Pirate Vindaloo, Chapter 4

Surprises Above and Below Decks

by

Hippediva & Elessil

Jack had toppled over during the night and was nestled comfortably against James' hip, snoring softly. Norrington pushed himself up with a start, flinching in pain.

He stared. How dared the bloody pirate? With a surge of annoyance, he hauled the sleeping figure over his lap, slapping the offending buttocks several times.

A punishment for a naughty child, and as far as he was concerned, Jack acted just like one. No, worse. Even little Matthew had more restraint.

Jack yelped and kicked and yawned mid-bellow.  "Hey!  Wot the bloody hell d'ya think yer doin', mate!"  James shoved him away, and he sat up, blinking sleepily.

Norrington glared. Again. "Do not present me with your arsecheeks if you can't handle a slap to them. " He got to his feet and smoothed his shirt, dropping the blanket back in the hammock and pulling on his boots without a further word.

"Told ya he'd go for th'other cheeks!"  The rest of the crew in the hold laughed.

Jack glared up at him.  "Only sat down so you wouldn't have th' bloody deck fer a pillow."  He bit back the words, 'you Navy bastard' with difficulty and spun around to sit, his back to Norrington, spending several minutes pulling his fingers through his hair, like a cat grooming itself to indicate extreme displeasure at the company.

He sulked all the way through breakfast and, for once, responded to the giggles and outright laughter that greeted him on deck with a snarl.

Longthorpe set him to handling the helm, which helped to lift his mood.  The currents were fast and tricky, and by mid-afternoon, he and the Chimaera were good friends.  It almost took the sting from such a rude and undeserved awakening.

His eyes drifted to where James toiled with more caulking and polishing, assiduously ignoring him.  Even Hamilton caught the tension between them and had a good chuckle over his luncheon.

Norrington was all over the ship, working hard and joking around with Berthot. His mood was dark and he only forced the laughter because he was glad of the kind gestures and had no wish to reward them with ingratitude.

It seemed ironic enough that the flogging had raised his esteem amongst the crew. He earned several slaps on the back, until one made him gasp and Berkely guiltily realised that slapping a flogged man on the back was not an apt way to show appreciation.

The time passed quickly enough, and down in the galley, he got closer acquainted with crewmen he'd known only by name before, learned of their families, how they'd joined up with the crew.

It was interesting that Jeremy Shadlow, a lanky trickster who always found a reason to laugh, had been impressed as well, but he had taken it with his characteristic shrug and considered it good luck, as he had been looking for a berth anyway.

The days flew for both men, locked into the unremitting labour that any ship required.  Jack's watches were divided between the helm and aloft while James still worked the decks.  They had little time to talk and James wasn't speaking to Jack anyway.

Jack went ahead with his addled plans, cosying up to Hamilton and pilfering more rum.  He knew almost every nook and crevice on the Chimaera by now and used those hidey-holes to drown his frustration when he felt out of sorts with the galley laughter.

His luck held, and he was content to do his work and drop into his hammock at night, hoping he could let himself sleep without starting at every sound.  He missed the shared secret with James and the clear protection their lie afforded.

In truth, Jack's feelings were hurt.  He could not understand why James was suddenly on his high horse and, much as he laughed with the jokes---the spanking and spat provided uproarious gossip for days---he sulked.  And when Jack sulked, he drank.

It was fortunate for him that he always moved and spoke like an inebriated madman, so no one noticed.  Hamilton did not stint his men their grog or rum rations, but he would not tolerate drunkenness on watch.  If he had ever guessed how much of Jack's 'act' was no act at all, the pirate would have found himself facing the grate and one hundred lashes.

It was almost strange to see how Norrington blended into the crew. With each passing day, the skin on his face and arms darkened further to bronze instead of the glaring red that marked a body not accustomed to the sun.

The men became used to his stiff demeanour, the pride he kept up even while working the most demeaning tasks aboard by order of the Captain. Their suspicious glares faded into gentle teasing and even admiration.

