Pirate Vindaloo, Chapter 5

Lying Truths

by

Hippediva & Elessil

Well, that was one way to catch a reluctant Commodore.  Or had he been caught?  He wasn't at all sure. His real sorrow had been having all the pain of a real affaire du'coeur and none of the fun.

The arms around him were warm and that was, without doubt, fun.

Then again, whatever could have prompted Norrington to such a lapse of character?  It couldn't possibly be simple ego.  Jack may not have exchanged more than ten sentences with Commodore James Norrington before this unforeseen incident, but he knew the man wouldn't tumble for a just round of applause.

However, he had absolutely no objections to the warm breath against his neck.

The lulling swing of the hammock suddenly stopped, then lurched violently, capsizing and spilling them both to the deck. James cushioned Jack's fall and yelped.

Two pairs of hands held the hammock, but at least a dozen sailors laughed at them; dishevelled, breeches down around their knees. "Too busy t'even close the britches, eh?"

Berthot and Shadlow let go of the hammock, still laughing as James sat up with a groan and quickly pulled up his breeches, his face colouring.

Jack sat there, laughing like a hyena, reaching after James and tugging at his breeches.  "Bugger off, you lot!"  Their single lamp was lit and he turned to see James' face turn the colour of Hamilton's fancy coat. "Mornin', luv!" 

He bounced to his feet, pressing a wet kiss to Norrington's cheek, stale morning breath mingled with rum and metal.  "How's yer head?"

James groaned and hid his face between his hands. "It has been better," he muttered. Honestly, what did Jack think after the amount of rum he'd consumed? More importantly, why had he not drunk enough to at least not remember anything?

He remembered all too clearly the way he had pressed against Jack, how he had clumsily fumbled with Jack's breeches and...God. How drunk had he been? How desperate?

It was one thing to befriend Jack, to help him, yes, even to feel comfortable in his company. But this...this was quite different.

He peered up to glare at Jack for a moment, then his blush deepened, and he directed his glower at the other culprits, who were still laughing at him. "What on earth was this rude awakening for?"

"We had t'get ye cuddlers up some way or other, no? Not worth a flogging even for t'best fuck!"

Jack tore his eyes from James, and grinned at them, looked back and bit his lip.  Seconds later, he strutted to the basin, repainting his lids with exaggerated care. "Now why in hell should a bit of friggin' warrant a flogging?  Honestly, you lot are daft." 

James' cheeks went crimson and he snarled. Bad enough that he had let himself be carried away, but now the whole ship would hear of it!

Shadlow gave him a hand and then groped at his breeches. He jerked away and stumbled against the bulwark, where he hit his head and groaned, to more laughter.

Jack was at his side in an instant.  "Lay off!  Don't do t'make a bad head worse.  Ignorant  pricks."  He laughed, willing them to laugh with him, and they did, leaving James to shave and settle himself.  Another bout of laughter carried them up to the galley for breakfast. 

Jack tugged at James' arm and held him behind the group, pushing his flask at James' fingers.  "It'll get you through the day.  Just don't let anyone see ya."

James stared at the flask. He sniffed at it and his face contorted. Quickly, he pressed it back into Jack's hands with a strangled, "Thank you." He was topside in a rush.

Minutes later, when he returned to the galley, the blush was quite gone, his face ashen and pale.

Breakfast consisted of more laughter, but also, God bless Cookie, a steaming mug of black coffee and yet more porridge. It helped him to ignore the mocking and steady his stomach, but it also brought back yet more memories of the day before, the way Jack had slumped against him and wriggled in his lap. He blushed again.

Jack had been holding court at table, trading barb for barb with a golden grin that softened when James sat back down. "Better, luv?"  His gaze gentled and he pushed a stiff strand of hair from Norrington's forehead.

Berthot laughed and filled James' half-emptied mug of coffee with his own.  "Don't ya worry none 'bout that.  We all need a visit t' the leeward rail at times."

That led to a spirited discussion of the various ways and means of becoming violently inebriated, possibly engendered by the sight of their breakfast porridge.  Jack leaned close to James again.  "Try t'eat, luv.  It will help."

James cringed. "As if this weren't bad enough without a hangover." There was an advantage to not having to chew: he didn't have to consider the taste in his mouth for too long. He managed a grin, despite the conviction that Sparrow only helped him because he had a bad conscience. After all, there was little doubt it was all the pirate's fault.

The porridge helped to settle not only his stomach, but also his rational thoughts.  He peered up from his trencher to watch Jack, his hair tumbling into his eyes. He reached up to smooth it back, freezing when his hand caught in a braid. He'd thought it just another saltwater tangle before, stiff in his unwashed hair, but this, distinctly, was a braid.

There was no doubt who had made it, but why? Was it a sign of....appreciation?

He caught himself staring at Jack curiously and shrugged. "I'll be fine."

Shadlow laughed and slipped him another half-mug of coffee.

Jack leaned close. "Y'need me, pass word through Bertie.  Best get topside, lads."  He rose, marrying servility to a natural air of command.  He didn't so much order as wheedle compliance and swayed his way up, taking a theatrical breath of fresh air as he wandered to the quarterdeck. 

Longthorpe was deep in conversation with the Captain and looked at him with chiding eyes.  "You, Spanish!  Yer t'trade off with Jensen at the helm. And since yer so good with maps, go and fix the ones in th' Great Cabin."

Hamilton turned to eye James.  "Mr. Norbury, I trust yer ready for duty?  Not too exhausted by the darin' rescue of the topgallant?"

James raised an eyebrow. His eyes gleamed above dark circles, and he certainly would not surrender before a common hangover. Bad enough that he had surrendered to his inebriation. The coffee and the fresh air did the rest and all slur was gone from his voice, daring Hamilton to doubt him. "Of course I am, Sir."

Hamilton grinned.  The Englishman had a harder head than he'd imagined.  "How are you wi' guns, man?  We could use a bit o'practise, couldn't we, lads?"

His voice had risen and there was a cheer from the crew.  They had been in open waters for weeks and the prospect of any action was a welcome diversion.

James was about to say that he'd commanded gun crews since he was twelve years old, swallowing the retort just in time. "I can handle a gun crew, if that is what you mean," he replied vaguely.

