Tyger, Tyger
4. Mating Dance
by
Pairing: Jack/James
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I have no claim on POTC or the lovely characters who populate it, even if it seems that James Norrington has, somewhat disconcertingly, made himself quite at home in my head with no apparent plans to leave.
Originally Posted: 9/20/2009
Dedication: To Theodore Groves, because this chapter is all his fault.
Note: Because I am a history nerd now and then (although I blame this one on Neil Gaiman, which is a long story) I make references to the Hatian revolutionary figure "Mackandal" because he is cool. Look him up in Wikipedia; you'll see what I mean. Seriously. Do it.
Summary: Jack Sparrow makes an unsettling discovery in Tortuga one night: James Norrington on holiday. The tryst that results has more of an effect on both men than expected. A quiet, patient sort of hunt ensues. Jack realizes that he is hunted as well as hunter.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I have no claim on POTC or the lovely characters who populate it, even if it seems that James Norrington has, somewhat disconcertingly, made himself quite at home in my head with no apparent plans to leave.
Originally Posted: 9/20/2009
Dedication: To Theodore Groves, because this chapter is all his fault.
Note: Because I am a history nerd now and then (although I blame this one on Neil Gaiman, which is a long story) I make references to the Hatian revolutionary figure "Mackandal" because he is cool. Look him up in Wikipedia; you'll see what I mean. Seriously. Do it.
Summary: Jack Sparrow makes an unsettling discovery in Tortuga one night: James Norrington on holiday. The tryst that results has more of an effect on both men than expected. A quiet, patient sort of hunt ensues. Jack realizes that he is hunted as well as hunter.
'Unconventional' had always served James well in the past; his penchant for unconventional thinking had been what earned him the rank of captain at such an early age—along with his ability to make condemnation of his methods (even when those methods meant going against direct orders from his superiors) sound very silly, if only because of how well James' ideas often worked; it was a delicate game to play in the competitive world of naval politics, but James had learned early on that is was all just a matter of waiting for the opportune moment, as well as knowing exactly what to say and when to say it to the right person or persons to bring about such an opportune moment—then again, his skills in such areas often went right along with the unconventional thinking.
James Norrington had been more than a little disturbed to see such thinking, rather akin to his own, in the puzzling and flamboyant behavior of one Captain Jack Sparrow. At first, it had stung the commodore's pride to have been so easily tricked, and to thus have his own ship commandeered by a plan that he himself might have come up with in his younger days.
Then James slipped into a rather embarrassing level of denial and letting-himself-be-tricked due to his then-stormy emotions and the sheer disbelief that he felt when confronted with the idea that the infuriating, eccentrically decorated, and perpetually intoxicated pirate he was dealing with could possibly contain not only a flare of something akin to genius, but also steely and well-concealed bit of honor underneath that tangled mass of hair and the inexplicable array of trinkets therein. The man was simply too... absurd, the commodore had thought.
After the Isla de Muerta, James was finally been able to escape the fog of his own, rather misguided, preconceived notions. His inability to sleep for two nights after the battle had also provided him with more than enough time to sit and quietly think to himself: to re-evaluate and reconsider what he knew about Jack Sparrow, whose life Elizabeth Swann and William Turner both still pleaded for during daylight hours. Only then could he see and accept the pirate's intelligence, respectable skills at manipulation, fortitude, and sheer gall. The more James turned the thoughts over in his head, the more he dreaded return to Port Royal and what would happen soon thereafter.
That, admittedly, was how James' actual fascination with Jack Sparrow had begun: the man was too clever, too ridiculous, and therefore an intriguing puzzle. The commodore was forced to admit that there had been honor in the way that the pirate fought, however twisted and colored with selfishness, and that there was a streak of brilliance to the man that made Captain Jack Sparrow something other than just a damnable scoundrel to put to the noose; it made him an equal of a sort... as well as a highly interesting challenge.
James had long been aware that he was compromised easily when the right challenge came his way. As a youth, this had meant rarely turning down a dare, which had in turn taught him how to properly both enjoy and conceal creating mischief, for he discovered in himself a talent for not getting caught. As he had grown older, caution had better tempered what challenges he accepted, and from whom. The Navy had always provided him with satisfactory ones, including one challenge that James had become increasingly determined to pursue forever: self-control. Never before had a single man proved such a tempting challenge that the Navy's alternatives had paled in comparison.
When Sparrow had baited him aboard the Dauntless, trying to appeal to James' pride, greed, and hunger for status, it had not been tempting in the least; Captain Jack Sparrow himself, however, was just such a unique challenge—or, at least, he had the potential to be, if he were not doomed to the noose: and therein lay the rub.
James could not get to know the pirate as a worthy opponent, or chase him in earnest, if the Navy's laws were to be obeyed to the letter. The challenge of obeying the law was so much less interesting in the long run, than the challenge that would be provided by a pirate like Jack Sparrow captaining a ship like the Black Pearl in Caribbean waters. And so, the commodore had let him go. With one day's head start.
And then... then there had been Tortuga.
