Rags of Time
Part 1
by
Pairing: Jack/James
Rating: NC-17 overall
Disclaimer: Not mine, none of it. Claim no ownership and make no money. I just like to play with them. Sorry!
Originally Posted: 2010-2011
Note:This is the first thing I've written in 8 years. Please be kind! But tell me what you think (good or bad...)
Summary: Norrington finds Jack in a difficult situation, and inadvertently makes it more difficult. Time for a plan... and some unexpected discoveries.
Rating: NC-17 overall
Disclaimer: Not mine, none of it. Claim no ownership and make no money. I just like to play with them. Sorry!
Originally Posted: 2010-2011
Note:This is the first thing I've written in 8 years. Please be kind! But tell me what you think (good or bad...)
Summary: Norrington finds Jack in a difficult situation, and inadvertently makes it more difficult. Time for a plan... and some unexpected discoveries.
Commodore James Norrington enjoyed his duties. He took great pride in the knowledge that Port Royal and the waters surrounding it were safer because of him and his men. He did not even mind too much the fact that he increasingly seemed to spend more and more time ashore attending to the inevitable politics he was subject to. He still got the chance to sail relatively often, silently rejoicing in the thrill of the rush of the wind and the sound of the spray, the smell and freedom of the sea. However, there was one duty he was forced to perform that he despised.
Due to frequent skirmishes with the Spanish, the Navy had seen fit to offer Letters of Marque to seemingly any man willing to take one, including a number of notorious pirates. Norrington understood the reasons behind this, but it did not prevent the chill running down his spine each time he thought of these men, many rapists and murderers, being given the freedom to conduct their piracy legitimately so long as they only attacked Spanish ships.
So it was with a heaviness in his stomach and a bad taste at the back of his throat that he had set off this morning to spring an unexpected inspection on one of the newest privateer recruits. He was a man by the name of Jenkins, and were it Norrington's decision the man would have hanged rather than had his crimes ignored for the sake of a signature. He was by reputation a cruel man, known to exact unnecessary punishments on the crews of the merchant ships he raided.
Norrington was not surprised to find Jenkins had a man chained to the mast midway through a flogging. He was surprised to discover who that man was.
He had not seen Jack Sparrow for many months, had only heard vague reports of his ship's whereabouts. But the man had been in his thoughts, if only due to the strange and horrific events that had occurred during their previous encounter. He was just such an odd man—one who was not easily forgotten. Although Norrington had seemed to forget his concession of allowing Sparrow one day's head start—this had slipped as other more pressing matters arose, and Norrington had in fact neglected to pursue the man at all. And when questioned as to why, he could rarely think of an answer.
Seeing the man thus—hands chained above his head, shirt torn and bloodied across his stricken back, knees buckled against the mast and dark locks of hair trailing in blood as he craned his head to look towards the commodore—Norrington felt something inside him rise, fit to break.
He kept his jaw set and anger in check as Jenkins offered him the whip. But Norrington's words and actions occurred as though carried out by some other force—he heard his own voice speak but it was as though he were watching from outside of himself. Instinct seemed to take over him as he ordered Sparrow and his effects be removed from Jenkins' ship and taken aboard his own—the order to arrest him seeming to be some pretense in Norrington's mind.
Jenkins' yellowed jeering smile as he enquired about a reward for delivering the notorious Captain Sparrow to the law nearly broke Norrington's control. He managed to limit his response to reminding Jenkins that a privateer's role was not to round up wayward criminals, as well he knew.
And so it was, following these events, that Norrington found himself with Sparrow in the brig of his ship, and a strange feeling in his chest of having righted things in some way. His thoughts however, had not extended beyond these current circumstances. His only thought had been to stop Jenkins from inflicting further cruelty. He was therefore unprepared for Sparrow's response.
Sparrow knelt on his hands and knees, eyes closed, and concentrated on breathing steadily. The lashes on his back didn't bother him, but he was sure the beating he'd received earlier had fractured some ribs. He counted slowly—one two three in, one two three out—and willed his mind to regain control.
