Moves & Motion, Part 2

It's Crazy

by

Rispa Cooper

Had seemed grand at the time. Laughing and dashing away, pulling a sleeping Gibbs from an alley and making a run for the Pearl. A friendly reminder to the man that it was Captain Jack Sparrow he was dealing with, not some fool in a sloop out for gold and a messy death. Jack Sparrow had sailed the world, taken cities without a single shot fired, and, lest anyone forget, fought a ship of the Damned, taking their fortune and earning the personal protection of the Governor of Jamaica while doing it. Still a bit surprising that one, though he supposed it were more of Elizabeth's protection than her father's.

Jack hadn't tripped or fallen while running away either, despite the drink spinning in his head and the pounding of his heart to hear such words indeed issue forth from the pure, tight lips of Commodore Norrington. All in all, he had left the goodly Commodore with egg on his face. Or sand, as it were. Next time they met, there would not be a blade between them, unless it were Jack's and it was the Commodore forced to lift his head to look him in the eye.

At this moment, that was almost the most pleasing fancy Jack had ever had. Almost, as there were still the ones involving stripping away that gleaming, gold-lined uniform that covered Norrington from stiff neck to well-turned calf and playing Pirate's Captive until Port Royal thought it was having another quake.

It didn't matter that he was a pirate and could have easily made Norrington his real captive back on the beach of St. Kitt's. It was the play-acting that made it fun. The Commodore probably didn't even know how to play-act, even if he clearly enjoyed a pretty costume.

The heavy, jangling footsteps of part of Port Royal's night patrol caught Jack's ear and pulled him from his carnal intentions toward the city's famous protector, making him focus instead on the rather dangerous situation he was currently in.

A brilliant plan that seemed less brilliant in the dark stench of this alley, shit and empty bottles marking him as being directly behind the two most popular inns still standing in Port Royal. That was, the two most popular with men of HM's Royal Navy. Even Jack wasn't mad enough to have chosen this spot to hide. It was merely that his return to Port Royal would hardly be considered triumphant if he were caught immediately, and thus he was forced to temporarily seek refuge in the worst spot on the whole blasted island for a pirate to hide.

Not even two steps from the beach and he had run across nothing but the night patrol. There were bloody soldiers everywhere, and if Jack didn't know better, he would have said the Commodore had anticipated his arrival.

Panting a little from his dash to this spot, Jack squinted down at a bottle near his foot, deciding after a moment that it likely not rum that lay in the bottom and kicking it softly to the side. Just his luck to be sober. He would have blamed that on Norrington too, if he could have. He had no doubt the Commodore would have found and emptied every bottle of rum in the Caribbean just to annoy Jack if that man had had it within his power.

But rum was not the man's business. No, his business was collecting the heads of bloody pirates, and Jack scowled as he poked his head around the corner of one building, considering various avenues of escape with the part of his mind that wasn't fuming about the Commodore.

It took a pirate to catch pirates. Jack should have considered that before, cursing Norrington's craftiness and deciding not to think about—unless anyone should ever remind him—his own admiration for that same weasely streak of black that the Commodore kept hidden under his wig.

It had been a deliberate taunt; that was clearer than the fine crystal sconces Jack had decorating the walls of his cabin on the Pearl. What did the man think he was about, challenging Jack Sparrow publicly?

The way was open, and with a grin that would have alarmed many a stout-hearted sea dog, Jack stepped from the shadows and walked easily around to the front of one inn, nodding to the soldiers as he passed them. No clear path, for the moment, there was nothing to do but wait it out. And he could wait it out more comfortably, and less thirstily, inside the inn.

His old hat and coat resting safely onboard the Pearland his new ones taken from the fattest merchant Bermuda had ever known, Jack would have said he looked quite respectable. Doubtless, Norrington would disagree. Fortunately, he wasn't there. Jack could just imagine the quick, all-seeing glance he would receive, and then the soft sneer that would follow.

"Couldn't you find any one smaller to steal clothes from, Mister Sparrow?" He would say, and the toadying bloody officers behind him would laugh. "Perhaps a lady?"

Smug wanker.