In moments of unconditional honesty, he had to admit that it was envy which kept his anger at Jack alive. The pirate could slouch against the helm, scramble aloft and crow the most outrageous comments without consequences, looking quite thoroughly content throughout it all.

It irked him to scrub a deck that was far too clean when he knew he was capable of far more.

The journey stretched and he was resigned to having to work until they reached port if he wanted to survive. It was easier now than in those first days, no longer so draining that he would collapse with exhaustion at the end of a day.

He teased and joked during supper, even laughing at some of the rudest comments, slipping in his own without a blush. He'd witnessed that as a Midshipman, but the proud officer had grown distant from it; had almost forgotten what sharing a meal with a friend and without pretences meant.

He did miss conversation with Jack. The pirate, he'd realised, despite his demeanour, had a sharp wit and was entertaining for the most part. Jack knew enough about navigation, tactics, politics, and any number of topics that, if he only wanted to, he could follow a more complicated subject easily.

Certainly, Bertie was a fine sailor, but James was more than once disappointed by his blank look when he ventured a topic that went beyond a tar's daily life.

But every time he even considered breaking the terse silence, Jack seemed to sway particularly close to Hamilton, laughing with the bastard as though he were a friend.

Still, it was not bad to share the table with other sailors and little Matthew who continued to tease tales about long sea voyages out of him. The boy was the only one who seemed to see the sailor in the man working more often on his knees than anything else, and Norrington enjoyed that.

It made him stay in the galley for longer than it took to wolf down his supper, spending the scant hours between work and sleep in talking. This evening was no exception, and he told of his first rounding of the Cape until Matthew's curiosity yielded to an enormous yawn. The boy blushed deep-red, earning roaring laughter before he was chased away to sleep.

Not much later Norrington stretched and made for his own hammock. The next day would mean more work.

Jack picked at his meal, pushing something that pretended to be a potato around the trencher, listless and thoroughly miserable.  He had kept well clear of James and sat a discreet distance from Berkeley.  He was just finishing his grog when Wheldon wedged himself between them.

Jack's teeth clenched and he forced a grin, even as his eyes flashed upwards, black and fearful.  Against their depths and the painted lids, the whites fluttered like caged birds.  He shoved the trencher away and got up from the bench, ostensibly to go topside for a piss.

He slipped once more to the brig and 'his' cask, wishing to God he could just sleep under the bunghole.  His heart was racing and he weighed his options, eyes screwed shut.  Without James' protection, he was liable to have to make a devil's bargain if he wanted to stay in one piece until Dakar.

Twitchy and jumping at every sound, he dragged himself back to his quarters and was leaning against the bulwark, glowering at nothing.  He kept up his own string of stories and jokes, sang with the crew and was, by all accounts, a favourite among them already.  Jack grimaced.  Too much of a favourite.

But the dirty stories, whispered where the boy might be spared the gory details that made them roar with laughter had reminded him that it had been far too long since that part of his anatomy had received any proper attention.  Fear and neglect had built up a powerful need for a bit of private relief. He tossed himself into his hammock, undid the buttons of his breeches and let his fingers wander to his deprived prick.

It was quiet and dark, the single lantern's candle already down to a nub and he had just found a lovely, slow rhythm, his head tipped back, eyes closed and lips parted.  He made no noise save the rustling of his busy hand and the soft huff of his breath.

As Norrington pushed past, with every intention to wordlessly head for his hammock, he froze, staring. Was Jack ill? His eyes were closed, his brow gleamed with sweat, breath shallow and fast.

Norrington frowned, looked closer and then noticed the rhythmically moving hand stroking the very erect prick. He jumped back. "For God's sake! I really didn't need to see that," he hissed, quickly climbing into his hammock, turning his face away to hide the embarrassed flush.

