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Hmmm, a section of unfinished Pirates of the Caribbean silliness which will hopefully cheer up pir8fancier a bit, if that's possible.
AN: Let’s see….Commodore has been named James by fans, who am I to disagree? Facts aren’t altogether accurately historically, but neither is the movie, so who cares? (I am not even sure what a Commodore would do, duty wise, and I have no idea if there was a fort in Bermuda, but it seems logical considering the history). And in keeping with that spirit, yes, Jack is singing a Madonna song.
“I hope y’find what yer…” A slight hiccough interrupted the verse, and Jack took advantage of the pause bring the blackjack back up to his mouth. He was a most thirsty man, and the rum was sweet—sweeter whenever he considered its source, which was often. A few drops ran down his chin into his beard, and he dropped the cup into the sand at his side as he smacked his lips and wiped the spots from his chin with one sleeve.
A part of his mind noted the somewhat less-than-fine state of that sleeve, and he paused with his arm in the air to study the linen. It was reasonable to assume the colour had once been white, and now that it was close to a grayish-yellow, at least that he could tell in dark, perhaps it was time to find himself a new one. Something white, white like the good Commodore’s cuffs, which were the whitest white Jack had ever seen, excepting of course the Commodore’s wig, which was surely as spotless white as the clouds themselves.
Another hiccough made Jack’s eyes widen, and then he glared down at the abandoned blackjack, rubbing his chest with his other hand to ease the ache. ‘Course, the only cure for hiccoughing was something to drink, and lucky for Jack, he had plenty of drink on hand now, didn’t he? Hauled the barrel all the way up the beach yesterday, and it wasn’t empty yet.
It took but a moment to grab the cup and sit up in order to dunk it into the cask at his back, then he was settling back down easily. “…Lookin’ for…” he continued softly, wriggling his arse into the sand until he was situated just right. Then he was enjoying yet another sip of the Royal Navy’s fine grog, trying to imagine just what the good Commodore’s reaction would be to hearing the news from Bermuda. The man ought to be getting word of it now, and there was going to be quite the storm in Port Royal when he did.
Jack had been most pleased with the notion when it had come to him. The only true disappointment was not being able to see his handiwork in the light of morning. Anamaria had called him a daft fool for doing it at all; and it was clear she had no understanding of the point of the gesture.
Beautiful, fiery, and a bit too much on the practical side of things, was their Anamaria. Much like the Commodore, Jack decided earnestly, reaching up and bending awkwardly to reach the spot itching with sweat at the middle of his back. Only her fire was more visible to the eye, ready to strike a man in the face, one might say. Whereas, Jack was reasonably certain that the Commodore would never strike him in the face. Run him through if he had the chance—which was not an altogether displeasing thought though Jack thought the Commodore might have different sword in mind for it than he did—but never strike him.
Though Jack did not intend on finding out, at least for a while. There was no sense in ending the chase now; it hadn’t even begun. He ought to have Norrington following him across the Caribbean for months yet. His colours on British territory…it was as good as saying the Navy belonged to Captain Jack Sparrow. That it be Treason, well now that was most likely true. Gibbs had gaped at him to hear of what he’d done, taking another drink of the stolen rum without pause.
The memory made Jack grin, tipping his cup to the absent Gibbs. What was a bit of treason in the name of a good chase? He was Captain Jack Sparrow; he could always make his escape. He’d slipped from the noose more times than he could count, even the rope of the pirate hunting Commodore Norrington himself.
Which had been achieved due to the interference of a good man, Jack was quick to recall even just in his mind, already imagining the wrath of that lass were to forget to mention that small detail. Which would be nothing to the wrath of another man if Jack should recollect his victorious escape in his presence—which he fully planned to do, given the chance. He imagined that when the famous and most honourable Commodore Norrington did lose his temper, hurricanes would seem a breeze in comparison.
But even hurricanes didn’t stop Jack Sparrow, and they were usually a sight worth seeing.
The hum started in his chest once again, and it didn’t take long for the words to return to his tongue as well, much louder this time, though there was no one nearby to offend.
“I hope you find what you’re lookin’ for…” The cask was solid at his back, and Jack leaned against it, spreading his legs out before him, knowing the sand was likely both cold and wet but finding it warm enough at that moment. “Is it mine?” Those were the next words in the song. They made little sense even to Jack’s way of thinking, ponder them thought he might, and he raised his voice to sing even louder.
There was only a sliver of the moon now, but the stars were gleaming silvery mischief down on the bay, illuminating the lines of his beautiful Pearl, anchored not far off. His Pearl, for as long as she allowed, and he shivered at the heat that always remained in the air, shocking along bare skin as though it always held a trace of lightening.
“…Walk through that door…” A plea, spoken softly, and Jack dropped his gaze back down to his blackjack of rum. It was a strange song, another one learned from Miss Elizabeth Swann before she had become Mrs. Elizabeth Turner. He could still recall the rum on her breath, taste it on his lips if he tried hard enough, but he was not much inclined to pine away for one Elizabeth Turner and so didn’t try much. The lass was fine, and spirited, and a right beauty, but too full of ideas for his liking. Any longer on the ship and she’d have been calling herself Captain of the Pearl. Young William was a brave lad indeed. But then, Young William had never done anything the easy way, so perhaps they were well suited after all.
