5. Fair Winds

Pairing: J/N
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters of Pirates of the Caribbean. They are, as always, under indenture to the Mouse. I just borrow them from time to time to amuse my friends.
Originally Posted: 4/24/06
Beta: As always, my eternal gratitude to my beta-reader, fairestcat, and to fabu and black_hound for their considerable help and hand-holding during the actual writing process.
Art: by Blackhound
Summary: Jack drops by the Commodore's house unannounced and finds something he wasn't expecting.

"And yet it was passed by the Victualling Board." Lt Gillette's tone was sardonic. "How unusual." He tucked the condemnation order into an inner pocket. "And after?"

"I'll expect your report at four bells tomorrow morning. Until then, your time is your own." Picking up the next document in the pile, he raised an eyebrow. "I rather thought you might fancy a cup of coffee."

"A cup of...?" Confusion turned to comprehension, and Gillette's face was momentarily transformed by a frankly anticipatory smirk. "I believe I would." The smirk faded to a smile. "Will you join us for supper?"

"I can think of nothing I'd like more. Unfortunately," Norrington sighed, "I expect to spend the entire evening decoding the confidential dispatches which have accrued in my absence."

"I dare say you'd rise to the occasion, if called upon." Norrington picked up the next paper from the pile, frowned at it, and let it fall back to the cluttered chart-table. "Redmond!"

"No, sir. Cook's gone ashore, sir. But," he grinned, "I've a kettle keeping hot over a spirit lamp, sir."

"Do you indeed?" Norrington didn't quite smile back. "Excellent. I'll have tea on the quarterdeck. And Lt Gillette requires a boat made ready at once."

The steward bustled out, and Norrington followed at a more leisurely pace. He came on deck just as the watch struck six bells. Lt Alcout, standing at the rail in the waist, showed no sign of noticing his arrival. As Norrington climbed to the quarterdeck, he followed Alcout's line of sight, curious what could so arrest the usually observant second lieutenant's attention.

Lt Stevens had the watch, and was already moving to leeward when Norrington reached the quarterdeck. He stopped at a gesture and, in response to a murmured, "Your glass, Lieutenant?" produced his telescope from a pocket.

Norrington trained the glass on the shore. A slim, upright figure stood on the end of the quay where the Dauntless's boats moored, gazing steadfastly over the water from the wholly inadequate shade of a small parasol. As he lowered the glass, Stevens murmured, "She's been there since just before two bells, sir."

"I see." Norrington frowned a moment. "Have you any particularly pressing business ashore, Lieutenant?"

They descended to the main deck. Alcout turned away from the rail at their approach, looking faintly guilty.

"Lieutenant." Norrington nodded. "Lt Gillette is going ashore. I do not think he would object to an additional passenger."

Alcout's smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. "Thank you sir,” he said, “but my men have not quite complete the tasks set them."

"Are you suggesting Stevens isn't competent to take over your duties, Alcout?" Gillette drawled from behind him.

"What?" Alcout turned to face Gillette. "Not at all! I have the highest opinion of Lt Stevens' abilities."

"Then I suggest you brief him at once," Norrington said. "The boat will be ready momentarily."

"But... I..." Alcout glanced uneasily at Stevens. When the younger lieutenant smiled and nodded, he gave way at once. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Norrington nodded. "My best to your wife, Lieutenant." He turned away, well pleased, just as Redmond appeared in the companionway with his tea.

As he stepped ashore, Norrington slipped his coxswain a few coins with a quiet suggestion regarding the barge's crew and a nearby tavern.

As they started down the quay, Stevens said, "I see both prizes made it back to port ahead of us. I admit, sir, I had my doubts about that small cutter."

"She shipped a good deal of water before Crofts got the thrummed sail into place," Norrington agreed, "but he had prisoners enough to man the pumps 'round the clock. I have observed," he added dryly, "that even the most hardened scoundrel, given the choice between a faint chance of acquittal and the near-certainty of drowning, will invariably choose the former over the latter."

Stevens chuckled. "I dare say you're right, sir." After a moment, he asked, "Is the ketch fit to be bought into the Service, do you think?"

"No. Aside from her general state of neglect, there's ship-worm in the hull." Norrington frowned. "It's a pity, as the Admiralty shows no signs of granting my request for another ship. They appear to think the Caribbean full of prizes fit to replace the Interceptor, and I need only stretch out my hand to secure one."

They reached the edge of the market. Norrington bought two oranges from an old woman sitting in the shade of a fishmonger's cart.

"They must have taken note of your success with the Asp," Stevens said. "I remember my first cruise aboard her. Three prizes in a month! I fancied myself rich as Croesus!"