It had been something else unexpected, for James, that after nearly two years as a relatively peaceful spectator, he had been again driven to a less passive role whilst in Tortuga, changed from spectator to participant this time not by honor, but by challenge, and by the desire to be close to it and... to taste it. Before, his visits to Tortuga had been like taking small sips of freedom, savoring its taste and knowing that if he wanted it, it was there for the taking. James' most recent visit, however, had been less like tasting wine and more like a hit from an opium pipe, and Jack Sparrow was the sole cause.
It had been a test, at first, sitting in his usual tavern and watching the man enter and exit, waiting to see if Jack was observant enough to notice, and from there... from there James had simply stopped planning. The tavern, James felt, was his own familiar ground, despite the long periods of time between his visits; improvisation was Jack's familiar ground. Also Tortuga was not home to either of them, but it was definitely Jack's territory, providing the pirate some advantage; however, James had the element of surprise. It was only fair. And, James had admitted to himself at the time, he held no expectations for what the pirate would do, and none for himself either, because James had not a clue what it was that he actually wanted from this encounter, except that part of it was, most definitely, to provoke Jack Sparrow, in his own territory, if only just to see what would happen.
Then there had been the near-terrifying moment when James had realized that his planned meeting with Captain Jack Sparrow had been leading, inexorably, toward a romantic tryst: as soon as he had locked eyes with the pirate from across tavern, and seen recognition dawn across Jack's face. Then, for James, desire and confidence and curiosity had won out, and fear had no choice but to crumble beneath their weight.
Which is how we got here, James reflected, upon trying to work out why he was leaning against the battered table in his room in a Tortugan Inn and watching a very nude and half-asleep Jack Sparrow, who was sprawled across more than half the bed and tangled up in the sheets; more than that, however, James was really trying to work out why he was taking quite such a long time to leave; James had pulled on shirt and breeches slowly, and even now was buttoning them slowly, then putting on his belt and baldric... slowly. James was not sure quite why he was deliberately stalling, taking his time to finger-comb the larger tangles out of his hair before tying it back.
His gaze lingered over that tattooed and scar-speckled skin, darker than his own. Jack Sparrow had stripes, too, and James had already mapped most of them over the past two nights, not only with mouth and hands, but also into his memory. That was another thing that James could not explain his reasons for.
Jack did not open his eyes until James' coat had finally settled over those commodorial shoulders and the commodore himself sat—hesitantly, Jack noted, smirking a bit to note the other man's soreness equalling his own—down on the edge of the bed to put on his boots.
"Leavin', then, ay?"
"Yes." He did not look up from his boots.
"Takin' your sweet time, mate. Maybe I'd like to get back to sleep," Jack murmured, mock-irritable, but his eyes were keener and more mischievous than his sleepy-sounding voice let on.
James smirked faintly. "So it would seem." Boots on, he got to his feet, looking Jack over from head to toe, one final time, with blatant appreciation. His smirk widened. "You are temptation personified."
Grinning, Jack rolled onto his back and stretched languidly to enhance the effect, even though some of his more interesting bits remained covered by the sheets, which seemed to have wrapped around his body at least thrice at some point during the night. Some of his own overtaxed muscles protested, but Jack ignored them in favor of looking thoroughly smug: like a large cat in a sunbeam. "Well, of course, love; I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."
James' eyes darkened in a not-unpleasant way, and his smirk warmed into something almost sinful. "I know." He leaned over the man, resting one hand on the bed for support. His free hand traced a feather-light trail from Jack's collarbone, down his arm, to the tattoo on his forearm. "I know very well." James brushed his lips across Jack's, briefly, never quite breaking eye contact. "Fair winds to you and your ship, Captain. You know where to look for me" he said, sincere and a little warm. Then his countenance and his voice both turned, with visible reluctance, more solemn, "And you know when to look out for me." Then he pulled away, turned away, heading out the door.
"And a following sea to you, Commodore," Jack managed, managing not to sound as breathless as he suddenly felt.
James paused just outside the doorway, glanced at Jack over his shoulder, smiled like a satiated feline, and then closed the door softly behind him.
Jack Sparrow had not expected this particular sort of treasure to tempt him quite so powerfully. His career in piracy as the captain of the Black Pearl still held all of its appeal, and he needed his ship and the sea as much as he needed breathing, but...
And that was just it: there was a 'but' where there had not been one before.
That bloody Lieutenant had seen it quite clearly enough, despite how drunk the poor lad had been.
"I'm a pirate, mate. I love the sea, I love my ship, I love treasure, and I love mischief."
"Then it's no wonder that James caught your eye, too."
Not used to rum, was Theodore Groves: or, at the least, not rum of the caliber James Norrington had gifted him with.
And fine rum it had been indeed. Jack retrieved the stolen bottle from his coat. There was but a bare inch and a half of the honey-colored liquid left, and Jack sipped at it lightly, wanting to savor it.
Contemplatively, Jack rested his heels up on the desk and tilted his chair back. The desk was off to one side of the room, close to the open windows. On the other side of the room was a reasonably fine bed, not opulent or oversized, but roomy enough for two and for all the activities Jack had planned.
