Marooned, 27

In Which Jack is Liberated

by

Gloria Mundi

No denying it'd been good, and more than good: just what he'd wanted, though more than he'd ever honestly expected to get. Who'd've thought that James Norrington would fall so easily? Jack made it a habit to flirt with everyone, no matter if they showed any sign of interest: all the more fun, really, when they didn't. Until tonight, he'd've sworn that Norrington would rather chop off his own hand than lay it on Jack Sparrow's bare flesh.

Jack, in the darkness, allowed himself a slow smile of reminiscence. Such fervour! Norrington had to've been thinking about that. Thinking about Jack, maybe. That hadn't been a spur-of-the-moment thing.

Maybe it wasn't a unique one, either. Maybe it was going to happen again.

The shiver that ran through Jack alarmed him. He eased himself out from under the other man's arm. The lantern was still burning; there was a vague sussurus of merriment from the deck, aft. Norrington slept on, and Jack hardly dared look at him for fear of being overbalanced by the surge of attraction that he felt.

They were both still half-dressed, and Jack need do no more than pull up his breeches and set his shirt to rights. Perfectly respectable, he told himself, and tried not to think on whether the crew had heard anything ... untoward.

He didn't want to go back out and talk and laugh and drink: but he couldn't stay here, though that narrow space next to Norrington tempted him so. But it was Norrington, Jack's old foe—though Jack had to concede that he'd always played fair, after that first time on the dock—and Jack hadn't exactly planned to renounce a year's celibacy in such ... august company. He needed to think about the implications: he wanted to think about the future.

He let himself out (not forgetting to take the rest of the rum, as Norrington would surely have bidden him) as quietly as he could; very quietly indeed, since he'd already discarded the stiff leather shoes that they'd provided for him. Half the men, at least, were still gathered at the waist, cheering and singing and, some of 'em, dancing a jig. It made Jack's head ache to look at them. He hauled himself up onto the roof of the for'ard cabins—not a yard above Norrington's bunk, give or take a few feet left or right—and rolled onto his back, gazing up at the stars.

There were so many scraps of information whirling in Jack's brain that it made him dizzy. This war, and England gone: not that he'd any special love for the place, but still, gone. That meant ... meant all the English ports and settlements were Spanish now, or French. What about Scotland? Always pally with France, so they'd likely ended up with half the North Country. What about old Swann, and his lovely daughter, and her lovely blacksmith? He'd ask—

Jack chuckled aloud at his own evasions. "Norrington," he whispered to the night.

Norrington wasn't the man—the Commodore—Jack'd known before. Never mind the obvious stuff (he'd have to ask him, some time, about that leg; about the Ariel; about,—yes, yes—the Turners), he'd been as cast away, as lost and alone, as Jack himself. Everything he cared for gone: the man himself toughened and refined by the sheer act of survival. And, from Jack's admittedly partisan point of view, improved: less of that (Jack grinned) ramrod-stiff Naval rectitude, less of Duty and Law and Service. Now Norrington was his own man, in his own war, and Jack had plenty of experience of that.

And he'd a fine ship—Jack glanced up at the rigging, and waggled his fingers in a little wave (returned at once; good show) to the chap on watch in the maintop—with which to wage his war. A fine ship and a happy one, even without a Navy to keep 'em in line. It was just like Jack'd always said, a good captain didn't need Articles or punishments if he had respect.

Jack was willing to respect Norrington. He was willing, in fact, to do quite a few things with, to, for James Norrington: always assuming (his smile faded) that Norrington did not, on waking, immediately order Jack hanged from the yard-arm, or tipped overboard like shark-bait, or left to rot back on his own (or any other) little island.

That thought sent a cold shiver down Jack's spine, all the colder for having been preceded so recently by the warm and ardent glow of what he'd like to happen.

And after all, he was Jack Sparrow. Captain Jack Sparrow. A pretty mess it'd be, if he couldn't talk his way round Norrington's doubts and regrets. Always assuming—

"Jack," said someone from behind him.

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