For Want of a Nail

Chapter 6

by

The Dala

"I feel fine," he said in answer to Jack's unspoken question. "I just hate this wretched climate." He rubbed a palm across his forehead, looking down at it with a grimace of distaste.

Shrugging, Jack propped his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward. "Must be that pure English blood of yours."

"God, I'd give anything for a proper winter," Norrington groaned. "Rain and gray clouds and a bit of snow."

Jack shuddered. Norrington, having grown up in a fine house with sufficient socks and coats and mufflers, was allowed the luxury of enjoying cold weather that somebody of Jack's own parentage was denied. "Can't say as I agree with you, mate. Weather is one thing I was very glad to leave behind. Wouldn't object to a nice cool sea breeze, o' course..." He cast a hopeful glance at Norrington, who twitched an irritated eyebrow at him. Jack had been after him for days for a quick nip down to the docks, under the cover of night or a disguise, just to dip a toe in. Norrington was not exactly in favor of the idea.

"Still," he said, letting his voice drop low and looking up from under his eyelashes, "heat agrees with me, and I've rarely had a man argue 'bout that."

He paused expectantly, waiting for a blush and a stammer. The comment had been on the more blatant side of his attempts at seduction, something not even this man could ignore.

But ignoring him was exactly what Norrington was doing, as he fiddled with the cuff on his sleeve and plucked at a curl of his wig, distracted by his own discomfort. And that—that would certainly not do.

"Commodore, if I may offer you some friendly advice?" Norrington glanced at him, surprised and no small bit wary—Jack had been a bit of a hellion lately, and he had no trouble admitting it to himself. Poking and prodding at Norrington's stiff sensibilities, trying to determine what would open him up and what would get Jack shut out completely. But for this tack, he needed subtlety and charm, at least one of which qualities he was never lacking.

He waved a hand vaguely at Norrington's torso. "Naturally you're overheated—look at what you're wearing!"

Norrington glanced down at himself doubtfully. "There's nothing unusual about my clothing."

"Aye, but look how much there is of it. Yards of wool and linen, all heavy and encumbering. And that wig—however d'you manage to even draw a decent breath with that gull's nest atop your head?"

Well, perhaps 'charm' wasn't the proper term for it. More like charm in reverse—but if it earned him results, he wasn't going to discount it.

Norrington's chin had lifted defiantly and he was glaring at Jack, every bit the offended peacock. And oh, how Jack enjoyed ruffling his many feathers.

"I dress according to my station," he said stiffly. "As you do to yours," he added with a bit of a smirk, indicating Jack's rather bedraggled clothing with a crisp nod.

At any other time Jack might have been offended, but that would not serve his purpose. "My rags're a good deal cooler than your uniform, I'd wager." The grudging hint of agreement creeping into Norrington's eyes emboldened him and he tried a different angle. "'Sides, who's here to see you in all the glory of your station? Trying to impress old Captain Jack, are we?"

Norrington's face immediately tightened, that little crease appearing between his brows, and Jack knew he'd won. "Hardly, Captain."

He stifled a grin of triumph as Norrington, eyes doggedly fixed on him, reached up to tug the powdered wig off. His hair tumbled into his eyes as he raked his fingers through it, clearing it of the pomade used to keep it neat. He struggled out of the blue jacket, which Jack really rather liked, with its bright buttons and golden flash of braid. It might be in his interest to try the thing on one day, perhaps secure one for himself. He'd never gone in for the aristocratic airs some pirates tried to put on in their rich dress, but that coat of Norrington's was nearly as fine as the man himself.

Damned fine, Jack had to amend, watching Norrington first untie, then unwind his spotless white cravat and toss it over the back of the sofa. The things that could be done with that long, long stretch of cloth, softer and more forgiving than rope or shackles...

He had to keep from letting his eyes glaze over, or his tongue run out over his lips, or some other overt sign that would give away the game before he got a better glimpse of that skin, glistening faintly in the waning afternoon light.

Norrington tugged at his collar, loosening it. Jack waited, but there he stopped.

Half-banking on Norrington's sense of fair play and even stakes, half-sure that he'd ruin the whole show, Jack couldn't stop himself from prompting in a measuredly idle tone, "Not the shirt as well? It sticks to you, I've noticed, and you'd be that much cooler." The look on Norrington's face was just short of suspicion, so he flashed gold and teeth in an attempt to disarm him. "It isn't as though you've not seen me in such a state, and more besides."

For a moment he thought he had indeed taken it too far. As Norrington's wary eyes searched his own, he tried to hide his less-than-honorable intentions behind a veneer of laconic amusement and found it more difficult than he'd imagined. Whatever degree of success he managed to reach, it soon slipped his mind as a quick, hard decision was made in that piercing green gaze. Norrington looked down, following the path of his own hands as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt. And Jack found himself not paying the slightest attention to the newly-bared flesh, instead watching Norrington's fingers, which were trembling slightly.

