Tyger, Tyger
Title: Tyger, Tyger
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean; Sparrington
Rating: PG
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.
Summary: Possibly a one-shot, possibly not. Set after CotBP, completely ignoring the two movies meant to follow shortly after. Jack Sparrow makes an unsettling discovery in Tortuga one night. Influenced by William Blake.
Note: I’m not dead. Just restin’, or possibly pinin’ for the fjords. This little plot bunny appeared. Since it was small, I was able to fit it into my currently hectic schedule. Whether it will turn into anything more than a one-shot remains to be seen. I actually didn't know that it was linked to William Blake's poem until I wrote the last line and suddenly knew what the title should be.
Many things, unusual and even disturbing, could often be found in taverns in Tortuga; the term “expect the unexpected” was the only rule to be applied, infuriating and unfair as that rule tended to be.
Jack Sparrow was currently cursing that rule, but with more awe than actual malice; because, really, what was a more unexpected find in a Tortuga tavern than a Commodore of the British Royal Navy--furthermore, one who was widely known for both his increasingly numerous successes hunting pirates and his overwhelming posh Englishness, complete with pomp and finery and a scathingly sarcastic drawl that could do more damage to a man’s spirits and confidence than a flogging.
Of course, the pomp and finery were not worn now, not here; because the green-eyed navy man was many things, but stupid was not one of them.
James Norrington turned, sensing someone watching him, and met the pirate captain’s gaze without hesitation, keeping his expression masked. Only the slight narrowing of his eyes--showing recognition and threat and...not hatred, strangely enough--let Jack know that the good commodore had registered him as something more than just another bit of scenery.
The two men stared at each other, Jack watching with open scrutiny and curiosity, and James deliberately looking almost bored. Jack took in the commodore’s disguise: a day or two of stubble, the roguish clothing, the long brown hair now allowed to frame his face in messy waves, a battered black tricorne hat, and a silver earring to complete the look. If Jack had not spent so much time, some months ago, studying (and, admittedly, admiring in a somewhat lusty manner) that aristocratic face and those changeable sea-green eyes whilst providing navigational tips to the men of the Dauntless, he would not have recognized Norrington now. What he found unsettling was the relaxed, almost feline air about the man, given that this was bloody Tortuga which was decidedly not the natural habitat of still-breathing still-serving Navy types, let alone naval officers with such sterling reputations as Commodore Norrington.
On the Dauntless, James had seemed like a hawk: fierce, proud, distant, with stiff and too-straight posture, and a natural air of authoritative power. He had been every inch propriety: a fine man, and one unaccustomed to being something other than steely and militant, so that he seemed clumsy and over-starched when trying to be gentle in a manner both proper and affectionate toward one Miss Elizabeth Swann; it had almost seemed like embarrassment, but Jack had taken a closer look, and seen the struggle as the predatory commodore tried to open himself to a creature who would not make the effort to unravel his mystery herself. Piratical and fiery and lovely Elizabeth may be, but Jack had to admit that he considered her unwise for dismissing Norrington without giving proper thought toward what, exactly, she was losing: not his position, but the potential in those hidden depths beneath Norrington’s controlled exterior.
Compared to the commodore, William Turner was practically a lamb, albeit a heavily armed one; for young Will’s nature had in it an easy tenderness, a softness of heart, and the ability to be gentle as well as genteel. Norrington was genteel from head to foot, and he was not incapable of being gentle, but it was not in the commodore’s nature to let his guard down easily or to offer comfort when there was little or none to be had; he met harsh reality without hesitation and without flinching, and tended to forget that other people did not possess his strength, endurance, or clarity of perception. Only with the prospect of battle had Jack seen the man change into something less cool and contained: moving across the deck of his ship like a tiger through familiar killing grounds, with those green eyes alight, revealing the bright-burning glow and heat of the fiery furnace hidden beneath that cold hawk-like exterior.
Now...now it was different, but there was a similarly fierce light in the commodore’s cat-green eyes. James’ posture was still impeccable, and he lounged like a gentleman at ease rather than a miscreant; despite the ragged-looking brown coat, the abused shirt that had never dreamed of naval ambitions, and the dark grey trousers beginning to wear through at the knee. The man did not even wear a waistcoat. Only Norrington’s boots looked as respectable as the proud, roguish man wearing them: sturdy leather, knee-high and bucket-topped, worn but well-cared-for. Here in Tortuga, Norrington looked like a tiger half at rest, waiting with sheathed claws to see if anything interesting might wander past the watering hole.