Nodding again as he entered the inn and saw the proprietor, Jack gestured a greeting with his palms together respectfully, baring his teeth at no man in particular. Commodore bloody Norrington had put a price on his head, something that normally guaranteed a pirate had to leave for new waters or find himself swinging at Dead Man's Cove. But the man hadn't just done that. Oh no, he had to go and prove himself as clever as Jack had imagined him being. Putting a price on him. And what was the bloody price?

One guinea. One guinea. One, single, solitary, lonely, little gold guinea.

A cutpurse would have cost more.

Cruel was what it was. Made him the laughingstock of the Caribbean in less than a week.

Revenge would be his. The Commodore doubtless had little idea of what he faced now. Tonight Jack Sparrow would take satisfaction from Norrington or he would die here in Jamaica.

In the midst of these pleasing ruminations, Jack stopped, standing utterly still in the center of the large tap room, glancing from table to table and letting a smile grow wide on his face. A lady or two seated next to each fellow camped around the short, round tables, their bodices lower and tighter than they needed to be for seamen who likely hadn't seen a woman in months. And not all of those sailors looked to be of a Royal Navy variety. Things had changed since his last real visit to the port, but then it had been over a decade unless he counted the incidents involving Elizabeth and Will and Norrington that had already taken place. And since he had only seen the harbor, the gaol, and the gallows, he didn't.

"Your finest," Jack ordered as the proprietor looked his way, keeping his head down but sighing in satisfaction as he sat down on a bench near the back staircase. A quick glance up the stairs afforded him a flash of a shapely leg, and Jack's grin got wider. Seems Fortune still loved him after all.

"Your finest, if you please."

Fortune was nothing but a shameless strumpet, offering herself up to the Commodore every chance she got.

Jack looked up, had to though he knew well enough whose voice he had heard. Another moment and his eyes were on the floor, musing over the image still vivid in his mind. Norrington himself in the company of several other shiny Navy gentlemen, though none so fresh and clean. Captains perhaps. Officers out for an evening of fun.

The man was smiling, a carefully measured approximation of a smile it was true, but Commodore Norrington was smiling and friendly and requesting a round of the finest rum for his men. It wasn't a sight Jack Sparrow had ever thought to see. Never once had he even thought the man had a mate or two. Never even thought the man liked a bit of grog.

A grin split his face as Jack looked up and caught a glimpse of Norrington thanking an innkeeper for his drink and then tipping back his cup as though he were a very thirsty man, not a single drop daring to slip past his lips and trace the bared inch of his throat. Most admirable, to find the Commodore a drinking man, as Jack didn't trust a man who didn't trust himself enough to have a sip now and again. But then it should have been no surprise, really. Norrington cursed like the very devil too, when there was a bit of sand in his eyes.

A maid brought his rum then, and Jack took the cup without glancing much above the wench's chest, enjoying the view but mindful of what might happen if word of that damned price on him, and a description, had reached the barmaids here too. Luckily for Jack's sensitive cheeks, the lass didn't seem too offended, leaving him to go ask at the Commodore's table. Only Anamaria truly knew how best to illustrate her side of an argument.

Jack stilled, noting that some of other finely attired ladies of the room were now also approaching the officer's table. Likely a frequent visitor here, the Commodore was, for all his romantic dreaming of Elizabeth. As fond of soft company as the next man.

There was no better time to find the man's home and search it than now, was there? Only a fool would sit here and wait to be noticed.

Jack wrinkled his nose, pulling his hat lower and holding his cup to his lips, aware long moments later that he had not taken even a sip. Norrington hadn't noticed the ladies yet, concentrating as he was on the words of the fellow at his side.

"Not to yer likin', sir?"

Jack turned with a loud yelp at the innkeeper's quiet inquiry, wincing at the splash of rum on his breeches, the volume of his strangled cry. He shook his head quickly; putting a finger to his lips in vain, for the stupid man kept talking, making a fuss over the spot on his pants. And though there was no lowering of voices from the Commodore's table, Jack could almost feel the sudden weight of a gaze on him. Curiosity and a mind that was too bloody quick by half.

"I'll just be a moment, mate." A smile and a pat on the back silenced the man at last, and then Jack was slipping up the stairs. An opened door stopped him for a moment, glancing inside at the occupants of the room with his head to one side, trying to determine exactly what they were doing, as the position looked unfamiliar. Then he was moving on, knocking at last on a door that had no one on the other side.