Was that a sign—did he know? Jack was convinced that he had to know on some level, that the dark glances and fleeting little touches were registering in a way he would not yet acknowledge. But his hands, even as Jack noted the faint tremors, stilled, steadied, peeled the dampened shirt from his shoulders.

Jack took the quickest of looks before he could be accused of staring—skin fair like he'd expected, protected by all that rich fabric whenever the sun might chance to fall upon it. Yet even expecting it did not prepare him for the reality of all that pale flesh, nearly glowing against the deep wine-colored silk of the sofa on which Norrington sat. Unblemished except for a scar extending from his ribs around his right side—Jack wondered if that skin could possibly be as soft as it looked, against hands and lips, if it would redden under a gently sucking mouth—he'd bet gold that those neatly-muscled shoulders would freckle if they caught a few rays...

It was a sheer effort of will to tear his hungry eyes away from the body he'd spent the past few weeks picturing unclothed. He'd been able to contemplate ravishing the good Commodore with a certain level of detachment, thinking more of the beneficial results than the act itself. And his illness, much as he hated to admit it, had put something of a damper on his libidinous nature.

That did not seem to be a problem any longer.

He dragged a pillow onto his lap and began to count silently, eyes fixed on the ceiling for as long as he could keep them there.

When he could look at Norrington again without being overcome by the need to leap at him, he found him flexing his arms with a surprised, relaxed look on his face, and that certainly wasn't helping matters any.

"I do feel much better," said Norrington cheerfully.

Jack offered a wan half-smile in return, hating him briefly for being that handsome and that unaware of it. People should not be awarded bodies like Norrington's when they had no idea how to use them.

Norrington shifted into a more comfortable sprawl on the sofa, causing the trim muscles of his stomach to do interesting things that made hatred the furthest option from Jack's mind.

To his relief, a welcome distraction came in the form of Annabelle, trotting in with a hunk of something gray and ratty gripped between her teeth.

A very real smile lit Norrington's face. "And the lady returns from the hunt." He bent forward until he was on the ground, on his knees and one hand as he wrestled the cat's prize away with the other.

Jack swallowed hard. Those Navy-issue breeches were certainly a tight fit. He'd never seen a fine back view of Norrington, the jacket being always in the way, but here he was, and here he kept Jack's attention despite the danger of being caught looking.

The strange burbling sound he made in his throat caused Norrington to look over his shoulder—peering back at him with his rear in the air like that...

Jack thought that he deserved a medal, a royal pardon, hell, sainthood for keeping his head when faced with such a sight.

"What was that?" Norrington was saying.

Clearing his throat, Jack said, "That catch of hers, there, what might that be?"

He bit his lip and looked down, the tint of a blush to his perfect skin. Jack wondered desperately if some power on this earth wanted him dead.

"An old wig of mine," said Norrington sheepishly. "I gave it to her to play with ages ago. I thought it might stop the parade of dead mice, rats, and birds that kept being marched into my bedroom."

"Clearly they were gifts. You should be flattered." And he could not keep the low shiver of desire out of his voice, could not stop his eyes from burning. There was no turning back now—consummation of whatever he thought he could feel between them was imminent.

Jack discovered that he didn't mind that at all. He'd just keep looking at Norrington like this, offering him whatever pleasures he might dream up and many he'd probably never heard of.

Norrington was going to be his.

Any minute now.

Norrington blinked at him and sat back on his heels. "Are you feeling unwell today, Sparrow? You're looking a bit flushed."

He closed his eyes and covered them with his palm. "Fine," he mumbled. "I am absolutely, positively, completely and without doubt bloody fine."

"Well... all right," said Norrington dubiously. "I'll just go get you some soup, if you feel up to it."

Up to it.

Bollocks.

Jack nodded without looking at him. He waited until he heard the door click shut before he opened his eyes again.

"This is not going according to plan," he said blearily to the cat. She spared him a cursory glance before deciding that her newly regained prey was far more interesting. Jack privately agreed. He'd become nothing more than a house pet, harmless and purring, a—a kept pirate.

Plans, he knew from vast experience, could be altered, at the last gasp if need be. Claws could be sharpened.

It was astonishingly simple, once he thought about it: there was only one thing that could be done with a man like Norrington. As he watched Annabelle stalking her bedraggled old wig across the floor, he put the perfect words to the concept.

He would have to pounce.

Leave a Comment
(If you're commenting about a specific chapter, please mention that.)

Read Comments
(Warning: May contain spoilers!)