Your Move
Chapter 4 - Rematch
by
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean is owned by Disney, etc. No infringement intended.
Originally Posted: 3/31/08
Beta: veronica_rich and gryphons_lair. Look, I owe these two an enormous amount for not letting me drift out of this fandom without finishing what was my first major piece of fanfiction. Thank you both. Owe you.
Note: It shocks me to realize that wrote the last bit of this fic (Match) something like four years ago. I held off writing the last and final chapters, hoping to leap off of the canon established by the release of the second movie. Well, shoot, that was a stupid idea. If you've been around these parts for any length of time, you know how unhappy I was with the second movie. I disagreed with many things, but most of all I disagreed with what they did to the character of James Norrington. It was, to my mind, nothing short of a character assassination. James Norrington would sooner become a drunken sot that Jack Sparrow would become a Carmelite nun. Funnily enough, I didn't mind so much when he was killed off in the third movie because they had, at the end, restored his dignity. This is a cornerstone of James' character and to see it trampled on and ignored during the course of the second movie, pretty much enraged me. I was so disgruntled by the last two movies that I lost heart in finishing this. While Jack Sparrow amuses me and Will Turner makes my heart go pitty-pat, it is the character of James Norrington who reduces me a teary-eyed mess. He is the fellow who never gets the girl, no matter how noble he is. He is the character that puts duty first. He is the character that tries to hide his rather soft heart behind a wig and a uniform. And he is the character that I love the most in Curse of the Black Pearl
Originally Posted: 3/31/08
Beta: veronica_rich and gryphons_lair. Look, I owe these two an enormous amount for not letting me drift out of this fandom without finishing what was my first major piece of fanfiction. Thank you both. Owe you.
Note: It shocks me to realize that wrote the last bit of this fic (Match) something like four years ago. I held off writing the last and final chapters, hoping to leap off of the canon established by the release of the second movie. Well, shoot, that was a stupid idea. If you've been around these parts for any length of time, you know how unhappy I was with the second movie. I disagreed with many things, but most of all I disagreed with what they did to the character of James Norrington. It was, to my mind, nothing short of a character assassination. James Norrington would sooner become a drunken sot that Jack Sparrow would become a Carmelite nun. Funnily enough, I didn't mind so much when he was killed off in the third movie because they had, at the end, restored his dignity. This is a cornerstone of James' character and to see it trampled on and ignored during the course of the second movie, pretty much enraged me. I was so disgruntled by the last two movies that I lost heart in finishing this. While Jack Sparrow amuses me and Will Turner makes my heart go pitty-pat, it is the character of James Norrington who reduces me a teary-eyed mess. He is the fellow who never gets the girl, no matter how noble he is. He is the character that puts duty first. He is the character that tries to hide his rather soft heart behind a wig and a uniform. And he is the character that I love the most in Curse of the Black Pearl
Well. Apparently there are mouths, and then there are mouths.
Not that I am a stranger to this act. Sal's mouth was considered the ninth wonder of the world among the sailors lucky enough to be granted such an honor. And despite Jack's rather sweet description of placing a finger there, I was not a stranger to that act either. Sal's legendary expertise was based on having both an agile tongue and exceptionally long fingers for a woman.
And yet this was so different. It was like comparing a weed to a rose. This was not the chasing of pleasure, which is the sole purpose of one's visit to a madam. Pleasure, pure and simple. A determined hunt for that release. To be sated. And if afterward one chats pleasantly about the weather or the tides or trade or English politics while casually throwing down a bag containing ten guineas, well then.
But not this.
This was a surrender, not a chase; the giving of self. I have never shared myself with anyone. Not a one. To be thirty-one years old and to be so naïve, so untouched. To not know what it is to give yourself to another. My back arched as he took me in deeper and deeper, and if I'd been watching this as an impartial observer, I would have chuckled at the obvious symbolism. The stern, unyielding commodore back bowed in surrender. Christ, I was undone.
He fondled my sac so gently, and how is a mystery because I knew his hands to be most calloused by sun and rope. Then he sucked again, hard, enveloping me with that hot mouth and a tongue that laved and caressed me
Then very edge of his teeth dragged along length of my cock and his mouth disappeared. "Dammit, Sparrow," I groaned out. I unclenched my fists from the sheets to reach out for him. I opened my eyes, to search for a pirate-shaped mound, but the room was too dark; there was no moon tonight. A tiny mercy that; I was relieved of seeing my complete undoing in his eyes. I scrambled with my hands and finally caught a rope of hair. I wove my fingers into those dark, dark locks of his and brought him back down me. That got a surprised laugh, but no ribald commentary. I hoped to God he was as undone by all this as I was. His mouth sucked lightly on the head of my cock while a thumb slowly moved up and down the cleft of my ass. I began undulating my arse against that finger. I was trying to fuck that finger, searching for it. Jack stopped his sucking, murmured my name, and pushed lightly.
He did it again, accompanied by a hot mouth sucking against the inside of my thigh.