Feeling cat-like himself, curious and vicious at this invading presence in his territory, Jack approached his table. He nodded a greeting. The noise of the music and the tavern brawl was loud, so no one but Norrington heard the pirate captain address him with his title: “Commodore.”
Norrington’s drawl was as cold and droll as ever, sounding quite mocking as he returned the nod in a polite manner, and greeted Jack with simply, “Captain,” drawing the word out, testing it out. Of course he had to make it sound like a joke: the first time he deigned to acknowledge Jack’s own title.
Openly challenging, Jack tugged at the chair next to Norrington’s, flipped it around backwards, and sat down, straddling the seat, facing Norrington, and leaning in too close as he folded his arms on the back of the chair. Bottle of rum dangling from one hand, almost brushing the commodore’s knee, and with the other hand empty and fidgeting aimlessly, Jack gave Norrington an infuriatingly superior look, in piratical mockery of the one that the navy man had habitually given Jack in the past, even going so far as to look disdainfully down his nose at the navy man.
Unruffled and unflinching as ever, James lifted his tankard of rum to his lips, draining the last of it in one healthy swig, and setting it down on the table. His eyes never left Jack’s. It was clear that the man was unafraid. God only knew why.
It ruffled Jack, as it had in the past, that this too-proper man was so imperturbable in the face of Jack’s most tried-and-true little tactics for unbalancing people in little ways. Everyone leaned away when Jack pressed in as he inevitably did--too close and almost brushing noses--whenever it was opportune, but not the commodore. Not even when the man had just had his heart and his pride publicly stepped on, doubtlessly leaving his defenses weakened, had he satisfactorily retreated from Jack’s getting in his face all close and intimate-like. It was damned right irritating now, too, to see that same unflappable calm here, without the mask of disdain and propriety on that pretty pale face: only amusement and wary consideration. It made Norrington too human, and too...interesting.
“What are you doin’ here, mate?” Jack asked, his voice low and dark with warning. You’re in my territory now, Norrington, and I don’t like it.
A hint of a smirk touched the very corners of James’ lips, if only for the briefest of moments. “Do you know, Captain Sparrow, that this is the third time, since you fell over the wall of my fort several months ago, that I have seen you in this very tavern.” James’ eyebrows raised. You would do better to be more aware of your surroundings. It’s almost disappointing.
Jack found this distinctly unsettling. He narrowed his eyes at the green-eyed man. “Jumped. I jumped. And it was just over nine months, Commodore Norrington.” I know what I’m doing. I always do. I got away from you before, didn’t I?
“Ah, so you can count. How marvelous,” Norrington drawled, but the look in his eyes was more playful than insulting: the tiger batting at Jack’s nose with sheathed claws. I know you’re smarter than you look, Sparrow. I’m still ahead of you, at the moment. “I assure you that I’ve not gone out of my way to arrange this, really. This just happens to be my usual table, you see.” He did not even have the decency to smirk smugly, but instead remained infuriatingly impassive, his voice deadpan.
Jack blinked a few times. “You mean to tell me, Commodore, that yer a regular in this here establishment.” His disbelief was palpable. What are you playing at?
James only smirked, and deliberately caught the eye of a familiar blonde woman weaving through the crowd with a serving tray and a large pitcher of rum. She smiled at him, sparing Jack little more than an idle glance.
Jack seemed irritated when busty serving girl approached them, and refilled Norrington’s mug, winking at the green-eyed man. Then she spoke, and her words left the pirate captain rather stunned: “Good t’ see ye ‘gain, sir.” She fluttered her eyelashes becomingly. “Don’t suppose I can persuade ye to be offerin’ us further business, ay, love?” She leaned in closer, presenting her cleavage invitingly. “Of a slightly diff’rent sort.”
Norrington smiled with every bit of gentlemanly grace in his possession, and glanced at the appealing display, but then returned his gaze to meet hers, his smile turning at once somewhat playful but also a little apologetic, all whilst still remaining polite and genteel. “Just the rum, my dear, flattered though I am.”
She giggled at his posh manner, ignoring the way that Jack seemed to be gaping at her in shock. “How many times ‘ve I got to ask, ‘fore you let me hear more o’ that lovely voice in a more private setting,” she purred.