It occurred to the pirate captain that James Norrington was one of the few naval officers that he had ever known who would possibly think to have a desk and chair in his sleeping quarters in a home on land; that, along with the bookshelf, map of the Caribbean on the wall, and various other sundry, made the room feel more like a spacious ship's cabin than the grand bedroom of an aristocratic gentleman.
It was, of course, the commodore's desk that Jack now rested his boot-heels on. It had less papers decorating it than James' desk at the fort, and none of them were official naval papers; instead, they were maps, drawings of people and places, ship designs drawn by the commodore himself for recreation, and—Jack found this interesting, and a little unsettling—reports attached to a letter from an old acquaintance of James'.
The letter was casual, friendly, and the writer clearly remembered James fondly without realizing that he knew nothing about who or what kind of man James actually was. The most interesting part of the letter by far was the part that said, "I have sent along with this letter all of the old EITC reports to deal with the pirate Captain Jack Sparrow's deeds outside of the Caribbean, both the official ones and the private ones that my father wrote before his death. I'm not sure how useful they will be to you, as they are not exactly recent and, as I understand it, the pirate has gone quite mad since then, if rumor serves; but oh, you have always been far sharper than I in such matters, which is I suppose why it is that I work with far more paper than you, and you sail about after mad pirate captains." The letter ended with, "Best of luck to you, my old school-mate," and a ridiculously over-flourished signature.
Distantly, Jack may have admired James' ability to make use of such an old acquaintance's naivete, but his primary focus was on the reports in his hand as he immediately began to scan them. After a few minutes, he half-consciously placed his hand over the brand on his arm with a wince.
Well, then. It seemed that James had beat him to this part of the game. Jack had only learned about James' stripes last night from the incredibly intoxicated Lieutenant Groves, but James had been in possession of these reports for over a week, Jack would guess. And, from the look of the pages, he had read through them a few times, absently pressing his fingers into the paper. Jack ran his own tar-stained fingers along the faint warping at the edges of one or two of the pages, feeling a small, thrilling little sense of connection, as though putting his hand in the fresh paw-print of the tiger he was hunting.
Of course, this was no ordinary big cat. Jack was following and hunting the tiger, of course, but the tiger was matching him step for step. It was, and Jack smirked to himself as it occurred to him, a mating dance.
That was the whole allure of the hunt, really: not just that James himself was as pretty and shiny as treasure should be, but that he was a more than worthy opponent. Jack's senses seemed to sharpen just being in the man's vicinity, and there was a crackle of energy between them that made colors seem brighter, sounds seem clearer, and every little detail of the world around them more significant.
Delving into the other's past, however, into such matters as cicatrices and horrors, went deeper than just the hunt; sure, it allowed them both to better understand and predict each other, but they were still men, and knowing now what they did about each other, something more than just the enticing heat of challenge and duel and lust had entered the game; Jack was not quite sure what to call it. The drunken lieutenant had mistaken it for love, but Jack shied from the word as he would shy away from a blade held too close to his face.
Love was something dangerous: warm, comforting, lovely, and dangerous—like a woman who would charm you with a lovely song and lovely words only to let you drink yourself unconscious, at which point she planned to set fire to all the food, the shade, and the rum on the desert island the both of you were marooned on.
Elizabeth had, Jack recalled, proved to be quite dangerous to Norrington in the game of love. That had been one of the commodore's most human moments in the earliest days of Jack's acquaintance with him, and Jack remembered well the torn look in those pretty green eyes when dear Lizzy had taken her place at William Turner's side. It was uncomfortable for Jack to think of the powerful predator he had come to know and lust after, along with that long-ago glimpse into something within James Norrington that was rather more tender, and more terribly young.
James, then, Jack would hazard a guess, was less than likely to leave his heart so unguarded again. Especially for such an untrustworthy fellow as the piratical captain of the last real, independent pirate threat in the Caribbean. Jack lifted the rum bottle to his lips again.
...as I would trust the sea.
Jack hesitated, then lowered the bottle slowly, a wary almost-hopefulness showing in his expression for a moment. Then he heard the front door downstairs open and shut, which provided sufficient distraction.
Jack stood up, and put out every light in the room but the candle on the desk. Then Jack waited.
James closed the door behind him and wondered why his nerves were suddenly on edge again. The night was quiet, and his servants had gone home earlier, more than used to the random nights wherein the master of the house worked late hours, as he had this evening.
To work off his remaining restlessness, the commodore had chosen to take a winding route home, traveling on foot, passing along the docks before weaving his way through Port Royal to reach his house. It had worked.
Upstairs, a board creaked, barely audible. It was soft, and so might have been nothing, or it might have been a footstep.
James was quite calm even as his hand rested on the hilt of his sword.
Something was off, like a discordant note in the middle of a familiar melody, and James felt his hackles raise. With the same instincts that had kept him alive through numerous pirate raids both in port and at sea, James found himself instinctively reaching for his pistol with his left hand. Then, recalling his injury after a moment, he thought better of it and drew the gun with his right hand, resting his left on the hilt of his sword.
Instead of picking up the candle left for him near the door, James snuffed it out, and took a few quiet minutes to get his bearings and let his eyes adjust to the semi-darkness until he could see tolerably well in the silvery light falling though his windows from the full moon outside.
