Pirate Vindaloo, Chapter 2

An Uneasy Alliance

by

Hippediva & Elessil

They tried to spar but the Commodore was in no fit shape.  He ate in silence and grimaced at Jack's blather, then lapsed back to sleep.  Jack talked long after he was snoring and made sure his handiwork on the door was sound by refilling the flask at least three times.

Then, their cage rattled and a loud voice was shouting something that Jack, still dreaming, thought was, "Avast, ye scurvy rats, wrap th' mizzen in satin and choose yer partners."

He blinked himself awake and shouted back, "Awright.  Shut yer trap!"

He groaned, crawled over to Norrington and gave him a poke.  "Jamie?  James?"  He turned back to the face framed by the bars.  "Yer the bloody eejits that knocked him senseless."

"It'll be his hide if he's senseless.  Get the hell up!"

The first thing Norrington did was curse. Fervently, and with words Jack would never have believed the proper Commodore to possess. He glared at Jack, then looked out of the cell, pushing himself upright with a wince and another curse.

"Cap'n wants t' take a look at you two.  C'mon.  An' don't try nuthin' or I'll slit yer throats."  The sailor was a hulk of a man, taller than Norrington and broad as a yard.

Jack hauled the Commodore towards the door, pulling one arm draped over his shoulders.  "You couldn't slit a doxy's shift, mate.  C'mon Jamie."

The door creaked open and Norrington clambered up the hatch in silence, locking away fury and the necessity of escape for the moment. He nearly stumbled over the stairs and would have fallen but for Sparrow's support. Topside, he blinked into the bright sunlight, reflected from the water stretching around them. Water. Nothing but water.

Jack poked his head into everything possible and eyed the crew topside with curiosity and relief; not one was a proper pirate. They were common sailors driven to privateering, anxious to stay out of the gallows' shadow, but not anxious enough to bear the hell of serving on a merchant vessel.  Jack thanked the gods.  He always thanked the gods on the outside chance that there might be more than one: he had never been convinced of the Almighty's claim to sole proprietorship of the title. 

He held his tongue, plastered a cheeky grin on his face and surreptitiously gave Norrington a hand.  The aristocratic face was as white as the rag across his forehead.

Norrington pushed the help away where he could and grudgingly accepted what was necessary. A wary truce with the bloody pirate did not mean he needed his pity.

Captain Diarmid Hamilton was a big man, handsome and dark.  A bit of a dandy if Jack was any judge of his scarlet Italian coat and Spanish buckles.  His voice was thick with the mists of Donegal.  "Well now, if we don't have ourselves a pair o' English searats.  You,"  He poked at Jack with a finger the size of a Southwark sausage. "Wha's yer name?"  His eyes were bluer than a summer sky and hard as ice.

Jack grinned. "Ain't English and the name's Jack."

Hamilton walked towards him, tilting a head full of black hair that was most definitely his own.  Jack cursed him silently.

He was struck to the deck with a lightning blow.  "A civil tongue on my ship, bucko.  An' you?"  He advanced on Norrington.

"My name is James, Sir." Norrington's voice dripped with as much disdain as he could muster in his state. Jack thought he was at about three quarters of his usual level, which was more than most men's. He also couldn't help but wonder if the clear, British lilt of the Commodore's voice had always been that prominent.

Norrington was grabbed by his collar and found himself staring into those bright azure eyes.  "Proud 'un, huh?  Well, we'll whip that pride outta you, ya heathen.  Wha' ship ya hail from, sailor?"

Jack swallowed a mouthful of blood and picked himself up off the deck, gnawing on his lip, his hands clasped together to keep them still.

Norrington's eyes narrowed dangerously, his thoughts a step ahead of his anger. Every ship he had ever served on was a Navy vessel, and it was obvious that he was no tar. He let the question linger in apparent defiance while he gathered his thoughts.  "The Hermes." For all its proud name, it was a small merchant vessel, whose name, but not its crew, might mean something to Hamilton.

Hamilton grinned at him.  "Tha' tub!  God's death, man, ye've stepped up in the world.  Wot ya do on the Hermes?  James?"

"Purser, Sir." The position had the advantage of anonymity, and anything else would have been implausible. Norrington was well aware how a common tar spoke and bore himself, and it was clear that he was none.

"Purser!"  Hamilton laughed.  "Y'hear that, lads!  A Purser!"  There was general uproar on deck, subsiding to a low guffaw as Jack felt Norrington stiffen, and pressed his arm.  "Well, James, yer duties are gonna be keepin' me decks swabbed an' yer mouth shut, understand?  And you?  Ya bejangled fool, wha' in St. Peter's name are you?"