Inside the tiny room there was no window for easy escape, but Jack didn't hesitate before ransacking the desk and chest of drawers, the mattress and the trunk on the opposite side of the slim bed, digging through mounds of muslin and silk with a small howl of frustration.

It had all been so bloody brilliant when he'd started out. Glancing over his options was even more upsetting, and for a moment he wrinkled his nose down at the sad piles of skirts at his feet.

He didn't know which would be worse, should the lass hear of it, or if Norrington himself should see him.

~~~~~

On other nights, here for a meal and a drink, Norrington had found himself wondering if he would have served Morgan if he had been there when the man had ruled Jamaica. But it was not his place to judge pirates; it was his duty to hunt down killers and keep these waters safe, even if there weren't too many of those killers left. The Governor had reminded him of that just that morning, though smiling a bit as though he had also found the news of Jack Sparrow's worth to be somewhat amusing.

No smile crossed Norrington's face now however; just a frown that even a drunken York could recognize and step back from, mumbling what might have been an apology before sitting back down and complaining to the girl sitting next to him.

It was odd for him to be standing now when no one else was, content with one drink only, eyes on a staircase when the other men were ogling the women nearby. A few more drinks and it would be more than ogling, but it was their money, and their reputations in Port Royal, and Norrington would be long abed by then, preparing for the taxing day that tomorrow promised to be.

Sparrow could retaliate at any moment, and Norrington would be on guard, and ready for him. He had known that when he had made the decision to humiliate Captain Jack Sparrow, and had been waiting tensely for near a week now.

He inhaled deeply, leaving the table and heading slowly in the direction of the stairs. Waiting for the next slap in the face, the parry of a madman, his mind racing just to anticipate when, unable to quite imagine the how. Only knowing he would be surprised, and find himself again chasing down an opponent who would not hesitate to provoke him, even had the threat of hanging been real.

What did Sparrow think he was about? And what madness had possessed him to play along? It was pure lunacy, as amusing as it had been to prick the man's vanity. He was going to look even more of a fool by the end of this, in the eyes of Port Royal, in the eyes of every one in the Caribbean.

There, Norrington stopped himself short, shaking his head slightly. He had Jack Sparrow on the brain; doubtless that was why he had thought he'd seen the man here. He would be seeing the pirate in his dreams next if he did not control himself.

He looked up at the empty staircase, his eyebrows lifting at the distinct noises from the upstairs rooms before he coughed and took a step back. Nonsense. Even Jack Sparrow would have more brains than to come here. Only for his precious ship would that man risk stepping foot in an inn full of sailors loyal to the Crown and there was no danger to his Black Pearl—at the moment.

He took another step back and bumped into something solid, issuing his apology to the figure sliding toward the door before he had even turned fully around.

"I beg your pardon..." His gaze noted the lace shift and the silky red of the gown pinned up to expose it, wandering back down for a second to the hint of a boot that quickly disappeared beneath somewhat frayed lace. "...Miss," he finished quietly, his mouth working on its own as his eyes continued on and up, short sleeves with long ruffled cuffs not quite hiding the warm, brown, tattooedskin of strong forearms. Norrington knew he blinked, amazed at the speed at which the fan before the chest was spread out, moving back and forth madly to prevent even a glimpse of the gown's bodice.

He blinked once more, his eyes dry, and lifted his head at last, somehow shocked only to notice that the red scarf he had been used to was gone, and tangled black tresses now fell freely about exposed, tan, and slender shoulders. Slender, but decidedly masculine.

"Jack Sparrow." He feared that he wheezed the name, but it was all his slack mouth could manage at the moment with those dark-lined eyes watching him so very carefully. The man still had his beard, and there he was, precisely where he shouldn't be, standing before him once more, but in a woman's... No doubt he had been here visiting some strumpet. "Sparrow..." Speech returned, a low warning that even Sparrow could not mistake.

"Commodore." Sparrow pitched his greeting low as well, and too late, Norrington saw the gleam of awareness there, sucking in a breath at the sudden flurry of movement that brought Sparrow within a foot of him. He smelled of rum, much as Norrington had often remembered he had when not reeking of Port Royal's gaol, the scent of whispered plans confessed in his ear, encroaching fingers at his shoulder.