And again. I was reduced to babbling, desperate to voice this wonder, but unable to do anything but stutter and randomly toss out words and phrases, to tell him what this meant to me. By the time he'd coated his fingers and worked them into me, I would have followed him to the hangman's dock. I know not what I said. This was not the babble of sexual hunger. It was the shocked, incoherent ramble of a starved soul. A man who has never had cause, no, the opportunity to give himself so freely.
The careful hooking of his arms under my knees opened me, exposed me. Later I realized that he did this on purpose. It was a risky, because such physical vulnerability is a mirror of one's emotional vulnerability, but as was his wont, he threw caution to the winds. He slid up the length of my body, gliding his cock against mine, nipping, biting my mouth, and in between hot breaths he murmured in a deep voice, rough, scratchy voice, "Knew you'd... Jesus, James, want... James, knew... Love you, randy naval bastard..."
Yes, I did want it. And it wasn't base desire that responded, that drove my mouth to bite back with equal abandonment. No. It was that running thought that I couldn't live without this. Now that I know.
I have never been so afraid in my life.
I pushed him off and stumbled out of bed to the far side of the room, leaning against the desk chair for support, my legs weak. Neither of us spoke, the only sounds were my labored breath, which was so close to sobbing that it was indistinguishable, and Jack's pants, fast and hungry. Shuddering so violently from desire, fear, passion, and dread that if it weren't for the chair, I would have fallen to my knees.
Slowly, I caught my breath, as he caught his, and then there was nothing but the distinct ticking of the clock to punctuate this horrible silence.
"You l.l.l.lied," I stuttered.
We could not see each other, the room was so dark. I heard the intake of a sharp breath, and then a cautious voice said, "I often do, but rarely to you. In what manner?"
"You said it wasn't any different than bedding a woman and that it would feel the same and it's nothing like and I think I'm seriously going mad here because..."
I stopped, because even in my hysteria, I knew hysteria when I heard it.
"James, I can hear your teeth chattering from all the way over here, and it's so hot in this bloody room even the sheets are sweating. Come back to bed and tell me why you'd prefer to stand over there shivering as opposed to having my cock up your arse when you were begging for it not two minutes ago. Pretty begging, I might add."
"Yes, you would find that attractive, my defeat," I grumbled, as I made my over toward the bed, picking my way gingerly in the dark through the scattered clothes on the floor. I stumbled over his boots and pitched headlong into the mattress. He caught me, pulled me back into bed, and held me until I stopped shaking, running his fine hands through my hair.
"Don't know why you wear that God-awful wig, mate. These curls are so beautiful. That powder stinks, just so you know."
"Rank and dignity come to mind. I might add that the man who smells habitually of cheap rum hasn't a leg to stand on the issue of whether or not wig powder has a disagreeable odor."
"Nothing more than a hothouse for fleas. Wouldn't believe the bites I got that time I nicked the Governor's wig."
"Do not even begin to tell me that your, oh, let's just call it a nest," I tugged on his "ropes," "isn't home to a variety of creatures, winged or four-footed. If a fox leapt out from underneath that mop right now I wouldn't blink an eye. Although there's probably not room, imagining the magazine of weapons you have hidden in there: a small axe, perhaps even a scythe tucked away, and do we even need to mention that horrible bone..."
He was so sly. Baiting him had had its usual salubrious effect. I'd stopped shivering and was nestled comfortably in his arms ruminating on the wonder that was Jack's hair. I stopped talking and burrowed deep, deeper into the dip of his neck.
"It's only different because it's you and me. And it's not defeat; it's surrender. Perhaps the only time where it's mutual. Most people see that as a gift. Having a crisis of conscience?"
I heard the steel in his voice. A gift? For anyone else perhaps. Your average man might understand such surrender and chafe at defeat, but a commodore despises the concept of surrender, while acknowledging the occasional defeat.
"It's not the..." There really was no polite way to say it, so I just let my voice trail off. "Between us. Two men."
"Swiving? Fucking?" He stressed the "k" just to annoy me.
"Ahem, yes. That is not... It's..." once more at a loss for words, I took his hand and placed it over my heart, hoping that this simple gesture spoke volumes.
"Fucking won't change that. You're lying in your bed with me, James, all snug as a bug in a rug. Sort of like putting up a sail after the wind's died down. We might as well take the pleasure with the pain."
I propped myself up on my elbow and traced his chin line with my forefinger. "Pain?"
He turned his head to bite my finger; a little harder and I would have yelped. "Jesus, James, and you claim to be an educated man. Not a seer, I admit, but it don't take any special powers to see that breakers are ahead. Man swiving another man. And if that t'weren't bad enough, a pirate captain swiving a commodore and vice versa." He paused. "I hope. Like being on the receiving end as much as the giving end. If we're lucky, we won't be caught. If we're really lucky, we won't be hung. Now. James. Please."