Jack's hand stopped mid-pull, his eyes wide open to glare.  "You bastard!" he hissed.  He gave his prick a tug, but the spark was gone, and he was sure to make a mess of his britches by morning, being so rudely interrupted.  Grumbling under his breath, he yanked them off and stuffed them under his boots.  There was absolutely no earthly way he could find any relief under Norrington's disapproving eyes.  He sighed.

Perhaps if he stayed awake long enough, he'd have time.  The much-shortened shirt hid nothing from the deep curve of his waist down to his bare feet as he rolled over, his back to James.

There was a long moment of silence before Norrington rolled over and sat up, determined to apologise. After all, he was no prude, and Sparrow could do whatever he wanted.

The very nude body made him choke on his words. He stared for a moment, then caught himself and quickly looked at his own toes.

Needs were one thing, but did Jack really have to satisfy his desire thus, in a hold with fifteen men no less? "Can't you do that when you're alone?"

Jack rolled over and one dark eye glowered over the edge of the hammock.  "And just when d'ya think anyone gets a chance t'be alone shipboard?"  He was so frustrated the next words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.  "Bloody officer."

Fortunately, it was muffled in the canvas and came out as a low murmur, slurred and almost indistinguishable except to James.

It had its effect, making Norrington tense and listen for a few seconds. When no outraged whispers seemed to follow, he sat up, nearly capsizing the hammock. He glanced around the hold, about to point out that the others seemed to manage just nicely, when he saw not only one, but two hands down their owners' breeches. And that movement beneath Berthot's blanket looked decidedly suspicious, too.

He thought of all the effort he'd gone through as a Midshipman to hide any such lewd behaviour and groaned.  "What a den of depravity is this? Is the concept of self control completely disregarded?"

"Don't be such a prig!  Gotta get it off somehow.  And you're not helpin' matters.  If ya gotta talk, talk dirty or shut the hell up!"  Jack's lean body was dark gold in the dim light, the offending part of him soft once more, but rose red against the black curls between his legs.

Whispers from further down the line of hammocks proved his point. Shadlow, until Jack's arrival the prettiest man aboard, had descended from his own berth one deck above and was locked in a sweaty embrace with tall Davey Jackson.

Norrington coloured dark red and rolled over to face the bulwark. "All right. Do what you must," he growled. That his own prick was stirring in his breeches, a lot less shocked and a lot more interested in the half-naked body next to him and the goings-on in the hold, did not help his mood in the least. "Good night."

Jack sighed and stared at the way the tall body, shrouded like a mummy in the blanket, made the hammock sag.  Damned stubborn full-of-himself arrogant bloody aristocratic lapdog! But the outline of that hip, the long line of the legs held his gaze.

Jack's prick had leapt to attention in the space of time it took him to consider their lie and wonder what the reality could be like.  His fingers danced down again, and this time, he was not interrupted.  He didn't think to consider the close hold, the smell of sweat and salt, his own fears.  He did consider green eyes most carefully as his fingers slid over his prick and he gasped, spurting hard over his hand and belly.

He yawned contentedly, rolled onto his side once more and was asleep within seconds.

Never before in his life had Norrington considered praying for sleep. Lying awake, hearing every soft hitch of breath, his prick twitching at each, he did. By the time Jack gasped his completion, he was fully erect, cheeks burning with shame.

It was over now. Surely, he only needed to consider their miserable situation to...There was another rustle. He looked up just in time to see Shadlow climb into another hammock, a soft, constant groaning starting up after only a few moments.

He stifled a whimper. How was he supposed to sleep like this? In his current state, he would startle at a blink.

With a huff of breath, he rolled onto his back and slipped his own hand down. He did not dare shove the blanket aside. Better to soil it than be seen.

He was silent as his hand moved, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and excitement, eyes fluttering open and closed, as if to convince himself that the hold remained dark. His head twisted a little on his small pillow and his gaze fell on Jack, peacefully asleep.

He truly was pretty without that beard. It made him seem young somehow, and misleadingly helpless.

