White Admiral 9

"Don't like?" Sparrow was uncharacteristically in the open—usually around after lunch the man would have hidden himself somewhere to escape work. The unveiling of the result of weeks of refitting and repainting, however, probably stirred his interest enough for him to risk paperwork.

"Not if the ships are to be used for Naval purposes," James said dryly. "And I notice the ships haven't been renamed."

"Aye, thought since there be three ships, ye name one, I name one, an' Bootstrap gets the last," the Admiral glanced over at one of the smaller refitted ships, where Lieutenant Turner had his son lifted in his arms to play with the helm. At least that had come out well—they had reconciled, and Will had moved out of the barracks to an available house with his father in the residential area of Port Royal. "Advantages of command, an' what not."

James' eyes were drawn back to the flagship. Although not as sleek as his Interceptor, and likely to be easily outdistanced on open water by the Pearl, she was majestic, her very bearing suggestive of power. Might, not speed—a good counterpoint to his Interceptor. "I'd name that one, sir."

"... fine." Sparrow pouted, then muttered. "But tonight I have some matters t'discuss wi' ye, aboard the Pearl."

"... fine." James said, though his doubtful tone didn't hide his misgivings. The Admiral smirked and summoned one of the marines with a little wave.

"Tell Lieutenant Turner that he be havin' the honor of namin' the ship that he currently be playin' wi'." When the marine hurried away, Sparrow looked back to James. "Well?"

"Fine name for a Navy ship," Sparrow tapped at his lip. "If a wee bit borin'. Interceptor an' the Dauntless."

"I apologize if I am not suitably flamboyant for your tastes, Admiral," James replied sarcastically, with a jerk of his head towards the Black Pearl.

"I don't want t'outline me tastes t'ye in public," Sparrow grinned wickedly, his dark eyes holding a fleeting promise that was quickly snatched away when the marine returned.

"Aye." Sparrow looked to the last ship. "S'pose I'd call that one the... hm... Mad Cat."

James let out a deep, long-suffering sigh, and didn't bother to answer. He started to stalk off towards the Dauntless, but a slender hand caught his sleeve.

James paused, frowned at the Admiral, then looked over his shoulder at Turner. Father and son sat on the rail, looking down into the water—the boy waved cheerfully at them. "Shouldn't you be offering the commission to your more senior officers, sir?"

"What wi' his boy being quite attached t'Port Royal, Bootstrap said he ain't that interested in promotion for a while, or more duties. 'Till I get a few more lieutenants, p'haps, or when Will grows up a wee bit more. An' then only if he's t'be posted here, or at Kingston."

"Simple. Promote Gillette and Groves, sir." James said, glad that the midshipmen were out of hearing distance. "And don't reassign them. They already have some experience with captainship—a few patrols of their own and they should be able to..."

Dryly, "That's not a problem that's mine to solve. Admiral. Besides, do you think either Lieutenant Turner or myself are any less loyal?"

"'Course not," Sparrow glanced down when his white cat approached sedately from its nap above some soon-to-be-loaded crates, and scooped it up. "An' they certainly won't be any amount of troublesome, like ye. Bootstrap, t'some extent. Kingston needs a Post Captain. Montserrat may need a Commodore. Edmonds is goin' t'New Amsterdam within the year."

"The Barbary Coast has a lot of lieutenants and very few chances of promotion. Poach a few more. Admiral."

"Perhaps. Sir." James didn't bother to sound respectful, annoyed with this topic. He was already beginning to suspect that Sparrow, of late, merely brought it up simply because it could easily rile the Lieutenant, and start them on a train of inquiry that eventually ended up compromising. Not that they had actually managed to do anything to either party's satisfaction as such. Even with Bootstrap told to make himself available for inquiries (Turner was deeply amused), there were still so many demands on James' (and Sparrow's, technically) time that they were prone to be found and interrupted at any time. James was beginning to wonder, vaguely, if there was some sort of malevolent deity dogging their luck.

Sparrow shot him a thoughtful look, then straightened slightly, opening his mouth—but was then hailed from behind by one of the shipbuilder supervisors, asking about what to paint on the bow for the names.

