Mobilis in Mobili

[likeahurricane7]

Title: Mobilis in Mobili

Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean; Sparrington

Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: I have no claim on POTC or the lovely characters who populate it, even if it seems that James Norrington has, somewhat disconcertingly, made himself quite at home in my head with no apparent plans to leave. Jack Sparrow has been dropping by at random for years, as well, which surely doesn’t help matters.

Summary: The Immortal Jack Sparrow finds himself in a bit of a rut in our modern era. Whilst on a bit of a vacation, he finds a more than suitable solution, as well as an opportunity he'll not make the mistake of passing up on again.

Beta: The right honorable Porridgebird.

Warnings: See rating.



Immortality, Jack Sparrow often reflected these days, wasn’t exactly all that it was cracked up to be. The boredom, for instance, after the first couple of centuries, that tended to manifest as bleakest, blackest depression on Sunday afternoons: things like that tended to show up in the bloody fine print.

A book Jack had found himself reading at an airport some years ago had got the phenomenon named aright: the Long Dark Teatime of the Soul.

Truth be told, Jack Sparrow had been suffering from increasing levels of boredom ever since the 1950s. Piracy as an art form was dead, these days, except in some of the most desperate parts of the world. Technological marvels were still bright and shiny, and interesting, but not enough to quite catch his fancy yet. He’d found himself reading more fiction than usual, of late: stuff that whispered promises of where that technology might go, but it seemed as though it had spoiled the matter for him. Now that he had a good idea where all this stuff was going, he was left impatiently waiting for it instead of enjoying the present as he had always been wont to do before.

Piracy was dead. Professional thievery could only entertain him for about a decade at a time. Politics and military matters alternated between numbingly dull and gut-wrenchingly horrible, as per their usual. The families Jack had adopted over time had seen enough of him lately, and to keep them from wondering too much about how old he really was and what relation he actually was to them, it was time to leave them alone for a while.

And he was homesick for the sea something awful: for the sea, and for sailing.

That was how he’d wound up here, in one of the least-touristy parts of Greece, where men still sailed between islands named in the Odyssey--both for the sake of socialization, and survival, living off the sea as they’d been doing for ages, but with more modern boats. The boats were modern, aye, but they still had bloody sails, and so no one thought Jack Sparrow mad for spending weeks at a time on a small one-man sloop he’d designed a decade back, nor were there a great deal of greatly monied tourists or super-rich in their yachts to tempt him into trying a bit of improvised piracy.

Time had changed him. He’d long ago had to change his hair, because it’d had enough memories woven into it that it was killing his neck. He’d kept it short now and then, and often wound up altering it to best suit his purposes on various ventures. Now, casual as he was feeling these days, it was shoulder-length, in lots of long thin braids with the occasional bead or trinket hidden amongst them. He also wore a pair of kohl-black sunglasses with circular lenses; they wouldn’t have been out of place on a blues musician, and neither would his black fedora, which he kept below-deck as the sailing winds tended to disrupt it. Whilst sailing he wore tall boots, but they were modern and more comfortable than they used to be. His black t-shirt was actually of very fine quality, and had some intriguing abstract designs on it, but it had been through some abuse, and not just because Jack had taken a pair of scissors to the bottom of the collar, causing it to open in a “v” that showed the top of his collarbone.

His five ear-piercings, his sailor’s tan, the few heavy old rings on his fingers, the precious metals still visible in his grin, the cloth cuffs on his wrists (so handy for slipping things under for sleight-of-hand tricks) and the cut of his beard made him look like an eccentric, oddly tribal and bohemian intellectual. When he added his dark grey, fine-tailored but heavily battered trench coat into the mix (as he often did when not enjoying the feel of sailing winds on his skin) he appeared as thoroughly disreputable as ever, which he still thought was his best look.

His sloop was made up partly of more modern materials, and had some modern amenities, but her design had touches of the old world to it. Her deck felt like the deck of a boat made a few hundred years ago. She smelled like wood and tar, just as she should, so far as Jack was concerned. She was fast, when she wanted to be, and her name was Opal.

Jack had been enjoying a fine day’s sail, and had only just returned his ship to the small Greek family who kept her for him and made sure she was never kept away from the sea, when he was aware of an odd little ship coming in to dock. She was larger than Opal, and built to sail in the open sea, but still was a one-man vessel, and there was something about the shape of her that made Jack’s mind wander back to ships he’d once, long ago, commandeered: sleek and naval, but not modern-naval. Jack plucked his small spyglass from the pocket of his coat and peered at her closer.

The name, on the side of the little ship, was The Fleetwing, which sounded inexplicably familiar. The man at her helm was tall, but Jack couldn’t make out his features in the late-evening light, especially given how the stranger’s hair was just long enough to obscure his face. Something nagged at the back of Jack’s mind, and he almost dismissed it, but it was Sunday evening, and he’d not much else to occupy his mind just now. He let curiosity bid him to investigate.

