Moves & Motion, Part 4

What Works For Me

by

Rispa Cooper

One glance at the steamy surface of the looking glass across the room afforded him a nice view of the rather smug grin that had earned him curses aplenty from a certain frustrated pirate only a few hours ago.

The very thought only made the smile wider, ridiculous on his face Norrington was certain, clearing his throat before forcing his lips to straighten at last. He jerked his chin up to better study his newly somber reflection, strangely surprised to see brown hair instead of white. Not that Sparrow had gotten a hold of his wig this time; the man had not even come close, and it didn't take a look to the glass to know he was smiling once more to remember that.

It had been quite enjoyable to see the horrified realization enter Sparrow's gleaming, dark eyes, the knowledge that his scheming was for nothing as Norrington had grasped that clever, wandering hand in his own and used it to shove the man back. Onto his arse in the dirt, if his memory served him correctly, and Norrington had yet to reach the age where his mind grew faulty.

Shaking his head, Norrington slid an inch or so further into the water, letting the hot copper wall of the bathing tub support him as he recalled his moment of triumph, the immediate wince of pain and bellow of outrage as Sparrow had hit the floor, and then the accusations in Sparrow's eyes, all the more shocking for the way they had remained unvoiced, just a pretty, sparkling hurt that probably worked on those too foolish to realize it was a calculated act.

It seemed the famous Captain Jack Sparrow was not used to being rejected.

What ought to have been another smile instead left Norrington's mouth turned down, his forehead tight with what was no doubt the effect of the steam all around him. It was getting warm in the room, the wet heat of Jamaican air only made worse by the surrounding bathwater, the small fire lit in the fireplace to keep his water hot longer.

It was not that he did not enjoy bathing, or that he did not deserve a rest after the stress of the past week. But there was no denying that he would not have had to bathe if not for the careless actions of Jack Sparrow. First in attempting—whatever his mad reasons for doing so—to grope him. Norrington pushed out a breath through clenched teeth at the word alone. And second for somehow managing, despite losing his grip on Norrington's side, to maintain his grip on Norrington's sword.

It had taken each of them exactly a moment after Jack's landing to realize that Jack still held the weapon, and then it had become a frenzied, and somewhat clumsy, battle on the smithy floor to see who would keep it.

He had no doubt that Sparrow would steal it if he could. Either as a memento of Turner or simply to aggravate the Commodore. It seemed to be his job of late, to eliminate the need for a powdered wig by simply turning Norrington's brown hair white with his madness.

Victorious he might have been, ending with Sparrow beneath him and his sword in its proper sheath, but they both had been in need of a bath and a change of clothes. Well, to be honest, he had needed a change of clothes. Sparrow's coat and shirt had looked precisely the same as they always did. The man could steal any clothing he wanted and somehow never bothered to take anything clean.

Sparrow had reeked of old rum and plenty of Mister Brown's gin, spicy on his breath as he had panted next to his ear, into his ear, growling and seeming as ready to bite as a stray cat when held by the scruff of its neck, claws at the ready should his teeth fail.

One would think he truly had been fighting for his life the way he had squirmed and scrambled to break free, punching Norrington twice in the stomach and once in the shoulder, scratching—Norrington was quite certain he had been scratched—along his throat and back, and he could only feel eternal thankfulness that no one had walked in on the scene, and that Mister Brown had never awoken.

All of that and then Jack had calmed abruptly to something close to amusement the second Norrington had actually pinned him down and glared down at the varying emotions flitting across the other man's face. A resigned, rueful laugh and an awkward shrug were all Sparrow had had to say then, quite different from the 'smug bastard' and 'stiff-arsed wanker' that had been thrown at Norrington bare moments before.

Carefully, Norrington sank a touch further into the water, hoping the heat would soothe away any marks on his body from the scuffle. His valet had been nervous enough at seeing a filthy, grinning pirate in wrist-irons following an equally filthy Commodore into his home.

