For Want of a Nail

Chapter 7

by

The Dala

Jack groaned and vaulted onto his left side, facing Norrington. In the moonlight coming through the open window, his eyes appeared sunken in his face. He looked up at Norrington in a haze of fever, shivering violently.

Damn. He had seemed to be much better these past few days, but now he was twisting around beneath the sheets in a way that was painful to watch. Norrington got up and leaned forward, brushing a lock of dark, matted hair away from Jack's brow. His skin was hot to the touch, though not as hot as it had been when he'd first arrived.

"What is it, Sparrow?"

"Cold," Jack replied, his voice rising in a whine, "so cold, so cold... hate the cold..."

Norrington sighed and rearranged the blankets. The other man tossed around again until his back was to Norrington, knees drawn up to his chest until he was a small shaking ball, mumbling piteously about the cold.

At this point Norrington couldn't take it any longer. He drew the covers aside. Jack didn't react as Norrington slid in beside him and took him in steady arms.

"There now," he whispered in an attempt to soothe Jack's whimpering, drawing the smaller man back against his chest, "is that better?" It was stiflingly hot, but Norrington ignored his own discomfort, vigorously rubbing his hand up and down Jack's arm. The sooner he could get Jack warmed, the sooner he could get out of this bed and away from temptation.

"Aye," Jack agreed sleepily. His body began to relax, muscles unclenching as he let his legs fall back alongside Norrington's. "Warm." He turned to face his makeshift bed warmer, shifting so that he was lying comfortably in the circle of Norrington's arms, pressing his face in Norrington's neck. He yawned, pink gums showing. Norrington, feeling decidedly sleepy himself from the close warmth, stroked his hands idly down Jack's back. Strange—his body was cool, not nearly as heated as his face.

"Warm," Jack repeated softly, letting his fingers come to rest on Norrington's hip. It was just then that Norrington realized Jack had thrown a leg over him, and it was as this thought was exploding in his brain that Jack kissed him.

For a moment all Norrington felt was shock. Then he was aware of Jack's tongue pushing his lips apart, one arm going round his waist while the other gripped the back of his head. The southbound hand found its way to his backside and squeezed gently, making Norrington start, but other than that he could not move.

Finally notions of protest began to make their way into his paralyzed brain; he pushed against Jack's body, but this only caused Jack to hold on tighter, bucking his hips as his nails dug into Norrington's flesh. And within that abbreviated thrust the extent of Jack's desire was brought to Norrington's knowledge, striking him dumb once again, this time with wonder at how much his body welcomed the sensation. Jack moved against him again, his erection pressing between Norrington's legs in a nature of pleasure that Norrington had left behind long ago. Half-memories swam to the surface of his thoughts, schoolboy moments of stolen bliss he had spent years repressing. With them came the memories of discovery and punishment, provoking an aversion strong enough that he tried to imagine Jack—on top of him by now, effectively pinning him to the mattress—as a woman. He was certainly slight enough, but in all the places where their bodies touched he knew better: Jack's cock against his own, the hard, flat planes of his chest, his mustache scraping against Norrington's cheek as Jack plundered his mouth...

Norrington knew that he had the upper hand in this situation. He outweighed Jack by a considerable amount. It would take the smallest of efforts to shove him over, off the bed if he so chose. Instead he took notice of Jack's mouth on his own. Experimentally he pressed his tongue against Jack's; with a small murmur of encouragement Jack lent him courage, and he began to explore. He came into contact with Jack's gold and silver teeth, discovering that they were the source of the exotic tang he detected. It was a taste that he felt should have been unpleasant, but in reality was far from it. He ran his hands under Jack's nightshirt and up, feeling the network of scars he had so far only witnessed. Norrington touched them lightly, irrationally fearing that he would cause pain. Sight had not prepared them for the way the weathered skin of the pirate's back puckered into little ridges and crevasses, balanced by the craters of the gunshot wounds in the front—a whole landscape under his fingertips, as warm as if the Caribbean sun had been beating down upon it.