He heard the door above open, and snapped back to sit on his heels too quickly, sending a shard of pain through his chest. He'd regained his composure by the time the footsteps clicked on the the floorboards in front of the cell, manacled hands resting on his thighs and eyes closed, his face forced into a mask of serenity.
Norrington thought he looked for all the world like a fakir meditating. Until Sparrow opened his eyes and his reanimated face flashed him a bitter smile of gold and ivory.
"Ah, Commodore. How nice of you to join me. Tell me, will you be hangin' me now, or wait for an audience upon our return to Port Royal?"
The commodore closed his eyes momentarily, a smug smile considering the words.
"I suppose that response is to be expected. I would imagine 'gratitude' is not something expressed too freely amongst pirates."
"Gratitude?" Sparrow's smile became sharp, his tone dangerous with mock politeness and sudden anger. "And what, pray tell, is it exactly you think I should be owing you gratitude for, mate?"
"That tyrant was flogging you near senseless!" Norrington said, as though wondering why Sparrow hadn't noticed. "Sparrow—perhaps gratitude is too strong a sentiment to expect, but at least an acknowledgement of delivering you from such a dire situation..."
Sparrows face fell forward slightly, braids tripping down to frame it. In the shadow there, eyes and lips glistened, narrowed and taut. He looked almost animal, instinct warring with intent.
"So you saved me from a floggin'... is that what you're sayin'?" His voice was slow, deep with control.
"Well, yes. And what was inevitably to follow." Norrington was unsure now. Sparrow was behaving more strangely than he had anticipated.
Sparrow rose and was suddenly at the bars of the cell, fingers wrapping round and face too close. The commodore stepped back despite himself, his surprise showing.
"The man meant only to flog me, Commodore. You, however, mean to hang me!" Sparrow's face was barely recognisable suddenly, all softness that usually parodied his attempts at seriousness was gone. "I can live with a few extra scars and limps. I cannot live with a broken neck!"
"He may well have killed you, Sparrow! How many days of that treatment could your body withstand before fever or gangrene claimed you?"
"You daft sod, he had no intention of killing me!" Sparrow was shouting now, his breath short and strained. "He meant only to convince me not to raid another ship sailin' under his colours. No good would come of killin' me, there'd be no profit it for anyone."
"I—" Norrington stalled at this, unsure suddenly. "I could not stand to see someone suffer needlessly, I abhor the use of such treatment on any man."
"Oh..." Sparrow laughed, hollow and bitter. "But to see them hang—that's just fine. Fine, Commodore." He sighed and shook his head slightly. "You really are a bloody pompous fool. I'll be sure to wave and give my thanks for your charity from the gallows."
Norrington looked away suddenly, glancing at the floor. His head felt like it was spinning. The absurdity of the situation hit him like cold water to his face. Sparrow was right. His rash act—arresting Sparrow in order to end his unjust suffering—would do nothing but deliver him into the hangman's hands, to be justly killed. Silence settled, as his mind raced to comprehend this.
It was as though the very proximity of Sparrow rid him of all reason, and had done on their previous encounters—taking the pirate's word as truth, one day's head start that extended indefinitely, recommending the Governor neglect to issue a warrant for re-arrest following his escape—and now the stupid act of rescuing him only to condemn him. All because he had not wished to think of Sparrow suffering—the reasons for which he did not understand, and had not even considered.
He looked back to Sparrow to see the pirate's eyes closed, face tense and forehead resting against the bar, exhausted from the effort of the exchange.
"I—" Norrington began, "I did not intend for that to happen. What I mean is, I... maybe I acted rashly." His brow creased a frown.
Sparrow huffed a half laugh and began to turn away, unwinding fingers from the bars to flutter half-heartedly in midair.
"Maybe indeed, Commodore. Let me be in peace, I have naught else to say to you."
Norrington watched as Sparrow backed away toward the wall of the cell and slumped to his knees, leaning with his shoulder against the dank wood to spare his wounded back.