His lips were slightly parted and James' gaze remained fixed on them before dropping lower with a sigh. He twisted his head until he could see the lanternlight catch in the droplets on the lean belly, the sated prick nestled in the black curls.

He finished with a stifled moan, wiping his hand in the corner of the blanket, and pulled up his breeches.

He half-expected laughter to start up around him, to see Sparrow point and mock, but it remained silent, if one discounted the ongoing sounds of pleasure. He managed to ignore them and fell asleep.

Jack rolled himself out of the hammock onto the floor, his head thick and his mouth feeling like a cavern full of mud.  He groaned, pulled on his breeches and glared at his boots.  The hell with 'em.  No one would pinch them now.  He stowed them under his coat and took the opportunity of the snoring quiet to dig into his pocket. 

He used Berthot's razor to shave, working up a faint lather with a sliver of soap next to the basin of dirty water, then, peering at his reflection in a shard of mirror, repainted his eyes.  He settled his scarf and looked back towards James, still sleeping, his newly-browned face soft and his lip lifted.  Jack was not looking forward to another day of chilly silence and trudged up to the galley for breakfast.

Berkely had watched him with interest and fell into step behind him, crowding just a hair too close.  "Yer mate still sulkin' and leaving yer bunk cold?"  His mouth widened into a knowing grin.  "Noticed ye were feelin' rather lonely last night."

Jack smiled over his shoulder.  "Ah, he'll get over it."  Right, he thought.  On the twelfth of never. His eyes met Berkely's green ones, but they weren't the right green eyes.  He missed his beard and moustache now, painfully aware of the light in those eyes and let his own drop in a flutter of lashes and paint.

Berkely's hand dropped lower and stroked the curve of his buttocks.  "Well, if ye want moren' yer hand fer comp'ny, my hammock ain't far from yours."  He winked.

Jack's lips curled into one of his enigmatic half-smiles.  He arched a brow and winked back, the kohl leaving a feathery fringe beneath his eyes.  "Don't think Jamie'd like that much."  He paused, feeling the weight of the hand against his backside and the eternal scales of his mind weighed matters. When he looked up, his glance was teasing.  "But..."  He left the sentence unfinished and collected his porridge.  "Maybe," he whispered with all the delicacy of a French courtesan.

Berkely grinned and gave Jack another pat before he took his trencher to the table.  "Y'know where to find me, Spanish."  He sat down and ate heartily, keeping the distance between himself and the object of his affection, lest Norbury start another round of fireworks.

It was only moments later that Norrington entered the galley, eyes darting around nervously. He got his own porridge and slowly approached the empty seat opposite Jack.

Jack did not look at him, but obviously not out of anger. No, the dark eyes were constantly moving, following Wheldon who came closer and eventually sat down beside him.

Jack grinned, but it faltered, those long lashes fluttering as he moved closer to Berkely. It was barely visible, more like a shifting of weight, as though he readied himself to flee.

James flinched as if struck. It's watching one another's backs.  It's safety. He almost heard the words again and shivered. Jack really had never meant to humiliate or tease him with the matelot tale. He'd sought that safety, and James had denied him because he had been so certain that the pirate only meant him harm. So certain that all the kindness had only been a mask, a trick.

He swallowed hard and busied himself with a spoonful of porridge. "Good morning," he offered.

Jack looked up, his eyes wary.  He could feel Berkely shift, his attention veiled and the dark pupils dilated a little more.  He swallowed visibly.  "Mornin', luv."

James opened his mouth, closed it again. He could not well mention all that here, with all the crew to listen. There was a long pause, in which he looked anywhere but at Jack, before he continued, "I am sorry about last night. My criticism was rash and unwarranted."

It was really a shame that Norrington didn't look, for he missed one of Jack's  unplanned and genuine smiles.  "Not a worry, Jamie.  It wasn't meant t'get you riled."