Now, the Commodore…the man had likely become Commodore by giving orders, not taking them. ‘Course, he could be taught, but a slip of a lass would hardly know the way, would she?
The grin returned to Jack’s face, and since his legs felt a bit heavy now, he moved them, crossing them at the ankles. The itch at his back still plagued him a bit, and he shifted to rub himself on the cask, sighing to scratch the itch at last. There was something to be said for a man having a lover at his back, even if it was only that they’d be there to scratch it.
One last rub sent him even further down into the sand, slouching with his head down nearly to his chest. His hat weren’t much in a better position, so he shifted it forward over his eyes and tossed his finished cup of rum to the side.
“Ah,” the long sigh ended in another smack of his lips, the lingering warmth of the rum along his teeth, wet on his tongue. It made his body so very comfortable, so very easy, and he brushed his fingers along his leg before letting his hand fall. Why Norrington wanted to drive all the runners from the Caribbean was a mystery that weren’t ever likely to get solved. Not unless someone dared to ask him. The man could be crueler than the East India Company when it came to illegal activities on these waters. Held no proper appreciation for piracy at all. It wasn’t as though Jack had hurt anyone.
In fact, since regaining the Pearl, he had no reason to, though he doubted the Commodore had thought of that yet. Maybe Elizabeth hadn’t explained to her former fiancée that the Isle de Muerte was filled with boatloads of swag free of any tricky heathen blood curses. Probably she hadn’t; Norrington might have demanded the crew give it back, and that would have led to more than one body washing ashore.
Smart girl, that Elizabeth. Though not quite smart enough to Jack’s way of thinking. He wondered if that had occurred to the Commodore, or if the man were still in mourning, as it were.
“We’re wastin’ time…” he sang to himself, mumbling into his chest and frowning a little as some of the words blurred from his memory, either from the rum then or the rum now. The two of them weren’t suited at all, the more he thought of it. But it was commendable of Norrington to have chosen her in the first place. Said a lot for the man. Hinted, as it were, of things that Jack found hopeful for his plan to see the man naked. ‘Course, it also hinted that the man was not inclined to want to see another man naked, that he was a man strictly for the lasses, and if that were true it would be nothing but a shame.
There was a fine figure under that gold buttons and silly wig. Or at least, Jack was fairly certain there was. The lasses had been lucky so far. But Fortune liked a good chase as much as Jack did, and she’d find him in the end. Always did. She just took her bloody time.
Was just a matter of waiting. Waiting a long time, maybe, for a scratch at his back.
“…Wastin’ time…” he sang again, humming a bit for what he couldn’t remember, “…make up yer mind…and….and…” The rest had just gotten very blurry, and Jack curved his lips. What would Captain Jack Sparrow taste on the breath of Commodore Norrington? A question for the Ages that he pondered as he extended his tongue to lick—just a bit—at his lower lip, tasting only salt and rum. “S’crazy,” he murmured, then remembered that had been part of the lyrics to that other blasted song Elizabeth had taught him.
“Mmm…you’ll see. And…” Was very bad of him to have forgotten the lyrics again. It would take a visit to the Turners in Port Royal to learn the lines again. “…I won’t let you…”
“Won’t let me…what?”
He would never be able to figure out how a voice that smooth could be as sharp as one of Will’s swords. Which was not to say that Will’s swords weren’t well-made, sharp blades. Jack would say they were very sharp indeed, especially the one just under his chin. It was so clean it sparkled in just moonlight and scraped gently against the stubble along his jaw as it urged his head upward. An unnecessary move on the other man’s part, as Jack had been lifting his head at the first slow, soft, sarcastic word that had left that mouth.
Jack had to lift a hand to push his hat from his face, and couldn’t help but stiffen a bit at the chill of the blade against his skin as he made the move. He glanced upward first, and then allowed his head to follow his eyes, taking in the sight of stockings first, so clean he could smell the starch from where he was. Silly things for a grown man to wear, and Jack smiled before skipping over the multitude of gold buttons and lining and looking as straight into the man’s face as much as he could.
“Commodore!” He greeted Norrington cheerfully, darting his eyes around and becoming more than a little pleased to note that the Commodore was here alone, without any sort of guard at all.
He couldn’t help another quick look around the man’s back, but it did truly seem as though the man had chosen to meet him alone. That was interesting. Jack let himself look back up at the square shape of the Commodore’s jaw and shifted, just a bit, in the sand. The man had him fixed with his gaze alright, serious as the grave he was, despite the hint of amusement Jack had thought he’d heard at first in his words.
“You seem almost pleased to see me, Mister Sparrow…if surprised.” For just a moment, the Commodore’s lips softened before pressing together into a thin line. Jack would have called it a smile if he hadn’t seen it before, wet and cold as a drowning rat and standing there on the Port Royal dock with the Commodore’s hands ripping the cloth from his arm to expose the raised ‘P’ he’d had since before his beard. The Commodore had a warm, firm grip, and tricks up his spotless white cuffs to do the blackest pirate proud.
Jack shivered, and let his eyes widen.