Norrington's eyebrows rose. "From two pinnaces and a packet-boat?" He tossed Stevens an orange.

The lieutenant caught it deftly, grinning. "But I'd only to share an entire eighth with two other midshipmen!" His expression sobered as his fingers dug into the peel. "I give you my word, sir, when you said I might transfer to the Asp, I thought myself quite the most fortunate midshipman in the Caribbean."

Norrington shook his head. "Would that all ambitious young gentlemen were so easily satisfied."

Stevens smiled and took the hint. "Do you remember that clinker-built lugger we took off Drunkard's Cay, sir?" Norrington nodded. "I'd meant to ask you about the maneuver you used that day. I thought sure you'd run us onto the reef, at the time."

"Ah, I learned that trick from Admiral Chadwicke—Captain Chadwicke, as he was then. We were three days out of Gibraltar..."

The market was crowded, and they progressed slowly. They were in its fringes when their way was blocked by a balking ox yoked to a cart heaped high with straw. Moving into the shade of a shop-awning, Norrington continued his tale while watching a series of annoyed citizens endeavor, without success, to convince the beast to move.

"...and as you saw, the principle applied equally well at Drunkard's Cay." Receiving no response, he turned toward Stevens.

The lieutenant's attention was fixed on something just out of sight to Norrington's right. He shifted his head slightly. A young man in sober colors—a clerk, probably, or a small tradesman—lounged against the wall of the alley opposite, head bowed over a book. He looked oddly familiar. Where...

A low, smoky, ill-lit room. Jack flaunting himself before the fire. Stevens turning away, taking a seat at a table with...

Abandoning his half-formed plan to invite the lieutenant to tea, Norrington took his watch in hand and cleared his throat loudly.

"I fear," Norrington glanced at his watch, "that I have quite lost track of time. Perhaps I might finish the tale another day?"

"Of—of course, sir." Stevens' expression was, Norrington noted, remarkably similar to the one Lt Alcout had worn earlier. "I look forward to it."

Norrington walked back the way they had come, resisting the temptation to study the young man in the alley as he passed. He would go to the fort at once, and begin decoding the dispatches that no doubt awaited him. It was not, he thought as he tossed a handful of orange-pips on a rubbish-pile, as if there were anyone waiting for his return.

The market crowd was growing thin, and he reached the seaward side quickly. He was turning onto the road to the fort when behind him, a voice said, "Commodore Norrington?"

"My name's Horn, sir. Jim Horn." The speaker was a sailor—merchant marine, most likely—twisting a dark-blue scarf between his hands. "My brother was Joe Horn."

Joseph Horn, carpenter's mate; lost at Isla de Muerta. The Commodore bowed his head. "My condolences on your loss, Mr Horn. Your brother was a valued member of my crew. He will be sorely missed." The words, true though they were, sounded stiff and stilted to Norrington's ears. They always did. But what else could one say at such a time?

"I just wondered, sir," Horn twisted the scarf around his white-knuckled hands, "if you could tell me how he died, like."

He was run through by an abomination from the pits of Hell. But he couldn't tell the man that. "Your brother fell in battle, defending the ship from attack." That much was plain truth. "He died instantly and felt, I believe, little pain." A lie, to ease the grieving man's burden. "There was nothing anyone could have done to save him." And that, too, was most unfortunately true.

The silence grew awkward. When it seemed clear the man was not going to speak again, the Commodore turned away.

Something dark flashed past his eyes and he was wrenched backward, hands scrabbling at the thick twist of cloth biting into his neck as the world faded to black—

Everything was going according to plan. The Dauntless was at sea, which meant the house was empty. Oh, there'd be servants, no doubt, but like as not they were either already in their beds or putting the old adage about mice and absent cats into practice. Either way, they were highly unlikely to be poking about their employer's private rooms at this hour, which meant clear sailing for one Captain Jack Sparrow.

He studied the rows of unlit windows, head cocked to one side. That one... no, that one, to the right of the apple tree. He could see the stub of the branch on the other side, where he'd broken his fall.

Hanging his coat and hat on the broken branch, he patted a bulge in his waistcoat and began to climb. Half-way up, the trailing ends of his sash caught on a branch. Jack gave it a couple of sharpish tugs and, when that didn't free it, stripped off sash and belt and left them behind, tucking his pistol into the waist of his breeches.

The ledge was a bit of a stretch from the top of the tree, but nothing out of the ordinary for a man used to the Pearl's rigging. Jack crouched with his back to the stone casement and pulled a knife from his boot. The latch eased up with scarcely a sound, and the pane swung back at the push of a finger.