Norrington felt winded, his breath stolen somewhere. He had to think, be still and think a way out of this situation his instincts had led him to. He half muttered something, changed his mind and turned, making his way back up the steps to the deck.
Sparrow was unaware of how much time had passed. He focussed on breathing slow and shallow to ease the stabbing in his chest. His mind drifted, half asleep, till fingers wrenched his fractured ribs from his body, used them to slice through a length of rope that wrapped round his neck of its own volition, pulled taut, and he dropped—
And awoke, having slumped sideways too far towards the deck, his balance lost somewhere between sleep and wake. His eyes opened wide as he heard footsteps on the stairs down to the brig.
A man in a red coat noisily clunked the key into the cell lock and swung open the door, while a second man stood close by.
"On your feet. Commodore wants to see you."
"Much obliged, luv." Sparrow somehow managed to rise and bow at the same time. "Was wonderin' when me company may be required."
"Shut your mouth, scum," the second man uttered as he reached inside the cell and tugged Sparrow out. His body tensed to try and subdue the pain that sparked, and he was dragged up the steps and onto the top deck. The sun hit him like hot treacle, and made him sluggish and resistant.
Thrust forward, he reached the door to the main cabin. After a knock and acknowledgment he barely heard he was forced forward into a room.
The world dimmed, and as his eyes adjusted again he looked forward and saw Norrington behind his desk—prim, proper, pompous and self-assured. Looking for all the world like a proper bastard.
"So, Commodore," Sparrow began as the men closed the door behind him, "I believe I have been summoned." He bent forward in a stiff bow with a flourish of manacled hands.
"Mr. Sparrow—"
"Captain—if you please..." Sparrow muttered.
"Very well." Norrington rose from his chair. "Captain Sparrow. I have been considering the points you raised earlier. And have concluded—probably against my better judgement—that you may be right..."
"You wot?"
"There does indeed appear to be no merit in saving a man from one dire fate to only deliver him to another."
Norrington paused to allow Sparrow to comment. He did not. The pirate only stared at him blankly, the only sign of comprehension being his slightly knotted brow.
"So I have decided to make you an offer."
"Hang off mate." Sparrow shifted his feet and hands. "You, Commodore Norrington—scourge of piracy in the Jamaican seas—wish to make me—the legendary Captain Jack Sparrow—an offer?"
Sparrow raised his eyebrows higher than seemed natural. Norrington merely returned the gaze blankly.
"Yes."
"And what, pray tell to Heaven above and all the little seraphim and cupids too, could you possibly have in your power to bestow a thing such as something to offer me?"
Norrigton smiled at the vernacular used by the Sparrow he recognised.
"A way to continue your life of debauchery yet avoid the noose."
The statement hung in the air until Sparrow's brow knotted further.
"What in hell are you talkin' about, Commodore?"
"Given your previous assistance in preserving the life of Miss Swann, I should think it would not take too much persuasion for the Governor to issue you a Letter of Marque. The Navy is always in need of such assistance and, given your reputation and ship, I should imagine the situation could prove beneficial for all parties. The only concessions you would have to make would be to sail under different colours, lend assistance to English ships when required, perhaps be dispatched to specific regions on rotation and advise us of your course. Oh, and of course to not engage or raid ships sailing under certain colours..."
Norrington reeled off the list of conditions as though they were petty inconveniences. Sparrow kept his face blank throughout until he couldn't bear it any longer, and rolled his eyes.
"Let me stop you there, mate," he began, raising a finger towards him. "You are offering me a Letter of Marque, right?"
"Yes," Norrington replied, as though he were offering him riches.
"So you expect Captain Jack Sparrow—" he let his name hover in the air for a second "—to take your little letter and play the Navy's pet gundog, shooing off all the pesky Spaniards and frogs so's you and yours can keep all your pretty little toes safe and cosy by your fires in Port Royal?"
"No, Sparrow." Norrington leant back against the table, hands clasped in annoyance, "I expect you to consider an offer you would be foolish to refuse. How better to avoid the noose and still maintain your distasteful lifestyle?"
