Nail 05

Rating: R
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean is owned by Disney, etc. No infringement intended.
Originally Posted: 1/26/04
Summary: Jack infiltrates Norrington's private fortress (no, not like that—not yet anyway) and something resembling a civil conversation ensues. And they're both fully conscious this time!

Jack twitched and grunted, looking for all the world like his uncle's dog dreaming about chasing rabbits as he curled his toes—bare toes. Goodness. He was naked and he'd kicked most of the blankets away, leaving just a twist of sheet across his hips. Norrington felt heat spread across his face as his eyes took stock of that wiry body, thinner than it should have been and slightly jaundiced under the deep tan, but still appealing—

He gripped the arms of his chair in sudden panic. What on earth was he thinking? Sparrow's body was not appealing, healthy or otherwise, nude or clothed. If he had kept such a close watch on the man for the past night, it was only for fear that his fever would rise again. If he had held Sparrow perhaps a bit too tightly on the way to the room, it was only in an effort to warm him and put a stop to his shivering.

Nothing more, he thought fiercely as he tugged a quilt over Jack, who didn't stir

Catching sight of the sun's position in the sky, he swore softly and hurried to his own room to dress. When he stumbled through the front doors of the fort, muttering apologies, he met only an astonished maid mopping the floor. She informed him that it was Sunday and as such, most of the officers were not due in that morning—including Norrington himself. After apologizing for startling her and tracking mud in, he went back to his horse and set off for home.

So it seemed he wasn't going to be able to avoid home, and therefore Jack, after all. Of course he might have stayed; there was always paperwork to do. But he rather disliked the fort when it was empty. It was rumored to be haunted, and though Norrington had once scoffed at sailors' superstitions, his opinion on such matters had quite naturally changed.

As he made his way home, he began to cheer up. He wouldn't actually have to be around Sparrow, after all. No doubt he would sleep all day after his rather trying ordeal. Norrington could retreat to his study, his favorite room in the house, and be at peace from both overeager underlings and feverish pirate captains.

It seemed, however, that fate had anticipated his plans and found them wanting, for when he pushed the study door open with a grateful sigh, he found Jack Sparrow stretched out on the blue velvet chaise lounge next to the window.

Norrington stared open-mouthed for a moment as Jack grinned and waved at him. He'd dragged in half the contents of his bed, cloaking himself in blankets, and he was surrounded by stacks of Norrington's books.

Jack thumbed through the book in his lap—a collection of French poetry, unless Norrington was mistaken. "It's terrible boring being shut up in that room all day, Gabriel my good man."

"I am not your anything," Norrington exclaimed indignantly, "and I don't want you to use that name, and look at the mess you've made!" He knelt and began to gather the leather volumes in his arms.

"Oh, it's not as bad as all that," Jack muttered, sticking his tongue out at Norrington as his prizes were taken away. He clutched at the book in his arms when Norrington tried to reclaim it. "I've not finished with this one yet!"

With a weary sigh, Norrington let himself slide down into the small chintz sofa opposite the chaise. His day had been spoiled beyond repair and he might as well accept it. "What is it?"

"I didn't even remember I still had that," said Norrington with the faint hint of a smile, recognizing the dusty book of fairy tales with its bright illustrations. "My aunt Rose bought it for me when I was small."

"Really." His voice dripped sarcasm, but his interest was piqued anyway, and he knew Jack could tell.

Jack nodded emphatically. Letting the book fall into his lap, he leaned forward to begin his story. "See, I was a lad of seventeen and I was sailin' with the crew of a man named Roberts. We were on our way from the Carolinas to Barbados when we came across a spit of land that glimmered in the sun. Shouldn't have been there—not on any map we could find—and yet there it is. I was curious about it, so I suggest we stop and have a look around. Roberts says boo to that plan and, more, decides he isn't pleased with one o' his crew asking so many questions."

"I can well imagine how insufferable you must have been as a boy under anybody's command, much less that of a pirate," Norrington remarked dryly.

Jack smirked. "No, Commodore, you really cannot. Anyway, they set me ashore with naught but my clothes, a pistol—not the one I've got now, mind—and a few hunks of mealy bread."

"It was, and I wasn't too worried, oddly enough. S'ppose it was only from bein' young and stupid." He smiled again and Norrington wondered at how easily it came, as if they were two old friends having tea over a familiar tall tale. If he'd had such an infectious expression, he didn't think he would be so generous with it.

"So I wandered around for a bit," Jack continued, "and headed back down to the beach for a swim to take my mind off things. I was splashing about when I heard a sort of low gigglin' nearby. It was this mermaid, tucked behind a clump of rock and watching me. She didn't look a thing like the pictures—oh, she was formed like a woman up top, certainly, but her hair was like tough seaweed, an' her eyes were cold, fishy eyes that didn't blink too often. Her skin was that milky blue a body gets when it's just starting to rot in the water, and she stank like spilled guts."

"Haven't mentioned the teeth yet, have I?" He bared his own teeth, sparked with gold, for effect. Norrington wrinkled his nose. "Teeth like a shark, up and down, and I'm not too sure I didn't see a coupla shreds of flesh stuck on 'em. She spoke a good sort of English, albeit with a funny squeaky accent, an' she told me in no uncertain terms that she'd taken a shine to me. Well, now—and not that I could blame her, since I was as fit a lad as I am a man—I tried to beg off, in the most diplomatic way possible. She'd have none of that, thank you, and there were those wicked teeth to consider..."

"And that's how it happened." Jack flopped himself back in his makeshift nest, looking quite satisfied with his own performance.