A gold-toothed grin caught the moonlight as Jack re-sheathed the knife and swung over the sill into the room beyond.

A canopied bed occupied most of the room, with a book-flanked fireplace visible through the open door in one corner. Yes, this was it. Now, where would be the best place? Not the mantlepiece, nor a table; he didn't want it found by a servant. The bedside table? Or the bed itself?

He considered the relative merits of drawer versus pillow. He bent to investigate the former—and froze at the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked behind him.

He turned. There was a wing chair beyond the window. A man was sitting there, head and torso in deep shadow. The moonlight gleamed off the pistol he held. "Drop your weapons." He looked very much at home.

The obvious inference added another twist to the knot of tension in Jack's belly. His cutlass clattered to the floor; the pistol followed.

Jack took a step. Perhaps he could pass himself off as a common sneak-thief. Another step. Surely the man would have sympathy for a poor sailor fallen on hard times? A third, into the moonlight.

"Sparrow?!" The pistol twitched; Jack froze, cursing silently. "What are you doing here?"

"Captain Sparrow." The protest was automatic. Jack tilted his head to one side. "I think the more significant question," he said, "is, what you are doing here, mate." His hands rose, indicating the room around them. "You bein' in the Commodore's bedroom, and he at sea in the Dauntless these four days, puts you in a rather delicate position, wouldn't you say?" He bared his teeth in what some people might have mistaken for a smile.

A moment's silence, and Jack was certain he'd won—until the man with the pistol threw back his head with an amused snort. "If that is an example of your intelligence work, Captain, I've a poor opinion of it." He leaned forward, free hand gripping the arm of the chair. "For your information, the Dauntless sailed seven days ago and I," he stood up, "was not aboard her."

"That is not your concern," Norrington rasped. "I repeat, what are you doing here?"

Now, that wasn't nice. Here was Jack, coming all the way to Port Royal just for him, and the man wouldn't even answer a simple question—a question that showed Jack's concern for his well-being, mind—not to mention menacing him with a pistol. It's almost enough to make a man feel unwanted.

But it was too late to draw back now. Best see it through and trust to luck to turn it up sweet. "I just stopped by to drop off a little something." He spread his hands, the picture of a man with nothing to hide, and smiled straight into those wary green eyes. "A token of my esteem, as it were."

The smile faltered. "Certainly." The pirate's hand rose slowly, slim fingers tracing the open edge of his waistcoat, sliding over the worn shirt as they dipped inside.

Those fingers curving to stroke his cheek, the thumb tracing the line of his upper lip... James thrust the memory away, refused to acknowledge the growing ache in his groin.

Sparrow paused, his eyes rising to meet James'. "I would consider it a great favour," he was not smiling now, "if you would be so kind as to put that away." His hand was still hidden.

Sparrow bowed his head, eyes half-concealed beneath drooping lids. He withdrew his hand slowly, turned it palm-up, revealing a flat, round flask of Spanish silver.

Was it possible he'd misjudged the man, after all? Pistol still at the ready, James held out his hand. Jack dropped the flask into it.

The silver was warm. It fit perfectly into the curve of his palm. And it was too heavy to be empty.

James looked at the flask, looked at its giver—and raised the pistol. Jack swallowed hard as his eyes tracked the gleaming steel barrel.

When it pointed at the ceiling, James pulled the trigger. There was a loud clack and a shower of sparks as the hammer snapped home—and James had to turn away to hide his pleasure at the astonished indignation on Jack's face when he realized the pistol hadn't been loaded. He lay the weapon next to its mate, amid the clutter of cleaning tools, and opened the flask. He was already raising it in salute as he turned back toward his guest.

The outstretched hand closed slowly. "You don't want to be drinkin' that, mate." Jack's smile was forced, his eyes wary.

It smelt of almond. But that made no sense. Almonds were harmless. Unless... Cyanide? No, that was absurd. If Jack had wanted to poison him, he wouldn't have stopped him from drinking. Then what the devil is it? James placed his forefinger over the mouth of the flask and tilted it. His fingertip came away glistening with a clear, thick liquid. He rubbed it between thumb and forefinger.

James's breath caught. That particular gift could surely mean only one thing. And yet...

He glanced at Jack, but saw no trace of the maddening, lecherous leer he'd been half-expecting. Jack was watching him quite steadily, lips slightly parted, eyes still showing that hint of wariness. He restoppered the flask with careful deliberation, trying to fit the information before him into some sort of rational pattern.

