Sparrington Arc, Chapter 2.2

Unexpected

by

The Stowaway

Very clear in the still air, the boat's occupants heard Norrington's voice on the main deck. "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."

Jack turned to Gibbs with a grin, eyes glinting in the light of the stern lantern high above them, and raised his brows. Gibbs shook his head. He'd made his disapproval of this venture abundantly clear before they'd set out, but he knew very well there was nothing to be done with Jack in this mood. He would catch cold at this mad game of Commodore-baiting, if he wasn't careful. But Jack had insisted there was information he wanted aboard the Dauntless and that was that. And so, here they were.

Jack leaned close and whispered, lips barely moving, "An hour before dawn, Josh. Don't fail." Gibbs nodded and Jack stood. As the ship's side rolled down toward them on the slight swell, he placed one hand on a toehold and swung out of the boat, going up the side agile and quiet as a monkey. Gibbs watched as he made his way round to the windows and then began his long pull back to shore to wait out the night.

Jack used the point of his knife to work the catch on a window and let himself into the main cabin. The desk was before him, with its neat stacks of paperwork. Beyond it he saw chairs, a small table and the bunk. He took note of a Turkey carpet that covered part of the decking and grinned. Such luxury—most unusual on a Navy ship, he supposed. The Commodore had a touch of the sybarite in him, eh? Interesting.

Sitting behind the desk, Jack went quickly through the papers—scanning them for useful tidbits of information on troop movements and other clues as to the Navy's plans in the pirate-hunting line. He was impressed by the quality of Norrington's information on the Brethren in general (if not on the Pearl, he thought, with a touch of smugness)—it confirmed him in his belief that here was a foe worthy of his steel. This handsome young Commodore was formidable indeed. Pulling his nose was a dangerous game, but irresistible. Jack chuckled silently in anticipation.

A step sounded in the passage and Jack whisked around the desk to sit on its edge facing the door with his pistol drawn.

Norrington entered, tossed aside his hat and wig, and removed his coat and waistcoat without noticing Jack's presence. As he turned away to lay the garments across a chair, Jack had a chance to admire his straight back and really lovely arse in the white uniform breeches. Such a pretty sight; Jack's thoughts strayed for a pleasant moment.

Norrington turned and saw him. He looked alarmed for an instant and then... chagrined? Jack could not be sure. Norrington took a step forward; Jack stood and touched the muzzle of the pistol to his chest. This time the astonishment and bewilderment were almost comical to see. Had he thought he was seeing things? Jack wondered.

"Silent as the grave, Commodore, if you please," Jack said, relishing the chance to give Norrington back his own. "And no sudden moves. I would hate to blow a hole in you." Norrington gaped at him, looking almost simple with shock. "Your sword." The Commodore did not move.

"Come, come, man!" Jack waggled his pistol impatiently. "Give me your sword!" Fumbling slightly, Norrington complied. "And your pistol." Jack did not wait; removing it from Norrington's sash himself and placing it out of reach. With his quarry disarmed, Jack breathed a little easier. Now for some fun. He perched again on the edge of the desk, sitting half sideways, one heel drawn up to rest on the polished surface.

"There, now we can be comfortable," he said, airily waving a hand. "Please, be seated." He saw the Commodore's jaw tighten at his presumption and almost laughed. "But why so surprised, eh, mate?" he went on, enjoying himself hugely. "We have unfinished business, you and I." Ah, that caught him. "Time to square accounts, as it were."

Jack watched with interest as Norrington's face reflected a cascade of emotions—confusion, shock, a flicker of fear hastily masked, anger.

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

Oh ho! A flash of spirit, Jack thought. Charming. He chuckled. "Brave words, but they ring a little hollow," he said. "Think about it, mate." Oh, he doesn't like 'mate', does he? "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, eh?"

Norrington hesitated; glancing away and clenching his fists. Jack, intrigued, saw him struggle again with fear. Of what, exactly? The man was not a coward by any means, so what had sent stark panic skittering across his face? Jack waited, content to let the silence work for him.

At last Norrington looked at him again—at the pistol in his hand, to be exact—and frowned. Slowly the green eyes moved, across his chest and up. All at once, Jack fancied he could feel the gaze; as if fingers stroked his skin—a most pleasant sensation. Ah, so it was like that, was it? Norrington did not meet his eyes, fixing instead upon his mouth; a stricken look upon his face. He feels it too, Jack realized. Norrington's lips parted. Such red lips. Jack saw a pulse began to beat in his throat. Why not? Jack asked himself. It's a very pretty Commodore, after all. And one should never waste an opportunity...

He stood, amused to see Norrington start almost guiltily. He touched the pistol to that telltale pulse and drew it gently around to rest beneath Norrington's ear, circling the man until he could whisper over the tall shoulder. Norrington tensed but did not move. Mischievously, Jack pressed his body against Norrington's and laughed softly at the gasp and shudder he evoked.

"Ah, you begin to see it, now," he murmured. "Do you really want me dead, love?"

Caution forgotten, Norrington spun to face him, horror on his face. "You're mad."