Warily, Jack kept his distance from the little vessel, watching her dock from down the nearby pier a ways, at a familiar restaurant and bar with a big open balcony on its second story.

The Fleetwing’s sailor treated her well, with a mixture of affectionate care and habitual military efficiency as he bound up her sails and tied her up to the dock. The more Jack watched him work, the more he could see bits of old-world style in the ship’s design: the old world he himself had been born in.

All the while, another man, an American if Jack had to guess, stood on the dock beside The Fleetwing, talking at the sailor in a highly impatient manner. Something about the American boded ill, Jack sensed, but his presence revealed something about the sailor: he was English. Jack would recognize that aristocratic bearing, aloofness and visibly droll style from a mile away. It was growing dark by the time that the two men strolled under the balcony and into the bar, and Jack cursed, because he had only heard the American’s voice, and seen neither of their faces, thus not allowing him to see if he could identify either of them, be it from rumor or, less likely, from his own memory. He thought, though, that he might’ve been seen by the Englishman, who seemed to be intriguingly sharp and oh-so-aware of his surroundings: a common habit among predators, Jack knew, since he was a predator himself.

After twenty minutes or so, Jack gave in to curiosity and wandered downstairs. He ordered rum at the bar, using the mirror behind the barkeep to scan the room behind him. He was impressed to note that the men had found one of the few little alcoves not visible in that mirror: wary folk, were these ones. Jack took his rum, and swaggered toward the table he most suspected they’d pick, since he knew the other two had been frequently occupied of late by drug-peddlers.

Jack sat with his back to them, watching their reflection in the rectangular metal napkin-holder on his table. It obscured their features, but he could read their body-language. He noted that when he sat down, the Englishman immediately turned his head, and if the reflection had been a little clearer, Jack had no doubt they’d have made eye-contact. Despite wanting very much to see their faces clearly, Jack did not turn, did not glance over his shoulder. He pretended to ignore them, and listened closely.

The American was loud, and in his mid-fifties. His accent was southern.

“What the fuck are you doing here anyway? It’s the middle of nowhere Greece. What can a man like you want here?”

The Englishman was quieter, and timed his reply so that it was mostly-obscured by the sounds of men elsewhere in the bar shouting at the results of a soccer game on the television, but Jack still heard him, and something about the rough baritone slide of that impeccable English drawl made the hairs stand up on the nape of his neck. “I meant it when I said that I planned to take a vacation.”

“Bullshit. I know people, man, and I know your type: detectives, espionage spooks, soldiers with a thing for the thrill of the chase.”

The Englishman inclined his head in reluctant agreement. His hair was dark brown, and cut in a modern, flattering way: about earlobe-length, with no product in it, and had been at some point smoothed down from its earlier wind-blown state.

“Most of you die young.”

Inexplicably, this made the Englishman smile crookedly, as though at a private joke. “Trust me, I know.”

“I’ve met a hundred men of your sort before, and those few that live to be older than me have just barely learned to relax enough to take a real vacation. You’re not that old, so I suspect that this is-.”

“I am older than I look,” the Englishman interrupted curtly. “Furthermore, I shall not help you in your current venture. I know all about it, and I have chosen vacation instead.” He tossed back the remainder of his beer like a sailor, despite how posh his accent sounded, and set his mug down firmly as he got to his feet and sidled around to the American’s side of the table, his back to Jack, which obscured the words so that the pirate really had to strain to listen. “And I doubt very much that you would have met another man quite like me were you twice the age you are now. I am a hunter, yes, but do not make the grave mistake of lumping me in with every other hunter you have known, or you will sorely regret it, Mr. Harris.”

The American was conspicuously silent.

“Get the hell out of Greece. Here are your tickets for the next flights out.” The Englishman tugged an envelope from his back pocket and slapped it down on the table. “If I see you again before our next appointed meeting, I shall find more agreeable partnerships than yours in our shared hunting grounds. You are lucky that I am no longer involved in espionage, or I would have made your life miserable, whether I happened to serve on the side of America or of Somalia. Goodnight, Mr. Harris.” The Englishman then shot one last suspicious glance over his shoulder at Jack and withdrew, slipping out the door into the night.

Jack sat very still once the Englishman left: not quite so still as the American, who looked bone-pale and as though his life had just flashed before his eyes, and who clutched at that envelope as though it were a lifeline.

Slowly, the former pirate finished off his rum, lost deep in thought.

The very first thing Jack had begun doing, upon seeking immortality, was to sharpen up his memory. As a result, after years of practice, he could remember the faces of nearly everyone he’d ever met, going back over two hundred years. Voices were a more slippery matter. He’d heard an awful lot of them, and people of similar races and nationality all tended to sound pretty familiar after a while, to the point that now and again Jack had been caught completely off-guard by hearing the voice of someone long-dead from the lips of a complete stranger. The older his memory of a voice, the less able he was to even recall from whom he thought he’d heard it.