Jack hadn't known he was here. It followed that he'd intended to leave the flask here for James to find. The flask's contents were, therefore, not an invitation so much as an intimation that Jack was open to certain possibilities for future encounters.

He remembered the way Jack had hesitated, the almost reproachful look he'd given James before mentioning his purpose. When James had demanded he produce the 'token' of which he spoke, Jack had hesitated, more than once, before complying. And his reaction, on seeing James had opened the flask—had he been trying to stop James from drinking from it, or from finding out what it contained?

He drew a slow, steadying breath, and turned with a smile to his guest. "I appear to be neglecting my duties as a host. Might I offer you a drink? I have some quite good claret."

James passed him without another word, dropping the flask on the bed without slowing down.

What the devil was he to make of this? James didn't seem to be turning him down, exactly. Jack knew how that went. Women generally slapped you. Men swore, or started a fight. No one had ever come the gentleman on him.

Men who drew the line at buggery generally fell into two types, in Jack's experience. There were the sea-lawyers—Navy men all—who thought it would keep them safe from the noose. James might be that sort, but Jack didn't think so. The others...

James turned away from the bedside table and Jack met him half-way, in front of the fireplace. Jack took the glass James held out to him, his fingers brushing the back of James’ hand. James turned away, not quite meeting Jack’s eyes.

Nervous as a cat on tiles. That settled it, to Jack's mind. Some bastard had used James rough, probably when he was just a lad, and he'd been fighting shy of it every since. Damn him to hell, whoever he is. Which only left one question. Could Jack talk him 'round?

James' face was reflected in the mirror over the fireplace. His gaze met Jack's for an instant, and Jack swore he saw regret in his eyes.

Nothing ventured... Jack downed the wine in one gulp. He set the glass on the mantlepiece and let his hand rest, casual-like, on James' shoulder.

Jack slid his hand down the taut muscles in a slow caress. "C'mon, luv. Let me show y' what it's like." He pitched his voice low, coaxing. "I won't hurt you."

The implication of those words banished the fog from James' brain. Surely he must have misheard. Jack couldn't believe... Let us test the theory, shall we?

He met Jack's eyes for an instant, then ducked his head, feigning uncertainty. "Won't you?"

"No." Jack's hand slid down his ribs; James could feel the man's breath on his neck. "I'll be gentle as a kitten. My word on it."

"A pity." James met Jack's eyes without raising his head. "I was looking forward to eating my breakfast off the mantlepiece."

Jack backed abruptly, the shock clear on his face, and in that instant James struck.

He whirled, gripping Jack's arms and all but throwing him onto the bed. Before Jack could recover James was atop him, pinning his wrists, forcing his legs apart as his mouth covered Jack's in a bruising kiss.

He broke the kiss the instant Jack started to respond. They were both gasping for breath. "Did you really think you were dealing with a green boy, Jack?" He leaned closer, until he could see nothing but those wide, dark eyes. "I have been with the Navy," James' voice was a low growl, "since I was twelve. Years. Old."

James twisted his hips. Jack flung his head back with a gasp, and James attacked that lean brown throat with lips and teeth and tongue, all the while grinding his aching cock against the hardness in Jack's breeches until he felt Jack's body arch beneath him.

He released Jack's wrists and shifted to straddle his hips, peeling his shirt off and tossing it aside in one smooth gesture. He pushed backward, felt Jack gloriously hard against his arse. "Is this what you want, Jack?" Pushed again. "Is it?" And again.

Hard hands closed on his arms as Jack pinned those broad shoulders to the bed. He licked a line up James' chest to his collarbone, pressed his thigh into James' groin.

James moaned hoarsely, head falling back. Jack slid his hands down James' chest as he kissed his way up the pale skin.

James moaned again, arching into the touch. A nip at his throat, meant to distract, caused James to hiss and flinch, tensing beneath Jack's hands.

Neither man moved for a long moment. Then Jack raised a hand to his mouth, kissed two fingers, and pressed them gently to the bitten spot with an apologetic tilt of his head.

The warmth that brought to those green eyes worked on Jack like good rum. Jack straightened so James could slide his waistcoat over his shoulders, tossing it aside before stooping for a kiss.

James met him halfway, pulling him down as his lips parted beneath Jack's. Jack's hands curved over smooth skin, thumbs rubbing slow circles around James' nipples. James moaned into his mouth as his hands found the lacing of Jack's breeches.

Jack was half-kneeling between James' legs. His breeches slid down to cling to his hips as he twisted around to kick off his boots.

James reached for his breeches-buttons, but his fingers had barely brushed the stiff white duck when Jack's hands were closing about his wrists. He pulled James' arms wide, pinning them to the bed with his full weight, then tilted his head and grinned down at him.