“Course it is. Go wi' Berthot and have th' Deacon set ya to a gun."

The Deacon was the gunnery mate, so called for his long-faced Puritanism.  He never smiled, but was a wonder with a cannonade.

James spent the day on the gundecks, shoving cannons into the gunports, adjusting firing angles, bellowing commands. If there was any trace of a headache, he couldn't allow it, the cannonshots echoing loud in his ears and ringing long after.

They raced starboard guncrews against larboard, sweetening the contest when each man threw half of his grog ration into the bet.

He was dizzy from the haze and the powder when he returned topside, ears still ringing and his blood pounding as loud as the shots. His face was dark with soot, sweat trailing wet cascades through it.

Jack was not pleased to be stuck in the cabin with the maps while all the fun boomed without him. He sulked for a good quarter-hour, then lost himself in correcting coastlines, marking currents.  He amused himself at intervals, drawing small ships and monsters in the margin and ignored his fingers' itch for real action.

Hamilton banged open the door to stand over Jack's shoulder, watching the pen trace sure, careful lines along the western coast of India.  "You know wha' yer doin', Spanish.  Where'd the likes o' you learn such a thing?"

Jack looked up slowly and smiled.  "Picked it up around."  The quill wavered in the air, as vague as his response.

Hamilton frowned and watched a few minutes more, then went topside to handle some minor emergency.

James sat and eyed the two mugs in front of him gloomily. Of course starboard had won. It may have had to do with Shadlow's and Bertie's particular efforts, and their delight at seeing James' second mug.

He was certain that Jack would have been happy to relieve him of his burden, but there was no trace of him in the galley. Also, the mug would serve to cover the inevitable embarrassment, and maybe stop at least one or two lewd comments.

It wasn't that he minded what happened last night, James had realised in one of the quieter moments that day. He was no stranger to such fumblings among men, and although it had been many years since he had buried the memory, that did not mean he'd forgotten it.

His reputation was not the problem, either. The matelot tale had everyone believing him a sodomite, who had lain with Jack for a long time already. The sudden reality changed nothing.

To deny that it had been pleasurable was useless, too. Especially as his prick reacted rather enthusiastically to his attempts to recall the events.

That was exactly what mattered: his unforgivable slip of self-control. Desire and needs were one matter, giving in to them quite another. He had always prided himself in his strength of will, steeling himself to resist such temptation.

He had done that to set an example, to be a worthy commander or worthy of becoming one. The moment he had set foot aboard a ship, he had borne the responsibility for others.

He didn't now, and, on the Chimaera, he had to admit that being one of the crew had a thrill of its own.

To laugh and to sing; to simply sail. Not worry and weigh heavy decisions. It was a way he had never wanted, never even considered, but somehow, it was elating. Until he could escape, he was stuck on this ship, and what possible reason was there not to make the best of it?

He could find none, and, while used to self-restraint, he was no saint. What he wanted, he realised with painful clarity, included Jack. The incident would never have happened without the drink, but neither had it been rum alone. There had been a thrill to it, a warmth he could clearly remember even through the drunken haze; the feel of Jack's flesh against his, their lips pressed together. Warm, and oh-so-satisfying.

Nobody denied it him. They all approved, even Jack.  The only one who balked was himself, apparently without any plausible reason.

When Jack clambered down to the galley, he was breathing fast, glad to have evaded Hamilton's scrutiny.  He wrenched his thoughts from that problem to the one in front of him, sitting at the table with a full trencher and two mugs. 

Jack raised an eyebrow as he slid in beside James.  "I swear you lot rattled th' ship so much, me quill jumped right outta m'fingers!"  His grin had a razor edge, his eyes glittering.  Fear had a funny way of making Jack Sparrow sparkle and he was nearly aglow.

James looked up and half smiled, then his face went blank, his stare cool and inquisitive. He just looked, blinked once or twice, either deeply lost in thought, or possibly deaf from the gunnery exercise.

Jack was weighing the likelihood of the different options when James suddenly reached behind his neck, pulled him down and kissed him. Not one of the quick pecks to satisfy the crew; no, James' lips were firmly on his, tongue swiping across them insistently.

Jack's lips parted, his head forced back, eyes closed.  He didn't know what gods were at work or which demons infected the stew, but he was certainly not one to look at a gift kiss askance and he responded enthusiastically to a roar of laughter and snickered encouragement.

He was drowning.  For just one second, tongues lashing together and clasped in arms that not only held, but possessed, he heard the Pearl very clearly.  She was giggling and he melted.

Several moments passed until James released his hold and pulled away, suddenly wary.

He shoved the additional mug in front of Jack, as though he'd done nothing at all. "Won the race against the scurvy larboard slugs. Have at it!" Indignant huffs mingled into the cheers.

Jack took a breath and laughed.  "Sounds lovely.  Been stuck inside all bloody day.  Makes me feel like a bastard stepchild."  He held up the mug, his eyes fixed on Norrington's.

"The gunners."

Everyone could agree to that toast, and even James brought himself to drink to it. The effects of the hangover had quite faded, yielding to the elation of a successful pseudo-battle. "Now don't destroy my imaginings and tell me you are in fact no bastard stepchild," he teased.

He looked at Jack's shoulder for a moment, hesitating. He was not quite certain about the validity of his theory, but he had to admit that slinging his arm around Jack's waist did satisfy a distinct possessive urge. It felt...nice.

Jack tiptoed along the line between reality and green eyes, stumbled, and fell headlong.  He was enchanted.  This was not at all the dignified, proper Commodore who'd smirked with eyes of steel, cuffed him in a cell and shoved him away with utter distaste.

This was someone entirely new and different; bronzed, laughing, generous and warm. The arm around him was strong, the kiss delicious. It was more than enough to dazzle one slightly birdbrained pirate. 

James seemed to be entranced himself, sitting there with his arm around Jack. It became less strange as time and grog passed, and he could feel the warm ribs beneath his fingers, faintly sense the heartbeat. Jack squeaked and dropped his spoon as James tickled him.

James caught it and clucked his tongue, dipping it back into the trencher with a laugh and feeding Jack.

