White Admiral 7

Distractions

by

Manic Intent

James glanced at Gillette, who shrugged. They had been discussing minor Naval policy changes with regard to signals, having given up on trying to find the Admiral when he was out with children. "Of course."

Gillette got up from the chair, and leaned casually against the desk, gesturing. Will climbed onto the warmed chair and smiled, fidgeting. After a long moment, James took pity on the boy. "It's about your father?"

"Yes," Will said quickly, and blushed. "I wanted to know. What was he like? That you've seen, sir."

"I'm sure that Gillette here would be better placed to tell you," James replied gently.

"I'd like to know from you too, sir," Will said earnestly. "For you seem like a good judge of men." The second line was too quick to be anything but carefully rehearsed. Obviously Will had been thinking about talking to James, at least, for a while—at least during his father's absence, still retrieving whatever ships Sparrow wanted in Georgetown.

"Thanks," James said wryly, thinking of the various misjudgments he had made of Sparrow's own character based on first impressions. "He's a fine lieutenant. The men respect him—command is easy to him. And he's obviously very loyal to the Admiral."

Will glanced at Gillette, as if asking for his opinion. Gillette sighed. "He was always behind the Admiral. Supporting him, since he was midshipman and the Admiral was a Lieutenant. In him, Admiral Sparrow has always placed the most trust." A pause, then a wry grin. "I remember the first day I met him—it was in the practice yard. Some targets were set up at fifty paces, he was given a brief glance and blindfolded. He hit each bullseye with a pistol."

When James and Will blinked at Gillette, the midshipman added, "Lieutenant Turner was... is... Admiral Sparrow's guard, and sword. He's said to be a genius with weaponry—an affinity to any sort of armaments—swords, guns, ships, staves, anything. He once held back a tribe of bloodthirsty natives in time for Admiral Sparrow and himself to make good their escape with their own rudimentary bows and arrows. That and a quick mind at problem solving and a keen sense of survival made him best for what he had to do. The last ten years or so."

"Oh." Pride and awe warred with Will's resentment.

"I heard from the Admiral that at that time they had a once in a lifetime chance to send one man to infiltrate the Tortuga piratical network, in a place where he could work his way up and affect the placing of more agents, collate the necessary information for strategy," Gillette looked at his fingers. "I'm sorry, Will. Admiral Sparrow never wanted Lieutenant Turner to go—he was married at the time, and he was always talking of his son and wife back in London."

"But he did," Will said quietly.

"He said he was the best man for the job, and that sending anyone else would be tantamount to suicide," Gillette nodded. "He said he couldn't go back to London and face the both of you with that on his conscience."

"He didn't have to disappear for ten years," Will's fingers curled in his trousers. A hurt child, now, all forgetful of honorifics. Seeking adult comfort. "Did he?"

"He was likely afraid. Missives sometimes get waylaid on the sea. Afraid that the both of you would be compromised," Gillette didn't look at Will. "Even in the encrypted letters he exchanged with Sparrow, there was to be no mention of the both of you at all, just in case."

"I'm not sure I can forgive him," Will's voice was almost inaudible.

"I'm asking you to try, Will," Gillette said gently. "Even if you don't want to, it'd mean a lot. To him—the Admiral."

"That's not particularly fair," James cut in, tiring of observation. "If you want to forgive him, then do it out of your own inclination. Not for someone else's peace of mind."

"Sir," Gillette glanced at him sharply.

"As much as I like and respect Lieutenant Turner," James said firmly, "The idea that he abandoned his child and wife for some odd sense of duty does not sit well with me."

"But..."

"Let the child decide his own mind," James glanced down at his notes. "Now, midshipman. Signals."

"Thank you, sir." Will said, his voice now steady.

"I suppose so."

"I'd like t'know how, seein' as he an' Groves were singin' yer praises up till today."

"Why don't you ask him, sir?"

"I don't like bickerin' between me officers."

"It's too minor to be called bickering, Admiral."

"Ye know, yer really more suited for a position of higher command," Sparrow sighed, picking shedded white fur off his dark blue coat. "What wi' yer preoccupation on the concept of free thinkin'."