"Ah, I see." Sparrow sashayed a little sideways, comprehension smirking his lips. "This is a wee little elaborate scheme o' yours to get control of me lovely ship, is it not?"
"No, it most certainly is not." Norrington frowned. "Your ship may well be fast—"
"Fastest in these waters, thank you," Sparrow muttered. Norrington paused but otherwise ignored him.
"—but she is by no means up to the standards expected by the Navy."
"Watch it, mate. I'll tell 'er you said that."
Norrington looked dumbfounded, and stared at the pirate with his mouth slightly open.
"I can assure you, Captain Sparrow," he began slowly, "I have no interest in your ship. I am simply trying to think of a way of resolving this situation I have—I mean, you and I find ourselves in."
Sparrow became very still, and then brought one finger to his lips, tapping it absentmindedly. Norrington watched the way he moved his hands, dancing and bringing them around together as though they weren't bound. He seemed to be considering things.
"Commodore Norrington," he began suddenly with an official-sounding tone. "I am afraid to say that I will not be sorry to decline your somewhat surprising, entirely unnecessary and quite stupid offer as it would in fact condemn me to a fate I would despise far more than the one you have already assigned to me—that is to say, even if I were to take you up on your offer of making me a privateer with the sole intention of relieving myself of this tricky situation, only to tear up your little letter once I was far enough away from your little tin soldiers to outrun them, even that would so offend my principles and honour and worth as to make the escape counterproductive. Savvy?"
Norrington had tried to follow him, but had gotten lost somewhere towards the end.
"So you are saying, I believe, that to accept a Letter of Marque would offend your moral principles?" Disbelief and sarcasm tripped through his words.
"Not moral, no. But principle all the same. That being freedom."
"Freedom? You would be free of the gallows!" Norrington laughed in disbelief. He had expected Sparrow to take the letter, return to his ship and then disregard the obligation, just as he had said.
"You cannot parcel out freedom in pieces mate; 'tis all or nothing."
Norrington stopped. That phrase echoed in his head as he tried to place it. He remembered suddenly sitting in chapel as a child.
"Not my words, but good 'uns none the less. Means what you're offerin', wrapped up in a pretty bow as it may be, is just a piece of something that can't be broken once and then made whole again."
"But you have lost your freedom before, Sparrow."
"Aye, but I never gave it away—so got it back whole of my own accord."
Neither man spoke for a few moments. Norrington considered his words, the back of his mind trying to remember the owner of the phrase Sparrow had used. He decided his somewhat riskier backup plan may be a better idea.
"You know I will not have a choice—I am bound to see you hang."
"Yes I bloody well know that!" Sparrow threw his arms out as far as the manacles allowed. "Why'd you think I'm so bloody pissed off!"
"I mean, I will have to imprison you upon our return, the following day being the day you will hang."
"What are you blatherin' about?" Sparrow's mouth tightened in frustration.
"What I mean is—you will be spending one full night in a cell at the fort. The same fort you were detained in previously. I believe you managed to escape from there before, with the assistance of Mr Turner." Norrington spoke slowly, ignoring the pirate's obvious growing anger.
"Wot of it?"
"Since your previous escape—which was achieved by wrenching the bars from the brackets, was it not?—since then, the cells in the main gaol have been reinstalled, so that similar attempts would fail."
Sparrow cocked his head to one side, his mind racing ahead as to what Norrington was trying to get at.
"So, if I were to place you in the main cells, escape would be impossible." Norrington stood up from leaning against the desk and began to walk slowly around towards his chair. "However, if, for example, there was some reason why those cells were unavailable—say, if a final inspection were under way—I would have no choice but to place you in the smaller gaol, the cells in which have not been altered." He looked back at Sparrow to see his eyes narrowing, looking like a feral cat unsure whether to trust the hand offering food.
"Do you follow, Captain Sparrow?"
The pirate paused for a while, maintaining his stare.
"I think that would be awful unwise of you, Commodore. I'd be sure to escape." His tone was low and unreadable.