It was strange the calm Norrington felt now, not remotely nervous at the thought of Jack Sparrow in his home. But he supposed it was the first time he could say definitively that he knew where Sparrow was. Tonight perhaps would be his first night of restful sleep in a month with Sparrow tightly bound in irons, held captive in his wine cellar. Tomorrow, Norrington could decide what to do with him. He would have sold the man to a press gang just to be rid of his distracting presence if he wasn't so certain Sparrow would end up leading yet another ship on a crazy adventure in a matter of days. It had taken him less than that to corrupt Will Turner with his sugary, coaxing tones, and now Sparrow seemed to feel the need to turn his influence on him.

Well no amount of soft words and softer hands were going to give Sparrow the chance to laugh in Norrington's face. Whatever Sparrow's motives in all but admitting a desire to...

Heavy-lidded, black-rimmed eyes, as painted as any doxy's, more so for all the wickedness in them, half-closed and watchful as the man had leaned in closer, his breathing slow though his hands had been unable to stay still. Norrington exhaled carefully in return, his head swimming suddenly as Sparrow seemed ready to surround him. He forgot how to inhale, opening his mouth to gasp for air and tasting the sting of salt and sugar on his tongue. Rum and the ocean. The scent of Jack Sparrow. The taste of a pirate.

As he had then, Norrington gasped, scratching once at his chest before lifting his hand to rub at his face, the heat doubtless leaving him as red as a Marine's coat.

Just as before, in the tavern, those hands had been grasping and hot at his back, at his side, tickling along his ribs, under his waistcoat—where they'd had no business being—Norrington reminded himself, coughing.

And that song... that damned, infernal song that man could never cease humming. The lyrics as Elizabeth had sang them made little sense, and yet now he could still feel the echo of them throughout his torso, a steady purr near his heart that no amount of pressure from the palm of his hand could stop.

"Someday, you'll see my point of view," Norrington whispered the fragment of the song he remembered just as he heard the creak of the door opening. He couldn't help but cough once more to cover his foolishness, closing his eyes at the quiet sound of his valet breathing—just a soft noise to announce himself, almost a gasp really. It must be a trying night for the man, first a pirate in the house and then finding the Commodore singing to himself while in the bath.

No doubt it had been a shocking thing for the man to see, and Norrington sought to make his voice gruff as he leaned his head back and put his arms along the sides of the tub. "Likely I'll have to rise early in the morning," he did not say why, but his servant seemed to understand, clearing his throat and closing the door behind him. "So it would be best to have my shave now." He scratched at his jaw as he said it, as though there were a beard pressed to his skin, but relaxed at the clink of glass and pottery that meant the man was preparing his shaving cream.

Something bitter and aromatic scented the air, not his usual small dash of bay rum, and Norrington leaned his head back onto the bathing tub's head rest, inhaling deeply through his nose. He had thought to place a towel there earlier and was pleased with the resulting cushion. He shifted until he was comfortable and then inhaled again, trying not to frown. Undoubtedly Fogg had decided to try a new scent for him. It was not unpleasant, but the tang of juniper berries coated his tongue in moments, and Norrington licked the taste of a pirate's breath from his lips.

It had been Mr. Brown's gin Sparrow had been drinking, of that Norrington was certain, and he had no wish to smell as though he had been on intimate terms with a drunken madman. But the bracing scent of soap hit his nostrils a moment later, and Norrington sank back into the folds of cloth, closing his eyes.

For once Fogg had no idle chatter to distract him, and Norrington spared a moment to think of the poor man's nerves. He must be frightened indeed to suddenly be as silent as the grave. But his hands were steady enough the moment they came to rest on Norrington's shoulders.

Ten warm points landed across his bare skin, urging him back into more of a reclining position, and Norrington shivered as the water lapped higher on his chest. Fogg exhaled heavily behind him, and then the hands slid upward, light, glancing touches as he lifted Norrington's chin, pushing stray hairs back behind his ears as though any touch of shaving soap might harm them.

Perhaps the man took exaggerated care out of concern for his injuries. They were slight, but the scratches and bruises all over his body were no doubt clearly visible to the other man, even through the dirtied water. Next thing the man would be offering to fetch sticking plaster and bandage him, which was completely unnecessary and Norrington opened his mouth to reassure the man just as the heat of a clean, wet towel was pressed to his face.

His sigh was involuntary, and the soft chuckle from behind him meant that the other man had heard it. There was no shame in showing appreciation for a job well done, Norrington decided, blaming the towel for the heat in his cheeks, even if such pampering was not a daily occurrence. Nor did it need to be, he reminded himself. He was not a babe, and the captive pirate in his cellar ought to prove he was not helpless.