“Captain Sparrow, if you please, Commodore.” Jack saw his hands in the air, gesturing slowly, without even knowing he’d raised them. But they were pointing gracefully in the other man’s direction, and Jack nodded in agreement. “I’ve never forgotten your title, Commodore.” He slid his gaze down, and then back up when he found himself again contemplating all those shining buttons. “And I’m always pleased to see a friend o’ the Turners. How went the blessed nuptials?”
Not even the hope of a smile now, but Jack grinned for the both of them.
“Watch yourself, Sparrow.” The man’s arm didn’t even look a little bit unsteady. After all this time, bloody strong was what he was.
Jack blinked, then let his eyes widen even more. “Wasn’t allow to view ‘em, myself. Always mindful of yer reputation. Expectin’ a chase, as it were, should I venture near to Port Royal.”
Seems the man could waver after all. The Commodore frowned and let the tip of the blade fall away, near to Jack’s cheek it was now, but not inching toward his bloody throat as it had been.
“So instead you venture to Bermuda?” As though just to prove Jack wrong, the Commodore curved his lips upward, genuine pleasure lighting his face to hear Jack’s rough breath, doubtless seeing the dark way Jack’s eyes had narrowed. “Didn’t expect me to know of that particular exploit yet, Mister Sparrow?”
“I didn’t know you were so interested in my exploits, Commodore.” His smile didn’t really hide the rolling of his shoulders, but it did take some of the amusement from the other man’s expression. Just his luck that the Commodore had found him here in St. Kitt’s so quickly. Jack glared briefly into the shadows, at Lady Fortune, should she happen to be in that direction. Although…
“Don’t see your men about.” Just a friendly observation. No reason at all for the Commodore’s frown to deepen. The man had been born frowning. The only times his brows weren’t at his chin was when he looked at Elizabeth, and when he was smirking down at Jack.
And it was always down, wasn’t it?
“Unofficial visit to the island? Few days off for a bit of fun?” Jack nodded agreeably, leaning his head to one side a moment later and laying one finger to his mouth. “I know of a good spot or two, if ye seek some pleasurable company.” His gaze drifted away from the Commodore to the Pearl, baring clenched teeth in a way that almost could be taken for a grin.
“I am not looking to get…! I am not here for…!” The man choked back several words, to his shame, for they were likely the most interesting words he had to say this evening, in Jack’s estimation. “…I am here for you, Sparrow.”
‘Course, even Jack Sparrow was wrong on occasion. These now, these were far more interesting words. He sat up, letting the sword brush right past his ear. Norrington took a half step back, and the blade was right at Jack’s throat again, touching his skin once when he swallowed. As though he somehow felt the contact through the well-made sword, Norrington pulled it away a few inches.
“Well here I am, Commodore. What will you be doin’ with me?” Looking up the length of Will’s very fine blade, Jack only watched the frown deepen on the Commodore’s face, sighing a bit at the obvious confusion there. If only he were on his feet, or the night were brighter than a slivered moon and a few stars. He could see nothing at all of the other man’s eyes.
“My men will find us soon enough.” Fingers shifted on the hilt, changing the grip, as though the man were growing weary at last.
“Am I under arrest then, Commodore?” Interesting, that the other man would mention that now. Jack wondered if he should ask why, but he knew, mostly, when to hold his tongue and when to speak, and when to continuously speak in a never ending stream so that people stopped listening to him altogether.
“Why did you raise your banner at St. George?” Exasperation perhaps was what made the man sigh the question, though it was a certainty he had been angry to bursting on hearing of what Jack had done.
“Quite an annoyance, wasn’t it, Commodore? Seein’ me, as it were, on your property?” Jack waved his hands about as he spoke, but found his eyes trained on the Commodore’s hand. “Imagine it was quite a sight. Had the flag you see, a gift from a dear la…well a dear friend o’mine. And there was the fort, as pretty as you please, but naked, if you follow my meaning. And there was me, with me flag and no use for it on the Pearl. The Pearl is mine, but the crew ain’t, and with our adventures being so recent, we haven’t had a bit of sport. I haven’t had a bit of sport…Savvy?”
The fingers moved again, and then the whole hand, twisting to show the sharp edge of the sword. It appeared the Commodore didn’t favour the use of many words at all. Just one, in fact.
“Treason.” The Commodore turned his head away, and with that, to Jack’s great and grateful surprise, the sword was withdrawn. Not sheathed, but left at the man’s side. Jack rubbed his neck immediately though he knew there wasn’t a mark, just for show, and Norrington’s gaze returned to him. “Captain Jack Sparrow hanged for treason instead of lowly theft; did that sound more pleasing to your rum-soaked brain? Do not abuse Governor Swann’s protection.”
His eyebrows were near to his hair, Jack knew, and tried to shape his expression into something less surprised. It didn’t seem to matter to the Commodore if he already knew or not; the man clearly thought Jack had.
Surprise forgotten, Jack grinned. “So you were to chase old Jack after all.”
“I am very aware of your reputation, Sparrow.” No ‘Captain’ this time, but Norrington had already said it once, without the usual drip of venom. Likely on account of the ship, of which they were both very aware, floating in the bay behind them. Jack swept his hat from his head and bowed a bit, as well as he could, sitting on his arse in cold sand.
