For Want Of A Nail

Chapter 13

by

The Dala

"Thank you," he said, taking the stack of papers and grateful for the distraction. "...Tom," he added hesitantly. Groves flashed him a brilliantly white smile, which he now suspected was responsible for the time Gillette had fallen out of his chair during an especially dull conference in London.

The smile faded slightly as his eyes narrowed, making Norrington fidget. Surely there was nothing on his uniform. He'd gotten a spot of jam on his cheek that morning, but Jack had taken care of it—

Norrington bit down hard on his bottom lip, feeling heat creep up his neck. "Was there anything else you needed, Lieutenant?" he managed in a tight voice.

The other man's face had gone blank. He looked past Norrington as he spoke. "I thought I would relay certain rumors to you, sir."

"I've little interest in idle gossip," said Norrington, vaguely suspicious of the sudden blandness of Groves' tone.

Sharp gray eyes darted to his own. "I assumed you would be interested in the talk about Jack Sparrow's return to Port Royal."

The breath faltered in Norrington's lungs.

"Just whispers, really, nothing substantial. If he's here, he isn't causing much of a stir. He may even have adopted a disguise." Groves paused delicately. "I've also spoken with a few civilians who wish to send their regards to your uncle."

"I—I have no—" Norrington cleared his throat, mind racing. Jack was going to pay for this—and not the sort of welcome punishment he'd been describing to a scandalized Norrington earlier that day.

"You didn't mention that your Uncle Charles was coming for a visit," said Groves with a raised eyebrow that could have meant any one of a hundred things, punctuated as it was by that strange flat voice.

"Ah, yes, well, I'd forgotten. Busy, you know," he said feebly, waving the correspondences for emphasis.

The carefully even surface of Groves' face cracked, letting the beginnings of a smirk lift the corners of his lips. "You're looking pale, Commodore. You ought to have a seat."

Without thinking, Norrington took the suggestion and dropped heavily into the leather chair behind his desk. He shot up again with a yelp as pain flared in his backside.

He threw a baleful glance across the desk. Groves had one hand covering his mouth, but the laughter he was holding back was evident in his eyes.

Norrington sighed and sank back down, resting his weight forward on his thighs. "How did you know?"

He'd not been expecting this from Groves; indeed, he was finding that his two lieutenants were quite different out of uniform. Gillette was quick-tempered and bold in action, but shy in conversation. Groves fought his battles with a great degree of caution, while clearly possessing a tendency to loosen his tongue in less formal settings.

"The way you were standing," he admitted, taking a seat himself. "And—you might want to adjust—" He raised a hand to his own neck.

Norrington touched himself where Groves had indicated, his fingertips brushing across a small sensitive spot. It would, he knew, be a bruise-like purple color if he were to glance in a mirror; it was not the only one of its kind.

Tugging his cravat higher, he met Groves' amused eyes with an embarrassed grimace.

"Far be it from me to judge you, Gabriel—if I may speak freely," he added with a polite nod.

"Funny how unencumbered speech is something to which I've been subjected so often lately," Norrington muttered.

Groves was still smiling, but he spoke more seriously. "If it is any comfort, I highly doubt your personal life is common knowledge—and I swear I'll do my part to keep it that way."

"Thank you," said Norrington, relief and sincerity low in his voice.

Hefting a stone paperweight in his hands, Groves said, "I'd suggest you speak with Sparrow about his outings, though. Someone who matters is bound to notice eventually."

Norrington cracked his shoulders. "Oh, he will be spoken with, believe me," he said darkly.

Groves coughed against what was probably meant to be a chuckle. "I can only imagine what an... interesting time you must be having."

"To say the least," Norrington replied in a dry tone.

This time Groves didn't bother to halt a sympathetic laugh. "I'll leave you to your work, then," he said, standing. Norrington did the same, withholding a wince.

Groves paused at the door and turned back to him. "I do have some experience with these situations, as you well know. I understand how difficult they can be." He pulled gently at the queue on his wig, showing a bit more of the reservation to which Norrington had been accustomed. "If you should need someone to talk to—"

The very notion of discussing the relationship, or arrangement, or whatever bond he and Jack had formed made his knuckles whiten. The sentiment was appreciated, however.