This one, Jack felt, was impressive. Muscle-memory over two centuries old had sent a chill down his spine and made him feel a crick in his neck. The Englishman’s voice had rung inexplicably, impossibly familiar, but when Jack tried to think of how or why, he was distracted by thoughts of quite how appealing it was: baritone and polished, impeccably controlled and yet clearly dangerous. It was the sort of voice Jack wanted to hear in bed, and find out what it would sound like when its owner lost control.

Honestly, it made Jack remember a tall and equally dangerous man he’d known ages ago, and whom he’d broken once, on accident, and never gotten the chance to get close to as he might’ve liked. He thought back on that green-eyed commodore-rogue-admiral now and then, more than he probably should, and usually when he least expected to because something small would bring back a memory. It was always both a little discomfiting, and a little wistful. Jack hadn’t let himself think about the habit overmuch, since Norrington had been dead for so many years, but pirates, even if they’re not really pirates anymore, have a tendency not to forget missed chances, especially when the treasure missed happened to be so pretty and so... promising.

Jack had, in his original plans, fully intended to make his way to an airport in a few days’ time, much as Mr. Harris the American would now have to, since there weren’t any international ones handily nearby. Jack had fully intended to, from the airport, head to Singapore and re-absorb the parts of that city that never really changed.

Never one to let his original intentions get in the way of pursuing an unexpected gleam or glitter of golden opportunity, Jack let his old plans fall apart and came up with a new one; in the morning, he would seek out that English sailor. He knew, deep within his very bones, that there was treasure to be found there.

Jack strolled casually along the docks, his eyes wandering over every ship he passed, deliberately ignoring the one in which he was most interested, and the shirtless man currently checking her over from bow to stern. It was in the former pirate’s nature to draw out his own anticipation. He was, after all, a sensualist, as well as an adventurer. Only once he stood so close to the stern of The Fleetwing that he might have easily climbed aboard, did Jack look up at the man currently tugging at the rigging and examining the ropes for wear.

Jack took a long moment to merely drink in that sight, sliding his sunglasses down his nose to stare over the tops of the lenses. The Englishman wore tall boots that brought Jack to mind of old naval style: navy from his own era of origin. The Englishman also wore tailored denim jeans that had been worn in over the years, so that they fit his miles-long legs and his lovely behind both flatteringly, and comfortably. He was also stripped to the waist, displaying a sailor’s tan, as well as, to Jack’s eye, some very interesting marks on his back: scars that had grown very faded, but which still made Jack’s own shoulders tense at their familiar shape: whip-marks. There was a tattoo on the Englishman’s right bicep of a hawk perched atop an unfamiliar family crest, as well as a long ribbon with a few names on it and the phrase Semper Fi on another, shorter ribbon across the top that the hawk held in one set of talons. It was a little faded, but Jack would hazard that it had been re-inked at some point.

Scars aside, the man’s muscled back, lightly glossed with sweat in the morning sun, was a work of art that had Jack’s mind wandering all sorts of carnal places. After a full two minutes, during which the Englishman showed not the slightest twitch to indicate awareness that there was anyone behind him, the silence broke.

“You were at the bar the other night,” the Englishman said, perfectly casual, and without so much as a half-glance in Jack’s direction.

Jack smirked a little. “Mayhap I was.”

The Englishman’s shoulders stiffened for a moment in almost-recognition of that voice and that lilting speech, causing a brief hitch in his otherwise graceful movements. He shook his head a little to clear it. “I saw you dock your own boat, before I’d made it very far in. She’s an interesting design.”

“I could say the same, mate. You must have a hell of a spyglass, though, to have spotted me from that far out.”

“I do.” This time, he turned around, one hand still in the rigging, and as soon as he caught sight of Jack he went utterly still, except for a slight, reflexive widening of his sea-green eyes for the first few moments.

Jack had never felt more poleaxed in his life. He knew that face. He knew this sailor. He’d not seen the man in over two centuries, but James Norrington had never been a man easily forgotten, once you’d met him. Jack felt a thrill of fear and eagerness for a moment, half-prepared for a chase, but he remained still for a long few moments, knowing his face was a picture of shell-shock. Slowly, he lifted his sunglasses so they rested atop his head, pushing some of his braids out of his face.

They remained silent for nearly a whole minute.

“Ah,” Norrington said at last. “I had thought to myself, you know, ‘that man on the balcony looks quite like a pirate.’” He straightened up with a soft laugh, rubbing his eyes, which had dried out a little from the staring. “Old instincts. I thought it was just a trick of the light and old instincts playing up.”

Jack cleared his throat. “You--you’re alive.”

“Yes. And you as well. I’m less surprised than you, I think.”