“Honoured, Commodore.” Perhaps it was a shadow, a trick of the faded light, but the line of the Commodore’s lips seemed a little less tight, fair on their way to even looking relaxed, and Jack frowned up into eyes bottomless dark, though he knew they were much lighter in the full glare of the noon sun.
Soft breezes, so cool on the skin of Jack’s neck, were playing with the black ribbon on the Commodore’s wig, and Jack sucked in a breath, hoping the breezes would grow just a mite stronger. Just one more and perhaps…
With a cough, the Commodore stepped away, turning his body half to the side to stare out at the water. If he hadn’t held the sword in his hand, Jack thought his hands might have been clasped at his back, as though he were standing at the helm looking out over a miserable crew.
“Which is why I cannot have you sailing around the Caribbean, creating disturbances without even trying.”
“You apparently can’t hang me either, Commodore.” With a slight outward push of lips, Jack was thinking over what was undoubtedly quite a problem for the good Commodore. A dilemma, one might say. He could kill Old Jack, but if the thought had not occurred to him than Jack wasn’t going to suggest it. Likely it already had, but murder did not sit well with a good man; he could have killed Jack several times over by now, if it had been his wish to see him dead. So the man had found Jack on this island and come out here alone to…ascertain Jack’s intentions in the Caribbean, as it were.
Suddenly Jack blinked, pushing a smile onto his face to rattle the good Commodore, though he didn’t feel much like smiling at all, letting a displeased frown take his face when it did not seem as though the Commodore cared what expression he wore. “Ye can chase me all you please, but ye aren’t allowed to catch me?” The Governor had sentenced them to a good cocktease, hadn’t he?
Coughing a bit, Jack returned to his study of Commodore Norrington, knowing the other man likely wouldn’t have put their situation in those terms. But it was going to be a mite uncomfortable, no matter how one looked at it, unless someone did something to relieve the pressure.
There was an answer to that, which Jack was certain the man had not thought of yet, quick though his mind might be.
Instead, the Commodore nodded in response to Jack’s quiet question, still looking away from him. His chin was up. Could have meant anything, it was the man’s usual pose which anyone who had ever suffered under his lectures was passing familiar with. Yet Jack followed the path his gaze might have taken, looking up at the stars and charting the course to Port Royal without any effort at all.
“Not everyone will connect that flag to you; there is no need for my interference, yet.” The calm words nonetheless startled Jack into tearing his eyes from the sky, blinking across at the Commodore. Now that must a most strange thing for the man to say, and what exactly did he mean by it, Jack wondered. An order to leave the Caribbean, a demand to behave or to stick to his pilfering and stop toying with Royal property, those would be most understandable for the man to say. And he hadn’t said either.
He was being careless again, and a glance back up at the stars told Jack the cause. The same cause as before, the same as always, for a beautifully romantic heart beat in that solid chest.
Elizabeth. Not for a free visit to Madame Li’s House of Silver Leaves in Singapore would Jack have said that name aloud at that moment.
“But here you are, Commodore.” Jack pointed fluidly at the other man just in case Norrington had forgotten, to his back really, which was in fact still turned to him. He hadn’t thought the man’s back could get any straighter, yet there it was, the man suddenly so tall and rigid that Jack was tempted to inquire about the pole up his arse. He didn’t, anymore than he asked his next question in anything higher than a whisper. “’Ave you stopped to consider that?” He had no wish to view that hurricane this particular evening. Time was running out as it was.
Norrington seemed not to hear him, still studying the stars. Silent, and no doubt thinking of what he had planned to be doing with his time, which was not chasing some blasted pirate around the Main just to scratch his itches.
“If ye don’t mind, Commodore…” With a grunt and obvious effort, Jack got to his feet, glancing once at Norrington’s startled half-turn before bending over the cask with the appearance of concentration. He found his abandoned cup, and filled it, pretending not to hear Norrington’s none-too-gentle snort as he drank from it. “Good spirits your navy enjoys, Commodore.”
A fistful of sand was clutched in his other hand, and though Jack almost hated to do it, the Marines might be along at any moment, and that was a good blade in Norrington’s fine hand, and the chase had not yet truly begun, so he turned sharply and threw the sand directly into the Commodore’s face.
Amidst the outraged gasps and swearing as the Commodore scrubbed at his eyes, Jack grabbed one last cupful and swallowed it down. Turning his back on him to daydream of a lass, as though he wasn’t dealing with a bloody pirate. With Captain Jack Sparrow. It was bloody insulting was what it was.
“It’s more a matter of me catchin’ you. Savvy?” Jack grinned, wondering if the man would pause to think over his words at all in the coming weeks. “I’ll be seeing you, Commodore,” he promised with a tip of his hat that Norrington likely didn’t see at all, and slipped off into the shadows.
AN: Let’s see….Commodore has been named James by fans, who am I to disagree? Facts aren’t altogether accurately historically, but neither is the movie, so who cares? (I am not even sure what a Commodore would do, duty wise, and I have no idea if there was a fort in Bermuda, but it seems logical considering the history). And in keeping with that spirit, yes, Jack is singing a Madonna song.
