For Want of a Nail

Chapter 8

by

The Dala

Studying him over the top of the cup, Jack tried to piece together the various thoughts and feelings that had run through his head over the night. He'd thought it might be easier to see the man again, but it did not simplify things. Norrington's obvious nerves, for example, were serving the dual purpose of making him sympathetic and irritated. Jack hated when other people were complicated because it meant he was supposed to be simple, and that was one thing he'd sworn never to be.

"You don't have to act so twitchy," he grumbled, gnawing on a piece of buttered toast. "I'm not going to attack you again." Yet, he added mentally.

"I am not twitching," said Norrington, with a nervous twitch of his shoulders.

At first Jack rolled his eyes, but then a connection he had not made before made him drop the food in his lap. He'd seen that rabbit look before, in the eyes of youths and maidens who'd suffered at the hands of previous partners.

"Did somebody—" He was surprised to hear his voice come out as a low growl and paused to clear his throat. "Has anybody ever hurt you, mate?"

Norrington frowned at him, his fidgeting fingers momentarily still. "What do you mean?"

"A man," Jack clarified quietly, noting how he blanched. "Taking what's meant for pleasure and turning it to pain. Last night—"

"I don't want to talk about last night, except to say that it will never happen again," Norrington broke in harshly. "And the answer to your extremely inappropriate question..." He scowled and shook his head as if the very idea was an affront. "No, no one has ever—ever abused me, if that's what you are insinuating."

"Then why—" He waved his teacup in the air expressively.

"Has it occurred to you that perhaps I simply don't want you?"

Jack wondered if he had any idea how much his blushing undermined a statement like that. But he decided to let it go, because dealing with whatever problems Norrington was hiding from had a tendency to induce headache.

"Nonsense," he declared gallantly, spreading his arms wide. "It is mechanically, mathematically, scientifically, and in all other ways inconceivable that anyone could possibly not want Captain Jack Sparrow."

Norrington stared at him, tried to speak, shook his head. Finally he managed, "How are you able to fit through doorways and hatchways with such an inflated opinion of yourself, Sparrow?"

