White Admiral 8

Directions

by

Manic Intent

The Admiral grinned.

"... sir." Grudgingly. James was not inclined to be polite, after handling panicky merchant princes all afternoon. When he got his hands on whoever had leaked information about the plans to the general public, he was going to...

"Mebbe I don't. Need t'use it." Sparrow said, with an irritating wink. It turned out that the exasperating man had been sitting within one of the sea caves hollowed out by the waves, at one of the inlets. A half-finished bottle of rum, and a strewn grease paper wrap that had likely last contained some sort of pie, from the Cook. And he had been sketching again—though this time, only of his cat. Said cat was asleep on his head, Admiral's hat on the gravel. Where the gravel translated into a narrow spur of sand, then into the sea, were a few half-hearted, oddly shaped sandcastles that looked vaguely familiar.

James sat down, careful not to fold boots wet from trudging through the surf towards the cave underneath him. He could see Sparrow was in (what Lieutenant Turner called) one of those moods. "Fashion accessory?"

"Like the scarf," Sparrow said, continuing to sketch.

"I don't believe you, sir."

"Mm."

James listened to the surf break gently on the tiny bit of beach connected to the cave, for a moment, then muttered, "Lord Jacobs..."

"... aye. Thanks for handlin' them."

"If you're planning anything..."

"Already talked it over wi' Bootstrap."

"I'm also your Lieutenant. Sir." Aggravation.

"Aye." Sparrow tilted his head a little, thumb and forefinger arcing over the papers. Proportioning. The cat, miraculously, stayed attached to dark hair, not even waking up. "That ye are. Second lieutenant, mind ye."

"Oh, for God's sake," James muttered, and half-turned to stare at the sandcastles. If Sparrow wanted to be childish, he wasn't in the mood to indulge him. Frustration from the repeated interruptions over the past day had been fueled by the continued need to be calm, patient, polite and handle pampered, overfed merchants interested only in their own skins, all afternoon. Bootstrap seemed to be even better than Sparrow at vanishing.

The shapes of the sandcastles were too remarkably regular to be whimsical. James narrowed his eyes, and leaned closer. A thought nagged at the back of his mind. From this angle, the rather odd conglomerate square shape looked like...

"Want t'know 'bout the compass?" Sparrow's bland voice chased the thought away. James turned back to regard his commander, thought about using sarcasm, then decided against it in favor of curiosity.

"Yes, sir."

"'Tis a magic compass."

James rolled his eyes, and began to turn back to look at the sandcastles. Sparrow chuckled. "Don't have t'believe me if ye don't want to, but ye asked, an' that isn't bein' very polite, aye?"

The lieutenant took a deep breath, and looked steadily back at Sparrow. "All right. I will briefly suspend all disbelief, Admiral. So what is so 'magical' about this compass of yours that you never open?"

"I got it for me twenty-first birthday from a witch," Sparrow said absently, fingering it. "She said it would point towards me heart's desire. Or rather, the heart's desire of anybody who holds it an' opens it. As a birthday present, I could use it once, an' once only. If I used it again after I found me... desire, after doin' that, it'd continue t'show me heart's desire, but I'd be trapped within that. An' die within that, twenty years from then." He pulled a face. "Not really the words she chose. Anyway. S'pose she meant the compass be cursed, an' for me present she be protectin' me from it for a single use."

"It's been at least a decade."

"Aye. But I have it good now, I think, an' I don't want t'trust that t'fate." Sparrow fingered the compass again.

"What did the compass point you to?" James asked, even though he was fairly sure he knew the answer.

"What d'ye think?"

"The Black Pearl."

"Aye. Smart lad." Sparrow tilted his pencil to shade his current work.

"You've never thought of using the compass again, since?"

"Many times." The Admiral grinned. "But I thought a wee bit 'bout it. Seems a little... peculiar, aye, that the compass can see a heart's desire, when hearts be fickle. Not t'mention, t'aint good when a man gets what he knows is said heart's desire, an' the next, an' the next. Could be that after a while he'd want for nothin' else. Man who wants for nothin', 'tis a dead man. Man wi' nothin' t'look to."

"Oh."

"Sometimes I wonder what'd have happened if I did open the compass," Sparrow shrugged. "But I wear it now as a reminder. Could be that things be very different, if I opened it again, then. So I don't take me life now for granted."

James glanced at his own fingers. "What is your heart's desire? If you don't mind me asking, sir."

"Freedom. Always been freedom. The Pearl be freedom. I've been chasin' it since I can remember." The Admiral looked down as he sketched. "Perhaps not as well as I should'a. Climbin' higher an' higher in the Navy, seems like there's more an' more shackles."