The table erupted into laughter and good-natured jeers.  Sure, there were a few comments, some unpleasant.  Wheldon's sniggering fell away from Jack like water on feathers.  Somehow, Cookie's execrable stew was ambrosia and he looked up at James through his lashes, suddenly dangerous.  "If ya feed me now, how much more will there be after?"  His smile was an open invitation.

James sputtered. "That depends entirely on how much you can chew." He stared at the spoon, then at Jack.

Jack pushed the trencher away.  "Wanna talk, luv.  C'mon."  He unfolded from the bench and held out one hand.

"That wot it's called these days?"  Wheldon's voice was harsh amid the laughter.

"You two never get enough,"  Shadlow chortled.

James didn't listen, gulping as he stared at Jack's hand, outstretched, beckoning. He took it and let himself be pulled upright, steering their way through the crowd, making for their berth.

"No.  This way."  Jack pulled at his fingers and tore down the steps, past the orlop deck, where Gentile, the carpenter, was dozing amid his half-finished planks and plugs.  The stink of dank water was almost suffocating as he pushed James against the bulwark, his lips insistent and greedy.  "Can't wait no more, luv.  It's drivin' me mad."

His hand fumbled with James' buttons, sliding inside, fingers curling around his prick.  "C'mon, Jamie.  Why stop now?  Sheep as a lamb, eh?"  His mouth devoured James' in a blistering kiss.

James gulped, and with a gasp, grabbed hold of Jack's wrist, pulling it away. He broke the kiss, but Jack was still so close, he could feel the thundering of his heart, the lean body pinioning him against the bulwark. "I didn't....You don't have to...." For God's sake, why did he suddenly feel like a blushing virgin?

Focus. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his breathing. Jack's wriggling did not help. "I didn't mean to... accost you like this. There is no obligation for you to do anything... just if you want... errrr." This was pathetic. And he had worried about the embarrassment of Jack's groping him!

But he was well aware that Jack relied on his protection. He had seen it every day for well over a month. He needed to make clear that...this...wasn't a condition of any sort.

Instead, he blushed.

Jack spun against him, dancing them into a corner, need making glamour needy.  "Jamie. Why don't ya believe me?  I want you t'fuck me so hard I can't walk."  His voice was rough, spit glistening on his lips, his hands stroking, coaxing, tempting.  He gripped James' chin hard while one hand stole back to let fly the slipknot of his breeches.  They fell to his knees, pooling around his boots.  "Can't wait anymore.  I want you.  Now."

James gasped. It had been so long, and God, he was so hard, and Jack.... He gulped, hands slipping down to grab Jack's buttocks. Yes. He seized Jack by the hip and hauled him around, trapping him against the bulwark, teeth sunk into the soft skin of his nape.

With a little shudder, he drew away and rested his head against the bulwark, bent over Jack's shoulder, staring into his face. "I don't want to use you," he managed to pant. "I want you... but not if you...don't." Jack's arse was so hot against his straining prick, but he could not. Would not.

"Just do it, damn you.  Stick it inside and stop the damned lies!"  Jack's voice dropped nearly an octave.  "You know they're lies and ya know you want it.  G'wan.  Do it or I swear I'll run mad." It became liquid soft, thick as honey.  "I'll make it good, luv.  So good.  Hard as ya want, it don't matter.  Just fuck me.  Now." 

Jack's cheek was pressed against the wood so hard he could hear the sounding of the deep outside the shell of the Chimaera.  Or so he thought.  He ground back against James, growling.

James' breath hitched, then he hissed it out, loud and ragged. "Oh yes, I want it, want you. So much, more than you know. Your madness is infectious but you probably do know that." His voice went on, rough and throaty, almost raving. He parted Jack's buttocks with one hand, spat into the palm of the other, smearing his saliva across the tight hole. "If you want me to stop, say it, God, please say it, or I swear I won't be able to."

He was desperate and drunk, more from Jack's scent than the rum.

Jack moaned encouragement.  "If ya stop, I'll strangle you."  He writhed against James, losing himself in an ocean and diving through its currents, a madman who thought himself a dolphin.  "Goddamn it, James, fuck me!"

How much more did he need to say?

He said much more, hissed obscenities dripping from an eager tongue, pushing back against James, his legs trembling with the effort.  "Do it.  Now. If ya make me beg anymore..."

His chanting was lost in groans and curses as James pushed one finger against the tender skin, and he nearly screamed when it slipped inside.  His back arched, head cresting against the wood that caught in his hair and held him captive by a halo of splinters.

"I don't want to make you beg, not now, no, I'm the one begging," James growled, licking across Jack's earlobe. He spat again, coaxing saliva from a mouth gone completely dry. He slicked himself with trembling fingers, groaning.

He held his breath as his hands slipped to Jack's buttocks again, then outwards, fingers gripping hard around the sharp hipbones, digging into soft flesh. With that grip, he pulled Jack back as he surged forward, pushing inside with one stroke.

"Oh yes. Jack," he moaned. "So tight...so tight." He stilled himself with effort, pressed up snugly, breathing hot and damp into Jack's ear.

Jack groaned, a sound torn from deep inside of him that might have been a cry or a sob.  His hips worked, his tongue twisting around his own fingers, panting into the wood.  Words dissolved into moaning desperation as he pumped with James, panting and impaled.  "Touch me. God, don't stop and touch me."  The stink of the bilges mingled with their sweat and the smell of James, gunpowder and salt.

James shifted his weight and let one hand slip down to grab Jack, jerking hard. With the other, he steadied himself against the bulwark, bracing himself so he could pound even harder, desperate to slake this fire. "So good, yes, Jack, yes."

Jack felt as though he were being split in two and bore down harder, thrusting against the calloused palm until he stifled a scream, his fist shoved into his mouth, all words strangled.  He shuddered, every muscle tensed and just as suddenly, let go, coming hard against the bulwark, splattering all over James' fingers, tightening and throbbing around the invading prick like a hungry mouth sucking him dry.

James could not but yield, spilling himself with a cry. He stifled it by biting hard at the straining muscle at the side of Jack's neck. His legs gave out and he collapsed against Jack, pressing them tightly to the wood. "Bloody hell," he whispered.

