For Want Of A Nail

Chapter 15

by

The Dala

Ned greeted him at the door, letting him drum fingers down a sloping spine. "Evening, sir. Where's Jack gotten to?" Ned flitted off without an answer, so Norrington went to check the study and the bedrooms, shedding clothing as he went so that he was down to shirt, breeches, and stockings by the time he found his quarry outside the kitchen.

The door to the garden was open and Jack was sitting on the small stone bench outside, his knees drawn up to his chin. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the orange trees to burnish his skin a light gold, though six months ago it would have been bronze. He didn't look up when Norrington approached, smile fading from his lips as he saw the distance in the dark eyes fixed on the setting sun.

"Jack?" A light touch on his head made him start and look up. Whatever was troubling him, it was quickly masked by an easygoing grin. Norrington knew he'd get no answers from Jack tonight, only the prospect of a cold bed, so he let it go. He draped himself over the back of the bench, pressing his cheek to Jack's.

"'Ey," Jack said fondly, leaning back against him.

Turning his head, Norrington realized that the kitchen through which he'd just passed did not smell like cooking. "Isn't Mrs. Perry here? It's nearly suppertime."

"Haven't seen her all day," said Jack, pouting as Norrington pulled away from him to stand straight. He stuck out his arms to be lifted to his feet and Norrington complied, grunting when Jack slumped purposefully against him. He frowned as he half-dragged the pirate back into the house. Mrs. Perry had been out when he'd left that morning, running errands—or so he had assumed.

Jack slipped an arm around his waist and under his belt, tickling his mustache against Norrington's neck. "No worries—I'm sure we can find something t'do until she gets back."

"I'm hungry," Norrington protested. Jack shoved him down into a chair and grabbed a red apple out of the basket on the table.

"Here, you whimpering babe," he said, awarding Norrington with the fruit after he'd given it a quick polish with a thankfully clean sleeve.

Feeling sulky and wishing for Jack to play up to him, Norrington said, "I don't want—oh." And that was always the problem—the moment Jack touched him, he had no will for anything but writhing and touching him back.

A hand squeezed his rapidly hardening cock again, Jack's wicked smile plastered over his face. He slid to his knees without taking his eyes or his hand off of Norrington, who could only try to keep his breathing steady and stare back at him. Relief flooded him when Jack dipped his head to concentrate on undoing his buttons in the near-dark, the heavy weight of his hair resting on Norrington's thigh. He held still, waiting for the hot, moist glory of that mouth to descend on him. When it didn't, he pouted at Jack.

"Please..." He didn't care that his throat caught on a plea, not when Jack was looking up at him and licking his lips as though he craved Norrington's taste like an opiate.

"The apple, Gabriel," Jack murmured, flicking his tongue out to come so close to the tip of Norrington's cock that he could feel the displaced air. No blood, there was no blood in his brain at all... "A bite," Jack was saying, "take a bite of it."

He glanced dumbly at the apple in his hand, bruising from the force of his grip. Raising it uncertainly to his mouth, he waited for Jack to nod eagerly before he sank his teeth into it.

Norrington had always loved apples: the shine of the skin, the crisp scent, the way the meat of the fruit gave only when you applied sufficient pressure with teeth and gums. He knew Jack preferred oranges, liked to suck all the juices and spit out the pulp, but from the way his pupils dilated when Norrington bit into his apple, they might soon share a favorite fruit.

The fruit was lush from being squeezed so hard and its juice dribbled down his chin. Jack made a noise like he'd been pinched and caught Norrington's hands, keeping him from wiping it away. He grabbed onto Norrington's neck and pulled himself up to lick the errant juice, catching it just before it dripped onto his shirt. Norrington opened his mouth under Jack's insistent tongue, which sought out every trace of tart and brought with it the citrus sweet of oranges.

He was never going to be able to eat fruit without blushing again, that was for damned sure.

Managing to keep himself from melting off the chair when Jack made his way back down, Norrington took no chances this time and laced his fingers though Jack's hair, miraculously avoiding getting stabbed with anything sharp. He needed no directing, however, bending over Norrington to take him deep with a soft pleased moan. Norrington cried out at the intensity—the juice of the apple stung faintly—but the sensations were cut short once again, albeit not so drastically. Jack's lips slid back down his shaft until he was just gently teasing the head, licking at it mockingly.

"Jack," Norrington said, feeling as though his voice would crack, "if you want any of this to be reciprocated, you'd better start..." He paused, scarcely believing he was saying this out loud. "Start sucking."

The black eyes flashed in amusement and renewed desire, but he kept his mouth closed, his lips puckering a kiss against Norrington's pulsing cock. And Norrington suddenly understood.