James snorted. "It's not like you really..."

"Aye. Don't mean they aren't there, though, even if I'm pretendin' they aren't."

"You don't like being Admiral?"

Sparrow's grin was playful. "What, when I can have any number of handsome subordinates?" A leer, now. "No doubt eager t'please their equally handsome commanders?"

James stared at him until the suggestive quirk to his lips faded away. "Mm. It has its ups. An' downs. Desk work be a down. Sometimes command is a down. Havin' t'give up me Pearl—didn't accept that one, so t'aint counted. The regard of the marines... sometimes a down."

"No clear advantages?"

Sparrow smiled faintly. "I enjoy Sundays." Children. Another playful smirk. "And I like the big hat. And the cat. And me Pearl loves bein' pampered wherever I may care t'dock, outfitted wi' the finest gear. An', of course, I got t'meet some pretty amazin' people."

James didn't comment. The advantages sounded fragile. Trivial. Command stifled Sparrow, at least on land—that had been increasingly obvious to James over the months. No wonder Barnsby had sought to take everything off the other man's shoulders. It was, however, difficult for James to do so—not only was he fairly sure some of the decisions had to be, technically, made by Sparrow, he was convinced that the other man should at least make some attempt at doing the aspect of his job that involved an office and not the helm. After all, if the other man had problems with paperwork and meetings he could bloody well have stayed a post captain.

Seeking freedom in the higher echelons of the Navy, indeed. If he had really wanted to be free of all responsibilities, free to chase the horizon, he should have turned pirate.

And, likely, have died at forty, with his Pearl...

"Aye. Sometimes I wonder if I chose wrong," Sparrow said, cutting into his thoughts. When James looked startled, the Admiral grinned. "T'aint hard t'follow, man, when ye glance at me compass, then in the direction of the harbor."

"I don't think you did, sir," James said doubtfully.

"S'pose so. I'd hate t'have ye as me enemy," Sparrow gestured at him bonelessly with his pencil. "As much as it'd have been fun t'have ye chase me an' clap me in irons." That leer, again.

"And hung," James said dryly.

"Yer no fun." Scribbles.

"The compass showed you to your Pearl? In what way, sir?"

"She was floatin' in the middle of the ocean, no crew, no supplies, no furniture. There was a 'happy birthday' note tied t'the helm."

"Written by the... er... witch?"

"Not her." An enigmatic grin. "Once I boarded I knew she was it. An' I've never opened the damned compass since." A quiet vein of determination.

James held out his hand, palm open. Sparrow frowned at it. "I'm not goin' t'lend it t'ye, either. Didn't I say it was cursed?"

"I doubt I'd die at forty."

"Mebbe ye will."

"Maybe it just applies to you. Sir."

"Mebbe ye'd die tomorrow."

A half-shrug. "I hunt privateers." It's not exactly a safe occupation.

"That's different." I plan the hunts.

"Come on, I'm curious. If it's really magical," James hoped that he injected just the right about of amused, not-quite-disdain. "Admiral."

"Could be that if ye see what's yer heart's desire, even if ye don't realize it, ye'd just spend the rest of yer life chasin' it. Until it ruins ye. Kills ye."

"It'd only show me a direction, won't it? Sir?"

"'Tis a fool who don't take magic seriously," Sparrow looked back at his sketches. "An' it's still no."

"All right." James said, very easily.

Perhaps a little too easily. Sparrow spared him a suspicious glance. "An' yer goin' t'promise me not t'do anythin' sneaky, aye? That'd make me regret tellin' ye a secret?"

"Only if I get ample consideration." James smiled lazily. "Sir."

"What are yer terms?" Sparrow raised an eyebrow.

"I want to be treated as your second in command, not some lackey."

"That's all?" Sparrow's relief made James irritable.

"It's not trivial."

"Didn't say it was."

"You didn't need to."

Sparrow took in a deep breath, and closed his eyes. "Look, mate. I'm sorry. Bootstrap has been wi' me for a long, long time, aye? I don't trust easy. Ye haven't been here for even a year. An'... things are getting a wee bit complicated, between us. Lately. Give me a break, aye?"

The little thought poked at the back of his mind again. Jack glanced at the sandcastles. As he'd thought, Sparrow immediately spoke to distract him, this time with a seductive purr in his voice that spliced warmth between his legs. Distracting. It was meant to be distracting. James clenched his jaw tight. "What about other forms of consideration, James?"