Jack sagged and squirmed to turn in James' arms, pulling him into a kiss, wet and sated and still hungry.  When he raised his eyes, they were liquid.  He held on tight, the wetness dripping from between his buttocks to stain the bunched cloth of his sagging breeches.  His head fell forward against James' neck helplessly.  "I've wanted that since the bloody dock at Port Royal, you Navy bastard!"

"Did you really?" The question was out before James could stop it, his voice still rough and lust-dark, a hint of worry warring with pride. They were still pressed together snugly, sweat slick where they were unclothed. He was reeling from the lack of air, the bilges stuffy and narrow around them. "Was it... was it worth the wait, then?"

Amid sweat and the sticky reminders of their passion, Jack still twitched.  "Oh yes, luv.  Well-worth any wait."  The dark head dropped onto his shoulder again with a soft jingle.  "Just think, it took a pressgang to make it happen. That's goddamn funny."  His fingers wandered as he turned, tracing a line through the sweat streaking James' face. "You know, I lied.  I was rootin' for you.  But not for her.  Wanted ya all for myself."

"Take what you can, give nothing back?" James raised a mocking eyebrow and laughed softly, still hoarse. "Now please don't tell me that all this was a ruse you spun for a tumble," he teased, hesitatingly bending to lick the sweat from the hollow of Jack's throat.

"Bloody fool."  Jack laughed into his shoulder.  "Never in a thousand years thought I'd ever see ya again."  He seemed to melt into the hull, half-ship, half-man, barely human and altogether a mystery.  "We should go back.  My knees are puddin'."  Despite his words, his fingers tightened.

"I certainly never thought so myself." James leaned down for another kiss, hesitantly, as though suddenly shy. "I never knew what this was hiding."  He trailed his thumb over the smooth chin, then dropped it and withdrew to pull up his breeches. He hadn't meant just the beard. He meant the kindness, the intelligence...how Jack contradicted a lot of what he'd always thought of pirates.

Quickly, he grinned.   "Do you think we were loud enough to be heard up in the crow's nest?"

Jack's lips twisted into a grimace. "More like we had Venus lookin' and Orion wondering why he's chasin' a lot of little girls." He nestled against James' collarbone comfortably.  “What changed your mind?  If you don't mind me askin'."

James looked down, his hand lingering in Jack's hair, then he gave a crooked smile. "You look much more civilised without that beard."

He swallowed and bit his lip. It was rather moot asking now, but he had to know. "And you? You really wanted this... me?"

"Jamie, you bloody fool." His arms tightened, then he pushed James away, his brow knotting.  "The beard put you off, eh? Bastard!"  He grinned and took James' hand to pull him up the stairs, pausing outside their quarters to steal another kiss.

"Even you have to admit that you look pretty without it," James grinned, then hushed.

There was a soft whistle as they pushed past Bertie's hammock. James gave it a good shove. Satisfied that this interruption was taken care of, he settled into his hammock, stretching out with a sigh. He looked up to see Jack hovering over him and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

The long fingers rested for a moment in his hair.  "Night, luv. Get some sleep."  The rest hung in the air between them.

Jack rolled over and had a hard time hauling himself out of his hammock when Bertie gave it a push to wake him.  He groaned to get both feet on the deck, ran a hand through his hair and pulled on his breeches gingerly.

"Hey, Jamie.  Wake up."  He bent forward to shake James' arm, and straightened with some difficulty, limping to the basin and waiting until Shadlow had finished. 

Jeremy winked at him.  "Trouble walkin', Spanish?"

"Shaddup."  Jack splashed water on his face, staring at one smeared and rather bloodshot eye in the small bit of mirror.

James pushed himself up, watching from a half-sitting position. He didn't need the teasing to blush or to feel guilty.  He'd ruthlessly taken Jack, up against the bulwark like a cheap whore in an alley. He gulped.

He didn't know what he had imagined such a liaison to be like, but certainly not that. They were both men, and he certainly had no right to treat Jack as a whore. He hadn't wanted to, but need and lust had overwhelmed him. Filthy.

He slipped out of the hammock and joined Jack by the basin, shaving in silence before he looked up, biting his lip. His voice dropped low, and he sounded almost like a nervous schoolboy, worrying the braid in his hair between two fingers. "I...I am sorry I hurt you. I didn't mean to."

Jack looked up sharply, surprised.  He automatically smiled, laying one finger against James' lips.  "Shh.  Nuthin' I didn't want, luv."  A coy wink.  "Don't get yer knickers in a knot."

All groans and moans aside, Jack looked far from wounded.  A slow, secretive smile clung to his lips and his eyes were bright.

James smiled back, then it faltered and he shook his head. He trailed Jack's steps, like a nervous Midshipman with an important message.   "I let myself be carried away and hurt you. Such treatment is unforgivable, I know, but I do want to apologise."

Jack winced with every move, making James wince in turn. "I didn't want to hurt you," he repeated. "I wanted you to enjoy it. I am sorry."

The dark eyes went wide.  "Ya shouldn't worry about it so much.  'Twas lovely." He planted a swift kiss on James' lips and ducked a boot thrown at them. 

"Somethin' wrong with yer eyes, Jackson?  Can't aim fer a cow's ballocks."  He tossed it back, laughing and wound an arm around James.  "C'mon, let's get some grub.  I'm starvin'."

Funny ole Commodore, worrying over it so much!  Jack couldn't imagine why, but it was rather nice of James to ask.  He tucked the thought into a corner of his mind, to mull over later, when he was communing with his cask.

Berthot laughed.  "Still hungry, Spanish?  Why not 'ave it here?"

Jack made a very specific hand gesture, and tugged James to the galley.

He hoped he would get an easy watch over the maps; he was more sore than he was willing to admit.

Breakfast was quiet and they both ate with appetite. James continued to glance at Jack, not convinced at all. Yes, Jack had begged for him, he remembered with a little thrill, but that was a poor excuse; it didn't free him of his responsibility not to hurt his partner in the pursuit of pleasure.

It sounded easy and plain now, in daylight, but it hadn't been like that at all, in the dank bilges, where only the feel of flesh on flesh and the need for more had mattered.

They made their way topside, and James' head dropped when he saw Jack's limp. He moved to speak again, but instead just touched his hand lightly to Jack's arm, a look on his face as if he had been caught stealing cookies.

Jack glanced at him and grinned.