James cursed breathlessly as Jack swung his head, brushing his skin with the ends of those fantastically beaded locks. Then Jack was bending over him, his breath hot on James' skin, his tongue tracing a meandering path from chest to belly while he squirmed maddeningly against James' groin.

James writhed under the assault, his senses so overwhelmed he didn't even notice Jack had released his hands until he was touching warm, sweat-slick skin. His hands slid over Jack's shoulders to his back—and encountered a network of rough, raised lines

James brushed the scars with his fingers, gently, and felt rather than heard Jack muffle a groan against his skin.

Jack wiggled downward another maddening inch, tongue circling James' navel until he arched into the touch, swearing, even as his fingers traced a pair of long, ridged scars. Jack's answering moan sent shivers through James' belly, and then—Yes—Jack was undoing James' breeches with quick, clever fingers. James arched upward as the last button came free, groaning in relief as Jack pulled the stiff fabric down, freeing his aching cock.

Jack knelt again on the bed and ran his hands up James' calves, pushing his legs farther apart as he edged upward, until James could feel Jack's knees against his arse.

James spied the gleam of silver to his left and snatched it up. He was rewarded with a quick, bruising kiss before being pushed back down onto the bed.

Callused hands pulled him forward until he was half-resting on Jack's knees, his legs curving around Jack's hips. The scent of almonds filled the air as Jack slicked his cock with one smooth stroke. James' hands closed over Jack's thighs, tightened as oil-slick fingers found what they sought. He arched into the touch, swearing fervent encouragement as Jack's clever fingers did their work.

The fingers withdrew. James moaned as Jack pressed against him, slipped inside—and stopped. He opened his eyes.

Something inside James snapped. His hands bit into Jack's thighs and he pulled, crying out as the sweet, familiar burn consumed him.

James snarled and twisted his hips; the effect on his prick literally took Jack's breath away. "Fuck me, damn you!" James' voice was a basso rumble.

Mantlepiece. Right. Jack gripped James' legs, pushed him back slightly—and gave him what he wanted, hard and fast, with no quarter given.

They settled into a rhythm, James pushing into Jack's thrusts, bracing himself against Jack's knees as he withdrew. Jack was swearing in a hoarse whisper, a nonsense babble of a dozen tongues, punctuated by James' grunts and dissolving to deep groans whenever James did more than just push back. The third time this happened, he closed his oil-slicked hand over James' prick, squeezing hard, and was rewarded by a low, hoarse moan. Jack's hand moved in time to his thrusts and James' moans increased, counterpoint to Jack's obscene litany.

James' fingers bit bone-deep and he arched upward, his seed spilled over Jack's hand as he cried out: a hoarse, triumphant shout.

The combined sensations tipped Jack over the edge. He spent himself in three hard, deep thrusts and collapsed across James' body.

They lay side by side after that, not moving, until the warm Jamaican night had dried the sweat on their bodies and their breathing had steadied. James reached out lazily to twine his fingers with Jack's.

Remembering their first meeting—had it really been less than a year ago?—James lifted Jack's hand and traced the puckered, white P on the sun-browned wrist with his tongue.

The lazy contentment in Jack's face turned to something warmer. He rolled onto his side, sliding his free hand across James' chest. "I'd've thought you'd 'ad enough for one night, luv."

James raised an eyebrow, trying to look offended, but couldn't hold back a smile. Twining one hand in the wild chaos of Jack's hair, he pulled him down for a long, slow kiss that proved most definitely that his tongue, if not his voice, was still in good working order. When it ended, Jack made a noise like a contented cat and burrowed into his shoulder.

He took great care in dislodging the arm draped around his waist, but the movement disturbed James, who shifted in his sleep. Jack froze until he'd settled again, then rose and began to dress.

Discovering his shirt had been put to a use that made it unfit to be worn, he lost no time in appropriating James'. The fine lawn felt good against his bare skin, and smelt faintly of its former owner. He was tying the cuffs when he noticed the flask, half-buried under a fold of blanket. He picked it up, weighing it in his hand as his eyes turned toward the tall, pale figure sprawled on the bed.

Ten minutes later, he was scrambling over the fence at the bottom of the garden.

The flask still fit perfectly into the curve of his palm, and he noticed there was a cord around its neck, spliced in proper sailor-fashion, and ending in three small round beads. James ran it between thumb and forefinger, and instantly recognized the soft, springy texture.

It was braided of Jack's hair. And the beads on the end were malachite, gold... and a black pearl.

Men Must Work

Jack/James Series, Chapt. 5

Fair Winds