Jack had been careful not to touch him over these days of coldness and silence.  It was a terrible trial considering that Jack touched everyone.  He was always standing too close, punctuating his words with gestures and caresses.  Now, he reached across the trestle table to grasp James' wrist for a moment, his fingers tense, willing gratitude through their calloused tips.

It earned him a brief smile. For just a moment, James gripped the hand tightly in acknowledgement, before returning to his porridge. "So, how long until we see the next port, oh great pilot?" His voice had lost that habitual cold, and was lined with playful mocking.

Jack laughed.  "Oh mate, we've weeks t'go.  We're headed fer Dakar.  We'll stock up an' head south 'round the coast.  You've been 'round the Cape before, aye?"

He didn't say there was little chance of a pair of newly-pressed sailors having any opportunity to leave the ship.  They might even find themselves back in the brig, if Hamilton was particularly suspicious.  At least James was speaking to him again.  Berkely was listening with both ears and Wheldon eased away a little.  Jack grinned his relief.

"Yes, I have. Though that was nigh ten years ago, and I certainly had not expected to sail it again under such conditions." He scowled, then laughed hesitantly to soften his words. "Not that they will even let me touch anything remotely resembling a sail or a yard this time around."

"Oh, I think you'll get yer chance, luv.  After all, Hamilton will need all hands for the Cape and he won't be able t'get picky.  Sure as kittens, you'll get a stab at 'em." Jack leaned forward conspiratorially, "I'm really startin' to think he's a bit mad.  Then again, he's Irish.  They're all mad at birth."

Norrington chuckled softly. "Is this your way of telling me you are Irish?"

"I am not!  Well, leastaways, not that I'd know it!" 

James downed the rest of the grog and rose. "I am convinced he will decide that the brass requires particular care in the cold." He stretched and picked up his trencher to take it back to Cookie. "We should get topside."

Jack laughed and rose.  "Aye, we should, before Longthorpe thumps us.  C'mon."  He thumped Berkely on the shoulder and spared a grin all ‘round.

Out in the causeway, he waited for James to fall into step behind him, turned and leaned too close.  "Been missin' you, mate."  His lips hovered very close, then quirked into a smile as he bounded up to the hatch.

James gave him a good shove and laughed at the answering pout, sobering when Longthorpe coughed once. Jack was assigned the helm and James again to his menial tasks.

He was humming softly to himself as he worked, sanding and polishing the rail on the quarterdeck. The task was not all that difficult and he worked diligently, enjoying the cool breeze that tousled his hair, chuckling when he heard Jack curse at the trinkets slapping against his mouth.

There was a loud snap aloft and he flinched, staring up to see the topgallant parrel of the mizzen carried away. The yard gave an enormous creak, as if the wood moaned, and swayed to the lee, barely held aft by the braces and straining at the masthead.

Hamilton looked up and cursed.  "God's Blood and damn!  Alright, you lot, take the damned thing in and get the yard down.  Longthorpe, tell Gentile t' take care of a spare in Dakar.  Bloody hell!"

James was still staring up. The yard was straining, and with the current wind there was no telling how long the braces would hold. This was a ship, and he was part of its crew. It was in his interests that they reach Dakar as soon as possible and to end this....slavery.

He pushed himself to his feet and put himself into Hamilton's path, giving the anger no time to bloom. "I know how to save the yard, Captain."

"I'm sure ya do, Norbury.  Get back t'work.  Hamilton turned to bark orders at Longthorpe without giving James a second glance.

Jack's eyes lit, a wicked gleam erupting in them like twin flashes in a firefight.  He nodded at James, jerking his thumb upwards.

Any disappointment in a Captain who wouldn't take the time to save a sail in the middle of a fast course was swallowed in the opportune moment for James.

James wished to sand away Hamilton's thick head until finally a brain appeared, but he settled for a glare. As his eyes caught Jack's, he looked up again. Go against a direct order? A stupid order.... an unspecific order.

He grinned, one hand already on the rail to swing himself up into the shrouds. "Take her right before the winds and steady there. With any luck, that'll keep the masthead from coming down on us."