Captain Hamilton was not having a good morning, either.  He had overindulged in his private stash of whisky and he gazed at Jack with bloodshot eyes.  "Wha' s yer problem, Spanish?  Y'ain't movin' too good."

Jack's neck immediately bent, his hands clasped together.  "Fine, Cap'n, Jus' fine.  D'you want me, or should I go t'Longthorpe fer orders?  Meanin' no presumption, of course."

One black brow arched.  "Y'ar a damned cheeky son o'Satan an' I dinna need yer lip.  Or yer midnight shouting!  Meanin' no presumption, Mr. Sbarra.  Get t'Longthorpe, an' stay outta my way."

Jack bobbed at him and Longthorpe shook his head.  "The things ye do!  Worse than a scurvy monkey."

Jack's fingers spread wide. "I just asked if he wanted---"

Hamilton strode across the deck in three steps, grabbed Longthorpe's quirt and took a swing that fell short as Jack jumped backwards.  "Tired of yer nonsense."

The next blow connected across the back of his neck.  Jack froze.

James pushed himself between them, chin and one arm raised. It was his fault alone that Jack was limping. How dared the Irish bastard?  "With respect, Sir, I believe he said nothing to warrant this reaction, but merely asked if you required him to work with the maps again."

Hamilton wheeled around, reddened eyes narrowed as he raised the short whip, when Jack clapped a hand over James' mouth and shoved him down a step, catching the blow across his shoulder.  He turned back, hands raised.  "Ain't nothin' sir.  Nothin' at all."

Hamilton's face was deep red and Jack's fingers danced in the air around his face, his voice coaxing. "He's giddy from yesterday, as it were. Stars in his eyes from th' topgallant, y'know. Sir. Never can make any sense outta him.  Wot can I do, aye?"

Hamilton glared at him, and tossed the quirt back to Longthorpe.  "Mr. Norbury.  Decks.  You!"  He pointed at Jack.  "Bilges."

Jack hustled James down the steps and glanced after the red coat, putting out his tongue.  "For the love o' God, Jamie!  When are you gonna learn t'shut your mouth?"

James stared at him and frowned. "Why would I? He was striking you without reason, and the reason he claimed was solely my fault. Should I have stood by and done nothing?"  He pushed Jack's hair back to get a look at where the blow had landed. Fortunately, the hair had cushioned most of its force. "Irish filth," he growled angrily.

Jack's fingers pressed against his lips.  "Stop it, luv. You'll only make us more trouble.  Now you're stuck scrubbin' and I get t'plug holes below."  He smiled, briefly.  "Let it go,"  his voice dropped to a low whisper, "until the opportune moment."  He winked and turned to head down the hatch, still limping, his black head high.

Grudgingly, James went topside, sparing one last glare over at the quarterdeck. He considered himself a very orderly man, but as far as he was concerned, the deck really required no further scrubbing, the planks wet enough that there was no danger of them shrinking apart.

Not that he had any choice. The 'opportune moment', as Jack put it, was essential.  So he sank to his knees and scrubbed again, beginning to wonder if everything aboard the Chimaera was an eternal cycle of scrubbing, caulking the damage made by that scrubbing, and then scrubbing away the tar and dirt from caulking.

Jack cursed the whole way down, leaving few on the Chimaera in any doubt as to his feelings on the matter, and joined Berkely in the stinking bilges.  He was ankle-deep in water and he cursed some more, trudging back up the steps to pull on his boots.

As he splashed his way to Berkely, his eyes drifted sideways to that place against the bulwark and he stopped grumbling.  Berkely elbowed him hard in the ribs.  "Fond mem'ries, Spanish?"

Jack turned away with a wry smile and a flutter of lashes.  "Let's get to it, mate."

He sniffed and grabbed the bucket of tar.  He thought of the Pearl and her lovely copper-plated keel and slopped to where the worst leaks were bubbling.  Jack's estimation of Hamilton had dropped a few notches.  Really, what sort of Captain doesn't make damned sure his keel is sound before setting out across the bloody Atlantic?  Irish idiot!  The pumps had been rattling and squawking and now it was ungodly quiet, the only sounds their boots sloshing and the lap of greasy bilgewater against the hull.

The watch dragged as they worked, plugging each hole, sometimes bothering Gentile, the carpenter, to fashion knots and slivers to make each repair fast.  Berkely was silent for the most part, but Jack could feel his eyes, large and hurt, as they moved the lantern from place to place.

He wondered how James was faring and his lips twitched.  James Norrington was too damned adorable for his own good.  He had no idea how his lovely green eyes darkened when he was being concerned.  Jack allowed himself a moment of reflection, listening to the drip and splash and wondering. 

Who was James Norrington?  Certainly, he was a different animal from the braided Navy terror.  Not even the same species, Jack figured.  He still had that lifeline and that was very good, for Jack was much less concerned about how to arrange passage back to the Caribbean than he was about getting to a port where he could begin those arrangements, hale and whole, without new scars or any unpleasantness. 

James was an unexpected asset and source of fun.  He was rather touched by the morning's worry and he had no regrets at all.  After all, if he was going to spend the voyage as someone's mate, James was a lovely choice.  He grinned to himself and went back to slapping tar on the plugs.

At least Hamilton had been smart enough to order a standstill for the plugging. Enough water slapped at their calves without more forcing its way inside by fast movement. Still, it was cold and wet and it stank, and this time, there was no one to warm him up.  Jack pouted at the next plug.

Hours passed until Berkely said a word that didn't refer to their work or the occasional grunt to get Jack to shove over. "I didn't think yer 'maybe' meant t'sneak off wif yer mate and let 'im fuck ye so hard yer screams were heard all over the ship." It was like the leaks they were plugging:  when the water burst through, it did so with force.

Jack wrinkled his nose and banged another plug home, slopping the tar over it.  He glanced up through his hair, his eyes apologetic.  "Well, mate, y'know how those things are.  I'm sorry.  I mean, about the screamin', and all." 

There's maybe and then there's maybe, he thought.  He'd been expecting something of the sort, but he rather liked Berkley and Jack had the devil's own time saying 'no'.  Like many a thief and most women, he preferred to keep all his options open and too often got himself trapped in half-truths and promises he never intended to keep. 