“Once more, as always, Miss Marie,” Norrington countered, placing his coin on her serving tray: enough to pay for his rum, along with a nice tip, but not enough to suggest that he were inviting her into his lap.
Marie pouted slightly, but curtsied and went on her way with a hint of a true smile. Jack gaped after her with a look on his face almost like betrayal.
James lifted the refilled tankard to his lips and took a large sip, allowing Jack a few moments to regain his composure somewhat. Then the commodore met his gaze again and said, “To answer your question, Captain Sparrow: yes, I am, as you can see, something of a regular customer here.” He raised his eyebrows as though he could not possibly fathom why the pirate was still staring at him.
And Jack was staring. His mouth was hanging open and the rest of his face was drawn in a mixture of shock and fury and a small, reluctant bit of awe. He tried to form words, but though his mouth moved, no sounds seemed to be forthcoming.
That amused smirk, which Jack recalled from when he’d caused it on that little longboat outside the accursed cave on the Isla de Muerta, appeared once more on James Norrington’s face: mocking, but sincerely amused. “What ever is the matter, Jack Sparrow? Cat got your tongue?”
Jack’s mouth snapped shut and he glared at Norrington firmly. The pirate looked at the commodore again, more shrewdly this time. There had been hints, before, of something different about Norrington from the average Navy man: a sense of humor for one; and then how unfazed he had been by the most scandalous suggestions, for even when Jack’s comments to James and the head navigators had made that oh-so-prim Lieutenant Gillette go red and sputter with a mixture of embarrassment and near-apoplectic rage, Norrington had only ever responded with a cooly scathing retort, not ever so much as looking up from his work with maps and charts; and, of course, there had been that slightly wicked and tricky edge that had shown when the commodore had turned a handshake into an unmasking. After that handshake, Jack recalled, Norrington had made a show of looking offended and disgusted at Jack’s show of pride: but you have heard of me. Jack wondered now if that might not have been just another mask, an act, because here was Commodore Norrington now, in bloody Tortuga.
And the man still hadn’t answered Jack’s question. Bugger.
“How long?” Jack asked.
Norrington’s eyebrows raised, but at least he took on a more serious expression. “Specifics, if you please.”
Jack snorted, rolling his eyes. “Come on, mate.”
“Do you mean ‘how long have I been a regular here?’ or ‘how long have I been visiting Tortuga in general’ or perhaps ‘how long have I been aware of your surprisingly regular visits to the homes of both Mr. Turner and Miss Swann, and thus ever-so-slightly changed my usual vacation schedule and its visits here--just a for a few days, every few months, it has always been--to thus place me in Tortuga at the opportune times to cross paths with you?’” As he spoke, James had made a show of examining his fingernails, which were not so impeccably clean as usual; once he finished, he shot Jack a look that was knowing, and yet not smug, his amusement hidden for now behind his usual solemn mask as he scrutinized Jack’s reaction. Another hit; what say you?
Jack reeled a little, mentally; outwardly, he went very still, even his usually fluid, floating expressiveness halting into a look of mixed wariness and...a hint of grudging respect. “Very sharp, Commodore.” A touch, a touch, I do confess.
“I tend to be,” James replied, not proudly, but in a matter-of-fact manner. The man knew himself well enough to know his limits, and that was why he was so wary: not out of fear, but simply intelligence and his tendency to be a practical realist.
“Aye. I should’ve given that more thought,” Jack murmured, and took a sip of rum from the almost-forgotten bottle in his hand, which he then corked and set aside on the table. He snorted at Norrington, giving him another appraising look, this time caught between appreciation and disdain. “What the Hell is a bright man like you doin’ in the Navy?”
James’ smirk returned, and Jack was disturbed by how much he liked the way it made those jade green eyes grow more vibrant. “A better question would be: ‘Why would I leave it?’ They’ve done much for me: taught me to sail, to navigate, to command--and to manipulate.” For a moment, the smirk widened. “I was one of the youngest captains to gain command, and now I am the youngest commodore in this part of the world. More than that, here in this ‘wilderness’ beyond the reaches of the so-called ‘civilized world’ I have earned that position instead of purchasing it and, so far as I can tell, I am also the least office-bound officer above the rank of captain in the whole of the British Navy.” He shrugged. “I have prey to hunt, challenges and horizons to chase, and, I think, a better hat than yours.” He grinned outright at the scowl Jack responded with at that. “Currently, the Navy suits me quite well, Captain Jack Sparrow.” This time his smirk was that of an aloof cat that has learned of a secret cat-sized entrance into the local creamery, satisfied as he was with the reluctant flicker of something akin to respect that had briefly crossed the pirate’s face, this time before Jack could hide it.