Even bound, Sparrow had a way of gliding his hands through the air. As though seawater ran through his veins.

He had perched himself carefully on an empty cask and held out his cuffed hands, imploring Norrington with impossible innate grace, heartache in every finger even if the grin above them was wily and calculating. But both Sparrow's mouth and hands were liars, and it was only the eyes that spoke the truth—if Sparrow wished them to. His elaborate gestures were no doubt simply a drunken practice learned at the bosom of some dancing girl or lady actor.

The towel was lifted from him, his stinging cheeks suddenly cooler even as fluid fingers spread out over his neck. Gentle, careful pressure at his jaw turned his face to the side, laid bare his throat.

Norrington could not help but shift the rest of his body, wondering if the water were growing cool already, raising bumps along his exposed flesh. Really there was no need for the man to be this thorough.

He shivered again at the first spiky touch of bristles to his face, clearing his throat in embarrassment as his servant calmly brushed circles of soap over his hot and no doubt flaming cheeks. The touch was light enough to tickle, and Norrington frowned at his struggle not to smile, or rub at the sensitized flesh until the itch disappeared. But it did not take long to have him covered in shaving soap, the sharp scent filling his senses as the man pulled away.

Again, the temperature of the water seemed to have dropped, the hairs along Norrington's arms raising as he tried to stretch out in the small tub, resting his arms along the sides and feeling his skin tighten when even the copper seemed colder than his body.

The razor blade hit the tight leather of the strop with a few careless strokes, and Norrington's eyes opened. The man was still a few steps away, and yet Norrington would swear a finger had swept down the length of his spine. Quickly, he shut his eyes again and licked his lips, tasting hints of gin against his teeth.

"F... Fogg..." He began, not at all certain as to what his words would be, and his servant answered with a small huff of air and a light touch to his neck. Norrington swallowed his breath as the cold metal pressed against his skin and slid upward. One slick, quick motion and then the man was reaching down to rinse the blade in the water, the fabric of his clothing glancing Norrington's shoulders, displaced water splashing warmth onto Norrington's chest.

The razor rasped against the barely discernible stubble along his jaw before Norrington could manage a gasp. He held himself still as the hand again dipped into his bathing water to rinse the blade, and he spared a moment to imagine how the man could have forgotten the basin on the bureau with the other shaving supplies.

As though it did not exist, the man continued to slide the razor across Norrington's jaw, and then bend to dip his hand into the bathwater, close enough to Norrington for the heat to sink into his skin. Only the quiet splashing of the water against the walls of the tub and an occasional clinking, like metal and glass brushing against one another, disturbed the room's heavy silence, and Norrington opened his mouth on a gasp, pulling in air he had not known he needed.

The blade touched along his cheek, shaving carefully around his ear, and clever fingers moved his unresisting head to the other side in order to do the same to the opposite side of his face. Then his chin was lifted for a few quick licks of the razor underneath his nose.

His tongue was suddenly too thick for speech as Norrington realized his face was finished, and the clean, wet razor was pressed to his throat. His blood seemed to throb against its demanding edge, and Norrington swallowed, just as Sparrow had done with Norrington's sword at his neck. Even if he had felt the desire, he could not have turned his head, gently insistent fingers holding his head back, stretching his neck to ease the blade's path. Slowly, the razor caressed its way to his chin, and a thumb passing a soothing pattern over Norrington's jawline as the blade was cleaned and then returned to take another stripe of his flesh.

Norrington could not stop his shudder at the touch of that thumb on his newly-shorn face, cool metal and hot skin across his own. Again, his lips seemed dry, and he darted out his tongue to lick them. The fingers holding him still curled against him, grasping, and the blade stopped, a small portion of Norrington's skin still covered in shaving soap. The razor was warmed now, from the water or Norrington's body, and it was a wonder that the metal at his cheek was not warm as well. The other man had firm, heated fingers and the ring circling his thumb ought to have caught that heat as well.

The abrupt stillness in the room had little to do with his own lack of air; Norrington heard himself sucking in a harsh breath loudly enough. Heard the muttered curse above him, and his own furiously pounding heart. He opened his eyes, and the razor's edge came to rest on the vein at his throat.