Then he realized that there was fainter light from upstairs, which there shouldn't be, as his servants knew James to prefer them out at this hour. The light was coming from down the hall, from where the door to his bedchamber was slightly ajar.
James could hear movement: footsteps, and softer, rustling sounds. A thief, perhaps?
Locking the door behind him idly, James cocked his pistol at the same time, letting the sound of the former hide the sound of the latter. Then, with immense patience and near-silent footsteps, James made his way up the wooden stairs without a single creak to announce his presence. From the top of the staircase, it was easy to see that James' initial guess as to the light's origin had been correct. And what kind of thief would break into a commodore's bedchamber? His heartbeat quickened, and James half-scolded himself for the flicker of hopeful expectation that threatened to rise in his chest as he approached the door.
A shadow crossed the path of the dim candle-light. Then the candle went out.
James tensed, then pushed the door open fully. His pistol entered before he did, but before James could make a full sweep of the room, a blade knocked the gun from his hand. Instinctively, James leapt away, further into the room, kicking the door shut so that it swung between himself and his opponent, giving himself time to draw his sword.
James lunged as soon as he caught sight of the figure on the other side of the doorway and the glint of moonlight on a cutlass' blade. The other man parried and riposted. James sidestepped, parried, and feinted for his attacker's arm. When the other man moved away from the feint, he was forced to react fast as James' blade lunged unexpectedly for his throat; James was impressed when his opponent actually managed it, but still would have struck again, but then his attacker finally spoke.
"Why are you fighting with your left?" inquired a familiar voice, sounding sincerely befuddled.
James took a half-step back, but did not relax his stance, even as his eyes narrowed in recognition. "For the same reason that you were too-easily able to knock my gun from my right." He was wary.
"I though that was odd, for you. From what I recall, at least." A gold glint caught the moonlight, which then lit up the rest of Jack's features as he stepped forward a little further into it. The pirate sheathed his sword. He was smiling, but his brows drew together with curiosity and a hint of something almost like concern.
James relaxed a fraction, sheathing his own sword. He did not take his eyes off Jack as he knelt for a moment to retrieve his pistol from the floor.
Jack's gaze lit on James' arm, and the slight stiffness of its movement as James tucked his pistol back into his coat. "What happened?"
"A pistol-shot from a rabble of French privateers."
"Ah. I see, then. Pity, that. I'd hoped to test your swordsmanship, for a while," Jack mused, his voice almost petulant. "Although I'll admit, your form is fine enough, even weighed down with the brocade, and usin' your left." The appreciative head-to-toe appraisal said that the compliment could be interpreted a number of interesting ways.
James found himself smirking despite himself. "We can continue..." he offered, resting a hand on the pommel of his sword.
Jack raised his eyebrows a little. "Tempting as that may be, mate: aren't ye going to ask me why it is that I'm here?"
"I have the feeling that it would be easier to get a straight answer out of you if you were at least partly distracted by the fighting," James admitted.
That earned the hint of surprise from Jack, even as the pirate grinned wickedly. "Aye, I'll not allow ye that, then, Jamie." He swaggered back a few steps and perched on the edge of James' desk, picking up the bottle of rum without looking.
After the briefest of pauses, James followed, but did not actually close the wary distance between then: both of them still two arms' lengths from the other. "Alright then, I shall cope with your circuitous replies without the benefit of steel... for now." Then his brows furrowed and his playfulness retreated somewhat as he recognized the rum bottle. "Where did you get that?"
Before answering, Jack took the chance once more to admire the man in uniform. The blue coat was pretty, for all that it hid far too much of the man, and Jack rather wanted to steal the wig and do something horrible to it for how it covered up the man's natural hair, but still, James made it all look rather fine. "I think you know where, Jamie, if the look on your face is any indication. Don't worry, though, your lieutenant still enjoyed the majority of what's missing. It was a bit strong for him, though, him having been already drunk and all." Jack grinned.
James gaze sharpened, grew darker. "You got Lieutenant Groves drunk?"
"All I did was buy a few rounds at the pub and follow the pair of them home. Then, after an hour or two, I decided to nip in for a spot of conversation." Jack took a sip of the rum. "This really is quite lovely stuff."
James folded his arms over his chest, eyeing the pirate with open suspicion. "And now you want me to ask about the conversation in question. Please, do continue."
"Mm." Jack noted, then, the iciness that the little lieutenant had mentioned. James was holding himself back, and the result was... painfully glacial. Ignoring it, Jack set the rum aside and picked up the small stack of papers he had collected: the letter on top, and then all the subsequent reports that had been sent along with it. "Same sort of discussion you've had going via mail, it seems. A few probing questions, and someone made foolish by either naivete in the case of this letter-writer, or by copious application of drink via the machinations of an infamously wily pirate captain in the case of your lieutenant, provides a flood of information. I should send the Groves lad an apology, of sorts, I suppose, since he does seem to be a fine enough young lad."
James inhaled slowly, his eyes narrowed. "Yes, you should. He was home ill today. He can handle grog whilst at sea, but Gillette later informed me, after I had already given that gift" he nodded toward the bottle "last month for his birthday, that the stronger and more concentrated forms of rum tend to give him terrible headaches lasting far longer than a normal hangover."