He had one foot in the ratlines already and hollered at Bertie. "Stays!"

Bertie stared at him for a second before comprehension dawned and Bertie and Shadlow grabbed the topgallant stays, not questioning his order for a second.

It was elating, to be aloft again, a stiff breeze in his face, but James had no time to waste.

He hauled himself up as far as the topgallant yard, hesitating for a moment. He grabbed the stay hard and steadied one foot on the ratline, then swung himself out, balancing the other foot and his elbow against the mast. He slung the other arm around the shroud so that he could work the clewlines with both hands, unbending them and hauling them back against the mast.

Before the wind, the braces kept the yard mostly steady, which allowed him to fasten the clewlines abaft the trestletrees, securing the yard.

"Let fly the stays," he shouted, watching with satisfaction as the sail bellied in the wind again, as it should.

He lingered aloft for just a minute, then climbed down, sliding on the deck with a surge of elation, oblivious to Hamilton.

Jack watched, squinting into the light and near-dancing at the helm.  Who in hell would have thought the Navy ponce knew how to handle himself in the rigging?  He certainly behaved as though none of his high-heeled shoes had ever touched a line.  Jack grinned and ducked his head as the Captain advanced towards Norrington.

"Steady as she goes, Spanish.  Get us back on our course.  Mr. Norbury, I don't recall givin' ya any orders."

Now James would see if it was only Jack who got away with outrageous explanations. "You told me to get back to work, Sir. My duty, as I consider it, entails doing my best by this ship and its crew." His voice sounded almost innocent, his chin held high.

Hamilton's lips pursed and he forced a smile that looked more like the grimace of a man with a bad case of griping bowels.  "However, ya did that rather neatly and saved us a load o' trouble.  Yer duty, eh?  You sure yer not Navy?  Ya damned well talk like it."  The blue eyes pierced Norrington's like daggers.  "Extra ration o' rum and you can go aloft an' help settle that main course.  It's been wobblin' fer a week."  He stalked off the quarterdeck to his cabin.

Jack spun a little pirouette and clapped his hands.

"Aye, Sir," Norrington shouted, almost cheerful. Insane. The Jack-Sparrow method of twisting words actually worked. He shook his head.

The thought alone, to be grateful to be allowed to be aloft, was ridiculous. Nonetheless, it filled him with pride, he could not deny that, laughing with the crew, who continued cheering.

He turned to head to the mainmast, but they pushed him back, sending him tumbling into Jack's arms, one of the helm's spokes poking into his side.

"A kiss for our hero and t'saviour of the topgallant!"

Jack grinned and pulled him close, his face tipped up for a sloppy kiss.  "Jamie, yer a wonder.  That was bloody brilliant."  He gave the 'saviour' another kiss.  "G'wan.  Get up there.  Y'know yer dyin' to."  He laughed and urged James towards the stairs with a swat.

This time, Norrington laughed. He bounded to his feet and scrambled up the shrouds, shifting along the footropes and whistling, lost in thought.

Together, he and Shadlow quickly found and identified the problem: the yard was uneven, a long splinter of wood poked out and bored into the sail, preventing it from pulling taut. They quickly sanded it away and mended the canvas where the splinter had torn it.

Shadlow was entertaining company and they remained aloft for a good while after they had finished their task, surveying the proceedings below them and joking about what they saw.

The watch passed quickly and they made for the galley, where James collected his extra ration of rum and a steaming bowl of stew.

Jack had been watching from the helm, half-wishing to be up there with James, and followed him down to the galley with a bounce in his step.  Excitement always killed his appetite for anything but rum and he forced himself to swallow the stew, which, for once, didn't taste like wood shavings even if it did look like a bowl of sick.  He thought longingly of his Pearl's Creole cook and pushed the thought away.  "James, that was a fine bit of work.  So proud of you," he murmured.  He caught Berkeley's eye and glanced down again.