"Trying to get rid of me again, sir?" James raised an eyebrow. "If told to forgive his father without that being what he really felt was right, I doubt that boy would have been any happier."

"He wasn't told."

"He was told it would please you, which would be the same thing. Perhaps worse."

A lopsided grin. "Don't like t'please me?"

"It's not a joking matter, even if Will is a child, sir." James finished, and put spoon and fork down neatly on the plate. Mopped his mouth with a napkin. "I'm not going to apologize. If that's what you want."

Sparrow sighed. "Bootstrap was Gillette's—and Groves'—mentor. Just so ye know where they're comin' from."

"I think that may have obscured how they may perceive where Will is 'coming from', as if you put it. Sir." James said flatly.

Sparrow pouted. "An' now yer annoyed wi' me."

"I'm not annoyed with you. Admiral."

"The honorifics are beginnin' t'sound like afterthoughts. Ye are."

"Will Turner is now—as much as his position appears to be imaginary—part of the Navy. Sir. And the duty of a commander should be to his men, be they of the lowest rank. Perhaps more—to those with no power." James finally looked up to hold Sparrow's gaze. "I shouldn't need to tell you that. You gave yourself up to save Gillette and the others."

"Aye, Lieutenant. But there be few here who know that an' understand. Fewer yet who understand an' act," Sparrow said blandly, fluttering his fingers. "That's why I think ye be wasted here. Yer suited t'high command, not t'be commanded."

"I'm still not going. And you're trying to distract me from the issue, Admiral."

"Seems related t'me. I wasn't lookin' for ye t'apologise t'Gillette, by the way. He'd think it over an' get over it. Mebbe sooner than ye think."

"Then?"

"Testin' some preconceptions," Sparrow grinned. "Ye know, could be I'd think ye'd be of better use t'the Navy elsewhere, an' have ye reassigned anyway."

"Then I may resign my commission and live quietly in Port Royal. Perhaps as... mm... some sort of minor harbor official." James smirked, when Sparrow frowned, tilting his head at an odd angle as he tried to ascertain whether or not the lieutenant was joking. "Honestly, Admiral. I rather thought I'd won on this issue."

"Aye, ye didn't exactly have t'opportunity to advance yer closin' arguments, so I'm not sure ye did." Sparrow's eyes held a wicked gleam.

James glanced around them. The relatively small officer's mess had only two entrances—one to the kitchen, one to a main corridor of the building attached to the barracks, and both doors were closed. It was late for lunch and it was very unlikely that either Gillette or Groves hadn't eaten. The windows were narrow and they were three stories up from the courtyard. He looked back to Sparrow, and his smile was lazy. "Are you free now, sir?"

"Thought ye'd never ask," Sparrow pushed plates and bowls away, and slipped in front of James, boot heels resting on the armrests to either side.

James laughed. "Eager, aren't we?" His hands stroked firm thighs, feeling tight fabric bunch slightly under fingers.

"Man, ye have no idea," Sparrow growled, his voice rough from denied need.

James' fingers were on the second button on the white breeches when there was a knock on the door. Sparrow's fingers curled tightly into the edge of the table, and he let out a soft snarl, baring his teeth, then one hand quickly came up to hold James' palm in place, when the lieutenant began to pull back. His hips bucked slightly. James grinned, and squeezed. A low oath, and a jerk.

Another, more insistent knock. "Lieutenant Norrington? There's a Lord Suther of the East India Company looking for the Admiral. He says it's very important, and he'd like to talk to you if we can't find the Admiral. He's in the waiting room at the moment."

"All right, one moment," James called, then glanced at Sparrow, pitching his voice low. "Sir?"

Sparrow lowered his head, muttering something James couldn't catch. Then, "I'd get out through the other door."

"Not going?"

"Not unless ye want me t'molest ye in front of Lord Suther, who if I recall is over fifty an' has a heart condition. Distract him for a bit. I'd talk t'him in a couple of hours."

"What are you going to do, sir?"

"Take a really cold bath."

