparrow," he said darkly, "and we'll deal with the matter of the ship in due course, eh?"

Norrington bowed his head, probably the closest to an apology that Jack'd ever get. "I was rather hoping," he said quietly, "to hear what ... what happened."

Jack closed his eyes and took another restorative draught from the beaker in his hand. He'd known this was coming: and after all, no captain worth his salt would ignore such a hazard, never mind that Jack had a cat in hell's chance of getting Norrington to believe him. And the rum might make it easier, all said and done.

"I've some better stuff in my cabin," said Norrington, as though he'd read Jack's mind. Jack doubted that he had: he'd problems enough himself, sometimes, with that.

"Aye," he said. "'Tis a tale soon told."

But it was not so very easy. Norrington had him trace the Black Pearl's final voyage on an Admiralty chart. "As close as you can," he said, pouring more rum for them both.

"Log book's gone down with the rest," grumbled Jack, blinking back a prickling behind his eyes. Tiredness, no doubt: he'd always turned in soon after dusk, back on the island.

And Norrington, as Jack could've predicted—well, had predicted—was dismayingly sceptical about the ... the thing from the deeps.

"Well," snapped Jack eventually, exasperated beyond measure, "if you don't believe a word of it, then how'd I come by this little souvenir, eh?"

The borrowed shirt was covering him decently enough, so there was no reason for the Commo- ... for Captain Norrington to flush, nor to avert his gaze so primly. And there, laid bare as Jack stripped off the breeches, were the round white scars that he'd woken with, all those months ago, beside a fire he hadn't built.

Norrington, after that first flinch, was cool and professional about it. He leaned forward to look at the marks (bringing to mind another little fantasy of Jack's: but now probably wasn't the time to mention that) and spread his fingers beside Jack's leg—Jack's turn to flinch, but in the end Norrington did not touch him—measuring the breadth of the largest circle.

"I've never seen anything like it," he told Jack, straightening. "Is there any pain?"

Jack shook his head. "Should be an entertaining spectacle, though, next time I've company at bedtime." He cocked an eyebrow at Norrington. "How long 'til we make port, eh?"

"A week, at least," said Norrington coolly. "Put your clothes on, Jack." He had that fastidious expression again, and Jack let his grin broaden. But wait; he'd said 'Jack', and that must be worth something.

Jack pulled his breeches up again (lovely soft cloth, like silk against his sunburnt skin) and settled himself in the chair across from Norrington, leaning forward over the white spaces of the chart to knock his cup against the other's.

"To good company," he said, and waited until Norrington began to echo the toast before he added, "... at bedtime."

"Sparrow! Can you think of nothing else?" Norrington's colour was high: could be just the rum, for sure, but Jack was beginning to have an idea that it—the flush, and the way he'd said Jack's name, and the way he hadn't looked at Jack as he stripped—was something else besides. Maybe it was only those dreams and fantasies he'd been enjoying for so long. Maybe: maybe not.

He swayed to his feet (the rum helped with that, at least) and leaned precariously close to Norrington, close enough that he could feel the other man's warm breath on his skin, Jack wanted to close his eyes and enjoy it, but not just yet.

"A year's a long time," he whispered, grinning, "an' a week ain't looking much shorter, either. P'rhaps there's some like-minded gent on this fine boat, eh? Some proper Navy—beg your pardon, ex-Navy—type who'll take a notorious pirate in hand—"

"Shut up, Jack!" And oh, Norrington's hand was hot and strong, and though Jack first thought that he'd be struck, or pushed away, the hand simply came to rest on his shoulder, two splayed fingers touching his bare skin where the wide neck of the shirt fell away from his collarbone.

Jack could not help himself. He pushed into that lovely other-touch, just a little: and for a moment the pressure was returned, and Norrington was looking at him without pretence or prejudice. A moment only, and then the touch was gone, and Jack felt cold.

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