He knew that look, the open invitation filled with hopeless longing.  His face grew hot and he buried it in his mug.

James was still grinning like a fool. "Thank you. For everything." He had realised soon enough that had Hamilton not reacted well, Jack and Bertie would have been in trouble for following his suggestions. Bertie had done so without thinking, but Jack.... He did not think Jack had. The pirate was far too used to gauging possible sources of trouble.

Still, he had helped, risking everything he had obtained aboard that ship, especially his cosy position at the helm.

A good part of James' rum was still left and he pushed the mug towards Jack. "Halvsies of everything, remember?" He really was in high spirits, but beside the proud grin, there was a smaller, more private smile on his face.

Jack turned the mug in his hand, his answering grin secretive.  For one perfectly clear moment, James remembered a statue he'd been dragged to see when he would have much preferred running about with boyhood friends; some Grecian nymph, gazing inward to her own thoughts, mysterious and enchanting. The pirate returned, and the smile faded, winking at him from the dimple just to the right of his lips.

"Sure, luv?"  He wrenched himself away from James' green eyes.  It was James' night and he would not risk something stupid.  He was too pleased to have his initial estimation of Norrington proved wrong and too wary of his sour moods.

Norrington grinned a bit wider and nodded.

Bertie slapped Jack on the back, making him nearly spill the rum. "Drink it already. There's plenty."

He refilled James' mug of grog from his own, earning a cheer as several more half-emptied mugs were put down in front of James, some with a tousle of his hair or a gentle prod in his side. Even little Matthew brought his mug, still full to the brim and put it down on the table with one of the rare full-toothed grins.

Jack's head did a funny little tilt to the right, and he smiled with his eyes.  He bolted down the rum and grinned, then threw both arms around James' neck and laughed into the hollow of his throat.  "Stubborn ole Co-bastard."  He released Norrington, sitting back abruptly, his eyes wary.  "Knew you'd find a way, 'cos it's just like you.  Sly dog.  Cravat-pins an' all.  Drink up."

Jack's eyes were always in motion and no matter what he felt, they noticed.  They noticed Norrington's widen and sharpen; another pair, mottled green, watching rather sadly from his right; Wheldon's amber-brown scowl, and he hid his face against James' stained shirt, laughing.

He turned to the company, bursting into the rudest shanty in his large repertoire.

The entire galley joined in, even young Matthew, shouting the bawdy chorus at full voice.

James did not complain and slung an arm around his shoulder, and this close, he could hear the smooth voice join in the chorus, very low as though James was afraid anyone would hear it.

Jack giggled his way through the last verse.  It was like going over the Equator, into a place where lewd songs were hymns and bawdy ballads encouraged James to pull him close and sing like a swain in a country church into his ear.  He was absurdly touched and nestled comfortably as one song led to another and the impromptu celebration progressed to storytelling and the quite-unforeseen talents of Pierce and Rollings on an old pot and a bamboo flute.

The amount of empty mugs in front of James grew impressive, and at one point, he began to sing a little louder. He thought he knew a surprising amount of lewd shanties, but everyone seemed eager to teach him more, or to fetch him a new mug of grog when his threatened to empty.

It was strange to see them all smile at him, laugh with him, even cheer him; calling him a hero for so little a thing. He sputtered and laughed as Shadlow stood over him and steadily poured the grog into his mouth, Jack quickly sidling up to catch anything that would spill.

He was quite dizzy from the grog and the thrill of it. Commodore James Norrington seemed so distant from now, he was almost glad of Jack's weight to remind him of who he was, and that his former life was not only his own imagination.

They looked at each other and laughed, their faces dripping wet with grog, and James could not help but notice how red Jack's lips were, how alluring their bow. Unwillingly, his mind supplied an image from the night before: Jack's prick had been just as red, gleaming with something other than grog.

The colour on James' cheeks burned and he clanked his mug against Jack's, tossing down the contents.