"Do you always allow your man to touch you like this?" Jack Sparrow put the question to him in an oddly breathless voice, a frown across his brow that belied the hint of a curve at his mouth.

Norrington felt his hands grip the sides of the bath tub and willed himself not to move, no matter how he might want to leap to his feet, or sink underneath the soapy water. Focus on Fogg, the loyal servant no doubt tied up and sleeping on the floor of his cellar right now.

"What do you mean by this, Sparrow?" Norrington ignored the question, ignored the blade at his throat, ignored his awkward position—left to stare at an upside-down and fully-dressed Jack Sparrow while he sat on his arse in a bathing tub. There had been no need to make his way up to the Commodore's bedroom, and there had definitely been no need for this charade. If the man wished to escape, he could have done so. Sparrow's long-ago words about sport echoed in Norrington's ears for a moment, and if he had been able, he would have tossed his head to be rid of them. "Tell me you are still drunk."

"Not that there ain't a tasty drop or two in your fine cellar, mate, but a drink was not what I was after in comin' here." Whether Jack meant to his bedroom or to Port Royal he did not say, and for once, mercifully, did not elaborate. Norrington swallowed; more than a little surprised that Sparrow did not ease the pressure on the razor but continued to hold him hostage without even a hint of softening.

"Yes, was it treasure or sport you were after, Sparrow, I cannot remember." His voice flat, Norrington deliberately turned his gaze away from Sparrow's deep eyes, only to look back when Sparrow spoke again.

"Hard to recall, isn't it, love, when there's a blade at yer throat?" That the pirate thought to chastise him again for doing his duty when facing a pirate had Norrington stiffening, his muscles locked and trembling. "I could have killed you at any time, Commodore."

"Indeed." Norrington snapped at him, trying and failing to hold back his temper when this made Jack Sparrow smile. But the blade suddenly resumed its course, scraping gently up his throat, underneath his jaw until the last bit of soap was removed. As though he could not help himself, Sparrow's finger traced calming patterns on Norrington's cheek once more, his thumb glancing across Norrington's mouth before Sparrow pulled his hand away. "Killing me would be too obvious," Norrington decided with a nod, not licking his lips, and felt more than heard the hum in Sparrow's chest.

That blasted song. "Why are you here, Sparrow?"

The humming ceased, if only for one blessed moment, as Jack grinned down at him in obvious, almost innocent, delight. At what Norrington could not even guess, and felt his hands twitch again—with the urge to wrap them around a certain pirate's neck.

"Already asked me that, Commodore. It's getting repetitive is what it is." Jack's free hand waved freely in the air between them, illustrating nothing but lunacy. "Maybe you 'ave questions about fate in general." A brief pause in order for Sparrow to sing his mad little song about stars and commotions, and then he continued, leaning in just as he had done before, "...or maybe you're just a man who likes gettin' the answer."

Why are you here, Sparrow? It was shameful to recall the tremor in his own voice, the thready whisper as Sparrow's hands had burned across his chest, as Sparrow's dark eyes had glowed with his intentions, steady and intent upon Norrington's face. Upon Norrington's mouth if he were to be honest, and he had jerked his head up, certain he had mistaken that odd gleam in the pirate's gaze.

His skin was hot, and it was not the water. That had cooled long ago, was nothing in fact to the hand Sparrow had left at his shoulder, slippery fingers still on the razor's handle.

"And when will this game of yours end?" The quaver in his voice seemed to please the other man, judging from the odd tilt to Sparrow's head. But then Sparrow was scowling, extreme displeasure making him stick out his lower lip.

"This is no game, mate." Jack Sparrow promised him, hands, mouth, and eyes all serious. "Don't you trust the man who's had a knife at your throat for quite a while now?" The blade was pushed softly against his skin to emphasize the point.

"Only a fool would trust the word of a pirate, Jack... Sparrow." A cough did not quite cover his pause, and Norrington clenched his jaw, hard. It hardly seemed worth Sparrow's intense effort to gain the clumsy caresses of one lonely Commodore when a street whore would have saved him the trouble. But it was ridiculous to think of it, when the man was obviously lying; some form of revenge his probable motivation in trying to make Norrington think... into trying to make Norrington think he was wanted. He had probably continued on like this on that island with Elizabeth.