Jack frowned. "Ah. I didn't know that. I'll have to come up with something..." He glanced heavenward, his lips forming a distracting moue as he appeared lost in thought.
Impatiently, James interrupted him. "Jack. Why are you here?"
Returning to the present with a snap, Jack met James' gaze searchingly, feeling suddenly rather exposed under the cold scrutiny of the other man. "Just working out the answers to a few questions, like following pawprints in the sand, savvy?" He grinned, but it did not quite reach his eyes. He was uneasy, now, wondering if he had been all too right about James being once-bitten twice-shy in the matter of romantic entanglements, and Jack momentarily cursed Elizabeth's clever and near-piratical manipulation abilities for possibly ruining his chances. "Now that I've caught up with you, it would seem, and we're on relatively equal footing, since you know the origins of my marks and I know the origins of yours... Well, I can't help but wonder where on earth this is going."
James' brow furrowed for a moment, then smoothed as he once more masked his expression and tried to read Jack's.
Jack, however, found that he could not read the commodore in turn. This was not James-the-Rogue as Jack had met before in Tortuga; this was the rest of him: the good man, the upstanding leader, the man bound by duty and by the law, and the damnably clever strategist who had earned the name 'Scourge of Piracy' for his ability to track down and capture so many. For the first time, Jack entertained the thought that he might have made a grave mistake, and would in the noose for it tomorrow.
Then, James took a deep breath and unfolded his arms, looking away from Jack's searching gaze and reaching for the rum bottle. "Do you know, I have no earthly idea?" he said quietly, then lifted the bottle to his lips and took a large sip, which he savored on his tongue for a few moments as he placed the bottle back in Jack's hand. His face heated very slightly as he swallowed, showing only the faintest trace of pink; James had a few bottles of the same vintage in his cellar, and was familiar with its flavor, which he found had improved upon mixing with the taste of Jack that had lingered on the mouth of the bottle. He met Jack's gaze again, a layer of ice melting as James recognized the pirate's sudden nervousness.
A sigh of relief escaped Jack's lips before he could stop it, and he drank some more of the rum to further soothe his muscles as the tension left, leaving him feeling light, as though a good strong wind might send him flying like a kite. It was always a bit of a rush: the relief that comes from realizing that death was not so immanent as he had first thought. "That's not my only question, though."
James' eyebrows raised a little. "Yes?"
"Well, you're aware enough of my position in the world, and how I plan on keeping it where it is, and so you've some idea of my future plans, whereas I haven't a clue where yours are headed," Jack mused. "What, exactly, do you plan on doing when you leave the navy?" With a flick of the wrist, he swirled the rum in the bottle and watched it thoughtfully. "I posed that question, without your name attached to it, to your lieutenant, since I thought my inability to work it out was due to thinking rather too much like a pirate instead of a navy officer, savvy?"
James cleared his throat. "Yes. I suppose I do." That would explain, then, in part, how Groves had ended up discussing times wherein the navy treated her servants poorly. "My plans..." James trailed off, then held up a hand, silently asking for a moment to collect his thoughts. He stepped away, taking off hat and wig, hanging them on a stand beside the large wall-map. He started to remove his coat only to wince at the way his right arm ached in protest. To his surprise, he felt Jack's nimble fingers on his arms, guiding them to hang at his sides, then gently pulling the coat from his shoulders. As Jack reached over to hang the coat on the hook, James cleared his throat, trying to straighten out the sudden jumble his thoughts had fallen into. "Thank you."
Jack made a low, rather dismissive noise, his attention focused on James' injured arm. He unbuttoned the cuff of James' loose sleeve and pushed the fabric up to James' shoulder, exposing the injured bicep. The wound was not bandaged now, but still made a livid red-black mark on the otherwise pale skin. It had been deep, the bullet tearing through the muscle but, luckily, missing bone. Jack traced both entry and exit wound, a thoughtful crease on his brow. "How old is this?"
"Just over a month. The depth of it meant daily cleaning and draining, according to my physician's directions, which has kept it from properly closing for this long."
"Aye," Jack muttered. "Looks like they tried to pull out a bullet wasn't there, too. Can't stand surgeons, most times: always poking what don't need to be bloody well poked." His fingers were quite gentle.
James smiled sympathetically. "In this case, the probing was justified; the bullet had gone through more than just my arm; there was a bit of debris and shrapnel lodged in the wound... a situation made worse because the fighting did not stop until nearly dawn, and so neither did I."
Jack's eyebrows raised. "A night raid?"
"Two slightly larger rigs tried to take the Fleetwing under cover of darkness, whilst we waited for the Dauntless to catch up with us."
"Aye. She's a pretty little ship. Replacement for..."
"Yes. I refuse, however, to thank you."
Jack chuckled. "Aye, but after seein' you inspect her this morning, I'm tempted to say that ye should very well thank me. She suits ye well, and I remember she nearly caught the Pearl on one or two occasions when you managed to sneak up on us off-guard." A smirk. "It's always obvious when it's you running the show versus your lieutenants, especially that Gillette lad."