Finally, Cookie had enough and stomped from his place at the head of the table to shoo them all to bed.  Like rats, they scattered to the decks below, carrying away the last mug. Echoes of a final song faded as Jack helped James to his feet.  He staggered and together they bumped their way down to their hammocks. 

James stumbled and they fell against the bulwark, tangled together and laughing into one another's necks.

Jack's hand stole up to James' cheek and he giggled.  "Ain't you supposed t'ask to walk me home proper?"  He leaned against Norrington's chest, his head spinning.  "Much better, ain't it?  Good fellows all, and I told you they liked ya just fine."  His eyes were shuttered and that secret smile was on his lips again.

"Forgive me," James drawled and looked up, his eyes slightly unfocused and his smile uncontrolled and wide. "But it sheems we have arrived at your hammock already." He pointed, staggered a little and leaned against Jack.

He was more drunk than he had been in a long, long time. The haze was pleasant and it seemed Jack was quite willing to take care of that balance problem, so everything was in order.

Not to mention that the warmth of Jack's body steadying him was rather pleasant, too, just where his hipbone pressed against that lean waist.

It did not help his balance that his mind promptly supplied images of that very waist, unclothed and covered in sweat.

"You also like me fine, Jack?" His normally crisp voice was slurred, but he was far too busy to care, shoving one of his legs between Jack's, concentrating on not sending them both stumbling again.

Jack grinned at him and pulled them both down into the hammock.  It swayed madly and almost tumbled them out again, both scrabbling for balance.  "We gotta get organised here, " he gasped.  He reached down, his hand brushing against the tent in James' breeches and he smiled, slipping his hand into the waistband and taking firm hold of him.  "I like ya just fine, Jamie."

He squeezed again, then ran his fingers lightly over the hot flesh and pulled slowly.  "I like you more than ever."

James groaned softly and let himself slump into the hammock, almost capsizing it. Oh yes, that was infinitely better than touching himself, and much less frustrating. He whimpered as Jack set a rhythm.

This would not do. He frowned for a moment then grinned wide as he groped the front of Jack's breeches. There, buttons, the only obstacle on his way into his 'mate's' breeches.

Apparently, they weren't supposed to open from this side, because his hand slipped unsuccessfully. Twisting himself to lie beside Jack only made the hammock sway, but did not help at all with the rebellious buttons.

He scowled until Jack's hand touched his and pulled it to his arse. Ah, there.

The backlace gave after a brief struggle, and with Jack's help, he got the breeches down far enough to touch. The eager prick was as hard as he'd seen it the day before, and Jack's answering groan as he grabbed it sent another thrill through him.

Better, definitely better, now that he wasn't the only one squirming.

Jack gasped a breath from under James' hair, air gusting over his face as he moaned.  His hand was firm, warm and they pulled at each other, the hammock swaying, breath caught and shared. Awkwardly, his lips found James' and clung.

They parted as the hammock lurched, met again in a wet, sloppy twine of tongues, teeth clattering together.  James' skin was fire-hot as he tensed, shuddering, a helpless cry swallowed between their mouths, warmth spilling over Jack's fist.

James scrambled for balance and somehow managed to keep them both in the hammock. When the swaying stilled, he peered down, saw his fist around Jack's prick and pulled at it again, palming the hard flesh frantically.

Jack gasped, his mouth slack as he jerked beneath James, thrown helplessly back in his arms.  He saw stars and his bones were melting.  "Jamie."  Eyes wide, his whole body shuddered, a groan torn deep from his gut.  He blinked.

Jack Sparrow didn't blink.  He wasn't supposed to blink.  He shifted with James, searching for a comfortable position until they nestled together, James' legs clasping his.

James lifted his head, looked around, eyes lingering on Jack in a slightly unfocused stare. He, too, blinked. Then he let his head fall back with a groan and began to snore.

Jack watched the timbers above them twist and spin for a moment, heaved a sigh and let his eyes close.

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