4 February 2004
Pirates of the Caribbean
Sparrington, dammit

Summary:  Drag, baby.

Not even the tiniest bit mine.

Title from "The Mermaid Song".  Some part of this is owed to Gilbert & Sullivan, who would probably kill me for it, though they were cheery gents.

Sheila made this happen.  A fair amount of Jack's dialogue is hers.  I love her hugely.



His orders all come to him travelled and seasoned.  Clerks write them out, carefully, in London, and someone in the Admiralty signs and seals them.  Ribbons are wrapped, parcels carried, and ships set sail.  With good winds, his orders reached him between one month and the next.

He doesn't, of course, receive all of them.  But at least when nothing came, he knows to go hunting.

There were storms all through the autumn.  They lost four merchant ships, a number of island boats, and one slaver coming across the Middle Passage.  All hands presumed lost until Jacob Wilkins, presumed late of the 'Narcissus', fell staggering drunk into the Port Royal jail.  In his coat he had whole bundles of the King's mail.

Norrington had a word with him.

The orders were not among the letters.  They had been, yes, but someone had offered gold for them, and (Wilkins reminded him) a man washed ashore without money or work takes gold where he finds it.

Said information led Norrington inexorably to Nassau.  The Bahamas were not so far from Port Royal, not nearly so far as England, and were the source of some truly excellent company.  There were new chamber musicians at the governor's mansion, and balls scheduled throughout the week.  He found himself invited to as many as he would care to attend.

The hand which laid itself across his arm at the gates was gloved and very careful.  An hour before, he'd seen it holding his papers, before they vanished into tight-cut silk and linen.  Jack Sparrow's glittering smile vanished behind sheer silk pinned over his matted hair.  The gloves went on.

Norrington thinks, in retrospect, that having Wilkins flogged for interfering with the King's mail was far too lenient.

"Commodore Norrington!  How lovely.  And this is . . .?"

Norrington freezes.  Samuel Bartley has been his friend for years, and Norrington has led a pirate into the man's home.

"Oh, la!  I am his fiancee, of course!"

Austen takes in the veil, the gloves, Norrington's tight shoulders.  Norrington grinds out, "All bearing on her father's consent.  Which has not arrived yet."

"It was lost with the mail, I'm sure.  Quite awful."

If he had tried to imagine Jack Sparrow at a ball, the results of his fancy would probably have been appropriately horrible, but they would also have been different.  Jack would have been wearing trousers, for one thing.  And he would have spoken more, rather than simply swirling through the assembly, making too-large movements in the crowded room and not-quite-accidentally knocking elderly gentlemen into the decolletages of extremely young ladies.

Overheard:  "Port Royal must be an unbearable place; look what it has done to poor Mr Norrington.  First the governor's mad daughter and now this.  Creature."

A gentleman he knows slightly comes forward, trailing a young and passably lovely daughter.  Norrington's halfway through an invitation to dance when Jack appears at his elbow, gloved hand tight on his arm.  Norrington wonders how many gold teeth can be seen through the veil in this light.

He has, in any case, no way out.  The next dance begins with Jack's hands crossing his.  Careful steps remembered from childhood.  He knows from experience that few naval officers have learned to dance acceptably; his skill earned him many invitations to balls early in his career, when he might otherwise have been passed over.

Jack is.  Appalling.

While he is not entirely graceless, his steps are better suited to a cathouse than a ballroom.  The murmurs from the chairs rise into a near-mob howl.  Someone in a scarlet marine's jacket steps in beside him and mutters, "See here, Norrington.  I know she's your fiancee, and I'm sure she comes with a great fortune, but this won't do at all."  He wants to answer, but the dance turns him, leaving Jack's skirt to brush white marine breeches, and the man withdraws.

"Will you behave?"

"What? M'dancing!"

"You are drawing undue attention to yourself. And for Heaven's sake, do not kilt your skirt up above your knees!"

He doesn't know how he knows Jack's smiling.  "We could dance properly."  Hands snake out, pulling Norrington into the double-armed embrace of a peasant dance.

"Gentle . . . decent folk do not touch thus!  Why not suggest we engage in full congress here in the ballroom and have done with it? You could not possibly horrify this company much more than you have."

"I'm sure I could horrify them more, given the chance."

"I very much doubt it."

"Well, then."  Jack catches Norrington's collar with one hand and his own veil with the other. The first hand pulls down, the second up. They're frozen in the midst of the dancers, Jack kissing Norrington, in full display of Nassau society.