He stopped talking, his mouth poised over mine. Yes, he was right. I was already done for; I might as well realize my pleasure. I pulled him toward me and began to kiss him. Yes, there is something of an ocean between defeat and surrender. Defeat means the self is broken by another and surrender means the self gives to another. I surrendered. I turned over for him, the groan of pleasure he emitted was so loud they probably heard it down at the fort. He spread my legs with his knees, biting my shoulder with a rather sharp nip so that I wouldn't feel the stretch as he entered. I held on with both hands to the spindles of my headboard, as if that simple act would keep me anchored, and relished the heat of him, the weight of him in me. I ground out my litany of hosannas and curses into my pillow, as I rutted against the slick of his palm, and met him thrust for thrust. His cries of release filled the room; my release was as bittersweet as his was joyous.
He left just before daybreak. The rascal gave my arse a nice firm pinch before he threw up the bedroom window and scuttled down the vines into the yard. I lay there thinking of my good fortune and folly. They were one in the same. I had given my heart to Elizabeth, unasked, and, ultimately, unwanted. Through no fault of her own she broke it. How much worse it would be when Jack breaks mine. Because he had laid claim to it and now owned it. A heart claimed is so much more vulnerable than a heart unclaimed. Again, it's the knowledge, that this one person, even if he's a bloody pirate, makes you feel whole and fractured, with the added nightmare that you might never feel this same way about another person ever again. Love makes one so greedy. And even though I am a novice at love, my instincts are ever sound. As sure as my name is James Lysander Norrington, my heart will, at some point, shatter or be shattered, its pieces scattered by the hot trade winds that buffet Port Royal.
I rolled over and breathed in the scent of him on my sheets.
***
Given that Jack's weekly visits were now an open secret, I had taken to dining at the Governor's mansion on Fridays with Elizabeth, William, the Governor when he was able, and a certain pirate captain, heretofore known as Mr. Smith. We spoke in code as to the whereabouts of a certain Mr. Smith. Would Mr. Smith be joining us for luncheon? Often Mister Smith would not, given his penchant for Thursday nights spent with certain commodores, which necessitated a long mid-day nap in the hay of Mr. Turner's smithy. Had Mr. Smith beaten Mr. Turner at chess that morning? Elizabeth, saucy wench, always asked that question, smiling broadly at William's scowl, his defeat certain.
I had commissioned a carriage to take me up the hill to the mansion. Last night's doings had rendered me a trifle, shall we say, stiff. I likened it to having ridden several miles bareback. On a lame horse. Not uncomfortable as much as strange, with muscles I'd never used in my life thoroughly used. Neither the thought of walking or hauling this pleasantly bruised body up onto a saddle (no, definitely not, no) was acceptable.
"Will is detained. They are still down at the smithy," Elizabeth said airily, waving her fan. We sat in the garden, sitting on the bench overlooking the harbor. The roses were in bloom. We were only waiting for William and possibly Jack and then we'd dine.
She was exceptionally beautiful this morning, her eyes bright and cheeks pink. Not even the foul humidity and sun could dampen her glow. The heat seemed to touch her not. Would that I had had the power to bring out this Elizabeth. She had always been beautiful, but now she radiated a sublime inner grace. Truly a woman now, she had completely lost that coltish air about her that I had loved. Well, small wonder, recent events had aged us all. Aside from the obvious mutual attraction, she and William had grown up together, overnight. Yes, it didn't take a genius to see that Turner was responsible for this incandescent happiness, a fact I acknowledged while admitting my own manifest inadequacies in that regard. I experienced a brief pang. Six months ago I would have called it jealousy. Now, I think it sadness, a wee melancholy for what was never to be, for the girl who had captured my heart. I refused to countenance it. It was nothing more than a bruised ego and possibly hunger. I had no right to be envious. She was not mine, nor would I want her now if offered.
Back to the matter of the missing fiancé.
"Is he getting trounced?" I murmured.
"I imagine so. He wears his losses extremely poorly. There's something about losing to," she paused, "Mr. Smith that rankles. I shall make it up to him later, poor lamb."
"Your fiancé is not what I would call a poor loser, he is too good natured for that, but he does have a competitive streak. It's well hidden under that polite manner."
She smiled to indicate agreement.
"You're very handsome these days, James. Your color, your smile. You might have given Will a run for his money once upon a time." She said it with the ease of knowing I wouldn't take it another way but the way she meant it.
"Hardly." I snorted. "We both know that Mr. Turner has had your heart in the palm of his grimy hand since the day we pulled him from that burning wreck. Notice I am not commenting on the issue of what sort of wiles you will be using on him to console him on his inevitable loss." I lowered my head and gave her the type of stern look that would have had my men breaking out in a sweat. Of course, she ignored it, not cowed in the least. Her mouth turned up in what could only be described as a lascivious smile, and her eyes crinkled at the thought of the pending amusements.