"Thank you," he said for a third time, tipping forward almost in a bow as Groves left.

He eyed his desk. Already it was difficult to concentrate, and he wasn't even close enough to read the writing.

This was going to be a long day.

~~~

As he'd suspected, he found it all squirreled away beneath the bed: fine clothes, some of them his own, a pair of spectacles, and a perfectly coiffed gray wig and false beard.

He sat back on his heels and gazed at the collection, anger throbbing through his veins. Did the infernal pirate have any idea of the danger he'd put himself in? Did he care in the least—not only about what might happen to him, but to Norrington as well, if he'd been discovered?

Or perhaps this had been the plan to begin with. String the poor stupid commodore along, get into every nook and cranny of Port Royal's streets, size up its treasures and its defenses. The Black Pearl had already once made the beginnings of a very effective raid and he had no doubt that she'd be capable of greater destruction—especially if he himself could be gotten out of the picture. Tied up in the captain's cabin, perhaps, kept as a plaything, or sold to the highest bidder. A pirate who brought down a high-ranking officer, especially one with his reputation, would find himself the toast of every brigand from here to Madagascar.

Norrington had lost track of time when a pair of yeast-scented hands flowed down his lapels. He spun and stood, the wig tight in his grip.

"What is all this, Jack?"

Jack stepped back, immediately seeing the discovery of his things and looking rightfully wary of the commodore's dangerously low voice. "Did you miss your Uncle Charles, then?" He tried a grin, but Norrington was having none of his charm.

"Did you really think you could lie to me?" he hissed, blinking eyes that were suddenly stinging. "Do you have so little respect for me that you would actually—"

"Hey," Jack protested, his mouth tightening, "that isn't it at all, mate. I was goin' mad in this house, and p'rhaps I went on an innocent jaunt or two—"

"Innocent?" Norrington flung the wig onto the bed and kicked the buckled shoes. "Of course, Sparrow, because that is exactly your nature. So what's the town worth, then? Whose silver collection did you price? Will you be sparing the smithy, or have you already made plans to cart off Turner's most expensive weapons?" He couldn't feel the hysteria build up within him, couldn't hear how his voice had risen to a shout, but he could see how Jack's eyes began to widen.

Jack came closer to him, gritting his teeth and looking like he was thinking better of it. "Nothing of the sort. I swear it, Gabriel, swear on the Pearl herself—"

Norrington strode past, ignoring the hand held out to him. "Your word is meaningless to me." He slammed the door to his own room and locked it just before the handle started to turn.

He glared at the furiously jiggling handle from across the room.

"Don't know why—" A kick at the door. "—'m even bothering, but if you'd only just..." A thump that was repeated several times—Jack's forehead clunking against the wood. "Open the door, Gabriel."

"No!"

"I am not a child, for you to speak to me as though I am," Jack bit out, now sounding more angry than exasperated. "Nor are you, though no one'd ever know it from the way you're behaving."

Norrington sat cautiously down on the bed, continuing to fume, and refused to answer. After a few minutes, the sounds of breathing petered out, but Jack returned less than an hour later.

"Eat, you stubborn fool," he called, rattling a tray for Norrington's benefit.

"I'm not hungry," Norrington snapped, though the scent of roast beef was wafting in and he had been too busy panicking to remember lunch.

He could hear Jack's sigh. "Fine, then. I'll just leave this lovely dish right here, and you sit in there and think about the cat eating it."

Norrington wavered, but once he was certain that Jack was gone, he opened the door just wide enough to drag the tray through. Ned, racing down the hallway to investigate the delicious smells, meowed piteously when the food was snatched out from under his nose. Softening, Norrington picked up him and plopped him on the bed.

As he and the kitten shared, regret began to sink into Norrington's stomach along with the meal.

"How can I trust him?" he asked Ned, who sniffed at an offered bit of broccoli and sneezed. "At the same time, after all that's happened—how can I not trust him?"

Ned didn't answer, but he did go cross-eyed staring at the beef cooling on Norrington's fork. Norrington shredded it and fed him the smaller pieces, his own appetite suddenly less compelling.