There's nothing he can do to prevent it, but he can perhaps arrange for Jack to leave with his skin, and to leave himself with his reputation less than totally ruined. Damage control involves laying both hands to Jack's face, covering up scars and windburn, and tugging the veil discreetly forward. He can feel the dancers stepping around them, ignoring the hole made in the dance.

No one is speaking at all. Everyone is looking. In a minute, the other couples will lose their places, collide with each other, and pandemonium will erupt.

Norrington wonders whether they might be able to slip away in the confusion.

In fact the music ends, silence reigns, and Jack continues kissing him until a hand descends on Norrington's shoulder. It's enough of an excuse for Norrington to pull back, dropping the veil back into place, and to turn.

Bartley looks. Displeased is too mild. Apoplectic, perhaps. Very scarlet for a man of his age. "Commondore Norrington. I think perhaps you had best take your . . . lady . . . and depart."

The hand steers him to the door. There is no chance of farewells, or of any polite words. Or of any words. Jack follows primarily because Norrington has him by one gloved wrist.

In the foyer, far from the ballroom, Bartley pushes Norrington back against the wall, hard enough that teeth rattle. He loses his grip on Jack's hand. Steps in close and hisses, "I can't imagine what you were thinking, bringing that . . . thing . . . into my house. Perhaps you thought it would be a gesture against my wife, bringing a whore in the guise of a gentlewoman. I would ask for a private meeting if you had not so thoroughly proved yourself to be less than a gentleman. You will never be welcome in a decent house of this city again."

He walks away, leaving Norrington burning with a humiliation he didn't expect.

Jack, behind his veil, is laughing.

When he can see clearly again, his cloak is on the floor in front of him, and one of the servants is laughing silently. Or, well, not a servant, because this is Nassau and not London, and servants of that colour don't have to be paid. He sees the man's fingers touch Jack's some kind of recognition, less important at the moment than the sheer social ruin visited upon him. No one in the Bahamas will welcome him again; he's sure of it. No more literate company on the occasions of his landings. Never another concert, perhaps in all of the Greater Antilles.

He takes Jack's wrist in his hand and leaves. Very hard.

All the way out the gate, in the street, carriageless and trapped with this ruinous person. This man who's ruined him.

The gates slam shut. Then Norrington hits Jack, as hard as he can, in the face.

People around them still. Workers and slaves and servants going home. Everyone stares while Jack holds his veiled cheek. Norrington can feel the glare soaking through it.

Jack turns and walks away, wearing ten pounds-worth of indigo silk and carrying Norrington's papers in his bodice.

Norrington goes after him. Seizes the veil and a strong hank of tangled dark hair beneath and drags Jack through the dark. Down from the manor-houses towards the inns and the harbour. Past shops and homes and out of cobbled streets and into earthen ones. Vaguely, he can hear Jack howling his displeasure, shrill as a mistreated cat.

A stone's-throw from his inn, Norrington steps away into an alley and throws Jack back against the wall. Draws his sword and lays its tip on Jack's shoulder.

He says, "Strip."

"I wouldn't have taken you for the type to have a bit of fun in an alley. 'Specially one as fragrant as this."

"I want my papers back. I won't take you to the inn, incurring the greater damage of a useless whore, solely so you can make the exchange in comfort."

"An exchange would suggest I got something out of this."

"I think you did. Now." Sword to throat, sharp and bright, Will Turner's beautiful creation, and it might well serve to end the stupid boy's worthless hero's existence.

He can't see Jack's face, but he can feel the look. And he can see it clearly when the veil falls away, across the sword's blade and thence into the mud, leaving Jack bareheaded. Jack shrugs a little at the sword against his throat, then reaches behind him to release the dress' bodice-clasps.

Norrington reaches forward, leaving the blade at Jack's throat, and tugs. The bodice peels down, leaving a pale linen shift exposed.

Underclothes. Norrington cocks an eyebrow. Jack shrugs again. "Dress didn't sit right without 'em."

"I see. Take it off."

Laces, this time, and the garment parts enough for Jack to let it fall to his still-bound waist. The papers, ribbon-wrapped and very small for all their importance, fall into the dimness of the alley.

Norrington weighs it: the reward of bending for his precious documents against the risk of Jack evading him. He's gone to ruin to retrieve that tiny parcel. He wants to see Jack hung for the events of this night.