Sparrow hardly ever called him James, even in private. It was usually 'Lieutenant'—or no names at all. Good. Because when he said James, in that husky, come-hither purr, all James really wanted to do was...

He stared at the sandcastles, ignoring Sparrow. Tilted his head, so as to see it from another angle. Then, blinking, "It's a little model of Port Royal." A representative model, anyway, of the more important landmarks. Suddenly, little pebbles and shells no longer seemed to be haphazardly strewn about by the surf. "What do the round stones mean?"

And Sparrow was in his lap, cat-hat and all. Sketches discarded where he had been. A roll of slender hips made his prick stir within white breeches. James bit back a groan, and glared at the Admiral. "Jack." His voice was too rough to hold any censure. Sparrow grinned.

"Sounds so much better than 'Admiral'. Or 'sir'. Though the last has possibilities."

"You're the one who always talks about honorifics." A faint, strained smile.

"We're in private. Well. Save for Raja here, but he doesn't squeal." Jack pointed upwards at the sleeping cat.

"I refuse to kiss you while you have a cat on your head." James tried to keep a straight face, but his lips quirked. There was a voice in the back of his mind yammering about sandcastles and stones, but he ignored it.

"Aye, but he don't like sand."

"We're not on sand."

"Gravel."

"Jack. I won't kiss you. With a cat. On your head."

"What about I kiss y... mmph. Awlright." Jack pulled back from the fingers that had darted between their lips, and carefully poked the furry weight on his head. There was a sleepy mewl. White fur was scooped off loosely bound black hair and deposited on the gravel. The cat shook itself, then ambled over to the Admiral's hat, and slumped on that instead. Jack grimaced. "That one's me favorite."

"Mm." James gently tugged down Jack's chin, and pressed their lips together, committing himself to a detailed exploration of a mouth that tasted of rum, and the faintest hint of meat pie. Beef, he decided, on the third foray, fingers tugging out the half-tucked shirt to splay over a warmed back, trace the curved spine, cup the firm rump, pinch. The slender body jerked, then there was a growl. Fingers were deftly undoing his cravat. James smirked into the next kiss, and delicately bucked. A muffled whimper, and a tremor, then the Admiral of the White, the famed Luck of God, was shamelessly grinding into his lieutenant's hips. Panting.

Somewhere in the haze of lust that seemed to be stemming directly from the salacious wriggling in his lap, James registered splashes outside that didn't sound like waves. And in fact, were getting closer. And really sounded like...

"Admiral? Lieutenant?" Groves.

Sparrow's eyes narrowed into slits, and his hands went down to his pistol. James took a deep breath, then grabbed the other man's wrists.

"Funny. I could have sworn he was here." Gillette's voice.

"Maybe if we check?"

James dipped his head, shook it slightly, then tapped Sparrow's thigh. The Admiral pouted, but grudgingly slipped off, then shrugged off his coat, sat cross legged next to the sandcastles, and pulled the fabric into his lap, heavy folds. James did the same, hoping it didn't look too ridiculous. Or suspicious.

"Y'see, Lieutenant," Sparrow began to talk conversationally, "The stones represent patrols of five, an' the shells mark places where they could make port wi' sufficient cover."

Splashes, then Gillette and Groves peered into the cave, to see Sparrow and James apparently discussing defensive plans over a sandcastle version of Port Royal. Gillette was the first to salute. "Admiral. Lieutenant Norrington."

"What?" Sparrow asked, a little too curtly, his eyes fixed on the sandcastles.

"Bootstrap sent us to tell you, while he's busy at the fort with reports. There isn't going to be a raid, after all. Post Captain Edmonds and his patrol sunk a few ships some miles out of Saint Clemens. Letter from Calvins just came via the normal way." The midshipmen, thankfully, didn't seem to notice.

"Ah. Well. There goes the afternoon," Sparrow pouted. "Thanks anyway, Lieutenant." James nodded, and leaned back with a stifled yawn that was entirely feigned, fighting to control the need that burned within him.

"There's another page encrypted for you, sir," Groves added. "In that manner."

"An' I don't s'pose ye brought the letter."

"Sorry." Gillette said, hanging his head. "But we thought maybe you might happen back in your office while we were looking for you."

"Why don't ye both head back first an' tell Cook I want some pastries for tea?" Sparrow suggested.

"Um... there are some administrative matters we need to talk to Lieutenant Norrington about. We can discuss it on the way," Groves glanced at James, who did a mental check about the state of certain bits of his body, let out an internal sigh of relief, and uncurled to his feet, pulling on his coat. He didn't need to look backwards on his way out, after the midshipman, to know that Jack was scowling.

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