"He's a pirate," Norrington said. "And not only that, he's Jack Sparrow—slippery as an eel and sweet-voiced to anyone who'll serve his purpose. And yet," he continued, frustrated by the circles he was making, "when I look at him, really look at him—when he's still long enough for me to hold onto him—I feel..." He trailed off, barely noticing the small teeth Ned sank into the heel of his hand. "I feel," he concluded, his throat working hard to swallow. "And I care, and it's all so bloody confusing, and I have no idea what I'm doing."

Ned licked the salt from his palms. Norrington held the kitten close for a moment before he wriggled to be let free.

After letting a pacing Ned out, he tucked himself dejectedly under the covers, remembering to remove his shoes but unable to summon the energy to undress further. Jack had not returned after bringing dinner and Norrington was far too ashamed of the way he'd lost his temper to go seek him out.

He'd fallen mostly asleep by the time Jack crawled in beside him, sitting against the headboard to look down at him as he rubbed his eyes groggily.

"I'm sorry," said Jack when Norrington shifted to sit up beside him. "I'm sorry for not telling you. But I never went out with the intent to harm." His eyes were intense in the darkness, though his voice was mild.

Norrington studied his face, finding the same depth of honesty and kindness which had given him pause when he'd had the time to think about it. "I believe you. And I apologize as well. I thought..." He shook his head. He'd been clear enough earlier.

Jack moved forward, easing himself down onto Norrington's lap. "You thought I was using you," he said quietly, matter-of-fact in both his words and the kisses he applied to Norrington's neck, applying a soothing tongue to the bite marks. "What I fail to understand is why you can't accept that someone would want you not for what you are or what you can do for them but just... for you."

"I don't know," Norrington whispered, arching into the fingers kneading the muscles in his back. He had no idea at what point Jack had learned just where to touch him, and when, and how. It seemed like a power he'd brought along from the beginning, and comforting though it was, it made him tremble in something like fear.

"Well, I'm not letting you run away," Jack growled around the shirt buttons he was undoing with his teeth. "Not this time."

"And the next time?" Norrington wanted to know, sadness touching the edges of his voice. "When it's time for you to run?"

Jack slowed to a stop and Norrington wondered why. It was nothing they weren't both aware of.

"If you can," he added, muffling his words against Jack's headscarf. "If I haven't caused your death."

"Gabriel—" Jack began urgently, and Norrington stilled him with a hand over his mouth.

"Don't go out again," he said, blinking back surprise at his tears more than at the tears themselves. "It's too dangerous." Jack's eyes flickered away and he allowed his voice to break the way it wanted. "Please, Jack."

His palm finally received a puckered kiss, so he let it fall.

"All right," said Jack grudgingly, taking a deep breath. "But I daresay I'm not in quite the danger you would—"

Norrington kissed him. It was as good as the night before, as sweet, but it was fueled by something that burned darker and ached more sharply. Though Jack held himself steady as if he waited to speak again, he ended up going boneless as moments passed in which Norrington would not release him. When he did let go it was a painful shock, all the air leaving his lungs as if he'd just hit water after a very long fall.

He was going to have to truly let go at some point, probably forever. Jack would need to stretch the wings that kept him alive. Perhaps Norrington had had some of his own once, because he understood, but even if it was so, they were long since withered and dry. And he would be able to let his mended pirate go—he would have no choice.

Not tonight, though, he told himself, arms locked around Jack, trapping the caged heart to beat against his chest. Tonight, and for as long as I can, I will hold on.

Jack was willing to let himself be clutched, but never caught, never kept—Norrington could taste it in the hidden depths of his mouth, see it in the way his eyes closed as he bent down to renew pleasures freely given. And he was so desperate to keep feeling, keep caring, that he almost didn't mind.

He was touched and caressed and whispered to and finally filled, and that was almost enough.

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