"Indeed. It would probably be the very worst course of action for me to take if I wanted to ensure your hanging."
"Are such 'final inspections' a common occurrence?"
"Common enough to be easily arranged." Norrington raised his brow and gave a nod, not releasing Sparrow's gaze. The pirate continued to meet it. "By the way, Sparrow—" Norrington looked down at the papers on his desk. "If I wanted to ensure you would not be able to escape from that cell, perhaps you could tell me if there is anything specific I should neglect to provide you with?" There was a pause of some moments.
"A bench. Longish one with short solid legs. That would be something you really wouldn't want me to have. If you wanted to prevent me escapin'"
"If I wanted to prevent you from escaping." Norrington met his gaze again and held it, seeing comprehension there.
Sparrow was suddenly reanimated, like a marionette with strings pulled taut.
"Right then!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. "Now that we have reached an understandin', you can call for your little red coats to return me to the brig."
Norrington smiled as his eyes dropped towards the table again.
"Not yet Sparrow, I want to look at your back—see what damage has been done."
"No need, mate, I've had worse." Sparrow took a step back unconsciously. The standing and the concentrating had left him feeling lightheaded, and his chest burned from being forced to stay straight. He only wanted to sink back into the coolness of the brig and not have to hide the strain from his face. He had no desire to reveal how much pain he was in to the commodore.
"As a prisoner on this ship, it is my obligation to provide dressings for your wounds. I would do the same for anyone else." Norrington walked around the desk towards him, and Sparrow took as many steps back.
"First time I ever heard of that policy aboard Navy ships."
"It is not a Naval policy; it is one of my principles." Norrington took a few steps toward a small chest against the wall. "As we were not intending to engage anyone and would only be sailing a few days distance," Norrington spoke to him with his back turned, picking objects out of the chest, "I had the ship's surgeon remain ashore. But I have enough rudimentary medical knowledge and experience to tend to lash wounds. Perhaps if you sat down, Sparrow?"
He turned to see the pirate looking like a bird trapped in a small room with the window closed. His eyes were wide, made to look wider still by the kohl smudged around them. Perspiration beaded on his brow.
"What is it?" Norrington asked. "I can assure you I do know what I'm doing."
"It's not that," Sparrow said tightly. "Just rather you didn't."
"Don't be ridiculous," Norrington said, as though chiding a child. He walked over to Sparrow and took him by the shoulder, not noticing the grimace on his face. He sat him down sideways in the chair in front of the desk, and began lining up the medical equipment and jars he had retrieved from the chest. "I need only clean your back and see if any of the lash wounds require stitching."
Sparrow did not want this, not at all. Wanted only the forgiving cool damp floorboards of the brig and to be alone to still his mind. He did not want to share the intimacy of pain with this man. He had not yet deciphered the commodore's motives; his mind was not clear enough to work it out. And not knowing another man's motives always put him in a very vulnerable position.
"Your shirt is in tatters back here..." Norrington muttered, more to himself than to Sparrow. He peeled the material away from the lash wounds, congealing blood making the fabric sticky. There were many angry red lines, criss-crossing above older scars. Sparrow had obviously learnt to force his back to stay loose during a flogging—taut skin and muscle split easier.
"Only one will need stitching, Sparrow," the commodore said with a gentleness Sparrow did not recognise. Norrington stood up and walked to the wash basin in the next cabin. Sparrow took the opportunity to breathe again, as he'd been holding his breath to ensure he made no sounds as the other man had pulled his shirt away from the cuts.
Norrington returned with a bowl of water and some cloths. Placing them on the desk, he positioned his chair behind Sparrow. A knife came from somewhere, and he began pulling the tails of Sparrow's shirt from his breeches.
"I'll have to cut the rest of your shirt away, I'm afraid."
"No odds to me, mate," Sparrow muttered, trying not to react as the tugging made his ribs sear with pain.
"You have some bruising around your hip, Sparrow..." Norrington muttered, surprised. "Did they beat you?"