"He does tend to be a touch overzealous," James mused. Then he smirked, suddenly finding the words he had been looking for. "Although he may not remain so, on the day that I break from the navy, steal the Fleetwing, and set about doing my current job an a more freelance manner."
At the first comment, Jack still did not look up from careful examination of James' injury, but the second caused him to abruptly still, except for the sharp jerk as he looked up and met James' gaze. "Wot?"
With a soft chuckle, the commodore pulled away, letting his sleeve fall back down his arm as he sat in his chair, behind his desk. "Not piracy," James clarified, watching Jack slowly follow him, and perch on the edge of his desk with something almost like hesitation. James smiled wryly and continued, "Well, not piracy of the traditional variety, anyway. My targets will be more specific, as well as politically and morally motivated than any of the Brethren would be comfortable putting under the jurisdiction of your Code. I've already got plans on how to get together the sort of men that I will need for the initial skeleton crew, before making a few raids off the coast of Hispaniola, whereupon I believe I will be able to find some loyal and like-minded men to join up with them. I've an old friend there, you see, who knows the island's trade and politics quite well. Actually, you might know him, too." James' eyebrows raised significantly. "He isn't a traditional sort of pirate, either."
"Because of his color?" Jack inquired warily.
"Around Hispaniola, these days, no color of renegade is altogether more unusual than any other, at least so far as I understand it. No, this captain is more unusual because of his politics and his morals," James corrected. "If only for the notable fact that he possesses the latter in spades, and without giving a damn about any 'Code', pirate or otherwise, that was ever penned by the French."
Jack smirked absently, feeling a little dizzy. "Aye, Raimond, then." Then his brows drew together and he looked at James oddly. "How do you..."
"He aided myself and Theodore out of Hispaniola after a particularly unpleasant fiasco concerning the hard-headedness of our commanding officer sailing into that area during a storm. What Theodore is not wholly aware of, is the fact that our rescue was not purely motivated by generosity." James smirked. "A very clever man, is Captain Raimond; he was the only one among the group that found us who was not born a slave. His family is highly ambitious, actually, and of reasonable standing, all things considered, which explains his level of education; but by the time that I met him, he had rather broken off from most of them, after he had met and joined the cause of a rebellious leader named Mackandal."
Jack's eyes widened, the name striking a chord. "Did you meet him?"
"Mackandal? Yes, but only very briefly. I met him, after I had already—thankfully—had my eyes wrenched open by a week spent talking with Raimond." James smirked. "The navy still thinks that the English ship that Theodore and I were on was actually sunk, instead of wrecked on the rocks. Only I and the ship's quartermaster, a Mr. Joshamee Gibbs, whom I later helped when he wished to leave the Navy, really know the truth of the matter. The rest of my own men, and Theodore himself, are none of them aware that I made a deal with Raimond, and thus led he and his men to the wreck site, where I guided them to the various supplies and weapons to be salvaged from it; a surprising number of rifles had survived. Most of the black powder hadn't, but..." James shrugged. "Raimond was pleased with the morale this provided to his men, but Mackandal was, I believe, happier that I and the rest of my men did not plan on staying, or talking to anyone French, despite my fluency in the language. They provided us a small sloop and enough supplies to get us back into British territory."
Jack gave a low whistle. Then he grinned. "I'll concede that Raimond isn't quite a pirate, even since the collapse of the revolt took some of the moral wind from his sails and he took to sea just to keep harassing the French. I'd just not considered that you would consider quite that sort of path yourself, James." He was impressed, but still wary.
"When the time comes, it will be the only path I will have the option to take without destroying myself: either by surrendering the honor that provides my only sense of purpose to the whim of naval politics, or by sacrificing the only home I have ever known by abandoning the sea." James smirked faintly. "I doubt that your Brethren would be able to stomach the mere idea of calling me pirate, even whilst all the governments of the world will be doing so."
"Yer no pirate, Jamie."
"I know."
"So you'll still be hunting us then? Pirates, that is?" Jack's eyebrows raised a little, his playful expression not quite hiding the seriousness of the question.
James smirked. "My targets," he repeated, "will be more specific." His green eyes were bright with amusement. "Especially more specific than the one-size-fits-all name of 'pirate' that the law currently bids me to hunt. I will be hunting only truly evil men, and/or the ships that represent them." He smiled a tiger's smile. "I could still chase you now and again, if you would like."
Licking his lips, Jack found himself feeling oddly ensnared. He had somehow managed to banish the commodore and in his place was the rogue again, despite the finery James wore to cover him. "To fight?" he asked, still wary.
"Now why, Captain Sparrow, would I do that to such a potentially valuable ally? With the similarity of our past histories, and our respective capabilities for strategic brilliance, I do believe that we could, now and then, work and hunt together to great effect." James himself showed a hint of wariness. "Unless you would prefer to blackmail me now and get your share of power from that."
"Only if you're still inclined to hang me, Commodore Norrington," Jack countered.
James glanced away, out the windows for a moment. "I, personally, am not at all inclined to see you dead, Jack. I had thought that quite clear, if not from the moment that I let you tumble off of the fort, then by giving you a day's head start to get out of reach in your admirably fast ship before chasing you with the powerful but less than expeditious Dauntless." He met Jack's gaze again and arched an eyebrow. "I did tell you that I much prefer to chase you than to try and hold you fast either by caging you, or with a noose." There was something forceful about his sincerity, implying that he was both a little offended, and very earnest in his wish to inform Jack of his lack of ill will.