If so she had found his talk dull, her heart already full of William Turner. Though Sparrow had claimed Elizabeth had done the pursuing—in the interest of getting them both off the island—but to believe that would mean Sparrow spoke the truth, and pirates did nothing but lie. Especially this one. Doubtless he had tried—if not from lust then from boredom or madness—and had failed.

Which was doubtless what he sought from this. Relief of boredom, with the added reward of Norrington's humiliation, possibly even his death. Although, again, that one seemed unlikely, even Norrington had to admit.

But Jack Sparrow had stopped trying then, on that island. Why had he not stopped now? It could not be tender concern for the state of Norrington's heart. That evidently meant nothing to Sparrow.

"William Turner believes me a good man." Sparrow seemed to pluck the comment from the air for all that Norrington understood it. But he remembered Turner's defiance well enough. And Elizabeth's. Even the Governor had been convinced of Jack Sparrow's pure heart, and somehow, Norrington had heard himself giving the order to let Sparrow go.

A mistake, he reminded himself with a frown.

"When I was younger, all I wanted was a pile of swag and a free life. Then for ten years I only wanted the Pearl." The sound of what could only be described as babbling from Jack Sparrow made Norrington's shoulders twitch and he glanced up, certain he could not be regarding the same man who had sacked Nassau port without firing a shot and fought legions of skeletal pirates with naught but a sword. Sparrow was smiling at nothing, staring into the distance as though a storm approached somewhere on Norrington's ceiling. Abruptly he moved his eyes down, braids dangling as he rolled his shoulders. "Was all I ever wanted, for so long."

"And you waited years for it." It was not a question, but Norrington was still surprised to hear himself speak, glancing hurriedly away from Sparrow and then looking around in alarm at the sound of glass beads and bone clacking together. It was only after he had turned his head that he realized that he could, and put a hand to his neck though the blade was gone.

So was Sparrow, he discovered when he looked up, and cold water splashed over the sides of the tub as Norrington sat up, straightening and pulling back to find Jack Sparrow crouching down next to him and watching him seriously.

"But a man's always got to want something," Sparrow continued with only the tiniest of grins to acknowledge Norrington's reaction. His dirty, stained fingers curled around the edge of the bathtub, and Norrington felt his gaze focus on them, knowing the feel of them on his skin and wondering if he had the marks of Sparrow's touch on him. Aside from, of course, the traces of their earlier scuffle, which suddenly began to sting anew. He lifted a hand to cover them, then held it still when the movement drew Sparrow's gaze to his chest.

It was fairly clear water, soap and dirt clouded it only a little. Sparrow had seen been seeing him naked for some time, Norrington reminded himself, and made his hand fall back to the water, made his expression stern when Sparrow's eyes finally returned to his face. Scowling over his blushes would probably only amuse the man anyway.

But Sparrow was not smiling. And his hands were still. "To be honest, Commodore," Sparrow dropped his head before Norrington could think to say anything about a pirate being honest and then looked back up through his eyelashes, giving every appearance of uncertainty.

"Without want a man's nothin'..." Jack Sparrow's voice was quiet, his eyes wide and careful as he leaned in. As he always leaned in, needing their noses to bump before he felt comfortable speaking it seemed, needing to reach out and grasp Norrington's clothing and hold him there while Jack Sparrow breathed some indecent suggestion into his face and then frowned in confusion at being rejected. Norrington knew he also leaned in, had to in order to hear what Sparrow would say next, and thought, vaguely, that Sparrow must whisper on purpose for that effect. "...Savvy?"

His frown now was not from irritation, and Norrington turned his gaze down for a long moment, keeping his attention on the work-roughened tips of Sparrow's fingers. The razor held in those hands had not cut him once, it was true, but one gentle act was hardly enough to prove a man's honourable nature. And only a fool would consider a pirate's intentions in the first place.