The pirate did not reply, just sighed and slumped forward a little. Frowning, Norrington cut away the rest of the shirt and stood to pull it free of Sparrow, coming around in front of him. The fabric slipped from his hands as he saw the man's torso.
"Christ..." he all but whispered, kneeling down to Sparrow's level. The pirate gazed at the floor, refusing to look at Norrington. His body looked like blotting paper splashed with ink; the bruising was extensive. His left flank was swollen, reddish bruises with darker marks around the ribs. Bruising, swellings, grazes, blistering from what looked like a burn below older gunshot scars. The man's stomach wore various shades of black and purple. Norrington's lips parted to speak, but made no sound.
Sparrow felt like cattle at market, being stared at in this way, and hated it. He wanted to shove the commodore away, smack his smug gaping jaw, and run. He kept his gaze fixed on the floorboards, counting the lines of wood grain to stop himself from saying something he would regret.
"What did they do to you...?" Norrington murmured eventually, his eyes still wide.
Sparrow let his head fall back and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling.
"Would've thought that was pretty bloody obvious, mate," he said, taut and weary. "Now please just get on and do what you're going to do so's I can go and get some peace."
Norrington didn't seem to realise the man had spoken, so engrossed was he in staring at the battered body. He reached a hand out and gently felt the heat seeping from beneath the swollen ribs. He pressed at them, and suddenly glanced up to meet Sparrow's narrowed eyes as the pirate winced and sucked in a sharp gasp. Sparrow saw something raw in his eyes, compassion and regret, something caring. That was interesting.
After a long moment Norrington broke his gaze away and seemed to compose himself.
"I think these two ribs are fractured."
"No shit, mate. There was me wonderin' what that pain was."
"Why didn't you tell me they'd done this?" Norrington suddenly looked earnest, younger.
"What'd be the point in that?" Sparrow said, surprised. "Thought you only meant to hang me. What would you care if I'd been beat?"
Norrington realised he was right, and didn't understand suddenly. Why would he expect the pirate to tell him he'd been beaten? By all accounts he should have laughed in his face had he done so, told him it was no more than he deserved. So why was there a stone sitting in his stomach; why was his throat tight? Why did he care that one of the Jamaica's most notorious pirates had been beaten so badly? He met Sparrow's eyes—saw depths there, unreadable.
The commodore pushed down his thoughts, got hold of himself. Take care of the matter at hand.
"I'll have to strap your ribs," he said, getting to his feet and retrieving more jars and bandages from the chest. "I have some salve that is very good for bruising—relieves the pain somewhat, and makes them heal faster."
He returned with a pungent-smelling jar and knelt before Sparrow again. Gently, he wiped away the dirt and dried blood from his chest with a wet cloth. Sparrow avoided his gaze, turned his face down. The commodore kept glancing up at him, checking his expression to gauge if he was hurting him. Sparrow had not felt this exposed in a very long time; he felt like the only whore on a ship that had been at sea six months. He never allowed himself to be this vulnerable. The beatings had been easier to deal with that this sudden and unexpected intimacy.
Norrington paused suddenly, and Sparrow tried to back his face away from the hand coming towards him. The commodore pushed a lock of hair behind his ear, and didn't seem to realise he'd left his fingers resting there. He gently brushed his thumb back and forth across the yellowing bruise on the pirates temple. Sparrow stared wide-eyed, and then his fogged mind began to see something there in Norrington's eyes. Well, that was also interesting, if a little disturbing.
"How long were you a captive on that ship?" Norrington asked quietly.
"What day is it?" Sparrow replied. Norrington looked surprised, and met his gaze questioningly.
"It's Wednesday. Why?"
"Means I was there five days, then," Sparrow muttered, seemingly surprised himself.
"Five days?" Norrington frowned. "And you were angry at me for removing you?"
"I've survived worse than this, mate, many times." Sparrow smiled at the shock written on the commodore's face. "Only survived one hangin' so far though—rather take me chances with something I know how to get through." He chuckled quietly despite himself at Norrington's steely expression.
