Marooned, 28
In Which Norrington's Vision Clears
by
Gloria Mundi See Chapter 1 for full headers
Originally Posted: 1/28/05
He'd known, even half-asleep, when Jack eased himself out of the bunk, and crept out of the cabin. Norrington had wanted to hold onto him: wanted (to his faint surprise) to carry on from the point at which they'd left off. Perhaps it was the rum, but he had an inkling that the whole thing—the whole unexpected, obvious thing—been in his thoughts, or his dreams, for a while now. He was surprised not to feel more surprised: which thought, articulated, came to him in Jack Sparrow's voice, and made him laugh.
No point now in pretending to be asleep. Sparrow, no doubt, had gone off somewhere to brood, or plot, or simply to hide: he hadn't seemed all that surprised, either. (Norrington recalled Jack's remark about his ... his fantasies, and blushed.) Nor had he seemed unwilling: quite the opposite. And Norrington was willing to bet that Jack Sparrow knew much, much more of the ways of men with men than did Norrington himself: an intriguing thought. Equally possible, of course, that Norrington had been just what Jack said: the first person to touch him, the first friendly hand.
Norrington thought it had been more than that, though. He lay for a moment, listening to the sounds from outside. Had he and Jack been loud enough to be heard? No use worrying about it now: and this wasn't the Navy, where a man could be hanged for such things.
He wanted ... He wanted Jack back in his cabin, at once: not (well, not only) to touch and look at and laugh with, but to talk to, to talk this out, to find out what had happened, and if it might happen again.
And he knew where Jack was: could hear him. He stood up carefully, stooping a little to avoid the low ceiling: tidied himself, wincing a little at the sticky mess and grinning as he recalled that climacteric moment: then, opening the cabin door stealthily, he stepped out in his bare feet, straightening to his full height.
There, as he'd known.
"Jack," he said softly: then fought back a laugh at the pirate's startlement.
"James," said Sparrow, exasperated. He had kept hold of the rum bottle, and now Norrington nodded at it.
"Come in for a minute," he said. "And bring the rum back, eh?"
"An' why should—"
"Jack," said Norrington warningly: just that, but it was enough. Sparrow slithered down from the cabin roof—somehow managing not to spill a drop of drink—and, after one impenetrable look at Norrington, went into the cabin ahead of him.
Norrington closed the door.
"Jack, I—"
"There's only one question worth asking yourself, mate, and that's whether you've any regrets," said Jack, settling himself comfortably in the chair again and pouring himself another cup of rum, just as though the last hour had been a dream.
Norrington tilted his head and regarded Sparrow, but he could not find a trace of consternation. Sparrow stared back at him, a faint smile on his face; utterly unreadable.
Norrington wanted to laugh. Instead, he held his tongue until Sparrow opened his mouth to speak; then said, calmly, "I don't regret anything. Do you?"
There was Sparrow's most aggravating smile again, broad and sharp and glittery. For some reason it made Norrington think of the way Jack'd looked as he spent, and his own smile widened.
"Nothing at all, mate: James, if I may ...? Thank you kindly. I don't regret a moment of it, James, an' I never thought ..."
"I can well believe you never thought, Jack," said Norrington, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Never thought, James, that my fond fancies would come out so nicely," said Sparrow, with a smirk.
"What next, Jack?" said Norrington.
"We could do it again?"
Norrington closed his eyes briefly, fighting back the urge to accept that invitation. "I meant, what will you do? A ship can't have two captains, and I'm not—"
"I want my own ship," said Sparrow, leaning forward, and his eyes were blacker and more intent than Norrington had ever seen them. "My own command."
"And ... this?" said Norrington, wondering why 'this' should suddenly matter so much, when at sunset he'd never suspected it at all.
"Well, James," said Sparrow, beaming at him, so earnest that Norrington longed to believe him, "we'll be equals, eh? You and me."
"I don't—" began Norrington, and then stopped, for Sparrow was right.
"It's not so bad," Sparrow said; and when Norrington raised his head, he winked. "No reason that we shouldn't meet up, from time to time: swap news, share any prizes—don't deny it, mate, you're privateering with the best of 'em, never mind that you ain't got that letter—have a brief respite from the war."
"It's not your war," said Norrington bitterly, wanting to spark a response from the pirate: but Sparrow only shrugged.
Norrington stared down at his hands, at the blank spaces on the chart that was still spread over the table—should put that away—at Sparrow's scarred fingers, a hand's-breadth from his own. The fingers retreated, and returned wrapped around a full cup of rum, which Norrington took and drained.
Oddly peaceful, to sit here with Jack Sparrow, head hazy with rum and satisfaction and desire, not speaking, not even looking: comfortable. And Sparrow was mercifully (if uncharacteristically) silent, as though he too were enjoying this respite.
The lantern guttered at last, and Norrington, half-dozing, raised his head.
"D'you want me to go? ... Norrington?"
Norrington blinked, and looked Jack Sparrow in the eye, and shook his head.
"Don't go," he said, essaying a smile. "That is—"
"I'll stay," said Sparrow, and his smile gleamed brighter, closer than before.
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Chapter 29