White Admiral 6

Rating: R (... yes finally)
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean and such all property of Disney.
Note: There was a story I've read somewhere (Chicken Soup for the soul?) about the starfish, so it is not mine.
Summary: Reactions.

Turner snorted, not the least disturbed by the note of censure. "Sorry, Admiral." A drawl. Then, more quietly, "I saw me son. Thanks."

"Aye. Gave me quite a start, when he arrived off the Interceptor. Took him in. Owed you that, at least." Quietly. "I should never have agreed t'ye goin' t'cover, wi' a family about."

"I was the only one ye trusted enough at the time, an' I'd have done it again if I had to," Turner glanced at his fingers. "We'd have lost a lot more men wi'out information."

"They don't suspect we have anythin' t'do wi' each other. He'd be the one t'find evidence of me defection first. Could be he'll be promoted, Jack." A glance at James, then a wry correction. "I mean, Admiral."

"Get Gillette to send him the letter," Sparrow waved absently. "Commission him to Montserrat."

James followed the dialogue silently. What Turner did was, despite his rather cavalier attitude towards the Admiral—simply yet another form of self-sacrifice. An easy familiarity that hadn't eroded with time—it made him a little uneasy.

"Didn't get a chance to. Had t'come pull yer arse out of the fire, sir," Turner said dryly.

"I can handle me own son, sir," Turner shrugged, though his lips thinned. Worry, perhaps.

"Aye, I would have, given a few more months. Very few people know. Safer, that way."

"How did you really get free from your cell and get armed?" James asked, deciding not to get into an argument with Sparrow when the other man was so wounded. "Your story seemed quite unlikely, sir."

"Aye, and given mebbe a few days of it bein' spread around town, it'd become even more so," Sparrow smirked briefly, then sobered. "But t'make up for keeping secrets from ye, well, I have... agents, in Tortuga. Naturally. One of them got a whiff of me whereabouts a couple of days or so 'fore ye arrived. The pirates put me in a cell wi' a small window. Supposed t'be some sort o' subtle torture, I think. He managed t'get a pistol through, an' a kit. Ammunition, first aid, lockpicks, some food an' water. Dagger. Shot the guard when he came in t'feed me wi' crusts, freed meself wi' keys, shot a few more who tried t'come through the door. Think they wanted t'auction me, didn't want me too injured. Some disagreed, said I was too dangerous."

"That they did," Sparrow shrugged. "Never figured most pirates for bein' the very intelligent sort, really. In the mess I tried t'get out, got the stab in the leg, but turned down the wrong way. Holed meself up in a room when me strength started t'give out." A shrug. "Knew I only had t'wait." Another pout at Turner. "Didn't think ye'd be the one t'tell, though. Couldn't have sent a note the usual way t'Gillette? Besides, the agent would'a done somethin' once he could."

"Beggin' yer pardon, Norrington, but I wasn't sure how capable ye really were, an' I didn't want t'entrust the Admiral's well-bein' t'someone I didn't know," Turner looked at James, who inclined his head.

"Jim will manage, sir." Turner said dismissively, still unrepentant. "Barbossa isn't stupid, though. I think he suspected somethin'. Besides, I was plannin' t'get out sooner or later. An', like ye said, ye never wanted me t'be doin' this, anyway, from the start.."

Silence, then, "Any ships meetin' us on the way t'Port Royal?" Sparrow asked, glancing at James.

"The Unstoppable and the Nemesis," James said, and gave a list of names off the top of his head.

"One of ye take Groves wi' those and go t'Georgetown. I'd mark out a spot. There be some pirate ships there, in a cove. I want them. Get at least the flagship back t'Port Royal an' refit her fer Naval use."

"Aye, Admiral," Turner glanced at James, then at Sparrow. There was a tiny gesture from the hand with the finger cast, and he looked back to James. "I'd go."

"Your son?" James frowned. He was sure that Sparrow, despite his bland expression, had ordered that, despite his words.

"Needs time t'think things over anyway," Turner said mildly. "Besides, I rather miss command, and I have to get used to it all over again."

"I'd get the plans t'ye later." Another imperceptible gesture. Turner nodded, stood up, and saluted.

When the door closed, James arched an eyebrow at Sparrow. "What was that all about, sir?"