Of course, I ignored her right back. "I would imagine that William's dismay at his losses might have a great deal to do with the person across the chess board from him. Mr. Smith is unique among my acquaintance. 'Patting one's self on the back' doesn't quite do his raging egotism justice. It's truly amazing he doesn't break or, at the very least, wrench his wrist at the general enthusiasm with which he ballyhoos his own achievements."
"Given that you're modesty itself..."
"Bitch," I hissed in an undertone.
"Prig. Jack's teaching me card tricks. I'm a born natural, apparently," she smirked. "I've perfected that art of waving my fan and dislodging the ace up my sleeve."
I rolled my eyes. "Wonderful. You will note how impressed I am. Not. He's turning you into a proper pirate."
She smacked me with her fan. "Don't be so stuffy, James. I rather fancy myself as a pirate." Her eyes flashed. "A pirate queen."
I couldn't help it; I laughed out loud.
"You?" I managed to get out.
"I don't see what's so funny," she pouted. Unusual in her, she's not much of a pouter. More of a kick-you-in-the-kneecap sort of woman.
"Right. I can just see you holding court in front of a bunch of blood thirsty ruffians, all seven stones of you. Are you going to beat them to death with your fan if they don't behave?"
"I don't know why I ever thought you were amusing, James."
My response was cut off by the loud guffaws emanating from the dining room. Apparently Mr. Smith was eschewing his nap in favor of luncheon. The Governor's cook was only second to my own in terms of culinary expertise. The hay was inviting, but given Jack's enormous appetite... I swear he eats enough for two men... At least, he polishes off nearly all of my meal when he... Although I don't know where... He's so slender... Of course, after last night's acrobatics... Am rather hungry myself...
Rising up to give Elizabeth an arm, I winced as my muscles reminded me exactly how frisky Jack and I had been the night before. At the same time, Elizabeth grabbed my proffered arm and winced as she stood and shifted her hips. Exactly as I had done not one second earlier, resulting in an epiphany I could have done quite nicely without.
"Elizabeth! For God's sake, your wedding is in two months. Couldn't you wait? The town has ten fingers and if you become... Before..." I blushed.
She blushed and was, no doubt, going to give me a defiant, "It's none of your business, Commodore Norrington," or "I fell off my horse," or some such nonsense when her face froze. She looked at me, whipped her head around toward the French doors into the dining room and the murmur of voices, looked back at me, eyes wide, and said in a shocked voice, "James! You too? How? But. Oh. OH!"
I blushed. She blushed again. We both started laughing so hard that we ended up plopping down on the bench so we wouldn't fall over.
"Hear, hear," said Jack, as the both of them came out into the garden. William's face still sported traces of pout, signaling his loss. "Such hilarity and cavorting. Why didn't you wait for us?"
That started us off again.
After we'd laughed ourselves nearly sick, Elizabeth passed it off as some private joke and no amount of wheedling by either William or Jack would prompt either of us to disclose what had been so funny.
She gave me a very tender kiss on the cheek when I made my leave. As a sister might. Being one of five sons, I was in sorely in need of a sister. Before she had a chance to pull away I murmured in a snarky whisper, "Pirate queen? Please."
As I bowed my goodbye, she kicked me in the kneecap.
***
There is something horribly unfair about indulgence. My last visit to a brothel had been over a year ago, and I'd not the desire to return. I was not tormented by the thought of another's hand on me; my own hand had serviced me quite nicely for months. But one evening with Jack Sparrow and I was, indeed, tormented by memories of his slender hands mapping me, titillating me, touching me. Which was torment enough, but small agony compared to the thought of his mouth on me everywhere. I took to taking punishing rides on my horse, eschewing placid chess matches with William for grueling hours in sword play, in short, exhausting myself physically in any manner I could. It turned out to be a hopeless endeavor. I woke up with my sheets and nightdress stained with nocturnal leavings, something I hadn't done since I was sixteen.
Thursday night could not come soon enough.
***
"Knew Will was hiding something! Couldn't look me in the eye all morning. Course Turners blush at the drop of hat. Doesn't take a swive to do that. Lizzie is quite a handful, eh? Knowed for a fact she had to bully him into it. He was spouting some sort of nonsense about being a gentleman and horrified at the thought..."
"You counseled him to, well, with Elizabeth! Man, their wedding is in two months. Those cats in society are just looking for an excuse to cut William. If they suspect... Stop that... We're talking about... Your foot is... That feels nice... Yes, oh yes... Why did you stop? What we are talking about?"
"Don't be so stuffy, James." I would have suspected collusion between the two of them, but even I couldn't possibly devise such a scenario other than the one that I was, actually, stuffy. This was a patently ridiculous notion. "Told him to pull out before he came. Now let's not talk about Will and Lizzie, who are perfectly happy and don't need our advice. Well, Will did need my advice because the lad was shockingly innocent, didn't even know about where to stick it. You should be congratulating me. I saved their wedding night from being a cock-up."
He chuckled at his extremely limited wit.
"Do I even need to point out that the issue of a wedding night is now moot, thanks to your advice?"