Jack was almost pissing himself in relief.  The Commodore wasn't so stuck-up-the-arse not to be able to tell a decent fib when the need arose.

He pulled away from Norrington, his eyes insolent.  "Navigator."  He smiled and glanced downwards.  "Don't know about yer decks, but yer course could use a bit o' work."

Hamilton's hand was raised, then dropped, and he squinted.  "Navigator?  The likes 'o you?"

Sparrow's eyes challenged him.  "Almost ran inta that nasty sandbar off Santiago, didn't ya?"

Jack was talking out of his arse and he knew it, but most never bothered to update their old charts and the sandbar seemed to have grown since trade picked up these last years.  He held his breath as the blue eyes bored into his.

"Right.  You, wha's yer surname, James?"

"Norbury. And I know how to handle a ship beyond swabbing decks." Norrington's lips were pressed into a tight, quivering line.

"Bet you do, laddie, but ye'll have t'prove it to me.  Get workin' over there an' don't stint the pumice.  You."  He turned back to Jack.  "Yer surname?"

Jack bobbed a bow, his hands praying.  "Sbarra.  Spanish, y'know.  Least that' wot me mam tole me."

Hamilton's eyes registered surprise.  "Spanish?  Good Catholic, are ya?"

Jack's eyes were innocent as a child's.  "Rosary ev'ry day."

Norrington's snort drowned in his protesting hiss as he was hauled amidships, a pumice stone thrust into his hand. Another push hit him between the shoulders and sent him reeling to his knees.

"Y'heard wot the Cap'n said. Get it spotless."

His cheeks burned with humiliation as the sailors laughed and then left him to his task, filthy, low, and fighting the urge to throw the bloody stone at the Irishman.

Hamilton watched his pale face go crimson and laughed, lashing out at Sparrow again.  This time, Jack caught his wrist.  "I ain't tellin' you aught." 

"Wrong side o' the law?  Well, yer in good comp'ny Señor Sbarra.  Get yer arse over there an' help yer friend."  He waited until Jack released his hand, turned, then swung around and backhanded the pirate to the deck.  For one moment, Sparrow looked very small, staring up at him. "I'd shut me mouth an' pray the angels don't desert ya, Spanish."

Jack sat up, pouting, but held his tongue and went to Norrington's side meekly, dragging the stone across the deck. "Y'awright, mate?"

"Shaddup, you!"

He made a face and returned to his task for a long while, working mindlessly while his brain spun in circles and he listened to every scrap of conversation around them.  "Jamie?"  he whispered.

Norrington had focused on the rhythmical scratching on the deck, on the way the stone dug into his palm, anything to keep calm. The thought that Hamilton had a Letter of Marque only fuelled his anger. The man deserved a noose, just like the rest of them, not an acknowledgement of his services. "I will manage." Anger was a perfect way to clear his head and distract from the throbbing ache and he scrubbed at the wood viciously.

"You did good."  Jack's voice was very low, and he, too, worked the deck as they slowly made their way to the mainmast, then around the capstan.  "Talk later."

It was long after dusk and the damned deck was scrubbed clean as a maid on her wedding night, before the skinny one, Berthot by name, aimed a kick at Norrington's backside that sent him sprawling.  "Awright.   Done fer now.  Get up and get yer eats or ye'll go hungry."

Norrington pushed himself to his feet, shoulders and knees sore. The sun had burnt down mercilessly and his nausea had returned with it, but there had been enough humiliation for one day, he thought, swaying as he waited for Sparrow to join him on his way to the galley.

Berthot and a few of the others shooed them belowdecks, where they were each given a trencher of the same thin stew and a mug of grog.  Jack picked at the stew and guzzled the grog until it dripped down into his beard. 

"Here now, have some manners!"  was followed by, "Can't keep it clean, don't deserve it." 

Jack's hands were raised, "Now listen, mates, I ain't done nothin' but a day's work.  No call fer anyone not t'be thirsty, eh?"  For once, charm was not working and he wrinkled his nose.  Four arms held him still as Berthot brandished a razor.  "Now wait a minute!  I--I---oh."  Jack's eyes widened.

"I believe there is no call for that," Norrington interjected quietly, a spoonful of stew lifted to his mouth. He dropped it and put one hand on Berthot's arm. "Surely, it is but his own loss if he spills his grog?"

"Shaddup."  He was pushed aside as they advanced on Jack who was alternately grinning and looking desperately for an opportunity to escape.  His eyes darted back and forth, as they held him fast and pinned him to the long table, while one of them, broad and grey, rattled a brush in a shaving mug.