“I hope y’find what yer…” A slight hiccough interrupted the verse, and Jack took advantage of the pause bring the blackjack back up to his mouth. He was a most thirsty man, and the rum was sweet—sweeter whenever he considered its source, which was often. A few drops ran down his chin into his beard, and he dropped the cup into the sand at his side as he smacked his lips and wiped the spots from his chin with one sleeve.
A part of his mind noted the somewhat less-than-fine state of that sleeve, and he paused with his arm in the air to study the linen. It was reasonable to assume the colour had once been white, and now that it was close to a grayish-yellow, at least that he could tell in dark, perhaps it was time to find himself a new one. Something white, white like the good Commodore’s cuffs, which were the whitest white Jack had ever seen, excepting of course the Commodore’s wig, which was surely as spotless white as the clouds themselves.
Another hiccough made Jack’s eyes widen, and then he glared down at the abandoned blackjack, rubbing his chest with his other hand to ease the ache. ‘Course, the only cure for hiccoughing was something to drink, and lucky for Jack, he had plenty of drink on hand now, didn’t he? Hauled the barrel all the way up the beach yesterday, and it wasn’t empty yet.
It took but a moment to grab the cup and sit up in order to dunk it into the cask at his back, then he was settling back down easily. “…Lookin’ for…” he continued softly, wriggling his arse into the sand until he was situated just right. Then he was enjoying yet another sip of the Royal Navy’s fine grog, trying to imagine just what the good Commodore’s reaction would be to hearing the news from Bermuda. The man ought to be getting word of it now, and there was going to be quite the storm in Port Royal when he did.
Jack had been most pleased with the notion when it had come to him. The only true disappointment was not being able to see his handiwork in the light of morning. Anamaria had called him a daft fool for doing it at all; and it was clear she had no understanding of the point of the gesture.
Beautiful, fiery, and a bit too much on the practical side of things, was their Anamaria. Much like the Commodore, Jack decided earnestly, reaching up and bending awkwardly to reach the spot itching with sweat at the middle of his back. Only her fire was more visible to the eye, ready to strike a man in the face, one might say. Whereas, Jack was reasonably certain that the Commodore would never strike him in the face. Run him through if he had the chance—which was not an altogether displeasing thought though Jack thought the Commodore might have different sword in mind for it than he did—but never strike him.
Though Jack did not intend on finding out, at least for a while. There was no sense in ending the chase now; it hadn’t even begun. He ought to have Norrington following him across the Caribbean for months yet. His colours on British territory…it was as good as saying the Navy belonged to Captain Jack Sparrow. That it be Treason, well now that was most likely true. Gibbs had gaped at him to hear of what he’d done, taking another drink of the stolen rum without pause.
The memory made Jack grin, tipping his cup to the absent Gibbs. What was a bit of treason in the name of a good chase? He was Captain Jack Sparrow; he could always make his escape. He’d slipped from the noose more times than he could count, even the rope of the pirate hunting Commodore Norrington himself.
Which had been achieved due to the interference of a good man, Jack was quick to recall even just in his mind, already imagining the wrath of that lass were to forget to mention that small detail. Which would be nothing to the wrath of another man if Jack should recollect his victorious escape in his presence—which he fully planned to do, given the chance. He imagined that when the famous and most honourable Commodore Norrington did lose his temper, hurricanes would seem a breeze in comparison.
But even hurricanes didn’t stop Jack Sparrow, and they were usually a sight worth seeing.
The hum started in his chest once again, and it didn’t take long for the words to return to his tongue as well, much louder this time, though there was no one nearby to offend.
“I hope you find what you’re lookin’ for…” The cask was solid at his back, and Jack leaned against it, spreading his legs out before him, knowing the sand was likely both cold and wet but finding it warm enough at that moment. “Is it mine?” Those were the next words in the song. They made little sense even to Jack’s way of thinking, ponder them thought he might, and he raised his voice to sing even louder.
There was only a sliver of the moon now, but the stars were gleaming silvery mischief down on the bay, illuminating the lines of his beautiful Pearl, anchored not far off. His Pearl, for as long as she allowed, and he shivered at the heat that always remained in the air, shocking along bare skin as though it always held a trace of lightening.
“…Walk through that door…” A plea, spoken softly, and Jack dropped his gaze back down to his blackjack of rum. It was a strange song, another one learned from Miss Elizabeth Swann before she had become Mrs. Elizabeth Turner. He could still recall the rum on her breath, taste it on his lips if he tried hard enough, but he was not much inclined to pine away for one Elizabeth Turner and so didn’t try much. The lass was fine, and spirited, and a right beauty, but too full of ideas for his liking. Any longer on the ship and she’d have been calling herself Captain of the Pearl. Young William was a brave lad indeed. But then, Young William had never done anything the easy way, so perhaps they were well suited after all.
Now, the Commodore…the man had likely become Commodore by giving orders, not taking them. ‘Course, he could be taught, but a slip of a lass would hardly know the way, would she?
The grin returned to Jack’s face, and since his legs felt a bit heavy now, he moved them, crossing them at the ankles. The itch at his back still plagued him a bit, and he shifted to rub himself on the cask, sighing to scratch the itch at last. There was something to be said for a man having a lover at his back, even if it was only that they’d be there to scratch it.