Grudgingly, Jack admitted to himself that he was impressed by the sheer elaborateness of execution in James’ obviously well-planned achievement of a secretive form of freedom: hidden, in plain sight, from the society that the commodore served.
And yet...
With deliberate slowness and theatrical flair Jack let his gaze wander around the tavern, momentarily taking in, with interest and exaggerated intrigue, all the sights and sounds of chaos and bad music and sin. Once finished with his display, Jack looked at the commodore again and leaned forward even further, even more uncomfortably close as he purred, “Then I ask again, mate...what are you doing here?” His gold-capped grin was less cocky than usual, but when James’ hand neared his face, he did not flinch; although his grin faded into a more intense and curious look. Jack’s piercing gaze was fixed on James’ eyes.
James’ fingertips trailed along Jack’s jawline, his gaze following their path. Long pale fingers, rough from sailing his private sloop as well as from practicing swordsmanship, cupped the pirate’s chin. A calloused thumb brushed Jack’s lower lip. Then James looked into those fathomless black eyes, reading intrigue and a hint of wary bemusement in their depths. “I am here, Jack Sparrow,” James Norrington said, “in order to remind myself that I can leave Port Royal, and the navy, at any time.” He tilted his head slightly. “That has always been my reason for coming here, ever since my first visit over three years ago.”
Jack’s eyebrows raised, but he made no attempt to move away from the cool touch of Norrington’s hand. He regarded the navy man cooly, waiting for more...
James’ expression was solemn, but all was not quite hidden behind a mask this time. Still waters ran deep and he was allowing Jack a glimpse into what was hidden there. Unencumbered by the limitations of gentleness and propriety that had made the revelation difficult to present to Elizabeth Swann, James made this unveiling far more elegant, like the sweep of his sword-blade in a duel. “I have been abandoned before, and tossed aside in favor of political advantage or bureaucratic machinations.” Unsaid, but clearly implied: It will not ever break me again. Also unsaid, but implied by the wicked way that the commodore then smirked, was: If and when they try to take from me this secret freedom I possess, I will be ready to give them a farewell that they will never forget.
And that--oh--that made Jack’s breath catch, and a sudden flush of heat flare downwards from his face straight to his groin. Musing on the fine man that Elizabeth was missing out on, Jack leaned his cheek into James’ touch a little, unable to keep himself from grinning wolfishly. “Not so proper at all, are you, Norrington?”
“Commodore, if you please,” was the instant correction, that angular visage momentarily gone rather more stoic again, but then James smiled a distinctly feline smile. “Or James.”
Jack shifted, moving to rest a hand on James’ thigh. With a look of solemn contemplation, he tested the name, letting it roll off his tongue. “James.” Then he grinned again. “Aye. That should do nicely, indeed.”
James smirked, although a slight pinkish tint had begun to appear along his cheekbones, despite his otherwise composed expression. “No further questions, then?”
“I do plan on getting more answers later.” He leaned forward further, his hand on James’ thigh moving higher, making the commodore’s pupils dilate. “But for now, just one: what say I get us one of the rooms upstairs for a while--will ye follow me?”
“Have I ever actually failed to give chase?”
Jack wet his lips and grinned smugly. “There was the time you waited a whole bloody day, as I recall.”
“Not this time. Not in this game.” His voice was a low rumble, like velvet gravel. “I’ve been waiting, this time, for you to-”prove yourself observant and challenging enough to“-start it, and my patience is worn thin.”
Jack shivered, not at all unpleasantly. “Aye. I’ll get the room.” But before he could quite stand up, James leaned in and caught his lips.
The kiss was firm, both men opening up to it quickly in order to better test and taste each other, and the resultant hot-slick pressure became a languid, teasing struggle for a few intense and hungry moments. Then James reluctantly broke away, breathing raggedly, feeling light-headed, and staring at Jack with a mixture of surprise and eagerness.
Jack stared back in much the same fashion, looking only a few shades more smug at having at last surprised the other man. “For the whole night, then, I’ll get us a room,” Jack amended, his voice grown rough and heavy with want. He leered openly.
“Aye,” James agreed, his green eyes burning bright. “I’ll follow.”