Jack's lips left Norrington's own to trace his jawline back to his ear, which received a light nip. Norrington heard a sharp cry but did not register it as his own. His shirt buttons were being undone or simply torn off, as Jack mouthed a path down his chest, his stomach, not stopping even when he disappeared beneath the blankets.

Norrington had more or less let his body respond to the attack while convincing his mind that this was not happening. Denial, however, was flung out the window when Jack lowered his mouth to suck at him through his breeches. Suddenly he had no mind, no body, only the heat soaking through the thin material to take him over.

Jack flung off the covers with one arm. The sudden flood of cool air evoked winter at school—his own slim adolescent hands shaking as they negotiated laces and buttons at the waist of a red-haired boy—the wine cellar—Jack tugged at Norrington's belt and he remembered the belt of his father and its steel buckle—

He came out of Jack's spell and shoved him off, away, not caring if he fell, scrambling out of the bed so quickly he was dizzy.

Jack sighed in irritation and reclined against the headboard, nightshirt pulled indecently up to his thighs. Norrington felt his gaze drawn in that direction and looked forcefully away.

"I knew it," Jack told the ceiling lazily.

Norrington could do nothing but stare at him in incredulity. "Knew what?"

"About you," he replied, turning his head and fixing Norrington with a cocky grin. "Knew it the minute I saw you, what you wanted, what you are—"

"Sh-shut up," Norrington said, appalled to find himself stuttering, something he hadn't done since he was a small child. He waited until his voice was under its normal state of control before he spoke again. Jack just lay back with that slow infuriating smile on his face, watching him like he was prey.

"You're wrong, Sparrow, and you're sick," he finally ground out between clenched teeth.

"Actually," said Jack, rubbing his chin reflectively and deliberately misinterpreting, "I think I may be on the mend. Had to nearly suffocate myself under the pillows to get my face hot so you'd crawl in with me. Not that you needed much prompting." He smirked, eyes traveling up and down Norrington's body, lighting between his legs at the spot he'd made damp.

Norrington discovered that he had backed up into the chair. He sank down onto it, pressing the heels of his hands against his closed eyes.

Immediately he could feel Jack's warm breath against his skin as the other man leaned close.

"You're shaking, Gabriel."

"Don't," he whispered without looking at Jack. Whether he meant 'don't use my name' or 'don't touch me,' he wasn't sure. Probably both. Jack had no idea what he had done—what he was still trying to do.

Cool fingers lifted Norrington's hands away from his overheated face and laid them at his sides. Norrington looked down at the floor, Jack's legs as he knelt on the bed at the edge of his vision.

"Look at me," Jack said, his voice oddly gentle. He cupped Norrington's cheek in one hand, but removed it when Norrington flinched away. "Let me help you—"

Norrington shook his head. "No, Jack." His voice was firm again. "Please." He could hear the desperation behind his words and he was ashamed, but not nearly as much as he knew he would be if he accepted Jack's proposal.

Out of the corner of his eye, Norrington saw Jack sit back on his heels, seeming to consider.

After a moment he said, "All right, then." Lulled by the even tone of his voice, Norrington made the mistake of meeting Jack's eyes. They were snapping with anger and passion. "I'll leave you alone.

"But you remember this, Commodore," Jack continued, sounding vaguely threatening, his palms resting on his thighs. "We are who we are. You can't remove the way you love from your blood any more than I can remove the seawater from mine. I've tried to leave the sea behind, lad—believe that if you believe nothing else. It won't do. It would kill me, as this'll kill you too, slowly, if you let it. Look at how miserable you are, mate—"

"You are fond of self-indulgent speeches," said Norrington coolly, getting to his feet. "Get some rest or your fever will return."

With a long-suffering sigh Jack fell back onto the pillows. "Your wish is my command, sir."

Norrington was at the door when he paused. There was something he had to ask, now that he knew what he knew, and knew it for certain.

"Captain Sparrow."

"Commodore Norrington."

"Did you—the blacksmith boy—were the pair of you..."

"No," he responded flatly. "I loved his father. I wouldn't've."

Norrington nodded and left the room, collapsing onto his own bed. He slept in his clothes and dreamed of long black hair threaded with beads, and of saltwater kisses.

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