He tossed his head, and another sweet smell seemed to float about him as well. A flower, Norrington thought distantly, lifting his head only to have lavender invade his nostrils; perfume that lingered in the cloth of the dress. But the rum was from Sparrow alone.

Gold caught Norrington's eye, and he considered the gold rings hanging from the other man's ear lobes, seeming larger up close, a painful bit of vanity even if it suited his costume now.

And then again, his eyes went to the open fan, feathers held protectively against the tanned throat, streaks of dirt now dotted with sweat that would mat the soft down of the fan if Sparrow held it there much longer.

Norrington inhaled sharply at the press of a blade to his stomach, his head lifting and his gaze meeting Sparrow's with intent, holding his gaze and keeping it from the embarrassed flush of his cheeks.

"Do not think I won't still denounce your presence," he promised through clenched teeth.

"And why haven't you, Commodore?" Sparrow dared to grin at him, his shifting skirts soft where they brushed against Norrington's hands, his grin growing and fading like the face of the moon. "The perfect opportunity to expose me, as it were, is right here in your hands."

"You are not in my hands, Sparrow." Why Sparrow should smile so at his hiss, Norrington could not say, but took his gaze away from the pirate's leering face and feigned interest in the debauchery taking place among his officers. "The day you are well and truly caught is the day I run away to Tortuga to become a pirate myself."

Again, the man had the most irritatingly distracted air about him, as though he wasn't listening to a word Norrington said. Norrington leaned in, part of his mind noting that he ought to be leaning away from Sparrow as always, but not stopping until he could have put his mouth around one of those gleaming, golden earrings. "It will not happen."

"So you've no wish to see me exposed?" Sparrow had his head tilted to one side now, and Norrington quickly pulled back in time to see Sparrow's eyes narrowed and thoughtful. Norrington felt his heart falter at the following silence, wary of this indication that the man's mind was working. "I could expose you instead, Commodore, say you fancied me in me pretty togs..." One tar-smudged finger tapped at the curved lips thoughtfully and Norrington felt his mouth fall open. "But seein' as hanging's out of the question for me, wouldn't be fair to subject you to such a fate." Quite seriously, that wicked smile dropped away, dark eyes watchful as he pronounced sentence.

"I will not apologize for attempting to hang you the first time." Norrington pushed that through his stiff lips, feeling his cheeks hot and burning, his mind turning circles around Sparrow's strange intimations, his bizarre sense of justice.

"But the second...?"

"Commodore!" The drunken shout came from one of the officers a few yards from them, and Norrington looked away gratefully. Just how gratefully made his cheeks sting anew. But it was nothing to the fever across his neck and down through his chest as Captain York continued to disgrace himself by shouting throughout the common room. "Bring your wench over here and join us!"

Feathers were slipping down to expose brown skin sprinkled with hair, and Norrington felt his eyes fall there, noticing distantly that he had not felt the prick of Jack Sparrow's blade in some time.

Very well. If the man saw the situation between them as unequal on account of that last attempt to hang him—abiding by the word of the law or not—and this whole childish contest was a result of that, then he would end it now. One more reprieve granted to Jack Sparrow that would doubtless be wasted, just as any explanations of that last date with the gallows would fall on deaf, and no doubt mindless, ears.

"I believe the lady does not wish to sit with you." He cleared his throat to announce dryly, enjoying the generally amused laughs from the table, the blustering bellows from York that were quickly silenced with more drink or the knowing assistance of a barmaid.

"Ah, Commodore..." Sparrow's sigh was a happy one, long and slow, and perhaps it was the theatrical ache in the sound that weakened Norrington's good senses. For in the next moment he felt only the hardness of the wall at his back and then something solid under his legs. His breath left him, and he gasped just as realized that he had been forced onto the bench and then gasped again, audibly shocked at the large silken bundle that was currently Captain Jack Sparrow as it settled into his lap.

Into his lap.

Through his neck cloth he could feel the heat of the man's breath, the scratch of the beard at his collarbone as Sparrow buried his face into his neck, arms wrapping tightly about Norrington's chest as though he might fall if he didn't hold on as tight as he could.

"What new game is this...?" Norrington choked out a few words, finding it difficult to breathe as grasping fingers worked under the back of his waistcoat and pressed hotly against the linen of his shirt.