Story Index || Next
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean; Sparrington
Rating: PG
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.
Summary: Possibly a one-shot, possibly not. Set after CotBP, completely ignoring the two movies meant to follow shortly after. Jack Sparrow makes an unsettling discovery in Tortuga one night. Influenced by William Blake.
Note: I’m not dead. Just restin’, or possibly pinin’ for the fjords. This little plot bunny appeared. Since it was small, I was able to fit it into my currently hectic schedule. Whether it will turn into anything more than a one-shot remains to be seen. I actually didn't know that it was linked to William Blake's poem until I wrote the last line and suddenly knew what the title should be.
Many things, unusual and even disturbing, could often be found in taverns in Tortuga; the term “expect the unexpected” was the only rule to be applied, infuriating and unfair as that rule tended to be.
Jack Sparrow was currently cursing that rule, but with more awe than actual malice; because, really, what was a more unexpected find in a Tortuga tavern than a Commodore of the British Royal Navy--furthermore, one who was widely known for both his increasingly numerous successes hunting pirates and his overwhelming posh Englishness, complete with pomp and finery and a scathingly sarcastic drawl that could do more damage to a man’s spirits and confidence than a flogging.
Of course, the pomp and finery were not worn now, not here; because the green-eyed navy man was many things, but stupid was not one of them.
James Norrington turned, sensing someone watching him, and met the pirate captain’s gaze without hesitation, keeping his expression masked. Only the slight narrowing of his eyes--showing recognition and threat and...not hatred, strangely enough--let Jack know that the good commodore had registered him as something more than just another bit of scenery.
The two men stared at each other, Jack watching with open scrutiny and curiosity, and James deliberately looking almost bored. Jack took in the commodore’s disguise: a day or two of stubble, the roguish clothing, the long brown hair now allowed to frame his face in messy waves, a battered black tricorne hat, and a silver earring to complete the look. If Jack had not spent so much time, some months ago, studying (and, admittedly, admiring in a somewhat lusty manner) that aristocratic face and those changeable sea-green eyes whilst providing navigational tips to the men of the Dauntless, he would not have recognized Norrington now. What he found unsettling was the relaxed, almost feline air about the man, given that this was bloody Tortuga which was decidedly not the natural habitat of still-breathing still-serving Navy types, let alone naval officers with such sterling reputations as Commodore Norrington.
On the Dauntless, James had seemed like a hawk: fierce, proud, distant, with stiff and too-straight posture, and a natural air of authoritative power. He had been every inch propriety: a fine man, and one unaccustomed to being something other than steely and militant, so that he seemed clumsy and over-starched when trying to be gentle in a manner both proper and affectionate toward one Miss Elizabeth Swann; it had almost seemed like embarrassment, but Jack had taken a closer look, and seen the struggle as the predatory commodore tried to open himself to a creature who would not make the effort to unravel his mystery herself. Piratical and fiery and lovely Elizabeth may be, but Jack had to admit that he considered her unwise for dismissing Norrington without giving proper thought toward what, exactly, she was losing: not his position, but the potential in those hidden depths beneath Norrington’s controlled exterior.
Compared to the commodore, William Turner was practically a lamb, albeit a heavily armed one; for young Will’s nature had in it an easy tenderness, a softness of heart, and the ability to be gentle as well as genteel. Norrington was genteel from head to foot, and he was not incapable of being gentle, but it was not in the commodore’s nature to let his guard down easily or to offer comfort when there was little or none to be had; he met harsh reality without hesitation and without flinching, and tended to forget that other people did not possess his strength, endurance, or clarity of perception. Only with the prospect of battle had Jack seen the man change into something less cool and contained: moving across the deck of his ship like a tiger through familiar killing grounds, with those green eyes alight, revealing the bright-burning glow and heat of the fiery furnace hidden beneath that cold hawk-like exterior.
Now...now it was different, but there was a similarly fierce light in the commodore’s cat-green eyes. James’ posture was still impeccable, and he lounged like a gentleman at ease rather than a miscreant; despite the ragged-looking brown coat, the abused shirt that had never dreamed of naval ambitions, and the dark grey trousers beginning to wear through at the knee. The man did not even wear a waistcoat. Only Norrington’s boots looked as respectable as the proud, roguish man wearing them: sturdy leather, knee-high and bucket-topped, worn but well-cared-for. Here in Tortuga, Norrington looked like a tiger half at rest, waiting with sheathed claws to see if anything interesting might wander past the watering hole.