He took another bite of the apple.

Jack sucked him down again, working his throat and doing marvelous things with his tongue. His hands came up to lavish attention on Norrington's balls, squeezing and stroking and rolling sensitive flesh in elegant fingers. The feverish swell of pleasure distracted him from Jack's own needs, so that he was shocked when Jack pulled off and planted himself firmly in Norrington's lap. The apple got knocked out of his hand as Jack launched an attack on his mouth, bringing a taste familiar and vaguely like saltwater with him this time, meeting the last traces of apple to join them both in a bittersweet flavor he found both appropriate and very intoxicating.

Jack's erection was sliding against his own, his breeches having gone missing at some point, but that contact too was abruptly denied him. What the devil was wrong with—

"Cooking oil," Jack hissed out between clenched teeth, flinging things out of the pantry until he came up with the large tin. He used a dazed Norrington's shoulders to lever himself up on the table and then it all made sense. Norrington pressed him down, ran hands up the legs wrapping around his waist.

Watching him hungrily as he fumbled with the lid, Jack panted, "Had a mind to pound you boneless tonight, but 'm afraid you'd break the table."

"Are you calling me fat?" Norrington demanded, stroking the cool oil onto himself with trembling hands.

"'Course not," said Jack, wriggling delightedly as Norrington shoved a couple of fingers into him. "But y'are a—oooh yes, very nice—quite a sturdy boy, there, Gabriel."

"Sturdy," Norrington repeated breathlessly, thrusting forward—oh God—

Jack's eyes rolled back in his head as he tightened his thighs and his internal muscles. "Blazes—yeah, sturdy... strapping, one might even say... c'mon and fuck me..."

"If you'd stop—chattering—" Norrington managed before he adjusted to the tricky angle and drove into him properly. The table shot back a few inches and they both wobbled, Jack balanced on the edge and Norrington trying desperately not to fall. When they steadied themselves again, Jack burst out laughing.

"Do it again, we're nearly to the wall," he said, stopping mid-chuckle as Norrington obeyed, stepping forward along with the movement of the table until it hit the wall. A moment of adjustment and he was thrusting again, hands braced on the table, Jack whipping his head back and groaning wordlessly. His back was going to be murder tomorrow, he reflected distantly. Jack distracted him from his rather arbitrary thoughts by unclenching one hand from Norrington's bicep to stroke himself in time with the quickening pace, since there was no chance of Norrington risking his precarious balance by doing so.

He had to think when he was doing this, had to concentrate even while he lost himself in the way Jack moved beneath him, because in those moments it was too easy to believe. Jack was too needy, too raw—Norrington was afraid that he'd make any sort of promise if he was asked. And he feared that in some dark moment he would ask, that he'd fall for the way Jack clutched at him, the way that said he didn't ever want to leave—the pretty lie given and taken when ecstasy overtook any desire for honesty. He didn't want it to come to that.

But he did want it to come to this: Jack suddenly tensing, gripping Norrington's shoulder to pull himself up as his face contorted and he breathed out Norrington's name. For all his noise and bluster, he rarely spoke above a whisper in that final moment, hardly ever said anything but a quiet, wondering, "Gabriel." His eyes flickered open almost as an afterthought and Norrington held his gaze as he let go into tight heat and molten flesh and Jack—"Jack—Jack...", his own release accompanied by an undignified shout.

To his sorrow, he had to slide out almost immediately if he wanted to fall forward atop Jack's body, both swift motions provoking a little "Ooof" from the other man. Jack's legs dropped back down on either side of him—and now he knew where such muscles came from. Jack could probably do this standing up. Norrington would have to mention it when he wasn't so completely undone.

Jack spider-walked fingers up and down his back, dropping a kiss onto his cheek. "I swear, you get better and better at that."

Norrington grunted in thanks, mouthing the sweat from Jack's neck.

"I meant it about the table, though," said Jack, smacking him between the shoulder blades. "I know you like a good cuddle, but shove off, eh?"

With a sigh, Norrington eased himself up, feeling the table creaking dangerously beneath him. A mumbled curse greeted his ears as he helped Jack to his feet, and a cold thread of worry struck him. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Jack smiled at him and shook his head. "No more'n I asked you to. I'm tired, though, and I'd like to see a bed before I collapse."

"You'll get no arguments from me," said Norrington with feeling, pressing a hand to the small of his back. "Aunt Rose always said I'd meet my death chasing after pirates, but I never expected it to happen this literally."

