Marooned, 29

In Which Jack Sets a Challenge

by

Gloria Mundi

Bloody Norrington (and Jack could not stop himself smiling at the thought) looked intolerably fresh, as though he'd enjoyed a blameless night's sleep, which Jack knew very well had not been the case. Disgusting, that's what it was. (But oh, the look on James' face when Jack'd kissed him just so, in the soft crease below his hip-bone.)

This time yesterday he'd been frolicking in the rain. Now he was basking on the roof of the captain's cabin, on board the Ariel—a privateer if e'er he'd seen one, never mind James Norrington's high-toned ideals—sailing north-west over a calm friendly ocean towards Jamaica, where Jack would find himself a ship to call his own. And then ... then ...

"Tired, Sparrow?"

"Go 'way," murmured Jack without opening his eyes, smiling. "Asleep."

"Thought you'd have more stamina," said Norrington cheerfully.

"Not as young as I was, mate," Jack pointed out. "And it's been a busy day all told. Being rescued takes it out of a man."

"I noticed," murmured Norrington. Jack risked a look through slitted eyes. Norrington stood at ease—distinctly so, any man could see he'd been Navy—on the deck between the cabin and the rail, one hand on the cabin roof just by Jack's hip, gazing out at the cloudless sky, and flicking glance after glance at Jack.

Oh, those hands.

It had been so different to anything Jack'd dreamt, waking or sleeping, back on Sparrow Island. He'd never imagined being Norrington's first, or thought of how good it might feel simply to be touched, not demandingly or roughly or punishingly but wonderingly. Which wasn't to say that Norrington was entirely meek or gentle: oh Christ, when he'd—

He was saying something.

"Eh?" said Jack, intelligently.

"You never asked about them," said Norrington. He was speaking normally now, so that any passing sailor might overhear.

Asked about who? thought Jack. "I make it my business," he said, "never to ask a straight question if I reckon the answer won't be to my taste."

"They're alive and well," said Norrington: then, frowning a little, "the Turners, Jack: Will and Elizabeth. Her father got them out in time. They're living in Copenhagen."

"Copenhagen!" exclaimed Jack, sitting up and shaking his head to clear the dizziness. "I was there once: lovely place. Rains a lot," he added.

"I thought you'd want to know," said Norrington, smiling. "Now, Captain Sparrow." Abruptly, he was all business. Jack cast an eye about for any eavesdropper who might've inspired the change in tack.

"Aye?"

"You were talking of finding a vessel of your own," said Norrington.

"So keen to be rid of me, mate?" Jack tried to sound insouciant.

Norrington looked at him unblinkingly. "A ship can't have two captains, Jack," he said: then, without even a glance to see who was in earshot, "though I'm more than happy to entertain you as my ... guest."

Jack leered at him. "Oh, good."

"Well," responded Norrington, and cleared his throat.

Jack smiled more. "About this ship," he encouraged. "Unless you'd rather discuss it in private, eh?"

The look Norrington gave him warmed him from head to foot. Funny, he'd been tired not half a glass ago.

"The dockyards," Norrington explained. "Slack as anything, I hear tell."

"Worse than the Navy's, eh?"

"Much worse, Jack: they're French."

"Oh," said Jack. "Silly me. Do go on."

"I know there's a couple of fine ships in for repairs at Port Louis," said Norrington.

"Port Louis?"

"It was Port Royal, before," said Norrington grimly. "I saw one of them crippled, though I was only a passenger ..." His voice trailed off, and oooh, was that a flush?

"Out with it, James," ordered Jack. "Passenger? And you with the lovely Ariel all to yourself?"

"I sailed with a captain you know," confessed Norrington: distinctly a confession, as his stance, his tone, his expression attested. "A woman. A pi—"

"Anamaria!" exclaimed Jack, practically levitating. His grin felt fit to split his face open. "She's alive!"

Norrington was definitely blushing. Oh, that fair skin: Jack lost himself briefly in reminiscence. "Very much so," said Norrington.

"Aha," crowed Jack, "it's like that, eh? And you didn't recruit her for your little war? Remiss—"

"Don't mock me, Jack!" Norrington sighed, and looked away. "Anyway, Anamaria's already at war."

Jack recalled the tale she'd told him, one night off Trinidad, and winced. "Aye," he allowed. "True enough. But she's well?"

Norrington chuckled, though it sounded a little strangled. "It was Anamaria who told me about the Black Pearl," he explained. "If it hadn't been for her, I'd never have come looking for you."

"So you might say I owe her my life," Jack mused, with a grimace. "I'll never hear the end of it."

"You don't ... mind? About ..." Norrington gestured.

"Mind, mate? Why should I mind?" The thought of it was thoroughly ... interesting. "Just wish I'd been—"

"Jack!" protested Norrington, grinning. "Perhaps we'd better continue this conversation in private, after all."

Jack raised his eyebrows, and tried to look appalled; but he could not stop himself smiling back at Norrington. And anyway, he'd dreamed of this. More than once.

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