Jack's gaze softened as he met James', and his fingers stilled from where they had been idly fidgeting with a blank sheet of paper, folding it into a small crane. "Aye, that you did." Seeming to come to some kind of decision, he finished the crane with a few gentle tugs and set it aside, then languorously precipitated himself forward until he settled in James lap, folding his legs on either side of James' thighs and resting his arms over James' shoulders as though the commodore were his throne. Jack smirked a little at the way James' breath caught and those green eyes went dark. "I'd not blackmail ye, Jamie. No point, really, unless you'd like me to create a more expeditious means of gettin' you to leave the navy." He raised his eyebrows, smirking a little. "But only if you're feeling truly impatient, and ask it of me, as I'd not like to lose such an interesting ally as you'll one day be."
James, with a lapful of warm pirate, was feeling incredibly impatient all of a sudden, but kept his composure quite admirably; although he could not keep from wrapping his arms loosely around Jack's waist, his hands slipping under the pirate's coat to roam over his back and shoulder blades, urging him closer. "I will keep that in mind, Jack." He licked his lips. "Do we have an accord, then, Captain?" His voice only roughened a little.
"What of this, Jamie?" Jack murmured, even as he leaned in obligingly, his breath warm on James' face as one pick-pocket hand deftly unbound the ribbon holding James' hair back in a queue. "Between us. Right here."
Closing his eyes, James leaned his head back a little as the fingers tangled in his hair, massaging his scalp. He gave a low murmur vaguely resembling a purr or a very quiet growl of satisfaction. "I want this. Quite ardently," he admitted, not opening his eyes. "I want you like this. Often, if at all possible." It was difficult to translate the hungry, heated feeling into words, his usual eloquence quite failing him.
With a low, slightly needy noise in his throat, Jack pressed his forehead to James', taking in the other man's scent as his other hand unconsciously slid down James' chest, tugging a little at the clothing between them; because no matter how intriguing the texture of the fine silk and embroidery was under his hands, Jack was still far more interested in the skin hidden beneath all that cloth. "Aye," he agreed, his voice more notably affected: low and breathy. "Good to hear, love, good to hear." He tugged at James' cravat, making short work of untying it and then tossing it over his shoulder onto the desk.
The commodore peered up at Jack from under hooded lids, with green eyes wickedly bright. "You do, as well, then?" His voice held only the faintest traces of mockery.
Jack licked at James' now-exposed throat. "Ye need to ask, at this point?" He chuckled. "Aye, Jamie, I want you." His voice was dark chocolate laced with cayenne.
For a few quieter moments, James could not reply, busy as he was touching Jack and enjoying the feel of that talented mouth on his neck: teeth, lips, the roughness of Jack's beard. An effective distraction it was, but James was not an easily dissuaded man, and eventually he remembered what else he had planned on asking. "And so you trust me enough for this, Jack, here of all places?" James murmured, reluctantly reminding Jack of their relative proximity to the gallows (for both of them if they were somehow caught at this) even as he began deftly unbuckling and tossing aside the pirate's belts and untying his sash.
Jack smirked. He'd been waiting for such a question, just as James had been waiting for him in that tavern in Tortuga. "Aye, Jamie; as I'd trust the sea. And tonight, there is a calm, is there not?"
When James exhaled again, it seemed to almost stutter, and his now-slightly-shaking hands were a little rough as he pushed Jack's coat off his shoulders so that it fell back onto the desk. "Aye," he breathed, sitting up further and pulling Jack closer. "Aye." Then he caught the pirate's lips in a fervent, devouring kiss, cupping one side of Jack's face with one hand as the other pulled Jack closer. He broke away briefly, his lips still brushing Jack's as he panted, "Yes. This—this can definitely be part of the accord."
Chuckling breathlessly, Jack began quickly unbuttoning James' waistcoat. "Then an accord we have, James." And to seal it, he kissed the man back with possessive fervor, moaning slightly when James' hands tugged his hips closer, but they were limited by the lack of space available in the high-backed chair, which almost threatened to topple for a moment.
With a low, slightly frustrated noise, James broke away again. "I propose that we seal this accord properly: on the bed."
Jack glanced at the bed, eyeing the bedposts with notable interest for a moment before grinning wickedly. "Sounds more than reasonable to me." He reluctantly untangled himself and pulled away, leaning on the desk for a moment both to collect himself and to watch the commodore stand up and shrug off that pristine white-and-gold waistcoat, letting it drape over the back of the chair.
Moonlight, white linen, and commodore.
Jack's mouth watered.
He pressed close, one hand unbuttoning the sleeve-cuff of James' shirt, the other deftly untucking the shirt. "Lift your arms," Jack murmured.
James obeyed, only wincing a little at the discomfort this caused for his injured limb as Jack pulled the shirt over his head, then tossed it with perfect aim, landing it on the corner of the bed before letting James de-shirt him in turn. They both removed their footwear, and James tugged off his stockings before pressing in close to his pirate again. Jack smirked as they made their way toward the bed, James so intent on nibbling at his neck that he startled a little when the backs of his legs met the edge of the bed.