Feeling cat-like himself, curious and vicious at this invading presence in his territory, Jack approached his table. He nodded a greeting. The noise of the music and the tavern brawl was loud, so no one but Norrington heard the pirate captain address him with his title: “Commodore.”
Norrington’s drawl was as cold and droll as ever, sounding quite mocking as he returned the nod in a polite manner, and greeted Jack with simply, “Captain,” drawing the word out, testing it out. Of course he had to make it sound like a joke: the first time he deigned to acknowledge Jack’s own title.
Openly challenging, Jack tugged at the chair next to Norrington’s, flipped it around backwards, and sat down, straddling the seat, facing Norrington, and leaning in too close as he folded his arms on the back of the chair. Bottle of rum dangling from one hand, almost brushing the commodore’s knee, and with the other hand empty and fidgeting aimlessly, Jack gave Norrington an infuriatingly superior look, in piratical mockery of the one that the navy man had habitually given Jack in the past, even going so far as to look disdainfully down his nose at the navy man.
Unruffled and unflinching as ever, James lifted his tankard of rum to his lips, draining the last of it in one healthy swig, and setting it down on the table. His eyes never left Jack’s. It was clear that the man was unafraid. God only knew why.
It ruffled Jack, as it had in the past, that this too-proper man was so imperturbable in the face of Jack’s most tried-and-true little tactics for unbalancing people in little ways. Everyone leaned away when Jack pressed in as he inevitably did--too close and almost brushing noses--whenever it was opportune, but not the commodore. Not even when the man had just had his heart and his pride publicly stepped on, doubtlessly leaving his defenses weakened, had he satisfactorily retreated from Jack’s getting in his face all close and intimate-like. It was damned right irritating now, too, to see that same unflappable calm here, without the mask of disdain and propriety on that pretty pale face: only amusement and wary consideration. It made Norrington too human, and too...interesting.
“What are you doin’ here, mate?” Jack asked, his voice low and dark with warning. You’re in my territory now, Norrington, and I don’t like it.
A hint of a smirk touched the very corners of James’ lips, if only for the briefest of moments. “Do you know, Captain Sparrow, that this is the third time, since you fell over the wall of my fort several months ago, that I have seen you in this very tavern.” James’ eyebrows raised. You would do better to be more aware of your surroundings. It’s almost disappointing.
Jack found this distinctly unsettling. He narrowed his eyes at the green-eyed man. “Jumped. I jumped. And it was just over nine months, Commodore Norrington.” I know what I’m doing. I always do. I got away from you before, didn’t I?
“Ah, so you can count. How marvelous,” Norrington drawled, but the look in his eyes was more playful than insulting: the tiger batting at Jack’s nose with sheathed claws. I know you’re smarter than you look, Sparrow. I’m still ahead of you, at the moment. “I assure you that I’ve not gone out of my way to arrange this, really. This just happens to be my usual table, you see.” He did not even have the decency to smirk smugly, but instead remained infuriatingly impassive, his voice deadpan.
Jack blinked a few times. “You mean to tell me, Commodore, that yer a regular in this here establishment.” His disbelief was palpable. What are you playing at?
James only smirked, and deliberately caught the eye of a familiar blonde woman weaving through the crowd with a serving tray and a large pitcher of rum. She smiled at him, sparing Jack little more than an idle glance.
Jack seemed irritated when busty serving girl approached them, and refilled Norrington’s mug, winking at the green-eyed man. Then she spoke, and her words left the pirate captain rather stunned: “Good t’ see ye ‘gain, sir.” She fluttered her eyelashes becomingly. “Don’t suppose I can persuade ye to be offerin’ us further business, ay, love?” She leaned in closer, presenting her cleavage invitingly. “Of a slightly diff’rent sort.”
Norrington smiled with every bit of gentlemanly grace in his possession, and glanced at the appealing display, but then returned his gaze to meet hers, his smile turning at once somewhat playful but also a little apologetic, all whilst still remaining polite and genteel. “Just the rum, my dear, flattered though I am.”
She giggled at his posh manner, ignoring the way that Jack seemed to be gaping at her in shock. “How many times ‘ve I got to ask, ‘fore you let me hear more o’ that lovely voice in a more private setting,” she purred.