"You know," Jack replied thoughtfully, sipping his tea, "I don't know."

~~~

"Still can't believe how big you're gettin'," said Jack with a wry grin. "Skinny little thing you are, and now look at your belly."

Elizabeth preened, glowing and ridiculously pretty at the height of her pregnancy. "In some ways I'm enjoying it. The one time in our lives we women are not expected to be trussed up like a Christmas goose."

Jack let out a contented chuckle. Elizabeth was more than refreshing after the morning he'd spent with Norrington. He noticed that Will's head was drooping, his chin bobbing against his chest. "I think your husband has fallen asleep."

She turned to Will with a sigh, drawing his head down onto her shoulder, an expression of indulgent exasperation on her face. "He's been insufferable lately. Last night he was up for hours, fretting about some ridiculous theory that we're all born with an instinctual fear of fire, so he thinks the baby will smell the forge on him and not be able to stand him. I know," she groaned at Jack's incredulous look. "And that's not even the worst of it. Last week he kept going on and on about how he had nothing to contribute to the baby's sense of its heritage because he can't trace his family back beyond his parents." She stroked a curl away from Will's eyes and rubbed her stomach absently. "And he's starting to hover around me, asking to help if I so much as bend over or reach for something on a shelf or sneeze."

"It runs in the family," Jack assured her. "Bill got a letter from Kate while we were out on a voyage, sayin' she was expecting, and damned if he didn't faint dead away. Man you couldn't knock down with a ten-pound shot, but he fell right over the moment he read about young Will's imminent arrival."

Elizabeth got that light in her eyes, the same as her sweetheart's whenever he told them about William Turner the elder. He could never refuse the two their bedtime stories, even when the memories hurt as badly as this one did. Things had been strained between them on that trip, even worse so than usual once the news came.

"Drove everybody crazy for the next coupla months," Jack continued, forcing a smile onto his face that was at least partially sincere. "I can't imagine what she did with him when he got back. I would've walloped him at least twice a day." A pause for the closing line. "Actually, knowing Kate, she might have."

She laughed, as had been the desired effect. Judging by how relaxed she looked and how Will was out like a light, Jack figured it was a good time to make some of the inquiries he'd been turning over in his mind.

"So, my landlord of late," he began, careful to keep his voice neutral. "What's the story behind him?"

"Gabriel? I'm not sure what you want to know."

"Oh, where he comes from, what he did before he came here—he courted you once, you must've gotten to know him at least a little bit."

Elizabeth shrugged. "He's not the easiest person to get to know, if you haven't noticed."

With a snort, Jack replied, "Believe me, I know it."

"Well, he came over from England with us nine years ago. He was always quiet, but nice enough. I know his men respect him and are fervently loyal, especially the lieutenants Gillette and Groves."

Jack remembered them from the Dauntless, mostly by the way they looked at each other. He wondered if the Commodore knew that two of his men were sporting behind his back, and seriously enough to be giving each other such hungry, love-struck looks in plain moonlight. Perhaps it was a spot of knowledge he might use to his advantage, as well as whatever else Elizabeth might tell him.

"His father's Navy as well," she was saying. "Retired in London if I recall correctly. His mother died when he was young—we had that much in common, at least."

"Surely he isn't the eldest son?"

She shook her head. "No, he has at least one older brother, maybe two, and sisters—one older and three younger. I think that may be why he often talked to me on the crossing—he must have missed them."

Made sense, Jack thought. To come from a fairly large family and sail out to a strange place, another corner of the globe—he had probably never lost that loneliness. "How old was he?"

Pursing his lips as she thought, she finally hazarded, "Twenty or twenty-one? I believe he's around thirty now..."

"Just a boy," Jack murmured under his breath. He'd known Norrington had to be younger than he looked in uniform, but he hadn't guessed that low.

Closing his eyes, he was struck by a sudden, crystal-clear impression of Norrington alone in his cabin on the great ship, his feet sticking out over the end of the bunk, impossibly lonely and perhaps seasick from the unfamiliar waters. It was so unsettling that he was only too glad to focus on Elizabeth again.

She was giving him a look he knew, an impassive one she used whenever she was rapidly putting things together in her head.

"No particular reason why 'm asking," he said with a weak attempt at a nonchalant grin. "Gets boring here, is all."

Elizabeth said nothing, but if she believed his excuse, Jack would eat his hat. Just as she was opening her mouth to gift him with what were obviously some carefully-chosen words, Will stirred in her arms.

"No, there's soot beneath my nails!" he shouted, jerking himself awake. He blinked at his wife, confused, as she rolled her eyes.

"Not again," she said. "Will, the baby is not going to combust or suffocate or drown or anything else destructive when you touch it."

He sat up sharply, glancing out the window. "We'd best get going, I don't want you to have to walk home in the dark."

Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut and appeared to be clenching her teeth. Jack fought off a snicker. "It is at least a half-hour until sunset, dear," she said with exaggerated patience.

"I'm being smothering again, aren't I," said Will apologetically, kissing her. "Right. I'm sorry. I'm calm. Whenever you wish to leave, I'll agree." He cast big pleading eyes on Jack, who let him squirm for a few moments.

"Hate to cut this visit short, but I'm feeling rather tired and I wouldn't want to nod off like a certain blacksmith here," he finally said with a wink at Will. The lad smiled at him gratefully and rose, keeping a hand on Elizabeth all the while.

She glanced back and forth between them as if she suspected something, but decided not to press it. "Good evening, then, Jack," she said, bending slightly to kiss him while Will made panicked sputtering noises in the background and held on to the back of her dress.

"Get used to it, love," he said, catching her frustrated sigh as he pressed his lips to her cheek. Rolling her eyes one more time for good measure, she walked out of the study with Will anxious at her heels and casting a distracted "G'bye Jack!" over his shoulder.

After an awkward, near silent dinner in which Jack stared unabashedly at Norrington and Norrington looked anywhere but Jack, he retired and tried to sleep, still processing what little information Elizabeth had been able to give him.

The conclusion he eventually reached was that his wooing was going to continue as planned, except that the motives were changed. Jack desired him as badly as ever, but he now wanted to have him for both their sakes. Norrington needed to be touched more than anybody Jack had ever met, and he was so shut up inside that it was going to take something drastic to draw him out. And yet draw him out Jack would, if it took him weeks to do so. Months was stretching it, maybe, but weeks he could handle. By then he ought to be well enough to go to sea, and he'd leave Norrington with the memory of a few sweet nights and a pirate he would think twice about hanging.

Despite this revelation, he was still incapable of sleeping.

Eventually he decided that rest was not going to come to him any time soon, so he dressed and went wandering down to the kitchen, hungry for something sweet and intent on seeing if the good Commodore was in possession of a liquor cabinet. He had passed Norrington's door and decided that, as the light was off and there were no sounds issuing forth, a late-night stroll was perfectly safe.

He cursed his luck when he spotted Norrington in front of the pantry, but the other man's posture quit of him of any thought of a snack. Norrington was kneeling on the floor, his shoulders rounded and his head bent. As Jack stepped closer, he saw the still body of Annabelle at Norrington's feet.

"Hullo," he said softly. Norrington made a sort of flinching movement, but he didn't turn around. "Is she...?"

Norrington nodded slowly, fingertips gently stroking down the cat's spine. "She—she always like to lie here in the sun. And it's where the food lives." He gave a little noise that was half-laugh and half-sob. Jack leaned down and hooked an arm around his elbow. Norrington didn't start at the touch this time.

"Stand up there, mate. You must be gettin' stiff." For once he kept all hint of lewd suggestion out of his voice. Pulling Norrington to his feet, he said, "She was a fine little feline, and she lived a long time for her kind."

"I know." He brushed at the tears on his cheeks with the sleeve of his nightshirt, clearly ashamed. The arm Jack was still gripping twitched, and Jack released him. "You must think me a fool," he said bitterly. "Crying over a useless old cat."

"No," said Jack solemnly, "I don't think that at all." He wasn't much of an animal person himself, but he meant it. "There's no shame in caring for a creature."

Norrington pursed his lips as he searched Jack's eyes, seeking the double meaning in his words. Though Jack had meant none, he realized that there was nothing he could do to keep what had happened between them out of nearly everything he could say. The silence grew heavy and awkward.

Jack had a very simple solution to any awkward situation.

"Have you anything to drink, Commodore?" he asked. Norrington frowned warily at him, and he added, "We can give dear Annabelle a decent burial, and a wake to follow." When Norrington didn't stop with that suspicious look, he said with a sigh, "Believe me when I say it'll make you feel better, and sleep easier."

Glancing down at the small body at their feet, Norrington rubbed a hand against the back of his neck as he considered it. Jack felt an urge to offer him a massage and fought it down. If this new plan succeeded, he'd have no need for weeks. He squashed vague hints of guilt. What he'd said of the alcohol would hold true for any comforts he might personally offer.

Finally Norrington said in a reluctant tone, "I've got some Spanish brandy and a few bottles of wine in the dining room."

"I'll fetch us a shovel."