“You’d better be, mate, or I’d have no respect for you at all.”

Norrington smiled helplessly, crookedly. “It is very early for it, but I find myself suddenly in need of a very stiff drink.” He looked at the rigging idly, then shot Jack a sidelong look, curious and amused and wary. “Care to join me?”

Equally helplessly, Jack nodded. “Aye.” After all, it wasn’t every day you stumbled across an old arch-nemesis you’d never realized was almost painfully attractive. Jack had taken better care of himself over the past century as well, but Norrington...

As the former commodore tugged a dark blue collared polo over his head, Jack took the opportunity to admire the man’s lithe, surprisingly slender, wiry-muscled torso, just before the shirt covered it up. He got only the barest glimpse of another tattoo, a ribbon with a latin phrase, over Norrington’s heart, and cursed silently that he hadn’t been able to tell what it said.

Oh Gods and little bloody fishes, had that potential been hidden under all that naval finery back then? The commodore had been attractive enough: painfully pretty and graceful and honorable when at his best, and a gloriously handsome and rugged and indignant rogue at his worst. And now he was neither navy-man nor rogue, and Jack was more than a little intrigued, as they fell in step on their way down the docks toward the bar.

“Where’d you sail in from?”

Norrington smirked faintly. “Boston.”

Jack was startled. “Wot?”

“I have, for the past twenty years, been using three separate personas stationed primarily in Boston, from which I had highly illegal access to various mostly-government-run archives and information banks. I faked the death of the two important ones, and am now taking a vacation from my work by using the third, which I have very carefully kept a spotlessly clean record on.” A wicked grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I sailed from Boston, to here. It was quite refreshing, actually.”

Jack’s head was spinning a bit as they stepped into the cool darkness of their chosen venue, and made their way toward the bar. It was indeed very early, and if the place had not also been a restaurant, it might’ve been utterly empty. As it was, all of the other customers were out enjoying the weather.

Both ex-pirate and ex-commodore ordered rum.

“Leave the bottle,” Jack said firmly. “I’ll need it.” He then promptly drained and refilled his own glass.

“You know, I would never have thought that after two hundred years it would still be so terribly satisfying to see you knocked completely off-balance,” Norrington mused quietly into his glass, once the waiter-turned-bartender left them alone.

“And I’d’ve never imagined running into you again. You were dead, mate. Lizzy saw it. Will had your sword.”

Norrington considered this thoughtfully for a second, then drained his rum in two swallows and poured himself more. “I was dead. So were you, at one point. I found my own way out of the locker. It took me some time, and I nearly went mad just getting myself as far as the deck of the Flying Dutchman, but Captain Turner felt that he owed me a favor, so when he discovered a certain map, which you apparently had no further use for, he offered it to me, along with a second chance at life. I went on my own ventures, a few of them. I think one of our ventures was, in fact, the same one, or so it would seem.” He arched an eyebrow at Jack significantly.

“Aqua de Vida?” Jack murmured.

Norrington nodded.

“Why?”

Norrington mulled over this, pouring himself yet more rum. “I could not rejoin the navy, not at that point, and not as myself, but nor could I give up the idea of having that much influence. I recalled your babble about immortality, and I’d heard from Will that you might’ve found it, and I started thinking about the idea. If I were immortal, I reasoned, I could be without fear of death, and live long enough to still have a profound effect upon the improvement of the world. I would have to do a great deal of lying, and much of my efforts would require a lot of time setting up hidden traps, and other clandestine work, but given the time frame...” The ex-navy man swirled his rum thoughtfully, refraining from another sip for the moment. “When you find yourself offered any one resource that is unlimited, especially when it is such a valuable and useful resource such as time, the possibilities tend to grow exponentially from there. So I seized the opportunity.”

Jack nodded slowly. A very different approach than he would’ve ever taken himself, but it suited Norrington well enough, it seemed. “You know the place is gone, now, right?”

Norrington nodded. “Yes. The swamp took it back, then they drained and filled in the swamp to make an orchard, and then built a theme park on it.” He frowned a little. “Bloody Americans.”

“Now it really is a fountain of youth, though,” Jack pointed out, smiling bitterly.

Norrington scoffed. “It’s a fountain of plastic merchandise.”

Jack laughed.

“What of you? I take it that your forays into piracy are increasingly few and far between. It no longer suits you.”

Jack blinked a few times. “Aye,” he said, cautiously. “Why? D’you still hunt it?”

Norrington only shook his head. “No. I have different prey. Mayhap I will tell you about it when you have told me a tale of your own.”

The former pirate considered this. “You’ll not be too surprised. Professional theft over the past century has served aright. It’s a challenge, and can be done without the unsavory mess of leaving bodies behind, if it’s handled artfully enough. Still get chased about, which is fun, whether it be the law or other law-breakers. Speaking of: you seem to be in an interesting legal position yourself, Norrington.”