"Didn't ye just say nobody saw ye come aboard?" Sparrow's expression was predatory, even though he was, at the moment, at a disadvantage. James wasn't sure exactly what had happened that had resulted with the Admiral being tied to one of the protruding carvings of something the Lieutenant couldn't make out in the dark, above the bed, wrists above his head, the white headscarf making the seaman's knots clearly visible despite the guttering candle on the desk. Without the scarf, and the ribbon discarded somewhere on the deck, Sparrow's mane of hair was almost scandalously wild. James curled his fingers into it. Soft. Woman's hair. Fascinated, he curled strands between thumb and forefinger.

"I meant how I was going to get out in the morning." James replied mildly. Boots, shirt, coat also strewn somewhere on the deck, with Sparrow's coat and boots. "Where's your cat?"

"Prefers the galley," Sparrow said, turning his head to bare his neck to nips, purring at flicks of a warm tongue, arching when sword-callused hands slipped under his shirt to caress his back. James fumbled with the shirt buttons, then yanked the fabric up to Sparrow's elbows, lapping down a collarbone to the first white scar. Traced it with his tongue. "James!" Involuntary tugs on the scarf. James looked up, briefly, and smiled lazily, with just the hint of a smirk—Sparrow's eyes seemed to darken further, with hunger. "James." A purr, now.

"You'd have to be quiet, Jack." James murmured, his words giving lie to his actual state of mind. It had been a long while since he had the time or the inclination to touch another person as a lover, and he wasn't feeling particularly confident. Still, one could always logically conjecture... scar tissue, rough under his tongue. A little moan—Sparrow's throat. Pressing tongue against firming nipples, and light sucks—a soft yelp, the sounds of straining fabric. Taste, scent—James nuzzled the underside of one arm, nibbling just below the rumpled shirt, then lapped a slow path—shoulder, collarbone, neck hollow, collarbone, shoulder—to the other. He pushed one knee carefully over a hip and curled his back, pushing his weight on hands and the other leg, pinning down the writhing, gasping Admiral. Having the slighter man rub against him would likely undo him before he had his fill.

"I was right, yer tryin' t'kill me," Sparrow moaned, as James nuzzled his side, pressed soft kisses over the ribcage, then a nip over the abdomen. He chuckled softly, shifting down to use hands to hold impatient hips in place, as he dipped his tongue into the navel, already catching the scent of masculine need. Fingers worked on far too many annoying belts, then the knot of the sash.

Breeches pulled down to free the shaft—this time James simply swallowed half-firmed flesh, tired of play, half-expecting an interruption. From the way Sparrow jerked, with a yelp, then glared at the door, he could tell the other man's thoughts weren't far from his own. A smirk, around the thickening shaft, then fierce suckles, a stroking tongue, seeking to draw the very essence of Jack within him. Bitter, salt taste—figurative, into literal. His hands were bruising slender hips, absorbing abortive bucks. One foot was rubbing frantically against his thigh, the other pushing at the wall. Choked cries. Too loud. James groped on the bed for the sash, twisted it in his hand, then pulled back, mindful of still-healing injuries on legs, chest.

The snarling curse that erupted from Sparrow was abruptly muted by a mouthful of fabric. Narrowed dark eyes, then a snort of amusement. James grinned, and reapplied himself to his 'closing argument'. Fought the gag reflex, careful with teeth. His jaw ached. Musk, a pulse, and he had to curl nails into twitching flesh to stop himself from choking. Hummed. Pulses. Swallowed, lapped clean the spill he could see, then pulled himself up the shuddering body, pulled away the makeshift gag and pressed hungry kisses into an eager mouth. Sparrow was grinning again, though still adorably breathless. "Why, Lieutenant. And here I thought ye were a nice boy."

"I am a nice boy. The type a girl can bring home to her parents," James agreed, attacking an ear lobe, sucking it. Sparrow gasped, wrapped his legs tightly around James' waist, pulled again at the much-abused headscarf.

"So. Where did a nice boy such... as yerself learn how to suck cock like that?" James didn't need to look at Sparrow to know the Admiral was leering.

Crinkling eyes, amusement, an involuntary blush at the obscenity. "Would you believe me when I say the Navy, Admiral?"

Feigned astonishment. "If it's part of the learning experience in the Barbary Coast, I'm transferrin'."

A snort, balancing on an elbow as he pushed down his own breeches and somehow managed to pull Sparrow's off unhelpful thighs. "Don't tell me you've never..."

