Sparrington Arc, Chapter 2.1

Mischief

by

The Stowaway

"...a report from the captain of the Lady Mitchell, sir. She came into port today."

"Well, Lieutenant?"

"Sir, he claims to have seen the Black Pearl last night at dusk. She's cruising these waters again."

"No, I doubt it," Norrington spoke with his usual aplomb, although he was disquieted by the news, "Sparrow wouldn't dare come so close to Port Royal. The scoundrel is mad, but hardly so foolish as that."

"But Commodore, Captain Williams was quite certain, and you know he has been a reliable..."

Gillette broke off as Norrington raised his hand and turned to face the younger man.

"My word, Lieutenant, you amuse me. Reliable the good Captain may have been, but you must own that his last brush with the Brethren has made him querulous and over-ready to start at mere shadows." His prim smile became almost a smirk. "No, you must bring me better information before I will believe that Captain Jack Sparrow and the Black Pearl are within 100 miles of this place."

Gillette wisely held his tongue. If he felt his superior's confidence to be a bit overblown, he was too ambitious for promotion to say so. Even though the Port Royal squadron was now grown to five ships, Gillette remembered—all too well—a number of stinging defeats dealt the Navy by the crafty Sparrow, whose following amongst the Brethren of the Coast had grown large. It was said that other captains vied to sail under his flag and that he might command a fleet of six ships or more at a moment's notice.

They walked on in thoughtful silence, until Norrington, brooding as ever upon the manifold injuries done him by the Captain of the Black Pearl, burst out with suppressed vehemence, "Damn me, if I but had him in my grasp! How soon he'd swing." He paused, grasping the starboard rail and staring out to sea with a look of baffled rage on his face. "Let him but venture within range of my fleet, and you may be assured, Gillette, that the scandalous career of that pirate will find its fitting end on a gibbet."

Gillette bowed without speaking, and they parted—he to see to the changing of the watch, and Norrington to retire to his cabin, whither he spent most nights; preferring to sleep on board even when in port.

The 'ghost' rose to his feet and pressed the muzzle of a very real pistol to the center of Norrington's chest, stopping him once more in his tracks.

"Silent as the grave, Commodore, if you please," the blurred speech was belied by the steady gaze and steadier hand. "And no sudden moves. I would hate to blow a hole in you. Your sword."

Norrington gaped at him, bewildered.

"Come, come, man! Give me your sword!" Norrington complied. "And your pistol."

Sparrow, for it was indeed he, removed the Commodore's pistol from his sash and, stepping back, resumed his seat on the desk, swinging one booted foot and regarding his prisoner with an amused and sapient eye.

"There, now we can be comfortable. Please, be seated," Jack waved a languid, impudent hand; playing host in the grand manner. Norrington didn't move. "But why so surprised, ay, mate? We have unfinished business, you and I. Time to square accounts, as it were."

It took a moment for the sense of the pirate's words to sink through the confusion gripping him. His mind whirled. Unfinished business? He noted faint stirrings of panic and ruthlessly suppressed them. Surely the knave was not implying... faugh! Anger flooded Norrington, freeing his tongue at last.

"The only possible business we have, you blackguard, concerns your long-delayed appointment with the hangman! I shall not rest until you keep it."

"Brave words," Jack chuckled, "but they ring a little hollow. Think about it, mate. A shout right now would bring the sentries at the double. And that would likely mean the end of me—but you wouldn't be here to see it. What would be the point o' that, ay?"

Norrington clenched impotent fists and looked away; did not answer, appalled to find himself hesitating. The preposterous cheek of the fellow taunted him. He was no coward, but he could not fight what he refused to acknowledge. Again the surge of panic rose and again he fought it back. A word from him and Jack would die... why could he not say it?

He glanced up, frowning. Jack sat at his ease, one foot drawn up, elbow on knee, an imp of mischief dancing in his eyes; his very demeanor was an insult.

Norrington's gaze fixed on the unwavering pistol, held in a brown and sinewy hand, moved thence across the smooth chest and up to Jack's face. Unable to confront the mockery in those dark eyes, he stared instead at the lazily smiling mouth, his own lips parting unconsciously. Time slowed, even as his heart began to race.

The Pearl's Captain stood and Norrington came to himself with a visible start, watching warily as Jack moved smoothly round him and out of sight, trailing the pistol along his throat until it came to rest beneath his right ear. The muscles in his back tensed with the effort of not moving. Suddenly Jack's body pressed itself snugly against his from knees to shoulders. A convulsive shudder racked him, as he gasped in shock.