He swept his gaze back up and found Sparrow's face a thumb's length from his. "A good man ought to get what he wants, on occasion." A pirate spoke the words with enough fervor to put a clergyman to shame, so close but still crouched just below Norrington, looking up. And almost, Norrington expected Sparrow to attempt another kiss, but the man only continued to study him, speaking in a voice so rich and low that it could charm anyone into believing any promise Sparrow ever made. He had nearly fallen under its spell before, distracted with the flashing grin and worried despite himself about the actions of a good man.

He wondered if Sparrow recalled that moment on his ship when Norrington had chosen to, at least marginally, trust in Jack Sparrow's word. Sparrow had been just as close then, touching him with greedy fingers, and all the while he had promised fame and glory his breath had been so warm on his face—just as it was now—and his dark eyes had offered Norrington anything he wanted—just as they did now.

"You're a good man, Commodore."

Norrington heard his breath catch in his throat, felt the sudden narrowing of Sparrow's concentration, and wondered, distantly, just when precisely he had bent his head down to be nearer to Sparrow like this.

"And if any should know a good man, it'd be William Turner." Jack Sparrow pushed out the whispered words as he closed his eyes, and Norrington found himself studying the traces of smudged tar and lines from the sun as yet another nonsensical remark made its way into his brain. Turner. Norrington's mind caught just that word, and he blinked down at the reminders of Sparrow's life at sea. His pirating life at sea.

"I do not especially wish to hear the merits of William Turner. The reasons for which I am sure even you are aware, Sparrow." He lifted his chin and turned his head, shivering at the definite chill in the water. He turned back to find Sparrow with his head up and his mouth gaping.

"I said I was rootin' for you. But now that you mention it, I don't see you pinin' for the lass. Not when strange pirates sneak into your bedchambers while you're starkers and you don't yell for them to get out, nor call for help, and why I wonder." It was not a sly smile splitting the damned man's face. It could not be, not when he was close to howling with outrage. "Not when you let any strumpet hop in your lap in a tavern."

Norrington actually bit his tongue, barely refraining from retorting that both of those Sparrow had mentioned had been Sparrow. If it were not so ridiculous, he would have said the man was jealous. Of himself. But his words had shown his true meaning, and if he thought Norrington distraction from the lost Will Turner he was mistaken.

"All of this for a guinea, Sparrow? Or is this for not chasing you?" His whole body shaking with the force of his anger, Norrington reached out, using Jack Sparrow to push himself to his feet and shoving Sparrow back onto the floor at the same time.

Jack had a moment to stare at him as the water rushed down his body, obviously startled, and then he was grinning, uncaring it seemed, of Norrington's wrath.

"And don't you look fine." Sparrow's voice still held the mesmerizing notes of a magician, but was now unsteady, his breath gone from the fall. But dirty hands reached out without looking, grabbing a folded bunch of cloth from the floor and tossing it in Norrington's direction.

His nightshirt stuck to his wet stomach, but Norrington caught it, and held it without bothering to put it on, just watching Sparrow get to his feet. He could feel himself glowing hot and did not care.

"Is this what you came here for, Sparrow?" His own words, bitter and shocking on his tongue, and he wished for rum, for brandy, even gin, anything to wash the statement from his mouth. He set his jaw, and watched Sparrow duck his head in slow acknowledgement.

"Hmmm, not quite." Sparrow's eyes narrowed, as though soberly judging his mood and thinking on the Commodore's exact meaning. As though his meaning mattered. As though his meaning mattered to Jack Sparrow. It was infuriating. And then Sparrow grinned, as though knowing that thought too. "But dawn ain't but a few hours off. And with it the tide. And some very clever Commodore has thought to send patrols out all around the city. So it'll take some time to get back to me Pearl. I'll be seeing you soon, Commodore."

"I doubt that, Sparrow. There is no need for me to seek you out." A needed and timely reminder that should not have made Sparrow glance upward in that disconcerting manner of his that made it seem as though he could read the future.

"Sometimes the dawn has a way of changing a man's mind." Sparrow shrugged, and turned to the bedroom windows with the ease of a man who had been in this room many times and knew exactly where they locked and how they opened. Which was impossible, but before Norrington could think to ask a question, Sparrow had disappeared from view and an evening breeze was creeping in to tug at the shirt Norrington still had clasped ineffectually to his body.

It would have been impressive, if not for the sound of muffled cursing as Sparrow crashed somewhere below.

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