Jack gulped and grimaced, trying to talk with his hands restrained.  He grinned hopefully.  "Y'know, there really ain't a reason fer--fuck me, wottaya lost yer...hell!"

He spat lather at them, then decided that it was unwise to fight with a razor so close to his throat.  His face froze, eyes only half-focused, a shadow swirling in them when they fixed on Norrington, mute and painfully aware.

Norrington took a step forward and wrestled with the sailor, trying to get hold of the shaving mug. "Enough! He hurt none of you by spilling his own grog." The only answer was laughter, a punch across his face that sent him reeling. "Stop that at once!"

There was more laughter. "Look, now we cut 'im and 'tis all your fault for wriggling!"

There were droplets of blood on Jack's face and they only fuelled Norrington's anger. "I said stop," he bellowed, but where on the Dauntless, his orders were heeded, here the broad grey man laughed, dumped the rest of the shaving lather over his head and pushed him against the bulwark. Norrington kicked and lashed out, but another pair of hands pinned him against the hard wood.

"Awww, we're jest prettyin' him up."

Berthot finished and snapped the razor closed with a pleased grin. "There, smooth as a babe. Ye can let 'im go."

Jack rolled away from them, wiping his face with one sleeve.  He exhaled deeply, looked up through his hair.  "You lot done?"

He stood upright, lips twisted into a wry smile.  His eyes slid back to Norrington's, one moment tar-black and scared, then sly and narrowed.  "Don't think I deserved that."

Norrington stared back blankly, as if to apologise that he had been unable to stop them. The two men were still holding him fast, exchanging a glance and a grin.

The broader one jerked his head and another took his place, pinioning Norrington against the bulwark. He walked over to Jack and pushed him back towards the table. "Methinks we've only jest begun with ye, matey."

He yanked at Jack's breeches, tearing them open with a whistle. "My, yer head certainly has more hair than yer arse. Looks almost like a lass'."

Jack stiffened, then struck out wildly, snapping like a beast, until he was held still by force. He stared at Norrington, paralysed, his mouth half-open and stained with blood.

Norrington struggled and shouted and twisted, near as wild as Jack, freezing when their eyes met. He had seen that look before, had seen it often, in the eyes of women, of children; of grown men. Too often. He lashed out, he screamed, he bit, as though he were the one whose thigh the big sailor was stroking.

It only earned him more laughter and another punch. "Begad, ‘e fights like that one was his mate."

For a bare second, Norrington stilled, his eyes meeting Sparrow's again. That look was still there, as if etched into a gruesome statue. "He is. And I swear I will kill you if you further touch him."

Jack remembered to shut his mouth, then bit his lip, his brow knotting.  He tried to absorb what he'd just heard and reacted to it within a splinter of a blink.   He pulled his arm away and yanked up his breeches with one hand.  "Leave me the hell alone!  An' he's got a wicked jealous streak."

They let him go and he straightened with a roll of his shoulders, bare chin tilted up.  "Yer just gonna make him mad."  His eyes teased, lowered beneath his lashes as he forced a smile.  "Ain't fer me t'give, aye?"

Two of them scowled. "But..."

Berthot shoved them away. "Ye heard 'em. 'e's spoken for."

They let go of Norrington, his arms dropping against the bulwark with a thump. He was breathing hard, confused at himself as the hard lump in his throat slowly began to fade. Clumsily, as though he were just finding his sea-legs, he walked over and pulled Jack into his arms, awkwardly gentle.

Jack shuddered at his touch, his jaw clenched, then twisted to look back at them.  "Get between us an' I don't care if yer bloody Irishman's the Pope.  I'll cut yer throat." 

Norrington's eyes had narrowed, and this time, no one laughed at the stony glare, nor at his possessive hold around Jack.

"Awright, awright, we got it."

Jack's mouth quirked into that swift little smile, that usually disappeared under his moustache, but now lingered.  He would have thought Norrington the first in line to be doing any throat-cutting at the slander, but there were those green eyes and that noble bearing, indignant and fierce.  After all, even a pirate could dream.

"Jamie?  Hey, y'awright?"  He looked up cautiously, aware that Norrington had not loosened his grip.

"I am." Norrington dabbed at the blood with his shirtsleeve. "But what about you?" The worry in his voice was real, as was his terror at what he had witnessed.

Jack's eyes floated, huge black pupils still wild with fright.  He locked one arm around Norrington, pulling himself upright and a slow smile started deep in the black depths to creep over his lips.  He figured he might as well be hanged for a sheep as a goat. 

He smirked, leaned up and indulged himself in a long, slow kiss, to the approbation of the would-be attackers. 

"Awww g'wan then.  But listen, Sbarra.  If ye ever need yer bunk filled..."