"Does it look like I haven't?" A wriggle, and a tilt of hips—James gasped as flesh rubbed against flesh. "T'was even a little bit of a problem, until I grew a beard an' acquired Bootstrap as me personal guard. Then I could wear me hair... ahh... any way I liked."

"A bit of a problem?" Marks on the neck. Sparrow would have to wear a cravat tomorrow, or another scarf.

James took the vial out, and tapped it against ribs. He smirked, looking up at Sparrow. "But it's the defense's turn."

"The defense is... tied up, at the moment," Sparrow jerked at the headscarf for emphasis. "James."

Slick, entwined fingers, then scissoring. Curling. Sparrow's little frown, pursed lip—the slowly eroding resistance of flesh—then finally lips parting to form a harsh moan. James hesitated, looked up, and somehow managed to undo knots with one hand while under the shuddering dictates of lust. Freed hands shot to his shoulders, and rubbed a path down to his prick. Fingers curled around it, and there was a gentle, if insistent tug. "Want to turn over?"

Sparrow shook his head. Speechless, apparently—finally. James smiled, and pulled ankles over his shoulders. Curled fingers into the bed, breath hissing out in a toneless whistle, inching into a tight fit. Choked moans and whimpers, ripping fabric—tanned fingers had clutched too sharply at sheets. "Tell me if it's... oh God..."

It was all he could do to wait, surrounded by pulsing heat. Too long, too much, all at once. Sparrow finally hissed, and clawed his arm—furrows that would leave bright red marks tomorrow. James began to move. Cautiously, at first, watching dark eyes squeeze shut at the burn, head lolling to the side, hair really too fine to logically belong to a man sticking to scarred, sweaty skin. Little mewls, then, when James experimentally changed his angle, a sudden arch and a wordless, abandoned cry of rapture. Ah.

James was quick to press his palm over parted lips at the next thrust, smirking at the slightly unfocused glare. Whispered, playfully, "I can't... go faster, if you need help being quiet. Admiral."

Sparrow rolled his eyes, and grabbed the discarded headscarf. James moved his hand to grip one shoulder as teeth sank into the fabric, shifted, and loosened his grip on his self-control in relief. Driving the slighter man into the bed, wracked by pleasure so intense it was unholy—he vaguely realized that ankles had slipped off broad shoulders, one leg curled around him, the other with a knee over his elbow. Muting his own cries against tanned flesh. Metal bumped against his abdomen—Sparrow's hand, around his own shaft. Time marked by pants, whimpers, grunts.

"Shatter for me," James growled, when the dammed, building need began to crack, and bared his teeth, watching Sparrow arch off the bed, the headscarf swallowing a scream. A few more brutal thrusts, and James bit down on a smooth shoulder, riding out the tremors over a quivering frame.

The Admiral touched fingers gingerly to the bite when James pulled away and slumped on the bed next to him (out of breath, barely conscious), and laughed, a little shakily. "Savage." Playful.

Green eyes snapped open, then widened to see smudges of crimson on brown fingers. "Oh, Christ." He rolled to his side, shaking his head to clear the fog, arms trembling, but managed to mutter, "Do you have salve in your cabin?" (or attempted to, anyway—the only coherent word his ears made out was 'salve').

"Sure it can wait for the mornin'," Jack murmured sleepily, snuggling close. An attempt to get out of bed anyway was foiled by a curling leg and a purr at his neck. James relaxed, reluctantly, and settled for lapping at the wound in an apology.

"The boy sure picked a funny day t'propose," Sparrow said when James located him at the tea reception. A Commodore's dress uniform was even more stifling than a Lieutenant's in the Caribbean heat, and he was beginning to vaguely regret finally (after many years, and a recent stint as Post Captain) accepting the commission. Years of little quips, nagging and exasperation (marked by discreet encounters and, still, the occasional unfortunate work day interruptions). Will had made midshipman, and his father took up a commission as Post Captain at Kingston, rather skeptically entrusting the general care of his son to the Navy and to a bemused Governor Swann (as evidenced by his frequent visits).

Right now the blushing couple were (not that this was any form of unusual, of late), seated together at the bell on the parapet and far, far away in the clouds. Their fathers were browsing the hors d'oeuvres with ostensible unconcern, carefully flanked by Lieutenants Gillette and Groves.

"Why funny?" James asked, sipping tea. It was a little too early for champagne, despite what the Admiral may think.