"Ah," Jack breathed in his ear, laughing softly, "you begin to see it, now. Do you really want me dead, love?"

Goaded beyond caution, Norrington recoiled violently, turning to face his tormentor.

"You're mad."

"So they say," Jack agreed amiably, as he took a slow and deliberate step forward, forcing Norrington back.

"And vile,"

"Oh surely not, for what would that say about your taste? Or should I say tastes?" purred Jack, unholy glee riding the smoky tones of his voice

With a dull thud, Norrington backed into the bulkhead, trapped there as Jack's hands came to rest against the paneling, one to either side of him.

He glared, clutching at the rags of his composure. "Nonsense," he hissed, "I haven't the least idea..."

"Oh but I think you do," whispered Jack, "Who do you dream about, ay?" And he grinned as the taunt struck home.

Aghast, Norrington could only shake his head. "It's not true."

"Is it not? Then why are you trembling?"

Norrington felt the nearness of the pirate's body as if it were a flame, raising similar heat in himself. He shut his eyes, determined to hide his panic and humiliation; to save that much of his dignity at least.

Jack ran his hands lightly down the other man's arms, before pinning them firmly to the bulkhead. "Open your eyes, love," he murmured, "I want to see." And, to his despair, Norrington found himself helpless to disobey.

He stared bleakly back at the glittering eyes that probed his. It was too much. Gradually, mercifully, he found himself angry again. His glance hardened, challenged.

"Ah," Jack smiled, "not indifferent, then."

"Indifferent!" Norrington snarled, struggling in vain to free his arms, "no, never that, you whoreson bastard. I hate you! I shall see you dead."

Jack shook his head, all mock solemnity and wicked eyes. "I've heard that before, mate." As he spoke, Jack gradually decreased the distance between them until his last words were spoken against Norrington's mouth. "Time to change your tune, I think."

The unexpected gentleness of it shocked Norrington to stillness. Jack's mouth moving across his was indescribably disarming, distracting. Insensibly, he relaxed; his momentary rebellion fracturing around him. Jack deepened the kiss; nibbling on his lips, coaxing them to part, running just the tip of his tongue between them teasingly. Norrington's came to meet the invasion, tentative at first, as his eyes slipped closed. He moaned, hardly more than a breath.

Cool air against his lips made him open his eyes to find Jack had pulled back slightly and was watching him with an unreadable expression. "The truth at last," he whispered, releasing Norrington's arms and reaching up to frame his face, callused fingers curling against the back of his neck. "One word more, love, and we've done with talk. Tell me you want this. Say yes."

And with that, Jack took his mouth and a hurricane erupted through his senses. Resistless, he was swept away; buffeted as if by wind and tide; tumbling directionless. Drowning, he clung to the one solid thing left in his world, seizing Jack's arms in a bruising grip. Jack's lips were leaving a trail of slick fire along his jaw and across his throat. Deft fingers began undoing his neckcloth, tugging at his shirt.

When Norrington felt Jack's hips grind into his, he was beyond shame, beyond thought. His body bucked, mindless, desperate for more.

"Say it," Jack demanded, "say it, before we both go mad."

"Yes, oh god please, yes!"

Another bruising, plundering kiss, and they were sinking, slipping; hands tearing frantically at clothing as each sought to touch, to taste, to see. Norrington moaned as Jack laid him down on the deck. Overwhelmed, he was barely conscious as Jack entered him; crying out at the slow, sweet burn of it. Slowly at first, they found a rhythm and began to move; Norrington's whimpers riding like a descant on Jack's deeper groans. And then, as the pace picked up, Jack's voice was in his ear, whispering, but he was beyond words now, and they flowed over his skin as pure sensation: exhortations, endearments, encouragement. When Jack's hand closed about him, sweaty and insistent, he convulsed, back arching as he screamed his release into Jack's mouth, with Jack's own cry like an echo a heartbeat behind.

A moment they lay thus, while hearts and breathing slowed. Then Jack slowly withdrew and rolled onto his back. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to Norrington that he should turn to him and be gathered in, and settled against his shoulder. He drifted into sleep.

Moving gingerly, he rose and crossed to his desk, in search of his watch. There, in the center of the blotter, lay a letter addressed to him in a bold, familiar hand. Snatching it up, he tore it open to find a gold ring set with, what else? A black pearl. And the words:

Until next time,
Jack

Norrington swore.

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