"Listen, Berks.  I am sorry.  I never know wot's happenin' with him.  He's a bit....strange.  Can't ever tell when he's gonna go all weedy or muck things up and do something incredibly stupid.  You saw 'im up there.  He's a nutter."  He hauled the lamp closer to the dripping seam, looking mournful and appealing, fully aware that he was behaving like an ass.

The lines in Berkely's face deepened and he, too, looked mournful, like an old and seasoned wolf eyeing a cavorting pup. "'Tis easy when ye can just climb any hammock ye want 'n' be sure of yer welcome, ey? Ever met someone who didn't want ya, Spanish?"

Jack had to consider that.  He was quite sure he had met someone who hadn't wanted him once upon a time, but the memory was fuzzy with rum.  He helped hold another plank in place, his fingers close to Berkely's and looking terribly small beside them. 

Jack glowered, then touched one briefly, "He's terrible jealous. I dunno..."  Jack took refuge in another vagary.

Berkely paused for a moment, then shook his head. "Mustn't be fun fer yer mate if ye go looking for new company after having a fight what can be fixed with jest one good shag." They caulked with more tar and nailed a new plank across the old one, securing it where the hull had bowed under the constant strain, making the seam leak.

Jack heaved a sigh.  "You seen it.  Dunno wot'd happen if he thought...." He shrugged evasively.  "Ain't always the easiest, is James. An' neither of us is here by choice."

His eyes drifted to watch the sailor's face, strong and aquiline, set in mingled anger and hurt.  He didn't mean to tease, he really didn't.  It just happened, at least, that was how it appeared to Jack.

"Think he might've a reason t'be jealous? And it's obvious enough that yer in the other's britches by choice." Rejection hurt, and the man whom it didn't had yet to be born, and it certainly wasn't Berkely. "No worries there, I won't get between ye. If ye love 'im, that's yer business, but bloody well act like it."

That stung, and it showed in Jack's dark eyes. The biggest problem with lies was that they could get bloody complicated.  ‘Maybe' had been an unthinking answer, born of fear; for himself, for James, for this tightrope of a game.  Jack never set out to hurt anyone, but inevitably, he did, a significant factor in his long history of slaps.  He felt as though he'd spilled Gibbs' flask all over the Pearl's deck and that made him feel worse.

"Berks, I'm sorry."  His lip quivered.  "I never know with him."

He needed an answer quickly and Jack lit on something almost foreign to him; the truth.  It was the first thing that popped into his head that could balance the lie of their charade, his elation at its sudden reality, and Berkely's wounded feelings.  "It ain't been all that long, y'know?  And I'm not one to question him when he's gettin' himself in a temper, savvy?

Berkely chuckled bitterly.  "Head over heels, eh? Figure it's obvious enough, too. Should've seen it." He sounded resigned but suddenly almost approving, slapping Jack's back before he went back to work on the next small leak. "Jest been a while," he murmured wistfully.

Jack tarred over another plug near the brackish waterline at their feet.  "Bloody strange, innit?  I mean, him such a toff an' all.  I didn't expect it at all, not with th' likes of him.  Practically a gentleman, y'know."

He straightened and arched his back with a groan.  "Lord, when'd you last pump this mess outta here?  Hey, Berks, mate?"

Jack wasn't sure if anything coming out of his mouth was truth or lies.  It had occurred to him suddenly that he and James had been picked up far distant from one another.  That they were shipmates hadn't been questioned, but he had a bad feeling that it might be if their 'previous' service was probed too hard.  Diversion was always the first, best tactical manoeuvre. He brought the lantern over and watched the rats scattering with a grimace.  "I'm really sorry, Berks." 

"Awright, awright, I get it. I know well enough ye ain't really sorry. Yer glad t'have yer Jamie back, grinning like a fool whenever ya peek into that corner yonder. I may be gettin' old, but I ain't blind, Spanish." Berkely offered him the hint of an encouraging smile, then bent back to his work, disregarding Jack completely.

Jack hit his thumb with the mallet and nursed it with a scowl.  Aboard the Pearl, he would have indulged in one of his fits of frustration, usually involving a lot of rum and pistol shots or cannon fire, just to make noise.  Then again, Jack mused, aboard the Pearl there would be no bloody Berkely and his hurt feelings, and no James with his hair getting sunstreaked the colour of honey.  "Bugger!"  Jack pulled the flask out of his boot, offering it without a word.

Berkely stared at it for a moment, lips widening into a conspiratorial grin as he took the flask and tossed back a good swallow. He sighed in contentment, eyes gone soft with just a hint of longing. After a moment, he grinned and slapped Jack's shoulder. "Seems yer Jamie's a good one of those."

Jack's grin gleamed in the light. "Cor, you got that right!  Think he damn near broke me arse, mate!"  He took a nip and stowed the flask.  "Let's get this done.  I'm perishin' for a breath of fresh air."

The bell announced the end of the watch and everyone who was done with his work headed for the galley, including James and Jack and Berkely. Berkely gave Jack another nod and a bit of a shove, steering him towards the table where James already sat, scowling at his trencher.

"Hullo, luv. Did it snow up there?  Ya look a bit frosty."  Jack stared at his meal in disbelief, poking at the lump of salt pork with one finger as if expecting it to move. "Think I'm gonna go fishin' and eat it bloody raw!" 

James forced a smile. "May I join you in that endeavour?" Jack's hair was damp, wet against his own shoulder as the pirate leaned against him and he pushed it aside. Again he saw the quirt mark, a red stripe that made his scowl return and deepen. But next to it, there was another mark, from insistent teeth. It looked a lot angrier than the thin red stripe.

Anger mingled with embarrassment and guilt. Those he could at least explain. But there also was an undeniable surge of possessiveness, one that made him seethe about the quirt mark and, at the same time, left him strangely proud of the bite. He settled for stroking the tips of his fingers over both.

Jack flashed him a sideways grin and winked, then went back to gnawing at the meat, praying it didn't take out any more of his teeth.  He devoutly hoped that he wouldn't starve to death before he managed to get back to the Pearl. 

Then again, there was Bombay, and the memory of tasty messes, hot as fire and fragrant with saffron, encouraged him to try to finish the meal. "Tell ya, luv, I'm dyin' fer a swim.  Beginnin' t'feel less than fresh," he laughed, swilling down the grog to kill the taste.