"It's as good a day as any," James shrugged. "I'm sure she doesn't mind, sir. It's her birthday in a week. This way, she gets to demand a more elaborate present out of his midshipman's pay."

"Aye, well, I should get somethin' out of today, just like everyone else," the Admiral stuck out his tongue. "I'm the only one who won't be seein' a promotion for years yet. If ever."

"Aye, aye. And I s'pose 'Admiral of the White' sounds better than 'Admiral of the Blue'. Right depressin', that title sounds."

"Besides, I doubt I myself will be accepting any further promotions." James said, frowning a little as Will somehow acquired a glass of champagne. He caught Groves' eye, and gestured slightly—the other man nodded, winked, and took two cups of tea off a manservant.

"An' why not?" Sparrow watched the exchange with amusement. Over the years, the threads of control were increasingly shared.

"Because a Rear Admiral of the Red will likely be assigned elsewhere, sir. Perhaps to the Indies. No need for any more Admirals around the Caribbean, with the Luck of God about." Honorifics, after so many years, still didn't come easily to James. The fact that he was, to put it crudely, fucking his commander, was probably part of the reason. At least with Bootstrap's tendency to address Sparrow as 'Jack' meant no eyebrows were raised when James occasionally slipped and did so...

Besides, James was beginning to suspect that the relationship was turning into an open secret. Certainly Groves and Gillette occasionally grinned (knowingly) when they saw James automatically go up to sit beside Sparrow in the Red Scabbard, or when the Black Pearl's complement, of late, tended to consist of the Dauntless and the Interceptor. People volunteered the Admiral's potential locations without being asked when they saw the Pirate Hunter (a moniker he had been unable to shed) wandering about with dispatches in hand. Turner—Turner had known all along, of course—lately the smirks had turned into playfully snide remarks.

It was only a mercy that William and Elizabeth seemed oblivious. James didn't want to be the one to corrupt youthful innocence.

"Aye, s'pose so," Sparrow chuckled, popping grapes into his mouth. "Come 'long." A slightly drunken flutter of fingers. Curious, James followed Sparrow away from the chatting crowd—then his eyes narrowed when Sparrow began to head towards the stables. All the hands and the marines on duty were likely in the process of sorting out the animals outside the fort. Which meant the stables were likely empty. Which meant that if Sparrow was taking them there...

Sparrow stopped in the middle of the deserted courtyard, and looked briefly up at the sky, holding onto his hat. Lips curled into a grin, then his free hand unhooked his compass from his belt. "Here." He held it forward.

James took the battered compass, and fingered a corner. His lips quirked as he weighed it in his palm, rubbed a thumb over black lacquer, then he shook his head, offering it back to Sparrow.

"It took me forever t'think of a present, mate." A pout. "Why the change of heart?"

James hooked his fingers into his pockets, and looked down at polished black shoes. Overheard, a seagull called, its harsh cry partially swept away by fingers of wind that plucked at the hem of the heavy dress coat. Then he smiled. "I don't need to open it to know it'll point at you."

Final Notes:
Okay, this AU turned out far, far longer than it was supposed to. T_t Self-control issue. Somehow, it managed to push 4 chapters past the expected limit without even having a decent amount of plot. :O I have learned not to try and restrict myself regarding future plans in final notes—since it never seems to work out. O_oa What will I do next? Since there appears to be a general terrible lack of Collared!Norrington fics, I think I'd play with that theme for a while... Anyway, here's a final bit of extra 'fic for "High Command":

"Jack, we are not putting that up in the hall."

"Why?"

"I like it."

"You stay out of this, Turner. It's too... too... informal."

"Aye, well, I told the artist t'make it so, didn't I?"

"That he did."

"And you didn't stop the Admiral?"

"Well... thought it'd be more fun, Norrington. More interestin'."

"..."

"...get angry often, does he? At ye."

"...ye have no idea, mate. Get somebody t'put the portrait up in the hall."

"What about Norrington?"

"He's just gone off t'sulk for a bit. Seein' as that's me responsibility t'make things up t'him... Bootstrap, why don't ye take care of me schedule for the rest of the day?"

"Even the meetings?"

"Especially the meetings. An' make sure Gillette and Groves are too busy t'come look for me for anythin', savvy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Heh. I'd be off, now."

White Admiral 9

No Quarter