"There wouldn't even be a wedding if it wasn't for me!" he protested. "Lizzie thought Will was a eunuch—had similar thoughts myself to be honest—and she'd called off the said nuptials. Not that I blame her. Can't imagine anything worse than being married to someone who doesn't like a swive."
"Like you'd know," I huffed.
He took a big swig of wine. "Will gets that pinched, nasty little purse to his mouth." He studied me. "Similar to your purse." I glared at him. "Anyways, she'd called it off because she'd thrown herself at him and his little Will had gotten all happy, and instead of him being all happy because his Will was happy—he didn't grab her cunt or something normal like that—he got all 'pursey' like he does, and went on and on with some nonsense how they should only see each other in company because of her honor. Lizzie, having more common sense than he does by half, told him to go to hell. See? I saved the day."
I don't know how in the bloody hell I was supposed to make sense of that nonsense, but I gave a weary nod and poured myself another large glass of wine. It was obvious that regardless of society's strictures, Elizabeth could have cared less that she had been bedded before being wedded. Because Jack lived outside the unforgiving ties of society's norms, he clearly had no notion regarding how powerful they could be. I sent up a prayer that Jack's instruction had been to the letter, and that Elizabeth would see her wedding day in a dress that did not call for a discreet visit and alternation by the Mantua maker.
"Where was I?" He had a stuck a fork into a wedge of orange and held it up in the air while he pondered. "Ah, what we're going to do in that comfy bed of yours tonight. Think it might be your turn to do the honors."
The orange didn't even touch his lips. The fork clattered to the floor as I grabbed his wrist, hauled him to his feet, and growled out, "Now."
It was early enough that while the room was in shadow, I could still see clearly the shape of him. He lay on my white counterpane, naked, a dark brown from the top of his head even to his toes, his arms propped up behind his head, letting me explore him,. He was gorgeous, a bit slender, I'll grant you, but what power in those shoulders, those arms. Fascinated, I slipped my pinky between his little toe and the one next to it. Yes, he was pale and creamy there. The remnants of the English son that his father and country hadn't wanted.
"Turn over," I murmured.
"Randy sod," he said with affection before splaying himself on the bed, stomach down.
Oh, oh, what an arse this man had. Despite not having so much as an ounce of fat on his torso, the cheeks of his arse were plump and fit perfectly under my hands. I squeezed. He groaned. I squeezed again and began running my hands all over him while kissing the nape of his neck. No salt tonight.
"Someone's had a bath."
"Aye, can't remember the last time I did. Figured I was due. Friends lent me one."
I suspected that it was my bath that he'd used; however, that would have entailed grilling both Simon and Mrs. Pince about certain liberties afforded certain pirates, and I really did not want to know. If I did not know, I could not implicate them should the occasion arise.
I licked the length of his back. Yes, he tasted of lavender. I have several bars of lavender-scented soap in my linen closet.
So beautiful. I bit one arse cheek, laved the bite with my tongue, then bit the other. I ignored the whispered blasphemies pouring out of his mouth. He was jittering his groin against the counterpane, searching for friction. I made to dip my finger into the bowl of oil I'd stashed earlier and then thought, yes. I licked the valley between his cheeks, and nuzzled my nose between, smelling and inhaling the scent of him. I licked his hole and sighed in pleasure.
I was poised to do it again when he threw me off and punched me in the jaw.
He began to scramble for his clothes. It was light enough that I could see him pulling on his ridiculous pants, wrench on his shirt, tie his sash, all the while muttering in a furious voice, "Goddammit. Goddammit! I knew it. Knew I couldn't trust... Fuck! Where's my fucking boot. Goddammit. Goddammit. WHERE'S MY OTHER BOOT?"
I pointed with my left hand. My right hand cupped my aching jaw.
"I apologize," I said with a calm I didn't feel. "I did not realize that some activities weren't acceptable."
"Of course that's acceptable!" he growled. "That's not the point, and you know it." He threw his boot at my head. I might have been injured but that didn't mean I wasn't quick. Unfortunately, he might have been furious, but that didn't mean he couldn't aim. He missed me by a hair.
"No, I do not know!" I shouted, because this was getting ridiculous.
"Oh, you so bloody know." He looked around for something else to throw.
"You throw that candlestick at me and you're a dead man," I warned. "Now what is this about?"
"You're the one person, James, the one person I count on not to lie to me. I don't trust anyone, been the one thing that has saved this sorry pirate hide over the years. And what made me trust you is a mystery. Lying, naval bastard," he hissed. "Oh no, Jack, I haven't been with anyone but you," he said in a falsetto. "On my honor as a servant of the King's navy. Bastard."
I threw up my hands.
"Jack, what in God's name..."
"You kissed me. There."
"Yes, and apparently you hated it and I won't do it again."
"I DIDN'T HATE IT!" he screamed.
"I really don't understand. You told me that our... holes were the same as women's holes, and I've done that to women and they liked it. They like it quite a lot. Of course, they were whores and they could have pretended they liked it, but..."