Norrington froze for a moment, staring into his drink, then he shut his eyes with a wry not-quite-smile. “I haven’t heard that name in decades,” he murmured thoughtfully, leaning back against the bar in a manner that was a bit too casual for a classic English gentleman, but which suited a sailor just fine. “Brings back a lot of memories.”

“What do you go by, then, these days?”

Norrington glanced at Jack’s bare forearms, where the pirate had rolled up his sleeves, his gaze lingering on the sparrow tattoo and the incredibly faded pirate brand. He then met Jack’s eyes again and said simply, “James. Just James for now. I’ve a hundred other aliases by now, of course, but it is...” He shook his head. “It is difficult to answer to other names at certain times.”

Times like this, Jack acknowledged. “Have you met any others, then?”

“Hm?”

“Like us.”

“Yes. A few, over the years.” His eyebrows raised a little. “None, however, that I knew back when... back before all of this.” He gestured vaguely with his free hand. “You?”

“Aye,” Jack murmured. “Several, here and there. Usually they like places that never change, or at least that never change in some of the real important ways: Rome, Singapore, New Orleans...”

“London,” James added. “New York, as well.”

Jack nodded. “Aye.” He then poured his fifth glass, and James hailed the waiter, asking for another bottle. The one the waiter brought them was covered in a thin layer of dust, which the waiter hastily wiped away.

“Not much call for rum, here, I take it.” Jack sounded amused.

“Good year, though,” James observed, as he opened the bottle.

Jack made a noncommittal sound, watching James refill both glasses. “You’ve drawn it out long enough, haven’t you, mate? What is it you’ve been doing all this time?”

James tapped the bar top with the side of his thumb. He turned in his seat, facing Jack more squarely, and began taking off his wristwatch. He also unlatched a band that he wore on his other wrist, which looked like something sentimental: masculinely-broad links of weather-dulled bronze, engraved with small figures and deities in Thai style. It was, to western eyes, like a decorative watchband with no watch on it. James then held out his bared wrists for Jack’s perusal. “It’s to do with these.”

Jack’s curiosity thoroughly piqued, he took hold of James’ forearms gently and looked at his wrists. Faded, like Jack’s brand, but still quite visible, were scars cut into the skin, from manacles, some time ages and ages ago. Slave-shackles, in fact, if Jack had to guess. He’d not seen marks like those in a very long time. His eyes were wide as he lifted James’ right wrist closer, as its scar was more severe. He released James’ left in order to run his fingers over the scar on the right, very aware of James watching him closely. The tan-lines on either side of each scar were light, so Jack hazarded that James only kept them covered when he most wanted anonymity.

“When did you get these?” Jack asked quietly.

“Back when I was a lieutenant. My elder brother and my father both held positions of considerable influence and power. I was to be ransomed at their expense. To hide me during transport, they put me down in the hold of a slave ship, and treated me as part of the rest of the cargo. Rival slavers attacked and took over the ship whilst I was aboard. They did not view me as anything other than cargo.”

Jack swallowed tightly, his too-vivid imagination afire with images. He did not meet James’ eyes, instead examining the scar further, turning James’ wrist gently to see more of it. “They were infected. In a bad way.”

“Yes. I escaped in the early stages of the fever, but shortly after at last making it aboard the right English ship, I was wholly incapacitated,” James said, his voice calm and his inflection impossible to read emotions from. “The entirety of the experience had a profound effect upon me. The fact that the despicable trade still happens in this day and age, for all that it is much minimized and far more secretive...” James shook his head slowly. “It is my life’s work to destroy it.”

Jack met his eyes then, not knowing what James might read in his expression, because the feeling in Jack’s chest defied words, defied explanation, defied anything Jack had ever expected to feel, let alone to feel for this man. “I see, then,” Jack murmured.

James wore a steely, soldier-like expression at first, but it soon relaxed, and he nodded. “I thought that if I recalled your own history rightly, it was safe to assume that you would understand the matter clearly,” he said, his voice low.

With reluctance, Jack forced himself to let go of the former commodore, who proceeded to put on his watch and that brass band again. “I think I do.” Jack leaned on the bar thoughtfully, thinking for a long few minutes, and draining two more large glasses of rum as he did so.

James watched him, and kept his own thoughts to himself.

“Do you know, that theft gets boring after a while? Mind, it has to be quite a very long while,” Jack said finally.

“Really?”

“Aye. There’s only so many places worth stealing from: exploiters, other criminals, corporations. And I’m a man of action, you see, so sitting about and hacking via computers, which is the cleanest way to do it, these days--it doesn’t appeal much t’ me. So I’ve got limited, y’see, and into a bit of a rut.”

James arched an eyebrow.

“I’m considering extending this vacation I’ve been on, out here. Only meant to be a week, but I’ve not exactly any pressing matters to get to...” He smiled suggestively, with that familiar glint of gold.