Taking full advantage of the commodore's surprise, Jack sent them both tumbling managing to pin James wrists over his head, right next to the bedpost and on top of the pile of linen that was James' discarded shirt. "I seem to recall a promise, about me getting to restrain you."
Feeling a little dazed, James did not, at first fully process the words. After momentary delay, however, he tensed, his eyes widening a little. "Oh, yes. I did say something like that, didn't I?"
"Aye. Swore on your word as a gentleman as I recall."
"On the grounds that you make a similar promise to me, swearing by your ship," James reminded, raising his eyebrows pointedly.
"And I do. Now how gentlemanly are you feeling at the moment, love?" His fingers were already plucking at James shirt, beginning to wrap it around those pale, lightly scarred wrists.
Laughing, James let his head fall back. "I do not know if I have ever in my life, Jack, felt less like a gentleman than I do at this moment, but I will stand by my word."
"Good," Jack purred. "Then would you be so kind as to hold onto this rather secure-looking oak bedpost?"
James' eyebrows raised a little at the commanding tone, but also smirked at how lust-ragged Jack's voice was, and obeyed with a playfully challenging, "Aye, captain." He refused, point-blank, to let himself feel nervous. Stretching out lazily and holding Jack's gaze, James let his hands wrap around the base of the bedpost, his injured arm relaxed, his left angled slightly higher, giving him a bit of leverage if he chose to use it. He tried to pay close attention to the way that Jack tied his hands in place, but the feel of the pirate straddling his hips, and the sight of the lithe half-naked body arched over him, proved to be quite an effective distraction.
He shivered when Jack's hands trailed down the backs of his arms and his shoulder blades, involuntarily tensing as the pirate examined the texture of the cicatrix of flogging-stripes that marred his skin; a number of them were long enough that they seemed to curl around the sides of his ribcage. Then James' breath caught in his throat as Jack trailed feathering, light brushes of his lips along the ends of every stripe that he could reach. By the time Jack reached the last one near his waist, James could not restrain a low groan, almost a whimper.
Jack nuzzled James' side, murmuring, "Your scars are prettier than mine."
Breathlessly, James laughed, unable to explain to himself exactly why he seemed to be trembling. "It has never occurred to me to compare the relative prettiness of injuries, let alone my own to anyone else's. Thank you for the creative flattery."
Jack chuckled, but when he spoke, it was with a hint of seriousness. "Flattery it may be, but of an honest sort." He nipped at James' navel, enjoying the way that the commodore shivered.
Feeling a hint of embarrassment, James smiled almost shyly. "And my thanks are equally sincere." Then his voice turned sardonic once more, with a hint of something more sultry mixed in. "I'm fond of a number of your scars as well," he murmured. "Particularly the ones that, as I recall, cause you to babble ceaselessly in at least three languages when they are—hmm—'stroked properly' you might say."
"Is that a hint, Jamie?" Jack slid a hand under him, deftly unbuttoning those fine white breeches.
"Mayhap," James deadpanned. The effect was negated somewhat by the low gasp that escaped his throat as Jack's hand wrapped around his cock. Then James stifled a low and exultant groan as Jack moved up again to begin biting and suckling at his neck, bringing their bodies closer together. Instinctively, James tried to tug his good arm free from his restraints, so that he could reach out and touch, but Jack had done a good job with those knots. James doubted that this particular shirt would be wearable after tonight, but found that he did not care a whit.
"Jamie," Jack murmured it like a prayer, his hands pulling James' hips up against him, groaning at the commodore's eager grind in response.
James' eyes were dark emerald flame. "You've caught me, Jack," he murmured, challenging again. In my own territory, as I caught you in yours before. A worthy opponent indeed—so far. "Now what do you plan on doing about it?" His eyes were dark, staring into Jack's. Challenge me. Match me. Fire for fire, Jack, or are you not a tiger, too? James lifted his chin slightly in defiance. Show me.
Jack felt the rest of his blood rush south and noted with surprised that he seemed to be growling a little, and gripping James' hips hard enough to bruise. "I intend, Jamie, to continue our little game as long as possible." Our mating dance, James. Can you handle what that means?
Making use of that leverage, James pushed himself up with his good arm; he could not get far, but he was able to arch up, pressing the entire length of his body against Jack's, and catch the surprised pirate's earlobe between his teeth so he could suckle it, causing Jack to mutter an oath in what sounded like Portuguese.
"Dammit, Jamie, you're the one tied up, and I still feel bloody well caught."
James wrapped his legs around Jack's. "Aren't you?" His lips moved against Jack's throat. "It would only be fair, after all, given how long I think I've been ensnared by you." There was a hint of tenderness in the words, beneath all the lust: something as fragile (but thankfully not anywhere nearly as shattered-sounding) as the words so this is where your heart truly lies, then?
Jack shuddered. "Good answer." And then he set about ravishing the commodore senseless by way of celebration.
is hunted the next day
by the hunter he caught last night
Two predators
playing at a duel
the dance continues.
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