The sound of a door closing at the front of the house sent them both scrambling for discarded breeches and a cloth to clean off Jack's belly. They were mildly presentable by the time Mrs. Perry came in, though still flushed and shaky on their feet.

She took one look at them and rolled her eyes.

Norrington brushed a hand across his flaming cheeks. "Good evening, madam."

"'M terrible sorry, sir, but Miss Eliz'beth's time came this mornin' and I went to make m'self useful."

Jack grabbed her by the arm, his eyebrows shooting up. "Lizzie's had her baby? Is she all right? Is it healthy? Did Will faint? What is it, girl or boy?"

Mrs. Perry shooed him. "Calm down, man, I cain't think wiv ye prattling on!" Norrington nodded sympathetically, nearly as eager as Jack to hear the news.

"It's a lovely li'l girl," said Mrs. Perry, beaming proudly. "Both're doin' just fine, and the papa'd fallen asleep in the babe's rockin' chair last I seen him."

The expression taking over Jack's face was a sight to see, one that made a smile touch Norrington's own lips. He let it stretch and widen when Jack looked at him, reaching down to squeeze his hand.

"C'n one o' you boys tell me why the table's all shoved up 'gainst the wall?" asked Mrs. Perry, planting fists on her hips with a sudden air of menace.

Jack and Norrington both took a step back. Norrington merely shook his head when Jack looked at him, speechless with chagrin.

"You might want to give it a good scrub, love," he said with a cheeky wink at Mrs. Perry, before Norrington pulled him along as he fled the room.

They scrambled up the stairs to the sounds of a despondent "Ye didn't! Not on me table!"

Norrington's room was closer to the stairwell so it was there they ducked in, Jack sprawling across the bed and Norrington following at a more sedate pace.

"A girl," said Jack with a smile and a disbelieving full-body shake that set his hair to twinkling. "A sweet little lass—the third generation of Turner I'll have held in me arms." He rose to his knees, tugging on the hem of Norrington's shirt. "Can't we go see them now?"

Norrington laughed quietly, stripping his rumpled clothing. "I think we ought to give them a couple of days at least, Jack."

Jack hummed a quiet tune as he got undressed himself, so lost in his thoughts that he became tangled in his shirt and Norrington had to help extract him from it. He curled up complacently in Norrington's arms, for once not fighting for space or control of the blanket.

"You know what?" Jack said sleepily, pressing his thumb to the inside of Norrington's elbow.

"Hmmm?" It was barely past dusk, but the incident in the kitchen had exhausted him and he would really have preferred that Jack be quiet.

"I knew," said Jack with perfect conviction. "Knew it was goin' to be a girl. Had a dream." He snuggled into Norrington's side and Norrington was suddenly wide awake as he was hit by a realization that made him gasp. Why it was prompted at this particular moment, he wasn't sure, but it was sudden and undeniable.

He was in love with Jack.

He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the burst of stars from his vision.

"Gabriel?" Jack took his face in both hands and tilted his head to one side, then the other. "Got somethin' in your eye?"

Norrington stared at him for a few seconds before he said slowly, "No... no, I'm fine."

Nothing had changed between his last thought and this one, and yet even the ceiling looked different.

"Mmph," said Jack, satisfied with this answer. "Sleep then." He burrowed under the coverlet, sliding down and then up Norrington's side before falling still with a sigh. Norrington touched his face with, he felt, remarkably steady hands considering that his entire world had just been shaken on its axis. Jack murmured appreciatively at the attention, his breathing drawing out evenly and deeply. He was asleep before Norrington could open his mouth to say—to say what?

To tell him. Of course he would have to tell him.

He tried it out in his mind as Jack snorted in his sleep.

I love you, Jack.

Four little words, three if he left off the name. That wasn't so difficult. He could cry them to the heavens as he spent himself in Jack's mouth or his body or his hand. He could whisper them into the golden shell of an ear just as Jack was waking up. He could say them over dinner, or while they were teasing Ned with bits of twine, or he could even write them in a letter and leave it on the pillow for Jack to find—no, that last one was cowardly, he would have to actually speak aloud.

The more he thought of it, the less daunting the prospect became. He wasn't sure what Jack would do once he said it, but that didn't matter. It would work itself out somehow. It had to, because he was in love and he still believed that carried some kind of weight in the universe, a weight that sex on a kitchen table would never have, no matter how good it might be. Somehow, somehow he'd be able to keep the bird he'd sheltered, once Jack knew about this. The timing had to be right, though, had to be perfect—everything might depend on the timing.

Jack mumbled something about a pony and pinking shears. Norrington gently stroked the scars on his left forearm and fell asleep feeling that his mind had been restored to order and a great burden taken from it.

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