Jack tore himself away and grinned, his eyes glittering. "I'll let ya know mate.  Jamie?  James."  The repetition was a warning.

Norrington had to admit that about one thing, at least, Jack had told the truth. He was an excellent kisser, enough for the thrill of those lips on his to almost overcome their strangeness, enough for him to not jerk away and betray their lie. His hold around Jack did not falter and he glared another warning, still watching out for any sudden move, anything that indicated danger. "Come, Jack. Let us get below.

The others watched them, more than a few obscene comments drowning in laughter as they limped off to the causeway.

Jack couldn't complain.  Ever since the dock, he'd wondered how it would feel to kiss a Commodore.  The reality was every bit as satisfying as he'd imagined, even better with an audience.  He pushed away his terror, locked it inside the intricate Chinese boxes of his mind.

Berthot pointed them to a corner with two empty hammocks, with a wink. "At least pretend ye use both, awright?"

Jack's lips pursed.  "Long as ya don't look.  Jamie's shy."  He tugged at Norrington's collar and melted into his arms.

Norrington did not say a word and remained immobile under another kiss, terror written into his face, a different kind of terror. He sat down on his hammock, watching Jack climb into the other one as Berthot left.

Sparrow looked so young without the beard, almost like a boy who needed protection; and yes, he admitted, beautiful. The horror in those eyes had not been at all like a hardened pirate's, rather more like the innocents he had pledged to protect.  Both lips and face had been so soft as they kissed him. His finger hovered over his own lips and he dropped it.

Jack's forced grin softened.  "Bastards."  He reached up to feel his chin, raw from the rough shave and made a face.  "Y'awright?"

Norrington was bruised, one eye a bit swollen, his cheek red as though chilled.  Jack grinned, then it died away, his eyes dark as treacle.  Why in hell would Norrington admit to being a bugger?  No one had said the word, but everyone knew what 'mate' meant belowdecks.  He laughed softly, turning away in confusion.  "I'm not sure wot t'say, James.  This is so sudden." 

Norrington stared at him for a moment, then smiled weakly. "Think nothing of it. Are you..." He looked at his boots, then up again. "Are you all right?"

"Course I am, luv."  He went for his flask, gulped down a swallow and it was impossible to ignore how his hand shook as he held it out.

Norrington took it without a comment, breathing a relieved sigh as he let the sharp liquor warm his mouth. "Thank you." He took another sip and handed it back. "Cruel bastards," he hissed.

Jack pulled off his boots and settled them under his feet.  "Don't leave 'em on the floor or they won't be there in the mornin'."  He sat up, his head cocked to one side.  "I-... How's yer head?"

Norrington shrugged. "It will heal." He tugged at his boots and settled them in the hammock, shoving them aside as he stretched out his legs. "Do you need anything?" he asked warily.

Jack visibly shrank from the question, cringing like a kicked dog. He swiped at a thin streak of blood from his jaw to his throat.  "Nah.  I'm fine.  Goes wif the life." His grin was painfully false.

Norrington pushed himself half-up to stare across the divide, barely a foot wide. He looked into the darkness as though it held answers. "What..." He stopped, frowned and sat up completely. "Do you mean to call this normal?"

Jack eyes refracted a thousand painful thoughts as he watched Norrington's tired face.  "One day I'll go from this to toothless."  He threw himself back, setting the hammock swinging.  "Then it won't matter.  Y'sure yer awright, Jamie?"

Norrington withdrew, pushing back the pained curiosity, the slow realisation that belowdecks, far more was possible and usual than even he, a seasoned Captain, had known. He lay back again, alone with his thoughts even in space so cramped. "Stop using that diminuitive." His voice was harsh and he bit his lip.

Jack drew back, watching Norrington's eyes go cold and huddled into his blanket.  He ached inside and instinctively wanted to run deep below to the bilges where he used to go, long, long ago.  It could have been far worse.  He knew that better than his unexpected protector.  "Just don't let on and all will be well."  The words were practical, but his voice was flat.

Jack would never admit to fear, but he felt it, smelled it, knew it.  Compared to his fright and the real threat of exposure, prickling over a nickname like an angry hedgehog seemed unnecessarily unkind. "Get some rest, James.  We're gonna need it."

Norrington murmured his agreement and pulled the blanket around himself, staring at the crossbeam above him. "I am relieved it... it didn't come to the worst." He settled on his back and closed his eyes, relaxing in the soft, familiar rocking. "Good night."

The hammock swayed and Jack's fingers reached across the inches that divided them, barely brushing Norrington's' hand.   "Shut up an' go t'sleep."

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