After admiring Jack’s expression for perhaps a few moments longer than necessary, all the while wearing an unreadable mask himself, James looked down at his drink. “My next stop will be Venice. I’m meeting someone there,” he said, calmly, as though making an offhand comment about the weather. “If I can stand sailing with you that far...” He cleared his throat quietly. “You possess a valuable skill-set. If we could possibly get along, and work toward the same goal...”

Jack leaned in, grinning. “Think you can work with a man like me, James?”

James glanced at him over the rim of his drink, his face a deliberate and perfectly inscrutable mask. “Better to find out the answer to that during a vacation than in the middle of a fight, I think.”

“Who’re you meeting in Venice, anyway?” Jack moved to finish his last glass of rum. The second bottle was empty.

“My great-niece.”

Jack choked.

“At least, that is what she thinks her relation to me is,” James murmured. “She is adoptive family.”

“I see, then.” Jack cleared his throat. “No children of your own, then?”

James shook his head, swirling the last of his own glass. “No. I’ve only ever fallen for one woman.” There was just the slightest emphasis on woman, which was very telling, and not quite what Jack had expected at all: promising, though.

Jack’s eyebrows raised. “Really?”

James shrugged. “I have met other women I might have loved, with her same spark and some of her fire, but I would hate to outlive my own children. It is difficult enough to love at all, what with...” He gestured vaguely with the hint of a wince and finished his rum, setting the glass aside. “Time and tide.”

“Aye,” Jack agreed, wholeheartedly. “I’ve tried to avoid it myself. Only failed the once.” He frowned deeply. “That was how I found out the fountain was gone.”

It was James’ turn to show a good deal of surprise. Then he reached over and placed a hand over Jack’s, where it still rested on his empty glass. “I’m so sorry.”

Jack only shook his head. “It was a long time ago.”

“Everything was,” James said quietly. “Scars linger.”

Jack glanced at him, and wondered if he were in a great deal of trouble here, because his pulse was speeding up and there was a strange buzz where James touched him.

James squeezed his hand once, and then gently let go. Jack’s hand felt oddly cold.

“You’ve still had your share, then.”

“Lovers? Yes.” And I’ve lost them, he did not have to add.

Jack gave the whole matter a lot of thought. “Who’s your niece?”

“She’s...” James hesitated. “On the slave ship, they first kept me with the women, before the rival slavers caught up. One of them was Amina. She was older, and spoke Spanish and French. She was very kind to me, treating me like her son. When I was moved in amongst the men later, I met her two sons. One of them died on the ship, but... once I had made my escape, and recovered from the fever, I found them, along with her two daughters, and freed them. Amina followed me, and was officially my cook, but in reality she and her daughters ran my household, and I acted as though they owned it, and I were merely a boarder there when not at sea. Her son apprenticed as a tailor in Port Royal. Even once her daughters married and moved out, her family, and others, regularly visited my home. It was very different than anything I had ever experienced with my own family, and I have never felt more at home and at peace with the world than in those nights spent in my own kitchen with my sleeves rolled up, trading stories with people who never saw me solely in terms of my uniform.”

James closed his eyes, the memories still warming him, even after all this time. “I left my house to Amina in my will. When I returned, I did not take it back from her. I did not try to return in order to continue that life.” He smiled a little. “She knew I had been really dead, and the implications of my having come back. I promised her that I would watch over her family. My great-niece is named Amina, as well; I suggested the name to her parents. Calling her my great-niece is a more believable claim, these days, given the nature of some of her family’s more recent marriages, since the sixties. In the past, it has been more difficult.”

“I c’n imagine,” Jack murmured.

James opened his eyes and seemed a bit surprised by the look on Jack’s face. He did not know why, but it made the air between them seem suddenly electric. “Jack?”

“Just thinking.” The former pirate tilted his head slightly to one side. “How is it that it’s taken us this long, do you think?”

“Pardon?”

“To run into each other.”

“Well-”

“And for me to see how bloody beautiful you’ve been all this time.” He bit his lip for just a second, then added more quietly, "An' how I ever let you slip away before..." Jack shook his head slowly, apparently mystified, his smile widening a little as his dark eyes glittered, hinting at truly unknowable thoughts.

James blinked a few times, speechless. He may have blushed slightly.

Jack’s dark smile turned into an outright wicked grin as he pulled himself to his feet. He leaned into James’ space, until his lips were very close to James’ cheek. “I think, love, that I’d like to try and keep ahold of you this time, if you’ll let me.”

His eyes falling shut, James tried to think about this logically. It was mad. Running into a pirate he’d not seen in centuries, trading a few stories, and suddenly feeling as though... as though...

“You smell far better than I recall,” James said softly, his voice calm and inflectionless.

“Times change, and we change with ‘em.”