“Once more, as always, Miss Marie,” Norrington countered, placing his coin on her serving tray: enough to pay for his rum, along with a nice tip, but not enough to suggest that he were inviting her into his lap.
Marie pouted slightly, but curtsied and went on her way with a hint of a true smile. Jack gaped after her with a look on his face almost like betrayal.
James lifted the refilled tankard to his lips and took a large sip, allowing Jack a few moments to regain his composure somewhat. Then the commodore met his gaze again and said, “To answer your question, Captain Sparrow: yes, I am, as you can see, something of a regular customer here.” He raised his eyebrows as though he could not possibly fathom why the pirate was still staring at him.
And Jack was staring. His mouth was hanging open and the rest of his face was drawn in a mixture of shock and fury and a small, reluctant bit of awe. He tried to form words, but though his mouth moved, no sounds seemed to be forthcoming.
That amused smirk, which Jack recalled from when he’d caused it on that little longboat outside the accursed cave on the Isla de Muerta, appeared once more on James Norrington’s face: mocking, but sincerely amused. “What ever is the matter, Jack Sparrow? Cat got your tongue?”
Jack’s mouth snapped shut and he glared at Norrington firmly. The pirate looked at the commodore again, more shrewdly this time. There had been hints, before, of something different about Norrington from the average Navy man: a sense of humor for one; and then how unfazed he had been by the most scandalous suggestions, for even when Jack’s comments to James and the head navigators had made that oh-so-prim Lieutenant Gillette go red and sputter with a mixture of embarrassment and near-apoplectic rage, Norrington had only ever responded with a cooly scathing retort, not ever so much as looking up from his work with maps and charts; and, of course, there had been that slightly wicked and tricky edge that had shown when the commodore had turned a handshake into an unmasking. After that handshake, Jack recalled, Norrington had made a show of looking offended and disgusted at Jack’s show of pride: but you have heard of me. Jack wondered now if that might not have been just another mask, an act, because here was Commodore Norrington now, in bloody Tortuga.
And the man still hadn’t answered Jack’s question. Bugger.
“How long?” Jack asked.
Norrington’s eyebrows raised, but at least he took on a more serious expression. “Specifics, if you please.”
Jack snorted, rolling his eyes. “Come on, mate.”
“Do you mean ‘how long have I been a regular here?’ or ‘how long have I been visiting Tortuga in general’ or perhaps ‘how long have I been aware of your surprisingly regular visits to the homes of both Mr. Turner and Miss Swann, and thus ever-so-slightly changed my usual vacation schedule and its visits here--just a for a few days, every few months, it has always been--to thus place me in Tortuga at the opportune times to cross paths with you?’” As he spoke, James had made a show of examining his fingernails, which were not so impeccably clean as usual; once he finished, he shot Jack a look that was knowing, and yet not smug, his amusement hidden for now behind his usual solemn mask as he scrutinized Jack’s reaction. Another hit; what say you?
Jack reeled a little, mentally; outwardly, he went very still, even his usually fluid, floating expressiveness halting into a look of mixed wariness and...a hint of grudging respect. “Very sharp, Commodore.” A touch, a touch, I do confess.
“I tend to be,” James replied, not proudly, but in a matter-of-fact manner. The man knew himself well enough to know his limits, and that was why he was so wary: not out of fear, but simply intelligence and his tendency to be a practical realist.
“Aye. I should’ve given that more thought,” Jack murmured, and took a sip of rum from the almost-forgotten bottle in his hand, which he then corked and set aside on the table. He snorted at Norrington, giving him another appraising look, this time caught between appreciation and disdain. “What the Hell is a bright man like you doin’ in the Navy?”
James’ smirk returned, and Jack was disturbed by how much he liked the way it made those jade green eyes grow more vibrant. “A better question would be: ‘Why would I leave it?’ They’ve done much for me: taught me to sail, to navigate, to command--and to manipulate.” For a moment, the smirk widened. “I was one of the youngest captains to gain command, and now I am the youngest commodore in this part of the world. More than that, here in this ‘wilderness’ beyond the reaches of the so-called ‘civilized world’ I have earned that position instead of purchasing it and, so far as I can tell, I am also the least office-bound officer above the rank of captain in the whole of the British Navy.” He shrugged. “I have prey to hunt, challenges and horizons to chase, and, I think, a better hat than yours.” He grinned outright at the scowl Jack responded with at that. “Currently, the Navy suits me quite well, Captain Jack Sparrow.” This time his smirk was that of an aloof cat that has learned of a secret cat-sized entrance into the local creamery, satisfied as he was with the reluctant flicker of something akin to respect that had briefly crossed the pirate’s face, this time before Jack could hide it.