He held up a hand.
"You've done it to women."
"Yes," I said with a fair amount of starch.
"Whores."
I rolled my eyes.
"Yes."
"Not men."
"Of course not. I told you I hadn't been with another man before this. You inferred that holes were holes. Obviously not. And I won't..."
He began to toe off his boot and take off his clothes, chuckling up a storm.
I stood there not knowing what to make of this. I'd known Jack was a little eccentric, but this could be catalogued as being mad. And not candlestick throwing mad, but Bedlam mad.
When he was naked once more, he came over to me and embraced me.
After that earlier display, I was loathe to return the favor.
I stood there at attention while he ran a soothing hand up my back. He kissed my jaw, which hurt like hell, and then he laid his head on my shoulder. I had a number of inches on him, and he fit there quite nicely.
"Sorry, mate. Sorry. Thought you'd been lying to ole Jack. Thought you'd been with other men. Not that I would have cared, in fact, if you had then we wouldn't have had all these weeks where my balls were aching something fierce, right? So thought you were lying when you'd done that. Not the sort of thing a lot of men do. I do like it; I want you to do it again. You're my safe port, James, and I thought... Never had one before, see? Not sure what I'm doing here."
I did not see exactly, but I relaxed and wove my arms around his waist.
"How is that any different from your usual modus operandi? I think your entire life is nothing but not knowing what you're doing."
I could feel his smile against my shoulder blade. "Won't deny it, but seems to keep my neck out of the noose. Sorry." He pulled back and kissed my jaw again. "Do it to me again, James," he cooed.
***
"Jesus, you've got a cock on you. Don't know how I'm going to sit in that boat tomorrow and row to the Pearl. Need to swipe a pillow from Lizzie."
"Did Me... Did I do it wrong?"
He squeezed my bicep.
"No, mate. You're a hell of a fuck. Haven't had a swive like that in years. Am as happy as a clam. You?"
It was dark by now and neither of us could be arced to light the candles. I was too comfortable, too happy. Although I am not a superstitious man, I was afraid to move, afraid I would jinx this bliss. Surely a kiss to his forehead wouldn't offend the happiness gods. He tasted like salt, sweat, and lavender.
"Yes, Jack."
***
At that first wink of dawn, where the sky is not dark nor is it light, he was up, rummaging around for his "effects" on the floor. I found the flint and lighted a candle for him. Despite the plethora of scarves—how many vests does one man need? I should think one sash enough but four?—he was dressed in nothing short.
"See you at luncheon," he reminded me on his way to the window.
"You could use the door. It's customary in this part of the world." I pointed out.
"More fun this way. You need more fun in your life, James."
I looked at him. "I have quite enough fun currently in my life, thank you very much. Any more fun, and my trumpet vine will be completely dead, as opposed to only trampled within an inch of its life."
He chuckled and made his way over to me. "Will ruin your trellis then and leave the wee plant alone, savvy?" With a sloppy kiss and a cupping of my balls, he was up and out the window.
Ah, what a night. I stretched out, my long legs touching the footboard. I debated going back to sleep when I heard a voice shout, "You. Halt."
I knew that voice. It was Andrew Gillette in a rage.
Where in the bloody hell was my nightshirt? The sounds of a fierce scuffle ensued, knuckles hitting bone, the oomph of a fist connecting with a stomach. Hang it! I grabbed a sheet and flew down the stairs into the yard.
Ted had Jack pinned in his arms, Andrew was beating Jack to a bloody pulp. His fist rearing back as far as it could go and pummeling into Jack, who tried to duck the blows, even though virtually helpless.
"Mr. Gillette, stop!" I roared as he brought his knee up to Jack's groin. With Ted holding back his arms as if in a vise, Jack could only groan out his agony.
"Caught him coming out of your bedroom, Sir," Andrew panted. "He tried to escape, and... and..." He stared at me, then at my crotch. It was light enough so it was very obvious that I was naked, the sheet trailing behind me. I wrapped it around my waist even though I would be a hard-pressed business to appear remotely in charge dressed in my bed sheet.
"Our good luck, James," crowed Ted. "We were up to no good, to tell you the truth. We've been dying to know who you've been entertaining, and decided that he'd probably escape before dawn and we'd get a good look at him. Didn't expect to find Sparrow." He cuffed Jack on the back of the head, hard; Jack groaned again. "He was scaling down your wall. We haven't had a chance to check his pockets, but no doubt he's walked off with half of your silver and probably..."
"Let him go."
It was said with deliberate and deadly calm, betraying none of my own rage. With every second, the light grew stronger, and despite my race down to the garden, I could see Andrew had already bloodied Jack something fierce. His left eye was already swollen shut, and blood from his nose stained the white of his shirt.
They stared at me.
"That's an order, sailor," I said in my most menacing voice.
Ted let go and Jack slumped to the ground. I went over to kneel by him. I ran a shaking hand over the back of his head, probably the only part of him not in agony.