James turned his head a little, so that he could see Jack’s eyes, black and fathomless, slightly out of focus due to their close proximity.

It would’ve been mad if they’d been other people, but they could both read each other like open books, after all these years practicing on others in much more dire situations. James could read the lines around Jack’s eyes and the clothes he wore, the scars on his body, the predatory grace to his otherwise still-flamboyant movements, and he knew that, however inexplicably, he knew this former pirate better than anyone else alive. And Jack Sparrow, in return, knew James Norrington.

James’ lips curled into a smile at the sigh of relief that Jack gave, as soon as James kissed him. Then, as the kiss slowly deepened, James lost track of himself utterly. He could taste rum and salt and spices, and feel Jack’s hands: one in his hair and the other at his waist. James’ own hands rested on Jack’s hips.

When the kiss broke, Jack felt dazed. He could taste rum and gunpowder tea and apricot on his tongue, and he was pressed up against James’ chest, blissfully close. He could distantly hear James talking, and someone else talking. It wasn’t until James laid down money on the bar apologetically, and wrapped an arm around Jack’s waist to lead him out, that he realized the waitstaff was shooing them out and warning them not to try doing naughty things in the middle of the restaurant. Apparently, Jack’s attempt to climb into James’ lap had been crossing a line somewhere, denoting that a great deal of impropriety was about to ensue. Jack sniggered helplessly and wrapped an arm around James as well. It felt good to be in an era where they were merely clucked at like teenagers, instead of arrested, for this sort of behavior in public.

As soon as they were outside, James muttered huskily, “I see what you mean.”

“Hmm?” Jack tilted his head up and grinned at the look of wicked affection in those sea-green eyes.

“Why on earth has it taken us this long?”

Jack laughed. “I’ve no idea, but now I’ve found you--well, I’ve a covetous nature, y’see, especially with treasure, as you’ll recall. I’m very unwilling to part with the best finds, once I’ve got my hands on them.” His hand on James’ hip drifted slightly lower, slipping into James’ empty back pocket and enjoying the feel of firm muscle beneath the denim.

“You’re very serious. This is all very sudden, as well,” James murmured, but did not sound as though this bothered him, as they made their way back down along the docks. “It suits you, I suppose.”

“And what of you, love?”

James met his gaze and held it. “I think that I have been waiting for this for quite some time, and never known it.”

“Waiting for what, exactly?” Jack pressed.

James paused conveniently to climb aboard his ship and offer Jack a hand, helping him in.

“Still a bloody gentleman.”

“And you are still a shameless rogue. Perhaps not everything changes.”

“You’ve still not answered my question,” Jack said pointedly.

James stepped closer, until there was a bare inch between them. “Waiting to find out why you drove me mad as you did, why I was so desperate to capture you that I acted not only foolhardy but against my own nature, why I still sailed on your damned ship afterwards, why it was that when I died my last thought before I lost consciousness was of your name and an inexplicable feeling of regret along with it, why I followed your footsteps using that bloody map when it was offered to me, and why it is that over all of these years I’ve still found myself randomly thinking of you more often, I think, than half of my lost loves--even though I’d never gotten a real taste of you.”

Jack’s eyes grew very wide. His breathing was a little uneven. It took him a moment to realize that his hands had, at some point during that pretty little speech, gripped James’ waist firmly, pulling him still closer until they touched at every point from hip to sternum. “Until today,” Jack corrected.

With a nod, James concurred, “Until now.”
Jack relaxed a little when James’ hand cupped his face. “I missed you, too, love,” he said simply, leaning into the touch. “Why didn’t we ever get to this before? Why’d we let such bloody stupid things get in the way?”

“Hindsight, Jack Sparrow, is a bitch,” James said slowly.

“An’ time is just memory mixed with desire,” Jack added, wrapping his arms around James’ neck as James rested a hand on his back to pull him closer.

“I’ve heard that somewhere.”

“It’s a song. Doesn’t matter. Kiss me again, love.”

James obliged him, tangling a hand in his hair and closing the distance between them. Jack drowned in him, carried away utterly by the feel and the taste of him, their tongues sliding effortlessly, madly, beautifully. Why on earth had he ever dismissed this creature as an enemy or a rival or a mad bit of naval finery? Desire he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying around, quietly ignoring for years, flooded through him in a rush: acute, painful and exquisite.

Jack hardly noticed they were moving, that they had managed to stumble their way below-deck, until James fumbled the light-switch on and Jack saw the respectably-sized bed in the cabin and then immediately pinned James down on it, straddling the former commodore’s hips.

“Too many clothes,” James breathed, then grinned. “At least you only have one belt to contend with, now.”

“And you’ve much fewer buttons,” Jack countered, pulling James’ shirt up over his head. James countered by deftly plucking away Jack’s sunglasses from the top of his head and setting them aside safely out of the way, then dipping a hand into Jack’s coat-pocket, his fingers expertly finding a small bottle Jack tended to keep on hand for precisely these reasons.