"Feelin' better?" Sparrow grinned, slouching a little more in the pillow. "Ye looked like ye were drownin', all the way t'me ship."

"Tortured, beaten, shot at, stabbed, aye," Sparrow shrugged, his voice bland, as if merely recounting the number of coats he had in his wardrobe. "Very unimaginative treatment, I have t'say. I'll recover. Been through worse. How's Gillette?"

"Very guilty, once he came out of the fever, sir," James recounted. The man had looked as though he was going through a personal hell. Exhaustion, shame, fear.

Sparrow looked a little shifty. "If this is 'bout the slip down in that room..."

"Sorry. Ye'd have t'forgive me there, I was a wee bit out of sorts, what wi' the pain an' thinkin' I was hallucinatin' 'bout bein' rescued days earlier than I'd have expected," Sparrow said dryly.

Sparrow closed his mouth, then dipped his head. The wry smile was wiped quickly away. "Sorry, but I can't be doin' that. Norrington."

"So you can come up with a better story to obscure the truth, sir?" James asked dryly.

"Exactly. Glad ye understand." Sparrow flapped a hand at him. "Now get Bootstrap back in here."

"Insubordination is very heavily punished in the Navy, Lieutenant," Sparrow said with mock severity.

"Aye, well, I wanted t'wait a few more weeks before tellin' ye this, but yer getting' a commission soon, probably t'somewhere 'round North Carolina. New Amsterdam. To Commodore. Congratulations." Sparrow didn't smile. "For fine work done in Jamaica, an' they have a spot open."

"Your doing?" James asked, incredulously, then he narrowed his eyes when there was no answer. "You're trying to get rid of me."

"Not tryin'. I'm getting rid of ye," Sparrow corrected, though the impish grin removed some of the sting of his word choice, repeated as it were.

"I was thinkin' 'bout it before the... ransom thing, but I made up me mind durin' it. Yer a dangerous man t'have around, James Norrington." Sparrow looked down at his fingers.

"Awlright, I'd tell ye, just so ye'd leave an injured man alone, an' whatever the doctor fed me for meds is probably makin' me tongue looser than it should be," Sparrow said, his voice now edged a little with irritation. "'Tis because someday I'm goin' t'slip, an' word will come out t'the privateers that Admiral Jack Sparrow, the Luck of God, fancies a certain green eyed Lieutenant somethin' rotten. If information be power, that little fact is likely worth half the buried wealth in Tortuga t'them." Dark eyes held his gaze evenly, unafraid, daring him to answer.

James stared at him. His throat refused to work. The muttered curse at the docks. The kiss in the apple tree. The way the Admiral seemed to always peek in on what he was doing at least twice a day, and when being so very chatty, lean in too close. All the accidental brushes.

"Aye, s'pose it seems damned obvious t'ye now," Sparrow muttered. "So. Or ye could probably get a post back at Barbary, if ye prefer."

James took a deep breath, and made up his own mind. The past couple of weeks had been... educational. Made him startlingly aware of how much, irrationally, he needed the infuriating commander. "I'm refusing the promotion." He removed his hat, placed it on the bed. The wig was next. Sparrow watched.

James moved deliberately closer, balancing himself on the bed with one knee. There was a sharp, almost panicky "Lieutenant", and Sparrow shrank down on the bed. James held himself over the slighter man carefully with elbows, and kissed him, fingers tangling in unbound hair to hold him in place. A muffled whimper, and a growl—lips parted, a tongue darting out to tangle with his. Fingers pulled at a brocade coat collar, then slipped into silky hair, a little painfully. He allowed a gasp for air, then swallowed a protest with another kiss. Repeated the process until both of them sported telltale, swollen lips. Flicked a tongue over the healing split on Sparrow's. Ran fingers around the purpling bruise. Sparrow was panting, with a little hint of agony from the effort it cost his injured frame. He didn't meet James' eyes.

"Aye, too dangerous," he murmured, though he didn't move his fingers or push James away. "Don't want yer blood on me conscience. Besides, I'm fairly sure it's unethical. Abuse of command, an' all that."

James kissed Sparrow again until the man stopped attempting to talk at each breath. The glare eventually turned into a dazed, unfocused expression. "First," he murmured into Sparrow's ear, "Don't tell me you're never going to give any relationship at all a chance, for the rest of your life. Admiral."

He pressed a finger to swollen lips when Jack opened his mouth. "Second, you think too much."