Thus occupied, he didn't sense Sparrow's stealthy climb into his room until the bed depressed next to him. He turned sharply with a hiss onto his back, free hand groping under his pillow for the pistol, then sank back into the bed with a helpless, embarrassed, shocked gasp. "Admiral! Didn't think you'd turn burglar."

"Mm. Only when there's somethin' interestin' t'steal." Silky white shirt, casual brown breeches. Green headscarf. Fingers slipped under the blankets, nudged James' own hand out of place, closed around a very willing prick. Smooth, warmed metal, and calluses. James groaned, and bucked. Hazed vision, not wanting to question if the shocks of pleasure centering below his abdomen were merely dreamed. Heat pressed over one thigh, rubbing against him. Already close to the edge, it only took a couple of strokes before he spilled over nightshirt and nut-browned fingers with a choked moan. Sparrow smirked, brought up his hand, and lapped one stained forefinger. James bit down on his own lip.

A deep breath, and he managed to pull himself up onto his knees, urging Sparrow more firmly onto the bed with a hand, and pulling the slighter man's legs open, wary of still-healing wounds. Sparrow laughed as James began on the buttons without preamble. "James. Didn't realize ye were missin'..."

"It's not the defense's turn," James muttered, with a meaningful squeeze. Sparrow shut up with a deep purr that made his own temporarily sated shaft twitch. God, he had needed this.

He hesitated briefly when he freed Sparrow's prick. Taking in the sight—reddened flesh at attention, a growling, clearly impatient Admiral. "James."

"Mm?" Lips wrapped around the thick head. Extrapolating from dreams and a very limited personal experience. Faint bitterness. Salt.

Jack whimpered, and his hips jerked. "Fuck!"

A warm tongue swirled around the tip, a gentle suck, and James pulled back to run his tongue down the shaft, cupping it in a hand. Curious about the taste, encouraged by the reaction. Above—a hiss, and a groan. "God, yes..."

There was a knock on the door. Both men froze. James began to pull away, but a hand tangled in his hair.

"Sir? Sorry to wake you up so late," his housekeeper spoke, sleepy herself. "But there's a... er... midshipman Gillette, in the foyer to see you. He says it's very important, and he can't find the Admiral."

James closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the very masculine musk of Sparrow's body, and the obvious scent of his need. Wryly, he said, "All right. Thank you, Mrs Henderson. Please make him some tea while I dress."

"Of course." Receding footsteps.

James looked up at Sparrow. Grinned, and flicked his tongue at the tip. The Admiral bared his teeth, whispering, "Stop now an'... an'..."

"It has to be something important, for Gillette to wake me up at this time of the night," James murmured. Sparrow wriggled as hot breath from the words bathed his prick, then he sighed.

"S'pose so. Guess I should go see what he wants, too."

James was sure he looked absolutely shocked. "No. I mean, if we both..."

Sparrow smirked, then flapped a hand dismissively. "Not go down wi' ye, no. Ye can pick me up on the road. I'd say I was out on a stroll." He muttered a string of obscenities to himself, then added, with a growl, "If this ain't an emergency, I'm goin' t'shoot somebody."

"Ye call me out fer this?" he said, petulantly.

James yawned, nursing his coffee and doing his best not to remember how Sparrow had tasted in his mouth. "Admiral, the information is clearly of utmost importance." Apparently, amongst the pirates that had surrendered when Turner led two warships to capture three pirate ships with judicial bombardment, was a set of written plans and maps regarding a potential concerted raid on Port Royal.

"Aye, well, ye think I sent ye t'get those ships out o' a wild fancy?" Sparrow snapped, fluttering his fingers. "I knew those damned plans were likely there, from talk in that cellar, just didn't say anythin' in case it leaked out from our marines an' caused some sort of panic. Ye could'a given them t'me in the mornin'."

"The midshipmen got a little worried when you couldn't be found on the Pearl, sir," Turner replied, unrepentant. "And of course, Groves was excessively impressed with the plans. So it seemed natural to just wake Norrington. It was by pure chance that they picked you up on the way to the docks..." the First Lieutenant paused, then looked from Sparrow to James and back again. His lip quirked. "... I see."

Sparrow uttered an expletive even as James blanched. Turner began to laugh.

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