"I will not hang you—" Norrington whispered suddenly, having not meant to say anything.
Sparrow pulled his head back in surprise, as if responding to an alarm call.
"Aye, you said as much already..." Sparrow leant forward, closer to Norrington's face, grasping the hand that had caressed his hair. "And why is that, Commodore?"
Norrington's eyes widened, his face flushing slightly. He stood up quickly, yanking his hand back.
"What I mean by that, of course, is that I will not hang you upon our return to Port Royal. This time. If our paths cross again, I will have no choice."
"Ah, yes. Of course, Commodore." Sparrow smirked, nodding slowly.
"Yes. Well." Norrington retrieved another wet cloth and moved behind the pirate, sitting down again. He continued tending to Sparrow's back in silence, his mind trying to come to terms with what he had just said. The water was warm, making the dried blood come away easier. He cleaned the wounds with alcohol, causing Sparrow to hiss through his teeth.
"Sorry..." he said quietly. Sparrow let it go unanswered.
Most of the lash wounds would heal well on their own, but there was a large one that had split, gaping half an inch at its worst, and would need stitching. It had stopped bleeding now.
"This will probably need six or seven stitches," Norrington said quietly. "The rest of them probably won't scar, but this one will, I'm afraid."
"He'll have plenty of friends to keep 'im company back there," Sparrow said through gritted teeth.
"Yes, indeed." Norrington looked at the man's back properly, having only been focussing on the latest additions. There was another gunshot scar on his right flank where a shot had gone straight through. Scars from knife slashes and stab wounds on his lower back, a long thin scar of a sword slash on his left side, made more obvious by the bruising and swelling. In the middle of it all was an elaborate and colourful tattoo of a Chinese dragon, its snaking body curling back on itself around the middle of the pirate's spine, claws out and teeth on show behind its billowing beard and whiskers.
"That's a very fine tattoo," Norrington said, despite himself. "I'm going to start stitching this now. Grab onto the desk if you need to hold onto something."
Sparrow didn't say anything, only curled the fingers of his left hand around the back of the chair, entwining them in the carvings. Norrington prepared the equipment and began stitching, holding the edges of the cut together. Sparrow was stiff, holding his breath. After the third stitch, Norrington spoke.
"You should probably try to remember to breathe, Mr. Sparrow."
"Captain!" Sparrow yelped loudly, smacking his other hand down on the edge of the desk and curling his nails into the wood, finally releasing the breath he had been holding.
"Of course," Norrington smirked. "My apologies."
When he had finished the stitching he applied the dressings and began to wrap a bandage to hold them in place, wrapped below the pirate's right arm and over the left shoulder. Leaning close to Sparrow's back, the heavy decorated hair brushed against his cheek, the cold of a glass bead touching his forehead. He had never been this close to the other man before; his hair was rough and matted into braids, but much of it was loose and sleek, if tangled. It smelt earthy, of the sea and spices and salt.
"Do you bathe in rum, Sparrow?" he asked quietly, breaking the silence to distract his mind from the unusual route it had begun to take upon being so close to him. "Even your hair smells of it."
"Tried it once, mate," Sparrow tried to chuckle, but his throat was too tight. "Ended up a bit sticky in places you wouldn't want to." He paused, considering whether now was a good time to test the waters. "As did the lad I was sharing the experience with..."
Norrington froze for a second, his face pressed into the pirate's hair as he was passing the roll of bandage between his hands in front of Sparrow. He continued after a moment, and decided it best to ignore the comment. It was probably only intended to make him feel even more uncomfortable at being so close to the man.
They remained almost silent while Norrington strapped his fractured ribs, Sparrow's face contorted as he pulled the strapping tight, but he remained uncharacteristically silent. When it was all finished Norrington began to put the equipment away, as Sparrow's head flopped on to his hand resting on the back of the chair.
"I'll have them take you back down to the brig now," Norrington began with his back turned, putting things away. He turned to see Sparrow all but passed out, limp against the back of the chair. "Or maybe not," he said to himself.
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