"Are you dreadfully hurt? Anything broken inside?"
"Don't think so," he managed to get out. I picked him up and propped him up against the wall of the house.
"I'll tend to you in a minute."
He groaned back a response.
I turned back to face Ted and Andrew.
"Shall I call the guard, James? He'll not escape the noose this time." Andrew was positively salivating at the opportunity for justice to be finally served.
"He has a letter of marquee from the Governor," I said wearily. "From Thursday sunset to Friday sunset he is a free man."
"Bloody good that will do him," smirked Andrew. "Ted, let's check his pockets, Bet there's..."
"No."
Ted was a little quicker in these matters.
"James?" he queried in a horrified voice, while Andrew said, "James, what are you on about? Lord knows what that scallywag..."
"Captain Sparrow was my guest."
There. It was out.
Ted said nothing. By this point, it was truly light; Andrew turned six shades of white.
"No," he protested.
I nodded.
"Him? It's him? He's the one you're... By God, James, tell me you're pulling my leg here. Not that bloody pirate," he spat out. He made for Jack, still slumped against the wall.
"Mr. Gillette! You touch Captain Sparrow again, and I will sign your court martial papers myself."
He dropped his head, in great turmoil, his fists clenched tight as if aching to hit someone, perhaps even me. I looked at Ted. I did not see anger, but there was no glimmer of friendship there either.
"Attention," I barked out.
That got Andrew's head up.
He glared at me and walked off.
A minute passed then two, and slowly Ted drew up himself up into as fine a military posture as I've ever seen and saluted me. "Permission to speak. Sir."
"Mr. Groves." My voice was subdued, but there was no mistaking that this was his superior officer speaking.
"Mr. Gillette's sister was killed by pirates. Not a fact he ever mentions. Sir."
Bloody buggering fuck.
"I will take that into consideration, Mr. Groves. Please return to the fort. Under my orders, Mr. Gillette is to be incarcerated and on bread and water for three days. For insubordination. I will be there directly, after I've taken Captain Sparrow to a surgeon."
He saluted me again before running off. We had been fine friends. If Ted were forced to make a choice between Andrew and me, it was no contest that he would choose Andrew. I would miss them. I turned to Jack and hoisted him over my shoulder. By the time I'd reached the top of the stairs, I was out of breath and so very weary.
***
Andrew survived his three days on bread and water. As an officer, he had to speak to me, and, being the sort of man he was, there was not a repeat of his insubordination. I would even go so far as to believe that should the occasion arise, he would save my life if need be. But the nights at the Tar were no more. The teasing? No more. The camaraderie between the three of us? No more.
A tacit understanding existed between us. Andrew could not expose me to the admiralty without placing his relationship with Ted in jeopardy. Although I never would have used that as leverage or retaliation against him, it was a mark of how low I had fallen in his eyes that he believed me capable of such an action. We reverted to an extreme professionalism that served the navy, and every "Yes, Sir" and "Thank you, Lieutenant," contributed an additional nail in the coffin of our friendship.
Ted did not judge me as harshly, but it mattered not. I could not be Jack's lover and their friend, and I chose Jack. Ted could not be my friend and Andrew's lover, and he, naturally, chose Andrew.
A month past the violent incident in my garden, Andrew and I were standing on the deck of the Dauntless, having completed a routine inspection of the back side of the island. It was a nasty day, the humidity so fierce that the ropes were wet, burning the hands of the sailors as they tried to manipulate the sails. Andrew turned to me and said into my ear, "Are you still with that bloody pirate?"
I nodded. I respected him too much to lie to him.
And that was that.
***
Therefore, it was with some surprise when Ted came up to me at the Turners' wedding. I had arrived alone. As much as I'm sure Jack would have liked to have shown up in some ridiculous get up (I wouldn't have put it past him to shave off his beard, don a wig, and stuff himself into a dress, pretending to be Will's long lost aunt), he did not. I was very, very grateful. We'd had our own private party, just the four of us, several days earlier. I was still marveling at the quantity of champagne he could drink and still walk.
Suffering from one of my headaches, I stood as far away from the festivities as possible and yet still be in the room. The quartet was quite decent—I had ferried them from Nassau myself—but by this point in the evening, God's angels could have been manning the bows and I would have been itching to leave. I had stayed as long as was polite, and at the end of this reel I would make my congratulations and head home. William and Elizabeth sat in high state at a table at the head of the room. William looked miserable (these sorts of affairs were torturous for him); while Elizabeth looked ecstatic (these sorts of affairs were a piece of cake for her). Being on public display was not to William's taste, and I couldn't help but applaud him. As Commodore of Port Royal, I'd been paraded in front of everyone in my dress uniform quite enough. He had my sympathies.
With nothing to do but count the beats until this dance had ended, I had been surveying the dancers and noted with some surprise that Andrew was dancing with that Miss Bowden, the woman who never met a cat she didn't like. How odd. And he was actually smiling.
"James," said Ted in a low voice.