"So they say," Jack agreed equably. He moved forward and Norrington took a hasty step back.

"And vile," the Commodore gasped.

"Oh surely not," Jack replied, quietly gleeful, "For what would that say about your taste? Or should I say tastes?" This was almost too much fun. Look at the poor man squirm.

Norrington backed into the bulkhead and his eyes flared panic. Jack trapped him in place with a hand to either side of him; not touching—yet. "Nonsense," Norrington hissed, "I haven't the least idea..."

"Oh but I think you do," whispered Jack. Drawing bow at a venture, he said, "Who do you dream about, eh?" He grinned. That had hit him hard; he looked downright stunned.

Norrington shook his head, the motion jerky. "It's not true," he whispered. The denial rang hollow.

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

Norrington closed his eyes without answering, as if he could shut out what was about to happen. Jack ran his hands down Norrington's arms—fingers skating appreciatively over the lean, sword-trained muscles—before pinning them to the bulkhead. He felt a shock at the contact, so strong that it startled him. From Norrington's flinch, he guessed he was not alone in this. Heat simmered between them, overtaking Jack's amusement with something darker and more urgent.

"Open your eyes, love," he murmured gently, "I want to see." It was a request, not an order, but he was obeyed. Green and cold as sea ice, Norrington's bleak eyes stared into his for a space, before heating once more to anger and challenge.

"Ah," Jack smiled, pleased and unable to resist teasing, "not indifferent, then."

"Indifferent!" Norrington snarled furiously, beginning to struggle. "No, never that, you whoreson bastard. I hate you! I shall see you dead."

Methinks he doth protest too much, Jack thought. He controlled Norrington's struggles with ease—how hard was he trying to escape? "I've heard that before, mate," he whispered; inch by slow inch closing the gap until their bodies touched. "Time to change your tune, I think." The kiss was light and teasing. Jack nibbled on the lips that opened to him as Norrington went very still, scarcely breathing. He coaxed and invited carefully and, in due time, was rewarded with the touch of Norrington's tongue against his, shy at first but gaining in boldness. Norrington moaned, barely more than a sigh, and Jack leaned back to survey the now-open face with its shining lips and closed eyes.

"The truth at last," he said, reaching up to frame that face with his hands. Norrington watched him, waiting. Jack went on, "One word more, love, and we've done with talk. Tell me you want this. Say yes."

Jack kissed him again, not holding back this time, subtle as a broadside at point-blank range. God, he tasted good. Norrington clung to him like a drowning man; swept, as Jack intended, quite out of himself. He did not protest when Jack—never breaking the kiss—undid his neckcloth and tugged at his shirt. Jack ground their hips together and Norrington bucked into the pressure, avid and shameless.

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

"Yes, oh god please, yes!"

More kisses, sloppy and desperate, as they slipped down to lie on the thick carpet. Norrington's mouth and hands were moving on him, pulling at his clothes, exploring, tasting. Naked at last, Jack stretched out on top of him, plundering his mouth yet again.

Impatient suddenly, Jack fished his oil flask out of his coat pocket with one hand. He prepared them both as quickly as he could, Norrington's whimpering gasp as he was breached with oily fingers warning Jack to go slowly. He gritted his teeth as he forced himself to take his time. He wondered fleetingly if he was Norrington's first. When at last he entered him, Norrington cried out softly—the noise drowned, providentially, by the ship's bell. Sweet, oh but he was sweet and slick and hot. Jack fucked him slowly as he could stand to. Thank God we're both limber, he thought, leaning down to bite Norrington's mouth and stifle the cries he was too distracted to control.

Jack sped up, whispering as he did in James's ear. "That's it, love... move for me... faster..." He hardly knew what he was saying, lost in the body beneath his and the tightening rush to completion. He grasped James's cock and stroked it urgently. James convulsed and came with a cry, Jack falling right behind.

He rolled off and lay on his back, panting. As if drawn by a string, James—eyes still closed—turned toward him, and Jack, almost without thinking, settled him within the crook of his arm. Minutes passed. Jack looked at the dark head pillowed now on his shoulder with a kind of sleepy wonderment. Against all reason, this felt right. James's hair had fallen across his eyes and Jack brushed it back. When had he begun to think of him as James, he asked himself. They slept.

A short time later, he moved them both to the bunk. James murmured something in his sleep that might have been "Sparrow", but did not wake.

Toward dawn, Jack disentangled himself and dressed. Going to the desk, he took out a sheet of note paper—with a family crest, he saw—and, dipping the pen, wrote Until next time and signed it Jack. Hesitating before he sealed it, he grinned. Taking a ring—a black pearl, of course—out of his pocket he enclosed it in the fold. Just one more tug on the tiger's tail. He propped it up where it couldn't be missed.

"Did you find it?" Gibbs asked.

"Eh?" Jack looked up absently.

"The information," Gibbs replied, "Did you get what you were looking for?"

Jack smiled. "Oh, aye, and more." He looked back at the dark bulk of the Dauntless silhouetted against the growing light in the east. "More than I expected."

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