"Third, I'm not sure where you got the idea that you can steal kisses like that in apple trees and not expect any form of retaliation." He flicked a tongue at an ear when Sparrow took in a breath for the sake of dispute. There was a little groan, and the man shut up.

"Fourthly, I notice you failed to include any consideration of how I may feel about the issue." A grin. "I'm willing to hear your defense now, sir."

Irritably. "I'd come up wi' a suitable rebuttal once me brain stops tellin' me t'jump yer bones despite me injuries."

"Just offhand, however, I can think of a few words on which t'build me case. Sodomy. Criminal offence. Ruin." Sparrow said, watching James carefully.

"Curiosity. Mutual attraction. Discretion." James replied, nuzzling Sparrow's beard.

James shifted until his lips were a hair's breath from Sparrow's. Whispered the words into the other man's mouth. "Want. Need."

"The defense concedes the field for now," Sparrow murmured, flicking a warm tongue over James' mouth.

James nibbled at a lower lip, then looked significantly down at the valley of blankets that marked the apex of Sparrow's unclothed legs, and the obvious tent. Glanced back at Sparrow, and very deliberately, very slowly, licked his lips. "I could. Doesn't have to be verbal, does it?"

"If yer goin' t'start anythin', ye'd better finish t'me satisfaction," Sparrow growled, then paused when there was a rap on the door.

Sparrow turned his face into the pillow and uttered a soft oath even fouler than the one the lieutenant had previously heard in the apple tree. James chuckled helplessly.

Sparrow had what seemed to be an endless stream of visitors. With the normally flighty Admiral bedridden, work beckoned inexorably. Well-wishers, merchants princes, East India Company representatives, marines needing consultation on some issue or another, Gillette, Governor Swann and the transfer of paperwork from the fort. Even, occasionally, children from the town. Save for this last, Sparrow was beginning to get decidedly snappish in company.

James, on the other hand, was freer—he even finished all of the backdated work within half a week, with not many calls on his time now that it was simpler and more efficient for anyone who needed to talk to the Admiral to find him.

On the fifth day Sparrow was walking, albeit short distances and occasionally supported by his page. He insisted on being brought to his Pearl, where he fell asleep at the helm, in the sun.

Recovery was surprisingly fast (though James had his suspicions). On the second Sunday after his return, Sparrow was back at the rockpools, with his little followers. James left service early and watched wryly from the beach as Sparrow picked up a starfish and turned it over for inquisitive eyes. He set them a task with words James couldn't catch—and they scattered over the beach. Little fingers picked up starfish where they had been left on the sand at the high tide, and flung them into the sea with whoops and cheers.

Sparrow got a little unsteadily to his feet and sauntered over to James, grinning, his coat darkened at the hem with seawater. "Skippin' out on service? Ye'd go right t'hell, Lieutenant."

"Warm spot next t'the Devil too, I s'pose," Sparrow fanned himself with elaborately twirling fingers.

"Fine, except ye haven't been visitin' much." Sparrow sat down on the sand. "T'aint right, ye know, teasin' a man like that when he can't do anythin' 'bout it, an' then not visitin'."

"Aye, an' I don't think I've ever been sexually frustrated for so long, t'this extent, before," Sparrow muttered. James began to laugh. "T'aint funny either."

"It's the way you can just say things like that out aloud," James managed to say, when the bout of hilarity had passed.

"I wouldn't be averse to remedying it, but the environment of recovery and your social calendar are proving inconvenient," James said placidly. "For example, I'm free today, but..." he inclined his head at the children.

"Aye, I know. S'posed to sneak wi' them 'round t'the new grocer," Sparrow said. He smiled when one boy, sleeves and breeches rolled up haphazardly, approached them holding out a large mottled shell, offering a name, and a random, likely untrue anecdote. The curiosity of the young satisfied, the child ran off again down the hot sand. "After they're done wi' the beach. An' me Pearl misses me. I'm movin' back t'me ship."

"It's your fault, then," James glanced back to the waves, trying to sound unconcerned, though the slight roughness to his tone betrayed his own frustration.

Sparrow, of course, picked that up immediately. He grasped a handful of white sand, and turned his palm over, watching it stream through the cracks in browned fingers. "Ain't that the saddest thing." Wry.

White Admiral 6

Returns