"Good evening, Ted. Have you given your congratulations to the happy couple?" I pointed at Elizabeth and William.
Ted smiled. "Yes. Will is about to bolt. Imagine he's chomping at the bit. Mrs. Turner is quite beautiful. If you like that sort of thing."
I refrained from mentioning that William had already been chomping at said bit for several weeks now, and that his desire to bolt was not a reflection on Elizabeth's considerable charms, but a hatred of formal affairs.
"I received Andrew's resignation on my desk this afternoon. Is yours to follow?"
He was too well trained to fidget, but he did blush slightly.
"No, Andrew is getting married. I expect that is the basis for his resignation."
"Married?" What? I looked again. I had not imagined it; he was dancing with Miss Bowden. I stifled a meow. "Please do not tell me to her." I jerked my head in the direction of the dancers.
"Yes. It seems..." he paused. "She is quite intelligent and rather observant. It seems that she understand the depths of our friendship. She proposed to him. I shall live with them while in port."
My eyebrows met my hairline.
He coughed.
"There is a maid she is quite close to, and..." his voice trailed off. "He wants a son. She has agreed; two children."
Nothing more than an elaborate ruse, Andrew and his future wife will, to all intents and purposes, look like the perfect married couple. Ted, as Andrew's bosom friend, will share in their wedded bliss. The maid will share a room with her mistress—that was very common. All quite proper.
"There are other servants. People will talk," I said as a word of caution.
"For all her wealth, she lives simply. There will be only a manservant and a cook, who are, conveniently, the brother and mother of the maid, respectively."
Very convenient.
"A family affair. And the impetus on her part?"
"Her guardian is forcing the issue and had proposed several unsuitable names for potential husbands."
Yes, I imagined they were very unsuitable in that they would have expected her to actually share their bed!
"And you? You are in agreement with this scheme?"
I watched him watch the two of them dancing. Their smiles were genuine; it was clear that he wasn't merely being polite and doing his gentlemanly duty by asking a perennial wallflower to dance. True, the color was high in their cheeks, but it was a rather rambunctious reel. Knowing Andrew as well as I did, it didn't look like love. More like impending heat stroke between friends.
"Agatha is a nice woman. A bit too keen on books for my taste, but Andrew always has a book in hand, so no hardship there."
"And the cats?" I could not remember their names. A blessing.
He laughed. "Yes, I like cats. Andrew is learning to like them. It is a solution I can live with."
"Surely, this is not because of me and..." my voice trailed off.
"Yes and no. He was thinking of resigning anyway. He couldn't remain under your command, and yet having served under the best," Ted said this without malice (oh, Andrew), "he had no desire to sail under someone else. The cat obsession masks a quite intelligent woman. She'd known for months of the exact tenor of our 'friendship.' Given that Agatha had realized our situation, it was only a matter of time before someone else realized as well."
"I did not," I reminded him.
Ted smiled. "For all your intelligence, James, you are a bit of a dunce in these matters. She reasoned that by marrying him, it would solve all our problems. And I suppose it shall. I said yes to this scheme—he did ask me—because I will lose him otherwise. He thinks I don't notice, but he doesn't even need to see a child. He hears a giggle or a high voice asking his mother for a sweet, and he goes quiet for hours."
Andrew had thought he could successfully ignore this yearning. It must have been very deep-seated; he'd fairly leaped at the chance when offered. Andrew was the only one in this room besides the Turners who was having his cake and eating it too.
"And you?"
"Haven't you learned anything, James?" He sounded as weary as I felt. "Men in our situation are beggars, not choosers. We bed each other knowing that we might hang for it. We make sham marriages. We slip into the beds of our lovers when it is dark and leave before it is light. We make do."
The music ended with a flourish. Andrew and his fiancée clapped with enthusiasm and headed off toward the refreshment table.
"Ted," I gripped his arm. "You do understand, don't you? It is insanity, I freely acknowledge that, but I can't... not see him."
He looked at their backs as they made their way across the room, the skirt of her gown glimmering in the candlelight.
"Who would know better than I, James?"
***
Ted spoke true that night. Jack continued to slip into my bed when it was dark and leave before it was light. We bedded each other knowing that we might hang for it. It was the worst two years of my life and the best two years of my life. It was nothing but endless sleepless nights as I'd receive dispatches alerting me to a pirate captured and hanged here, another captured and hanged there. I'd wait for his return, yet terrified when a Thursday would come and he would be there. As I pulled him toward me, smelling of the sea and sweat, I would ask myself, is it tonight that we are caught? And then there were the weeks when a Thursday would come and no Jack, which was a very different sort of terrifying.
When one-hundred and four Thursdays passed and he did not return, I said my farewells to Elizabeth and William and returned home. Elizabeth wrote often, always with a postscript from William. Only they missed me, no one else. After six months in England, you couldn't even tell I had lived in the Caribbean for ten years; my face was pale as my fellow countrymen. Would that the memories had faded as quickly.
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