Grudgingly, Jack admitted to himself that he was impressed by the sheer elaborateness of execution in James’ obviously well-planned achievement of a secretive form of freedom: hidden, in plain sight, from the society that the commodore served.
And yet...
With deliberate slowness and theatrical flair Jack let his gaze wander around the tavern, momentarily taking in, with interest and exaggerated intrigue, all the sights and sounds of chaos and bad music and sin. Once finished with his display, Jack looked at the commodore again and leaned forward even further, even more uncomfortably close as he purred, “Then I ask again, mate...what are you doing here?” His gold-capped grin was less cocky than usual, but when James’ hand neared his face, he did not flinch; although his grin faded into a more intense and curious look. Jack’s piercing gaze was fixed on James’ eyes.
James’ fingertips trailed along Jack’s jawline, his gaze following their path. Long pale fingers, rough from sailing his private sloop as well as from practicing swordsmanship, cupped the pirate’s chin. A calloused thumb brushed Jack’s lower lip. Then James looked into those fathomless black eyes, reading intrigue and a hint of wary bemusement in their depths. “I am here, Jack Sparrow,” James Norrington said, “in order to remind myself that I can leave Port Royal, and the navy, at any time.” He tilted his head slightly. “That has always been my reason for coming here, ever since my first visit over three years ago.”
Jack’s eyebrows raised, but he made no attempt to move away from the cool touch of Norrington’s hand. He regarded the navy man cooly, waiting for more...
James’ expression was solemn, but all was not quite hidden behind a mask this time. Still waters ran deep and he was allowing Jack a glimpse into what was hidden there. Unencumbered by the limitations of gentleness and propriety that had made the revelation difficult to present to Elizabeth Swann, James made this unveiling far more elegant, like the sweep of his sword-blade in a duel. “I have been abandoned before, and tossed aside in favor of political advantage or bureaucratic machinations.” Unsaid, but clearly implied: It will not ever break me again. Also unsaid, but implied by the wicked way that the commodore then smirked, was: If and when they try to take from me this secret freedom I possess, I will be ready to give them a farewell that they will never forget.
And that--oh--that made Jack’s breath catch, and a sudden flush of heat flare downwards from his face straight to his groin. Musing on the fine man that Elizabeth was missing out on, Jack leaned his cheek into James’ touch a little, unable to keep himself from grinning wolfishly. “Not so proper at all, are you, Norrington?”
“Commodore, if you please,” was the instant correction, that angular visage momentarily gone rather more stoic again, but then James smiled a distinctly feline smile. “Or James.”
Jack shifted, moving to rest a hand on James’ thigh. With a look of solemn contemplation, he tested the name, letting it roll off his tongue. “James.” Then he grinned again. “Aye. That should do nicely, indeed.”
James smirked, although a slight pinkish tint had begun to appear along his cheekbones, despite his otherwise composed expression. “No further questions, then?”
“I do plan on getting more answers later.” He leaned forward further, his hand on James’ thigh moving higher, making the commodore’s pupils dilate. “But for now, just one: what say I get us one of the rooms upstairs for a while--will ye follow me?”
“Have I ever actually failed to give chase?”
Jack wet his lips and grinned smugly. “There was the time you waited a whole bloody day, as I recall.”
“Not this time. Not in this game.” His voice was a low rumble, like velvet gravel. “I’ve been waiting, this time, for you to-”prove yourself observant and challenging enough to“-start it, and my patience is worn thin.”
Jack shivered, not at all unpleasantly. “Aye. I’ll get the room.” But before he could quite stand up, James leaned in and caught his lips.
The kiss was firm, both men opening up to it quickly in order to better test and taste each other, and the resultant hot-slick pressure became a languid, teasing struggle for a few intense and hungry moments. Then James reluctantly broke away, breathing raggedly, feeling light-headed, and staring at Jack with a mixture of surprise and eagerness.
Jack stared back in much the same fashion, looking only a few shades more smug at having at last surprised the other man. “For the whole night, then, I’ll get us a room,” Jack amended, his voice grown rough and heavy with want. He leered openly.
“Aye,” James agreed, his green eyes burning bright. “I’ll follow.”
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