Hanged. Damn it.

"Pick them up."

"I can't very well bend with your sword at my throat."

"I'm almost certain you'll think of a way."

He's somehow not surprised that Jack can catch the papers with the toe of one dark-silk slipper and send them into the air. His dodge to catch them takes him, unsurprisingly, away from Norrington's blade.

A gloved hand offers him a rather muddy parcel. "Your papers. Commodore."

"What do you have on beneath that?" Norrington asks, nodding to the skirts.

Jack gives him a rather liquid smile. "You already have the papers. Would this be the fun, then?"

"I don't particularly want to take you any farther through the streets in your current state of apparel. I think I'd rather have the people of this town remember me departing with a prisoner rather than a..."

"Whore. You already said that."

Jack looses the tie at his back and the dress falls. Ten pounds in new silk ruined. In the linen underskirt, he looks disturbingly chaste. Something, perhaps, in the contrast between the fabric's cleanness and the scarred-and-tanned surface of Jack's naked chest.

"I suppose it will have to do. Hand me the veil." It's muddy, but serviceable. Norrington twists it into a cord. "Turn to the wall."

"Are you sure you're not here for fun, Commodore?"

If Jack's armed, Norrington can't find the hidden blade, and there's little enough fabric in which to hide it.  He twists Jack to face him.

"Cross your hands before you." Silk, whatever else it may be, is devilishly strong. Norrington has some hope it will hold Jack until he can lay his hands on something better.

They walk the rest of the way like that, Jack half-dressed and bound, walking entirely too gracefully before his captor. One wink for the tavern-keeper before Norrington drives Jack upstairs, away from the stares of the company.

In his bedroom, at least, there are ropes. Jack comments on this at some length, just as though he's never encountered a sailor to keep ropes on shore.

Bound to a chair, Jack comments at even more length. His commentary doesn't properly cease until Norrington gags him.

Then, finally, he can lay his finery away. His dress uniform is mercifully unstained. His boots will need polishing, but he can set someone to it tomorrow, when they're far from here.

Ruined, yes. He used to like the Bahamas.

He needs a drink.

The tavern-girl comes to his soft call, smiles and nods when he explains. The bottles she bring him light up Jack's eyes.

"You wouldn't like it."

Jack twists wildly in his bonds. He makes rather a lot of noise through the gag.

"Your taste for rum is well-known. I don't, however, think you'd like what I'm adding." The bottle is green glass, and it has the glitter of a patent medicine. "Water and extract of cola-nut. African in origin. I developed a taste for it while in Johannesburg."

In shirt-sleeves and breeches, barefoot, he sinks onto the bed. The drink is much as he remembers it. He remembers his year on the Cape of Good Hope, what the sailors and the natives both called The Cape of Storms.

Lovely women lived there, free mulattos and quadroons as well as the Dutch women of the city, and some of them were better friends to him than any woman here has been.

He finishes the first cup rather quickly, appreciating the cola-flavour as much as the rum's bite. The second cup goes down smoother, and perhaps even more quickly.

Some time after the third one, he gets up and walks over to Jack.

"I was, you know, a highly respected man in this town. Once.

"I could have married from any of the families here.

"If news of this evening travels back to England, then when you are dead, I shall spread it through the entire West Indies that Jack Sparrow dressed as a woman and whored himself to British officers."

Jack bellows something through the gag. It might be "Captain!"

"I shan't even be ashamed to say such things, since every word, essentially, is true."

He reaches back for the rum bottle and drinks from it without benefit of a cup. "I wonder, Mister Sparrow, if you have ever been properly ashamed of anything in your life."

Jack looks at him, rather more focussed than usual. A little considering. A touch defiant. He shakes his head.

"A decent person would have some sense of shame."

Jack says something into the gag. Norrington raises an eyebrow and Jack repeats it. Norrington gives up and pulls the gag from Jack's mouth.

"Pirate."

"Yes, well. I don't think I shall regret hanging you at all."

"You were planning to hang me anyway. Again."

"Yes, but the last two times were purely out of duty. This time I believe I will actually enjoy it." Another pull on the rum bottle.

"You won't hang me."

"I always hang you." Odd. That should make more sense.

"Without any success. Why not just let me go and save yourself the trouble of appearances? Since apparently your appearances aren't welcome anymore."

"In the name of . . . you don't suppose I pursue you for my own amusement!"