With an indulgent sigh and a hand rolling on a wrist, Jack patiently told him, "That wasn't the point of the story."

Norrington had no idea how Jack had managed to hold his attention for such a ridiculous and meandering tale. It was some combination of the way his voice rose and fell, a spell woven by his never-still hands and his dancing dark eyes.

"You'll get no answers from me, mate," he said good-naturedly. Before Norrington could ask the pressing question of whether Jack actually expected to him to believe this story of bloodthirsty, lustful mermaids, the other man heaved a couple of deep coughs before draining the glass of water on the side table.

The memory of how very sick he'd been the night before hit Norrington just then. "How are you feeling, Captain Sparrow?"

Jack tapped his fingertips idly against the glass in his hand. "Oh, not bad, considering. It's just..." He winced and set the glass aside, rubbing at his left shoulder. "Me neck's rather achy, is all, and right back between my shoulders." Twisting one arm around, he set his face in a grimace of pain as he tried to work out whatever kinks were paining his back.

"You'll never reach," said Norrington, unfolding himself from his sofa to lean over the arm of Jack's chaise. "Here, let me." Jack pulled his unkempt thatch of hair aside to allow access to his neck, where Norrington lay both hands, flat-palmed, and started to knead gently.

"My aunt Rose got terrible rheumatism in the winter," he explained. "I used to rub the ache out of her bones."

"Same one gave you the book?" He nodded, pressing his thumbs into the knots on either side of Jack's spinal cord. Jack let out a hiss at the relief from tension, half-pain and half-pleasure. "Must've been your favorite aunt, for you to go to so much trouble."

"Actually we never got on. She was in her seventies, she despised all little boys, and she smelled like boiled cabbage."

Jack's shoulders lifted under his hands in quiet laughter. "Were you so well-behaved even then?"

Norrington shrugged. "She was my father's elder sister and she more or less raised him, after my grandmother died. Everyone in our family did what she said. Stay still," he ordered, as Jack wriggled into the touch.

"Sorry," said Jack, sounding anything but. "Feels good, no doubt due to skill garnered from all that practice. 'Least now I know you're good for something else besides snapping to."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" He slipped the shirt farther down Jack's shoulders and balked at the long, thin scars etched across the skin of his back.

"Nothing," said Jack innocently. He hunched his shoulders impatiently, but when he spoke again, his voice was quiet. "You must've seen 'em. Last night, and before that—I imagine you've shown a man or two the lash."

His fingertips curled uncertainly above the pale lines, witnesses to where the flesh had once been split and bloodied. He supposed he had seen them last night, but hadn't noticed. He'd been far too busy trying not to focus on Jack's body, a theme on which his thoughts had been centered during the bath. It had been his fault, after all—listening to Jack splash with only a thin wall separating them, losing track of time as he imagined those darkly tanned hands sliding across a lean belly, down his thighs, before reaching out to caress Norrington's own bare skin...

As the color rushed to his face, he drew his hands away from Jack as though he'd been burned. Jack twisted around, but before he caught the look in Norrington's eyes, a questioning meow echoed from the doorway.

Thank you, thank you, thought Norrington fervently as he went to crack the door open. Annabelle stared at him, clearly daring him to insult her queenly bulk any further, before he relented and opened it wider. She sauntered in with her tail flicking casually. If the damned cat had not interrupted...

He'd come very close, leaning over a relaxed and sprawling Jack, to losing control. Close to losing something else, as well, though he wasn't sure what—dignity? Professional distance? Years of excuses and denial? His soul?

Jack was looking at him with hard, searching eyes. For an instant Norrington saw the killer as well as the charmer in him—the man who'd held a gun to Elizabeth's temple reconciled with the man constantly drifting just a bit too close into everyone's personal space.

Then the flash of—something—behind his eyes was gone and he was all solicitation once again.

"And this must be the lady of the house," he said with a dramatic flourish, dropping his gaze to Annabelle, who stalked over to him with a wary sidestep.

"I'd be careful, she doesn't take well to strangers—" Norrington warned. He fell silent as Annabelle leapt up onto the chaise.

"Cats generally like me," said Jack smugly as Annabelle proceeded to knead his lap into a more comfortable cushion. "Easy with the claws, love." The cat settled down and conjured up a rusty purr as she looked at Norrington. He could almost swear that her amber eyes were saying 'See? It's not such a bad place to be.'

Norrington backed up towards the door in alarm. He certainly did not want to curl up in Jack Sparrow's lap. And his cat was a dear pet, but nothing more. The fact that she was strangely taken with his houseguest meant absolutely nothing.

Jack stroked Annabelle's ears. "No wonder you've never gotten married," he remarked. "Jealous, this one is."

"Haven't you got a sweetheart in some filthy port who could take you in?" Norrington snapped.

He shook his head and ran a hand down Annabelle's back as she shuddered with contentment. "I need no mistress but the sea, Commodore—and the Pearl, naturally." His mood turned palpably as he looked out the window and toyed with the end of Annabelle's tail, earning himself a swipe which he ignored. "I daresay she misses me now as much as this fine gentlewoman misses you when you're off at sea."

"You're so devoted to that ship," said Norrington, meaning to cut but finding his voice lacking any force. "What lover could ever compete?" He was surprised to hear his own bold words, not entirely sure what had prompted them—that distant loss in Jack's eyes, perhaps.

"Whoever's willing to try," said Jack, his voice dropping low and his mouth quirking into a half-grin as his melancholy burned off like morning fog.

Norrington decided suddenly that they were not, in fact, having this conversation. With a curt nod, he ducked through the door and shut it behind him.

For Want Of A Nail

Chapter 5