Marooned, 26

In Which Norrington Rescues Jack

by

Gloria Mundi

"I'll not be mocked, Jack!" Norrington leaned back in his seat, wanting to be out of Jack's reach—or for Jack to be out of his. But Sparrow didn't rock forward to follow. Instead, he pushed the chair back noisily and was on his feet before Norrington had registered the movement.

"What are you—"

Sparrow might have been pretending, but Norrington thought the frustrated hurt in his eyes was real.

"Wouldn't want to force you to anything you didn't want," he muttered, not meeting Norrington's eyes. "Reckon I should be able to find a friendly hand somewhere below-decks, if I haven't lost my charm."

"Jack!"

Norrington's fingers closed over Jack's as the pirate lifted the latch. For a moment neither of them moved. He could feel Sparrow's breath, quick and uneven, where his shoulder touched Norrington's chest.

"A year," Sparrow said sulkily. "And then you had to play the tease."

"I wasn't teas—"

"You bloody were," said Sparrow, turning so that his back was to the door and scowling at Norrington. "What say you let me go and we'll—"

"Jack!"

Norrington wanted to shake him. Perhaps he just wanted to touch him. He bent forward, propping himself against the door-jamb, and put his mouth next to Sparrow's ear. His heart was so loud it'd give him away to every man on board, if any were listening. He knew exactly what he wanted, now—was distantly surprised at it, and amused that it'd taken him so long to come to something so obvious—but he had no idea of how to go about it.

"Jack," he murmured softly, and felt the pirate shiver. "I'm not teasing. I just don't ... I can't ... " Can't even speak of it, he thought mockingly to himself. But Jack Sparrow was close enough that he could feel the heat of the other man, at throat and gut and groin, and the way the pirate was looking at him made him wonder if Jack had understood.

Norrington reached around Jack and turned the key in the lock. "There," he said.

"You're locking me in?" said Sparrow, with a feral grin.

"I'm locking everyone else out," Norrington corrected. He took half a step back. "Do you want me to touch you?" he said, frowning.

"Back there," said Sparrow, swivelling one hand bonelessly off to the right, "'twas just me, mate. Me and my good right hand."

"I didn't—" said Norrington stiffly.

"And I dreamt of you there, James," said Sparrow softly.

There was so much to answer, there—not least that the pirate had called him by his first name—but all Norrington could say, supremely irrelevant, was, "M-more than once?"

"More than once," said Jack, and he licked his lips.

Norrington still had no idea what to do, but he thought that if he didn't kiss Jack Sparrow immediately, he might break. Jack must've seen it coming, or perhaps he was just too slow, because for a little while it was unclear who was kissing whom. The heat and hardness of Jack's body under his right hand—the left still occupied in holding him up, off the door—felt at once like, and nothing like, Anamaria or Elizabeth or that girl at the Ship. He'd never kissed a man before, but that wasn't important: what mattered was that it was Jack he was kissing.

Some time later they were on the narrow bunk, lying entangled with Jack's erection pushing against James' hip and Jack sprawled half over him, moaning into another kiss as he tried to get James' breeches unbuttoned. Norrington felt hot and slightly sick, and almost claustrophobic. He wanted to feel cold air (and hot flesh) on his skin. He wanted to touch Jack: he wanted, in fact, to have Jack responding to his hands the way he was responding to Jack's: but his hands wouldn't move, and Jack was writhing on top of him.

Eventually he got one hand free, and used it to pull Jack closer as he pushed up against him. Jack groaned as though he was in real pain, but Norrington took no notice. He rolled them both until Jack was on the cot and Norrington was pinning him down; then propped himself on one elbow, and slid his free hand down between their bodies, past Jack's busily-working hand at the open front of his own breeches, until he could curve his palm against the hot, hard bulge of Jack's erection. Jack began to babble, and Norrington kissed him again to keep him quiet, while his hand began a series of strokes designed to have quite the opposite effect. He was furiously excited. Jack's hand on him, Jack's tongue exploring his mouth, the noises, the heat, the way that every move he made had its reaction: he already knew that once would not be enough. His own climax took him almost by surprise: he was making loud, baying noises into the secrecy of Jack's mouth even while his own hand worked over the sweat-dampened front of Jack's breeches, rewarding every push with a stroke, losing his rhythm and finding it again just as Jack froze and shuddered and pulled hard on Norrington's hair.

Norrington tucked his face against the wet skin of Sparrow's neck and licked. Jack tasted of salt and dirt.

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