One last rub sent him even further down into the sand, slouching with his head down nearly to his chest. His hat weren’t much in a better position, so he shifted it forward over his eyes and tossed his finished cup of rum to the side.
“Ah,” the long sigh ended in another smack of his lips, the lingering warmth of the rum along his teeth, wet on his tongue. It made his body so very comfortable, so very easy, and he brushed his fingers along his leg before letting his hand fall. Why Norrington wanted to drive all the runners from the Caribbean was a mystery that weren’t ever likely to get solved. Not unless someone dared to ask him. The man could be crueler than the East India Company when it came to illegal activities on these waters. Held no proper appreciation for piracy at all. It wasn’t as though Jack had hurt anyone.
In fact, since regaining the Pearl, he had no reason to, though he doubted the Commodore had thought of that yet. Maybe Elizabeth hadn’t explained to her former fiancée that the Isle de Muerte was filled with boatloads of swag free of any tricky heathen blood curses. Probably she hadn’t; Norrington might have demanded the crew give it back, and that would have led to more than one body washing ashore.
Smart girl, that Elizabeth. Though not quite smart enough to Jack’s way of thinking. He wondered if that had occurred to the Commodore, or if the man were still in mourning, as it were.
“We’re wastin’ time…” he sang to himself, mumbling into his chest and frowning a little as some of the words blurred from his memory, either from the rum then or the rum now. The two of them weren’t suited at all, the more he thought of it. But it was commendable of Norrington to have chosen her in the first place. Said a lot for the man. Hinted, as it were, of things that Jack found hopeful for his plan to see the man naked. ‘Course, it also hinted that the man was not inclined to want to see another man naked, that he was a man strictly for the lasses, and if that were true it would be nothing but a shame.
There was a fine figure under that gold buttons and silly wig. Or at least, Jack was fairly certain there was. The lasses had been lucky so far. But Fortune liked a good chase as much as Jack did, and she’d find him in the end. Always did. She just took her bloody time.
Was just a matter of waiting. Waiting a long time, maybe, for a scratch at his back.
“…Wastin’ time…” he sang again, humming a bit for what he couldn’t remember, “…make up yer mind…and….and…” The rest had just gotten very blurry, and Jack curved his lips. What would Captain Jack Sparrow taste on the breath of Commodore Norrington? A question for the Ages that he pondered as he extended his tongue to lick—just a bit—at his lower lip, tasting only salt and rum. “S’crazy,” he murmured, then remembered that had been part of the lyrics to that other blasted song Elizabeth had taught him.
“Mmm…you’ll see. And…” Was very bad of him to have forgotten the lyrics again. It would take a visit to the Turners in Port Royal to learn the lines again. “…I won’t let you…”
“Won’t let me…what?”
He would never be able to figure out how a voice that smooth could be as sharp as one of Will’s swords. Which was not to say that Will’s swords weren’t well-made, sharp blades. Jack would say they were very sharp indeed, especially the one just under his chin. It was so clean it sparkled in just moonlight and scraped gently against the stubble along his jaw as it urged his head upward. An unnecessary move on the other man’s part, as Jack had been lifting his head at the first slow, soft, sarcastic word that had left that mouth.
Jack had to lift a hand to push his hat from his face, and couldn’t help but stiffen a bit at the chill of the blade against his skin as he made the move. He glanced upward first, and then allowed his head to follow his eyes, taking in the sight of stockings first, so clean he could smell the starch from where he was. Silly things for a grown man to wear, and Jack smiled before skipping over the multitude of gold buttons and lining and looking as straight into the man’s face as much as he could.
“Commodore!” He greeted Norrington cheerfully, darting his eyes around and becoming more than a little pleased to note that the Commodore was here alone, without any sort of guard at all.
He couldn’t help another quick look around the man’s back, but it did truly seem as though the man had chosen to meet him alone. That was interesting. Jack let himself look back up at the square shape of the Commodore’s jaw and shifted, just a bit, in the sand. The man had him fixed with his gaze alright, serious as the grave he was, despite the hint of amusement Jack had thought he’d heard at first in his words.
“You seem almost pleased to see me, Mister Sparrow…if surprised.” For just a moment, the Commodore’s lips softened before pressing together into a thin line. Jack would have called it a smile if he hadn’t seen it before, wet and cold as a drowning rat and standing there on the Port Royal dock with the Commodore’s hands ripping the cloth from his arm to expose the raised ‘P’ he’d had since before his beard. The Commodore had a warm, firm grip, and tricks up his spotless white cuffs to do the blackest pirate proud.
Jack shivered, and let his eyes widen.
“Captain Sparrow, if you please, Commodore.” Jack saw his hands in the air, gesturing slowly, without even knowing he’d raised them. But they were pointing gracefully in the other man’s direction, and Jack nodded in agreement. “I’ve never forgotten your title, Commodore.” He slid his gaze down, and then back up when he found himself again contemplating all those shining buttons. “And I’m always pleased to see a friend o’ the Turners. How went the blessed nuptials?”
Not even the hope of a smile now, but Jack grinned for the both of them.
“Watch yourself, Sparrow.” The man’s arm didn’t even look a little bit unsteady. After all this time, bloody strong was what he was.