~~~

Since Norrington was looking rather perplexed, Jack told him helpfully, "You'd best pick one and stick with it, else you'll make yourself sick."

"I'll probably be sick anyhow," Norrington muttered. "I've little tolerance for drink."

Jack shrugged. He hadn't expected anything else. "The white wine, then?"

"No," said Norrington briskly, "I'll take the brandy. Works faster."

Jack couldn't quite suppress a laugh of surprise. "That it does." He had claimed the brandy for himself, but now he rolled it carefully across the table to Norrington. It would serve Jack whether he drank it himself or not. He watched in amusement as Norrington popped the cork and took a hearty swig. He choked on it, of course, and made a face.

At Jack's snort, Norrington fixed him with a disapproving glare.

"This is a very bad idea," he said.

"Oh, most likely," Jack replied airily. "Going to give me that back?"

Norrington's jaw set in a determination that Jack recognized all too well. Still staring defiantly across the table, he tipped the bottle back again. Jack cocked his head and thoroughly enjoyed the sight of Norrington's throat working as the brandy slid down it, probably burning all the way to the pit of his stomach.

When he had finished his little display of competency, Norrington shook his head a bit like a dog shaking off water. But he was still clutching the brandy bottle, and did not look like he had any intentions of giving it up.

Jack hid a smirk behind his own bottle as he tossed back some merlot.

The brandy was very good indeed. It took only half of it before Norrington was effectively gone. When Jack pulled his chair over to the other side of the table, Norrington merely smiled mistily at him, and he grinned back. Happy drunks were his favorite kind—they were so friendly and open to suggestion. Jack himself got moody and depressed when he was truly smashed, which wasn't often. Tonight he had no plans for that level of intoxication; his current warm, pleasant buzz was enough.

"Jaaaack," Norrington trilled, licking at the mouth of his bottle in a way that made Jack's trousers feel just a bit too tight. "You're so pretty," Norrington told him. He paused to frown, his lips and brows pulling tight together down the center of his face. "But you're not pretty like a girl."

"Am I not?" Jack asked, amused.

"No," said Norrington decisively in his best Commodore fashion, "not a bit like a girl. But you're pretty. Eliz'beth's pretty too, 'cept she is pretty like a girl. Turner's pretty." He paused as if Jack was supposed to say something.

"Ah, yes," he replied, thinking that Norrington was entirely too fond of the word 'pretty' at the moment.

Norrington pursed his lips in a fine pout. "Prettier than me?" he whined.

Jack snickered. "No, never prettier than you," he assured the man, who favored him with a dotty grin. His unsteady weaving brought him close to Jack.

"You know," he whispered, one finger to his mouth, looking around as if he expected someone to be listening in, "you kissed me."

It seemed Jack wasn't even going to have to steer the conversation, such as it was, in the proper direction. "Yes, I remember it well. And?" he prompted, raising an eyebrow.

"And I liked it," Norrington confessed fondly and tipsily. "Really I did."

"That's good to hear, Gabriel," Jack purred. He let one hand creep up Norrington's arm to his shoulder. "That's very good to hear."