"He's comin'." Was all Sparrow said, and Norrington looked up as York and a woman walked by them, going arm in arm up the stairs. The Captain winked as he passed, and Norrington knew he frowned, putting one hand on the fabric covering Sparrow's back.

"You are under no threat of hanging, Sparrow," he whispered once they were gone, pushing back to sit straight against the wall, crushing the wandering hands and forcing them to withdraw. The man's head came up instantly, his expression altogether displeased, though why he should be displeased when the Commodore was the one with the rather heavy weight on his lap, Norrington didn't know. And furthermore, he did not care.

Or so he told himself, but his mind it seemed was still curious. Another attempt to push Sparrow from him left him a bit out of breath, and Norrington glared at the other man, wondering how such a slim man so adept at dashing escapes could weigh so much.

"If this is your revenge for the guinea price, it will take more than a public... than this... to make me change my mind." That he finished with a slight huff did not take away from the determination in his words, he felt, and was pleased when Sparrow's dark eyes met his.

Then Norrington's jaw fell slack for a long moment as he realized that he had once again issued a challenge to a madman, and from the gleam in Sparrow's eyes, Sparrow knew it too. There was no stopping him it seemed.

Sparrow shifted, despite lengthy skirts he moved easily over Norrington's lap until he was straddling it, the action leaving him with his legs on either side of Norrington's thighs, sitting up and looking down at him with a strange grin crossing his face. His head was still partially averted from the rest of the room, and Norrington resisted the urge to look toward the others present, wondering with suppressed panic if they could see this.

"What do you think you are doing, Sparrow?" He bit out, nearly swallowing his tongue when Sparrow's answer was to lean closer, humming to himself as he did. Norrington could feel the vibrations in his chest even with distance still between them, even pressed flat to the wall, vaguely surprised at how the song seemed to burn through Sparrow's skin and clothes to touch him, far too warm.

He reached up to pull at his neck cloth and it unraveled easily, as though someone had already worked at the knot for him. A thought for another time. Norrington only sighed at the rush of air to his heated skin. It was all the damned pirate's fault. Toying with him as though it were all a game and their names were not on the line.

"I... I am not some lonely midshipman, Mister Sparrow." The title did not even make Sparrow pause in his oddly familiar song, though Norrington's words seemed to interest him, his eyebrows lifted high.

"You're a lonely Commodore, then?" Sparrow inquired in an innocent manner, frowning in mock-commiseration before trailing his hand, just once, down the front of Norrington's uniform more fluidly than should have been possible. It was reminiscent of the tales Norrington had heard of Oriental dancing girls, and considering the ease with which Sparrow had removed Elizabeth's undergarments, that was no doubt where the man had learned it.

"Why are you here, Sparrow?" His shoulders ached from his position against the wall and his skin was so hot it felt tight, displeasure and discomfort making him speak so harshly that even he had to describe his tone as a growl.

"Still haven't figured it out then, Commodore?" The mad pirate in a dress sitting on his lap had the gall to look disappointed in him, shaking his head until thin strands of beads clattered together.

There was a sudden outburst somewhere to his side, the scrape of chairs being pushed back, high excited voices, and yet he did not look. Did not even turn his head for a single glance, just staring in silence—in horror—at the speculative light entering Jack Sparrow's dark eyes.

"Commodore!" His name called. Norrington's mouth opened. To reply, he supposed, but he was given no chance to as the sight seemed to spur Sparrow forward. There were gasps, somewhere, but not his, not even his breath his own as Captain Jack Sparrow pressed his lips to his.

Norrington's eyes were open, but not even in dreams would he have imagined this, the warm, curved lips and the quick, curious tongue, uncaring that Norrington could not, did not move. There was only a brief, shocking press of mouths, and then nothing but cold air.

Sparrow was gone, and Norrington blinked, knowing that he had not once closed his eyes. But there was no sign of the man, not even the lingering scent of rum and lavender to mark his presence. Disappeared from under the watch of seven men of the East India Company indeed.

His hand went to his jaw, one small touch to where it still burned from the rasp of the man's beard, and then the Commodore was on his feet.

"Damn him to hell!" he barked at the concerned inquiry from the innkeeper, knowing he looked a madman. With effort, he unclenched his hands and ran through his hair.

An easy accomplishment, for Sparrow had stolen his wig.

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