Berthot stared at him.  "Yer mad as a hatter, Spanish!  Who wants t'swim if they ain't gotta?"

James sniffed and his scowl deepened. Much as he had gotten used to life belowdecks, the smells nauseated him, especially his own. Sweaty from relentless work in the sun, without the possibility of a proper wash, he was acutely uncomfortable with his own state of hygiene. Jack was better off than he, more used to the heat and sweating less. "I'd work three additional watches for a decent wash, but a swim sounds better than nothing."

Jack's eyes gleamed.  "Think the Cap'n would throw down a line?"

Shadlow laughed.  "Fer you he would, wif all yer writin' and such."

Jack got to his feet.  "Well, I can't stand anymore o' this.  Who's for it?" 

There was a murmur among the baker's dozen at the table, laughter and disbelief.  "Dare ya t'jump off the rail, Spanish.  Ye'll drop like a stone." 

Jack's spine straightened.  "Well, c'mon.  Let's go see.  Ain't had a breath of air all day."

The whole group made its way topside, even those who shuddered at the thought of getting into the water of their own free will. They certainly wouldn't miss the spectacle.

Hamilton was still on the quarterdeck. "Irish guilt," Jack mouthed at James.

He swaggered up the steps, his hand trailing along the polished wood.  He was becoming fond of the Chimaera and had missed her helm.  "Beggin' yer pardon, Cap'n, lads an' me, we got a small request, if it ain't too much trouble." 

Hamilton looked from the impudent dark eyes to the group waiting below and ignored the throb of his still-aching head.  Spanish Jack was bedraggled and stank of tar.  "Wot ya want?" he growled. 

Jack took in the pained expression and bleary eyes and stowed his grin.  "Couple of us'd like a swim, if ye can spare a line t'haul us up."

Hamilton stared at him.  "Yer mad." 

"Yessir." 

"Ya wanna swim?" 

"Aye sir." 

He shook his head and groaned.  "Oh, Mother Mary's girdle, g'wan and stop blatherin' at me.  Get one o'the lines an' go catch yer deaths, ya damned fools." 

"Thank you, sir," James said quietly and steered the group away quickly. He barely kept himself from snapping at Hamilton. For God's sake, the man claimed to be a Captain. He bore a responsibility to the crew, and should never let alcohol interfere with that. Jack tugged at James' arm and he bit back a snarl.

Then, it melted into a grin and he peeled off his shirt, grinning wider as he pulled at Jack's. Jack slithered out of it, laughing, and dropped to the deck to pull off his boots and breeches. 

He hauled himself up to balance on the rail, eyeing the water, then straightened, letting go of the shrouds.  His arms moved like a dancer's, first out to his sides, then up, and he arced through the air, a streaking flash of gold in the lateday sun, piercing the water with hardly a splash. 

James' hands stopped on his boots and he stood on one leg, watching Jack dive like a sleek fish. There was an appreciative roar from the crew. Ridding himself of boots and breeches, James climbed the rail and jumped. The water was cold, so much colder than the Caribbean, but refreshing, and James surfaced with a contented sigh.

Jack emerged, shaking his head and gasping out a laugh.  He watched James through a haze of delight and seawater, the pale body in stark contrast to his brown face and arms.  He swam towards James, circling him like a shark and grabbing for one foot.

James sputtered and gave Jack's shoulders a shove, then hauled him up after a few seconds of struggling. He was smiling broadly, then dunked his own head underwater, emerging just when Shadlow jumped in and splashed water all over them, all three laughing.

It was a blissful hour for Jack.  They played like children in the water, the three of them racing each other back and forth along the larboard side, then around the whole ship. 

Jack took the time to check as much of the Chimaera's keel as possible.  He was not mad enough to try swimming under her, being out of practise, but he certainly would like to know what was happening down there. 

Shadlow's teeth began to chatter and he let himself be hauled back on deck, giving the two his best grin.

Jack swam close to James to steal a kiss, his hands groping underwater.  "Yer a fine swimmer, Jamie.  Listen, still gotta tell ya somethin'." 

James was treading water, pressing Jack against himself to relish the body warmth. "I believe we can find a place for that." He grinned. "Of course, the last time you said you wanted to talk to me, it turned out to be a sneaky trap with irresistible bait." He disentangled himself. "Race you back to the line," he taunted and took off.

Jack dove under and streaked through the water, grabbing the line beneath James and tickling him before emerging.  "Beat ya," he laughed, sputtering.

"No, I reached up higher on the line, closer to the ship. Ergo, I win." James was still laughing and tugged at the line, gasping at the sudden force with which they were hauled up, then dropped onto the deck, dripping wet, giggles starting up around them.

It took James a moment to stand up, toss his soaked hair and, above all, realise the cause of the chuckles that became a crescendo of laughter. Their clothes were gone. "Most hilarious."

He was half-erect from Jack's teasing, but in the last moment realised that covering himself with his hands would only be even more embarrassing. So he stood still, his cheeks flushed bright red.

Jack pushed his hair out of his face and peered around him while Bertie crowed.  "Pulled two fish up wif one line an' look wot we got." 

"Aye, a pair o' wet buggers!" 

Jack got to his feet and threw an arm around James' neck, posing shamelessly.  "An' yer never gonna see a finer pair.  If I can't find me boots later, I swear I'll take over fer Cookie!" 

Another round of guffaws echoed.  "Couldn't be worse, Spanish.  An' seems yer paler half got a stiffy down there.  Wonder how that happened?" 

Jack grinned. "Amorous anchovies."  He poked at James.  "C'mon, yer startin' t'shiver. I'll find 'em later." 

On the quarterdeck, Hamilton watched their antics with a half-smile and considered the idea of putting his new pair to some small job in their current state of undress.  Then his head gave a vicious throb and he turned the wheel over to Jensen.  By the time he looked down again, they were gone.

They made their way down the hatch under a hail of catcalls and cheers. James glared every time, and every time, it just earned him more laughter and another pat on his arse or a grab for his prick. Any lingering amusement had quite faded into anger when they arrived at their berth, wrapping their blankets around themselves.