“How’d you know-”

“Jack. I’ve loved only one woman, but do not make me recount the men, as we haven’t the time,” James drawled. “Also, I noticed you pat your pocket a moment ago to be sure you had it.”

Jack shook his head with a laugh and shrugged out of his coat, shivering a little at the feel of those long-fingered ex-naval hands caressing their way up his chest and his arms, incidentally pushing the fabric of his shirt up and off along the way. Jack then made a low, guttural noise as James’ hands ghosted down his back and James’ tongue swirled around his left nipple. Jack retaliated with a grind of his hips, making James’ breath catch.

“Boots, love,” Jack breathed, thankful for such modern innovations as those that allowed him to simply unzip his and push them off. He then deftly moved down James’ body and tugged at his. “Still tight-laced, I see,” he complained.

“They get less water in them than do yours,” James countered.

“Fair enough.” Jack’s dextrous fingers removed the impeding footwear as quickly as possible, whilst James obligingly unbuttoned his jeans. Jack tugged those down as well, and whistled. “Nothing under? Why, James, I never knew commodores tended to go command-mmh.” He was interrupted when James pulled him into a fierce, urgent kiss, and traded their places: ex-commodore pinning ex-pirate. He then adeptly removed Jack’s trousers and swallowed Jack’s arousal whole, making Jack’s brain melt and his hips writhe. “Gods. Jamie.” He tangled his be-ringed fingers in James’ hair, trying to anchor himself as the world spun around him. “Bless the Royal Navy. Jesus Christ.”

James chuckled low around him at that, making Jack whimper at the vibrations. He was then surprised when the pirate urgently pulled him away--dragging him up bodily--and kissed him hard. Then he felt Jack’s legs wrap around him in invitation and remembered belatedly that he had a bottle of lubricant in one hand for a reason. He moaned softly into Jack’s mouth and reached down between them, preparing his length with liberal use of the bottle’s contents before setting the container down on the bedside table with Jack’s sunglasses. Jack glanced at the movement and caught sight of their reflections in the two lenses. Then he met James’ gaze with a grin.

James matched it, and pushed his way slowly into Jack’s body. The heat and tightness of it cause a low, breathless moan to escape James’ throat before he could suppress it.

Jack inhaled sharply and arched up closer, taking him deeper. “James,” he breathed, pleading, and the Englishman brushed a trail of fire down Jack’s throat with his mouth, letting the former pirate adjust for a moment. “Yer a gifted man,” Jack panted.

“You’re not bad yourself. I look forward to your returning the favor,” James said heatedly, his voice far lower and rougher than Jack had ever heard it, even back when the man had been a half-pickled rogue in Tortuga. Then James rolled his hips forward skillfully, and all coherent thought ceased.

Jack’s head fell back and he moaned, his witty reply suddenly lost forever in the burst of fireworks at the edges of his vision. “Fuck yes,” he groaned. “Again.”

James obliged, and kept obliging, slowly picking up the pace, striking deep in the most maddening fashion with every rolling and wave-like undulation of his hips--and Jack matched him: writhing, pulling, kissing, biting, counter-thrusting. James was lost in it, until he felt himself coming close to the edge, and reached down between them, tangling his fingers with Jack’s, both of their hands wrapped around Jack’s cock, so that they both stroked it at a madly fast pace, out of joint with James’ unrelenting thrusts.

Between the friction and the rhythm and the way James felt inside him, Jack’s eyes almost rolled back in his head. He came hard, feeling James follow him soon after in a flash of heat, the rhythm finally slowing to a halt, leaving only their heartbeats and rough breathing. James collapsed only partially, settling on his elbows to avoid crushing his lover, but Jack still felt the weight of him, the head and the closeness. If he had been able to move his arms at the time, he would have pulled James down still closer.

The boat rocked gently around them, the waters calm beneath her, as the two men both lay catching their breaths, neither of them moving very much until James sat up a little and fumbled in his nightstand and pulled out a small towel, began cleaning them both up with it.

Jack smirked a little. “Prepared.”

“Most of the time,” James murmured. “I would say always, but given that I’m still inside the key exception to that rule...”

Jack chuckled. “You seemed ready enough.”

“Just because I’m caught off-guard and unprepared by you does not mean that I cannot match you fire for fire, Jack.”

“Promise?”

“To match you?”

“Aye. Like I said, love, I’d like to keep hold of you, this time.”

James smiled softly and kissed him again: just a fleeting brush of lips. “You have me, so long as you can stand me. I am not an easy man to live with.”

“Aye, but the alternative isn’t looking nearly so intriguing. Let’s give it a try.”

“Yes. Let’s,” James agreed, letting Jack pull him in close and kiss him more thoroughly once again.

|| Story Index ||