Jack blinked, then let his eyes widen even more. “Wasn’t allow to view ‘em, myself. Always mindful of yer reputation. Expectin’ a chase, as it were, should I venture near to Port Royal.”
Seems the man could waver after all. The Commodore frowned and let the tip of the blade fall away, near to Jack’s cheek it was now, but not inching toward his bloody throat as it had been.
“So instead you venture to Bermuda?” As though just to prove Jack wrong, the Commodore curved his lips upward, genuine pleasure lighting his face to hear Jack’s rough breath, doubtless seeing the dark way Jack’s eyes had narrowed. “Didn’t expect me to know of that particular exploit yet, Mister Sparrow?”
“I didn’t know you were so interested in my exploits, Commodore.” His smile didn’t really hide the rolling of his shoulders, but it did take some of the amusement from the other man’s expression. Just his luck that the Commodore had found him here in St. Kitt’s so quickly. Jack glared briefly into the shadows, at Lady Fortune, should she happen to be in that direction. Although…
“Don’t see your men about.” Just a friendly observation. No reason at all for the Commodore’s frown to deepen. The man had been born frowning. The only times his brows weren’t at his chin was when he looked at Elizabeth, and when he was smirking down at Jack.
And it was always down, wasn’t it?
“Unofficial visit to the island? Few days off for a bit of fun?” Jack nodded agreeably, leaning his head to one side a moment later and laying one finger to his mouth. “I know of a good spot or two, if ye seek some pleasurable company.” His gaze drifted away from the Commodore to the Pearl, baring clenched teeth in a way that almost could be taken for a grin.
“I am not looking to get…! I am not here for…!” The man choked back several words, to his shame, for they were likely the most interesting words he had to say this evening, in Jack’s estimation. “…I am here for you, Sparrow.”
‘Course, even Jack Sparrow was wrong on occasion. These now, these were far more interesting words. He sat up, letting the sword brush right past his ear. Norrington took a half step back, and the blade was right at Jack’s throat again, touching his skin once when he swallowed. As though he somehow felt the contact through the well-made sword, Norrington pulled it away a few inches.
“Well here I am, Commodore. What will you be doin’ with me?” Looking up the length of Will’s very fine blade, Jack only watched the frown deepen on the Commodore’s face, sighing a bit at the obvious confusion there. If only he were on his feet, or the night were brighter than a slivered moon and a few stars. He could see nothing at all of the other man’s eyes.
“My men will find us soon enough.” Fingers shifted on the hilt, changing the grip, as though the man were growing weary at last.
“Am I under arrest then, Commodore?” Interesting, that the other man would mention that now. Jack wondered if he should ask why, but he knew, mostly, when to hold his tongue and when to speak, and when to continuously speak in a never ending stream so that people stopped listening to him altogether.
“Why did you raise your banner at St. George?” Exasperation perhaps was what made the man sigh the question, though it was a certainty he had been angry to bursting on hearing of what Jack had done.
“Quite an annoyance, wasn’t it, Commodore? Seein’ me, as it were, on your property?” Jack waved his hands about as he spoke, but found his eyes trained on the Commodore’s hand. “Imagine it was quite a sight. Had the flag you see, a gift from a dear la…well a dear friend o’mine. And there was the fort, as pretty as you please, but naked, if you follow my meaning. And there was me, with me flag and no use for it on the Pearl. The Pearl is mine, but the crew ain’t, and with our adventures being so recent, we haven’t had a bit of sport. I haven’t had a bit of sport…Savvy?”
The fingers moved again, and then the whole hand, twisting to show the sharp edge of the sword. It appeared the Commodore didn’t favour the use of many words at all. Just one, in fact.
“Treason.” The Commodore turned his head away, and with that, to Jack’s great and grateful surprise, the sword was withdrawn. Not sheathed, but left at the man’s side. Jack rubbed his neck immediately though he knew there wasn’t a mark, just for show, and Norrington’s gaze returned to him. “Captain Jack Sparrow hanged for treason instead of lowly theft; did that sound more pleasing to your rum-soaked brain? Do not abuse Governor Swann’s protection.”
His eyebrows were near to his hair, Jack knew, and tried to shape his expression into something less surprised. It didn’t seem to matter to the Commodore if he already knew or not; the man clearly thought Jack had.
Surprise forgotten, Jack grinned. “So you were to chase old Jack after all.”
“I am very aware of your reputation, Sparrow.” No ‘Captain’ this time, but Norrington had already said it once, without the usual drip of venom. Likely on account of the ship, of which they were both very aware, floating in the bay behind them. Jack swept his hat from his head and bowed a bit, as well as he could, sitting on his arse in cold sand.
“Honoured, Commodore.” Perhaps it was a shadow, a trick of the faded light, but the line of the Commodore’s lips seemed a little less tight, fair on their way to even looking relaxed, and Jack frowned up into eyes bottomless dark, though he knew they were much lighter in the full glare of the noon sun.
Soft breezes, so cool on the skin of Jack’s neck, were playing with the black ribbon on the Commodore’s wig, and Jack sucked in a breath, hoping the breezes would grow just a mite stronger. Just one more and perhaps…
With a cough, the Commodore stepped away, turning his body half to the side to stare out at the water. If he hadn’t held the sword in his hand, Jack thought his hands might have been clasped at his back, as though he were standing at the helm looking out over a miserable crew.