Norrington chortled. "'S funny! Haven't been kissed by a boy in..." He looked up at the ceiling and stuck out his bottom lip in obviously confused thought. Jack was sorely tempted to close his teeth on it, but as he was now infernally curious about the man's past, he waited. The way he had reacted to the bedroom advance still put Jack in mind of pain.

"Long time," Norrington concluded with a bob of his chin.

"And when was that?"

"Back at school. Long, long time. Pretty, pretty red-headed boy with blue eyes..." He sighed and swayed again. Jack was suddenly afraid that he would start weeping with the memories and the alcohol. He'd seen it happen before. But instead Norrington shivered and his chin dropped down into his chest.

"Then w'got found out," he explained. "And Father—my father—wasn't happy, no, he was not happy a'tall." He shook his head vigorously.

"He beat you for it?" Jack guessed. So that was it. Not something he couldn't relate to, all things told, since his own father had been handy with a switch before he disappeared.

Norrington stopped the waving movements of his head, considering the dynamics of it before he began nodding just as enthusiastically. "Never struck me before, not in my whole life," he said mournfully.

Jack shrugged. "Long time ago, like you said."

"Mmmm," agreed Norrington, seeming pleased that he had said something worth Jack's repetition. Smiling vaguely again, he pressed his forehead against Jack's. "I feel nice," he confessed in wonderment. "Warm. Happy. I never feel like that."

"I know," said Jack, swallowing. He caught the particular paper-and-powder scent of Norrington again, their noses touching, and heat lanced through his body.

"Make me feel like that," Norrington murmured, urging, breathless, and he kissed Jack, letting himself fall clumsily forward so that Jack had to catch him. He adjusted his armful of Commodore and deepened the kiss, tangling their tongues together, stoking the aching need in his groin with the taste of almonds and cream and really spectacular brandy.

He pushed back in his chair as Norrington managed to climb onto his lap, leaning over him so that Jack had to tilt his head up to keep their mouths from slipping apart. Norrington was making little desperate sounds in the back of his throat, Jack's hands on his hips directing him—just—there—and it felt so damn good, and Jack...

Jack couldn't do it.

He pushed Norrington away, back against the edge of the table.

"Burnin' hell," he hissed, pained to feel that blessed warm weight lift from where he wanted so badly to have it.

Norrington tried to kiss him again and Jack fended him off.

"What?" Norrington wanted to know, voice peevish. "What's wrong?" He peered closely at Jack, bewildered.

Raising a hand to his temple as he felt another headache coming on, Jack sighed with regret. "God, I can't b'lieve I'm doing this," he moaned.

Norrington's hands were creeping up the front of his shirt, nudging and stroking. "Don't you want me?"

"I do," Jack said, so upset with himself that he could barely speak. He batted at Norrington's wandering fingers and got him to perch on the dining table rather than on Jack's own lap, which was able to clear his mind a bit. "I do," he repeated more gently. "But I can't go through with it. You don't deserve this."

Norrington was looking at him with great big sad eyes. Jack slid a hand behind his ear, soothing him and trying to will his body into a calmer state. He shouldn't have needed an explanation because he probably wouldn't remember any of this later, but Jack couldn't deny him one against the hurt and confusion in his expression.

"I wanted this, exactly this, and I thought it would be so sweet. But I can't bear the thought of the shame you'd feel come morning, and how you'd hate me."

"Oh," said Norrington in a small voice. His face contorted and he clutched at his stomach. "I don't feel very well, Jack."

Jack rolled his eyes, feeling an irrational urge to howl at the moon. He tugged on Norrington's arm. "C'mon then, we'd better get you horizontal." Though not, he thought darkly, in the way the night had been meant to end.

Norrington leaned heavily on him all the way to the bedroom, so that Jack was panting with exertion by the time he could finally dump him on the mattress. He wanted nothing more than to get some privacy and take care of his own bleak situation.

But Norrington clasped his hand as he started to leave. "Stay with me?" he pleaded.

Biting his lip to keep from shouting at the drunken bastard, Jack pulled roughly away from him and started for the door.

"Don't leave me alone," came the tiny whisper from the bed. "Always get left alone..." Then he could hear the sobs he'd feared earlier.

Jack hated crying in any way, shape or form. Though he had forced tears to get out of or into situations in the past, he didn't like to do it himself and he didn't like to be around people who were doing it.

And yet he paused with one hand on the brass doorknob.

With a virulent curse and a swift mental kick at his own balls, he turned, went back, and gathered Norrington in his arms.

"I'm only doing this so's I can witness the hangover you'll have tomorrow," he barked at Norrington, who had quieted once Jack settled in next to him and was now sleeping, head pillowed on Jack's shoulder.

Jack lay beside him, burning and furious and extremely uneasy about how this ordeal had turned out.

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

Read Comments
(Warning: May contain spoilers!)