"Oh, I do suppose, Commodore. I very much do."

"I would have better served my career to hang you when we first met. I might have long ago been made admiral. I could have gone home."

Jack snorts. "England."

"Home."

"Cold."

"Yes." He's been sweating for as long as he can remember. His childhood memories are, at this stage, a mass of sensations, warmth amidst the cold. Coal fires and hot dinners. His sisters curled on his bed with him, telling stories, when they were all tiny children.

"Man can't work properly in that cold. You need to keep your skin to the sun."

Jack certainly has. He's dark golden in ways that remind Norrington disturbingly of his Johannesburg women.

"You might notice that my coat remains on my back, where it belongs."

"On ship, maybe."

"In town as well."

"Ah, but on the islands, Commondore, a man can have a lot of fun."

Or anywhere far from home. The Cape of Storms was so beautiful. He learned Dutch and other words just to talk to those women who served in his house. "I'm not at all sure I like what you're suggesting."

Jack's grin is disturbing. It spills off his face and soaks the whole room. "Love it, then. You're loving this conversation far more than me."

Norrington follows Jack's eyes down and. Bugger. His mind's half a world away, caught up on long-lost golden skins.

"Filthy."

"Again, pirate." Jack grins. "Come now, Commodore, we're both men here -- rather my point, actually. Let a little steam off, no one's the wiser, and we'll have another talk in the morning about whether you'll be hanging Captain Jack."

"Sparrow, you can't possibly be propositioning me."

"Wouldn't be the first time, Commodore. Come to think of it, it wouldn't even be the first time tonight. Tell Captain Jack, have you been that hard ever since I kissed you?"

"No."

"Mmmm. Harder at the time. P'raps it was you that got us tossed out of the ball and not me, then."

"Your talent for ruining other men's lives borders on the remarkable."

"You're changing the subject. Or would you rather just take care of it yourself? I'm sure I could take you through it. Wouldn't be as good, of course, and you'd wonder, ever after, whether it was you or Jack.

"You ought to let yourself know."

Norrington pushes off Jack's chest. Walks to the window and takes a long, serious drink. Behind him, Jack says, "Might as well be hanged for mutton as lamb, Commodore."

He doesn't consider himself that kind of a man. He's had four cabin servants, all sons of his family's connections, all sent on to naval careers in the same unspoiled condition in which they entered his service. He went through service as a midshipman without ever having to seek the ship's surgeon for discreet advice. He's never killed a prisoner under his guard. Tonight he's thinking about it.

Still behind him, Jack says, "Them as doesn't want to be caught won't run."

Norrington re-crosses the room. Tilts the bottle to Jack's lips and watches while he drinks. Sun-cracked lips wrap around the glass and suck, gently. Bliss in the nearly-closed eyes.

Norrington says, "Alright. Yes."

Jack grins at him. "Ropes?" Norrington releases them. The chest ropes. The ones binding Jack's legs. Lets Jack stand, rolling his shoulders, with his hands still bound. "Hands?"

"No."

"You're a man of exotic tastes, Commodore. Tell me, have you ever been to Istanbul?"

Norrington finishes the bottle. He drops it down, watches it roll instead of break, kicks it to the corner. Jack says, "Right."

Jack is, in fact, remarkable beautiful on his knees. His hair remains a disaster, but from above his skin is nearly flawless, and the eyes are whore-dark. He noses in at Norrington's waist. Manages to insinuate his mouth beneath the untucked shirt. The touch of his mouth is bright and wet and sweetly interested in the act. It stays there, just below Norrington's navel, waiting, and Norrington wonders if beneath the mess of linen Jack is laughing at him.

It doesn't matter. He unbuttons his breeches.

The ache shifts when the fabric drops away. He is hard, has been for a length of time not counted, but it felt too similar to the slow burn of anger in his belly that he always feels in Jack's presence. Cool-warm-humid air on his flesh for a moment, then the warmer and more humid shift of Jack's breath.

Jack's mouth closes on him like a ship's flare in the night. Fireworks from China. Cannon fire.

It's better than he remembers. It's been years. Warm slick sex in the oceanic night, golden skin and dark hair. Something he half-remembered. Jack sucks him incautiously, sloppy-wet and playful, mouth close to Norrington's belly. Bright flares run up Norrington's spine. They move his hands, independently, and he finds himself discovering that beneath the tangles Jack's hair is silky-fine.