“Which is why I cannot have you sailing around the Caribbean, creating disturbances without even trying.”
“You apparently can’t hang me either, Commodore.” With a slight outward push of lips, Jack was thinking over what was undoubtedly quite a problem for the good Commodore. A dilemma, one might say. He could kill Old Jack, but if the thought had not occurred to him than Jack wasn’t going to suggest it. Likely it already had, but murder did not sit well with a good man; he could have killed Jack several times over by now, if it had been his wish to see him dead. So the man had found Jack on this island and come out here alone to…ascertain Jack’s intentions in the Caribbean, as it were.
Suddenly Jack blinked, pushing a smile onto his face to rattle the good Commodore, though he didn’t feel much like smiling at all, letting a displeased frown take his face when it did not seem as though the Commodore cared what expression he wore. “Ye can chase me all you please, but ye aren’t allowed to catch me?” The Governor had sentenced them to a good cocktease, hadn’t he?
Coughing a bit, Jack returned to his study of Commodore Norrington, knowing the other man likely wouldn’t have put their situation in those terms. But it was going to be a mite uncomfortable, no matter how one looked at it, unless someone did something to relieve the pressure.
There was an answer to that, which Jack was certain the man had not thought of yet, quick though his mind might be.
Instead, the Commodore nodded in response to Jack’s quiet question, still looking away from him. His chin was up. Could have meant anything, it was the man’s usual pose which anyone who had ever suffered under his lectures was passing familiar with. Yet Jack followed the path his gaze might have taken, looking up at the stars and charting the course to Port Royal without any effort at all.
“Not everyone will connect that flag to you; there is no need for my interference, yet.” The calm words nonetheless startled Jack into tearing his eyes from the sky, blinking across at the Commodore. Now that must a most strange thing for the man to say, and what exactly did he mean by it, Jack wondered. An order to leave the Caribbean, a demand to behave or to stick to his pilfering and stop toying with Royal property, those would be most understandable for the man to say. And he hadn’t said either.
He was being careless again, and a glance back up at the stars told Jack the cause. The same cause as before, the same as always, for a beautifully romantic heart beat in that solid chest.
Elizabeth. Not for a free visit to Madame Li’s House of Silver Leaves in Singapore would Jack have said that name aloud at that moment.
“But here you are, Commodore.” Jack pointed fluidly at the other man just in case Norrington had forgotten, to his back really, which was in fact still turned to him. He hadn’t thought the man’s back could get any straighter, yet there it was, the man suddenly so tall and rigid that Jack was tempted to inquire about the pole up his arse. He didn’t, anymore than he asked his next question in anything higher than a whisper. “’Ave you stopped to consider that?” He had no wish to view that hurricane this particular evening. Time was running out as it was.
Norrington seemed not to hear him, still studying the stars. Silent, and no doubt thinking of what he had planned to be doing with his time, which was not chasing some blasted pirate around the Main just to scratch his itches.
“If ye don’t mind, Commodore…” With a grunt and obvious effort, Jack got to his feet, glancing once at Norrington’s startled half-turn before bending over the cask with the appearance of concentration. He found his abandoned cup, and filled it, pretending not to hear Norrington’s none-too-gentle snort as he drank from it. “Good spirits your navy enjoys, Commodore.”
A fistful of sand was clutched in his other hand, and though Jack almost hated to do it, the Marines might be along at any moment, and that was a good blade in Norrington’s fine hand, and the chase had not yet truly begun, so he turned sharply and threw the sand directly into the Commodore’s face.
Amidst the outraged gasps and swearing as the Commodore scrubbed at his eyes, Jack grabbed one last cupful and swallowed it down. Turning his back on him to daydream of a lass, as though he wasn’t dealing with a bloody pirate. With Captain Jack Sparrow. It was bloody insulting was what it was.
“It’s more a matter of me catchin’ you. Savvy?” Jack grinned, wondering if the man would pause to think over his words at all in the coming weeks. “I’ll be seeing you, Commodore,” he promised with a tip of his hat that Norrington likely didn’t see at all, and slipped off into the shadows.
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Well I could. But twill delay the Ne Ne and his Jamie-boy. Which is fine, actually, as Rene has "really flipped this time" according to Pooky and is being odd.,
We don't want *anything* to delay Ne Ne and his hunky boytoy. Noam.
Then I'm trying to decide when isn't (a) Rene flipping out; and (b) Rene, odd?
Then this is all explained: he is acting like a normal person when confronted with weirdness. Which, for Rene, is extremely unusual.
Have to scratch my head, again Rene=normal does not compute. But then you salvage it by saying it's "unusual."
Then, then you completely toy with me, cruel woman, by mentioning the shaving kink.
Am heading for the liquor cabinet. Cannot choose which to whine and pine for. Jack shaving James OR Rene acting flipped, odd, weird, and unusual.
Better make it a double.
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Do you think they were separated at birth?
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though, if jack were more like rene, i would pair him with will. he's a little too innocent though. haha.
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i know rene definitely gets naked later.
You are so mean. :D