Jack, on the other hand, pranced and sashayed, winked and behaved like a prize trollop on display, laughing and swatting away hands.  He rubbed James dry briskly.  "Oh, relax, luv.  We'll prob'ly find ‘em hangin' up in the shrouds or danglin' from th' bowsprit.  Just a prank," he giggled.  "Lord, me whole crew once stuck me down in th'bilges in a lady's shift when I were in me cups," he confided in a whisper.

James huffed, but then he laughed, relieved to at least feel vaguely clean again. "No respect at all."

"'Course, there's respect, Jem!  For th'very fine 'n' pale bits yer hiding!" Shadlow shouted.  James shoved him away, wrapping himself in the blanket.

"Let's go treasure-hunting, then. Any hints for a poor, freezing sailor?"

"Follow Polaris," Shadlow winked, his eyes twinkling.

Jack smirked and bolted topside, without the blanket.  He didn't much care if he was naked: he was well-used to going naked on deck and if they all wanted a show, he wasn't about to forget that he was Captain Jack Sparrow, even if he was just ‘Spanish Jack' at the moment. 

He waited until the whole lot of them had clambered back up and made a show of poking around the capstans and piles of rope.  "Polaris, eh?"  He walked over to where they had dived off the rail, assessing their direction, then looked up. 

His woefully-shortened shirt was flapping, tied by the sleeves to the shrouds.  "You bloody bastards!"  He was giggling and shook his head, then vaulted into the rigging and scrambled up like a monkey at top speed. 

James was right behind him, but the blanket caught in the rough hemp and nearly fell from his waist. After that happened twice, he rolled it up with a snarl and tossed it to the deck. "I'll want that one back, or I swear I'll have one of yours!" he shouted, collecting his clothing as he scrambled up.

"Go chase the golden Spaniard's arse!"

Hamilton watched them with a smirk.  "A new Golden Hind, Norbury?"  he called, sipping at a cup that was more than half-full of whiskey.  He'd done his penance for drunkenness and reckoned that the Holy Mother herself would opt for a hair of the dog. 

That Spanish Jack was completely daft, but he was an excellent navigator and quite the cartographer.  Norbury wasn't bad either, he thought, watching James scale the rigging.  Good choices, both.  He reminded himself to thank Jackson's presscrew with a bit of cheer.

James and Jack were in the crow's nest, and James squatted to pull on his boots. He could still hear the mocking from below, but it was distant. He looked up at Jack, then tugged at his arm.

Jack sniffed at the air, starlight just peeking over the pink orange horizon.  His hair blew back from his face as he turned west, his eyes shining. He pulled on his breeches and leaned against James.  "Listen,"  He almost got lost in the horizon of James' eyes.  "I gotta tell you somethin'.  He's got letters, mate."  Jack watched the vermilion streaks soften as the clouds disappeared into darkness.

He'd been very busy indeed in Hamilton's cabin, taking advantage of every solitary moment there to poke through its contents.

"Letters? I know he has one from Governor Hallem. But why letters?" It was a beautiful night, chill with just enough of a breeze to tousle James' hair. He forced his attention back to Jack, knowing very well that he had truly meant more than one letter.  "So he's playing on two fronts? Who else? The French, or the Spanish?"

"He's playin' 'em all, luv.  One from the frogs, courtesy o' Martinque, one from the Spanish---looked like the seal of Santo Domingo, and one outta Curacao."  Jack's lips were warm against his ear and nipped gently.

James shifted away. "All?" he stuttered. "This is treason." Impressment was one thing, and much as he loathed it, in honesty, he had to admit the Navy stooped to the same methods. But this... "We need to do something."

Jack watched the colour in Norrington's face rise, his eyes starting to sparkle deep emerald. "Hush, Jamie. We can't do a thing out here in th' middle o' the ocean, luv. Keep yer trap shut and be patient." Below them, the jeering became fractious. "C'mon.  Best get back down there.  Oh, look."  He pointed into the darkening sky.  "Look there.  Venus."  He bowed and dropped his boots to the deck with a shouted, "Heads!" and squeezed James' shoulder.  "Patience."

"I can't believe I am letting you advise me to patience," James muttered, then grinned lopsidedly and gave Jack a kiss. "All right. Let's get down there before they keelhaul my blanket."

They were down quickly, and James scanned the deck for the culprit. Shadlow. A prankster with a childish attitude, worse than Jack. Also, his shirt was damp, likely from the wet paws with which Shadlow had taken it aloft.

James glared his best commodorial glare. Shadlow laughed, then slipped behind Bertie to hide, which might have worked better behind anyone not so skinny.

James could not help laughing. "Jeremy Shadlow, you are in for a reckoning."

Jack bounced around Shadlow.  "An' why, pray tell are you sendin' us up the rigging?  Yer the expert here.  Or did you just want a good look!"

"And who's tellin' you it wasn't yer mate that wanted a good look and paid me to do it?" He grinned crookedly. "Besides, it wasn't me at all and you can't prove a thing." He nodded eagerly, then tossed the blanket back at James. "I'm hurt. I didn't throw your blanket overboard, and you still don't trust me."

James caught the blanket and checked it for weevils, suspicious when he found nothing. "Wretch," he muttered.

Jack tugged him below.  "Keep yer rudder clear.  All's well. Jamie, Hamilton's just another pirate, no matter wot he like's to call himself.  Stow it.  We'll worry 'bout it later."  His voice was a low murmur.  "Now, gimme another kiss."

James looked up and smiled, gesturing for Jack to get into the hammock. He tugged the thin blanket around him and bent down to kiss his forehead. "Good night, you rascal."

"Yer bein' a terrible tease!" Jack bounced in his hammock.  "I meant a real kiss." He pulled James into the hammock on top of him.  "Stop worryin'.  You'll do yerself an injury.  We'll get to the coast soon enough.  Wait and see wot happens, eh?  There's no sense hangin' two sheep for a goat or fightin' the tide with a rugbeater."

Jack's eyes danced, but they were tired.  Nestled in the hammock, he fought sleep and pilfered two kisses for one before his eyes fluttered closed and his face went slack.

James waited for a moment, then shifted out of the hammock, bending to brush the hair from Jack's face. "Sleep well," he whispered, then crawled into his own hammock.

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