Pulling him closer. This is, after all, his moment, and he can ride it the way he wants

Warm, long suck, and Jack pulls back. Shakes his head to throw Norrington's hands off and glares up, comically offended. "You can let go of my hair. I know what I'm doing."

"Prove it." Norrington thrusts a little at Jack's cheek.

"Have a seat, Commodore. Might as well enjoy this, no need to keep your feet in the midst of the storm."

"I have never, in fact, fallen while at sea."

"What, never?"

"Never."

"Your funeral if you fall now, then." Jack dives back in. Clever, slick mouth. The small, idle part of Norrington's brain wonders what Jack might manage, were his hands free.

Less important than driving himself into that very slick, welcoming throat. Bright and wet, steady for as long as he needs, unflinching when he pours himself into it.

His knees are, in fact, slightly weak.

Jack smirks at him. "Never?"

"Hardly ever. And we're not currently at sea."

It is, in fact, almost exactly as he remembers, only brighter and sharper -- new memory instead of old. It may only be habit that makes him bend and lay his mouth on Jack's.

Sea-bright taste of himself that slides onto his tongue.

In the moment after, against Norrington's cheek, Jack says, "There, now."

He nudges with his shoulders until Norrington lets his knees give. Before Jack on the bare, wooden floor. One further, silky kiss in which he indulges, and which he suspects Jack enjoys nearly as much as he does.

When they break, Jack says, "What about--"

"You weren't to ask about that until morning."

"I meant my own condition." Jack leans in, rubbing himself against Norrington's hip.

Norrington's tempted. It's been more years since he turned his hand to anything so . . . practical . . . as Jack.

He takes him by his still-bound wrists and pulls, making the man stagger. Pushes him back, still on his knees, against the side of the bed. Jack yelps.

Norrington says, "On condition of your silence."

Jack nods, comically earnest. Arches himself. He's still in the linen shift. Obscene and amusing, golden as memory.

He moans, very softly, when Norrington pushes the linen folds away and wraps his fingers around Jack's cock. Slick and warm, almost frantic. Tightens his grip a little and lets Jack thrust into it. One hand on Jack's shoulders to pin him against the bed, arching half-helplessly into Norrington's palm.

Soft minutes in the Caribbean night. Jack's lovely.

Norrington leans over. He whispers, "Finish."

Jack pours into his hand and slumps back, panting.

Norrington wipes his hand on Jack's shift. Rocks back a little on his heels and considers the man. Reaches out a finger to brush those lips and jumps a little when Jack's tongue strokes him.

One hand behind Jack's head is enough to pull him forward a little. Jack ducks, presses his mouth to Norrington's bare throat, and licks there, too. Warm, soft lips against his pulse, making him shiver.

He ducks, catches Jack's mouth.  Kisses him open and then sucks at his tongue.  Jack, post-coital, is lazy and even more liquid than usual.  His eyes are narrower but still open, even at close range.

When he drops closer, though, Jack whines a little, and pushes at Norrington's chest with his bound hands.  The silk's not broken the skin, but around the blue edges, Jack's clearly raw.  Norrington shifts to the side a little, but otherwise ignores him.  He'll live.

Still.  Jack smells good, sharp and clean-skinned enough that he must have bathed sometime in the recent past.  It's a big enough bed that Norrington could keep him close and still sleep comfortably.  Have him again, properly, some hours from now.  When they're both less shaken and when Jack's sleep-slow and asking him for it.

One hand goes down heavy on Jack's chest.  "Stay."

Jack nods at him very seriously.

The ropes are still there, pooled on the floor.  He catches one and coils it absently in his hands.  The small window is uncurtained; he can see the faint silhouette of the 'Dauntless' at anchor.  Two nights sailing, maybe three, back to Port Royal.  He considers the potential of Jack as a prisoner in the small captain's cabin during those nights.

It's going to be an interesting trip.

Turns back to the bed and Jack's there, propped on an elbow watching him, hands together across his belly.  When Norrington gestures, Jack holds his hands out. 

He's been at sea most of his life; his knowledge of ropes and knots is vast and manifold.  He's bound whole ships together with knots carved out of hemp and his own skin; Jack Sparrow can't be more slippery than his beautiful, lost 'Interceptor'.

Jack's like her.  Jack stole her.  He hasn't forgotten.

Jack bites him, once or twice, in the night.  Almost-bare man close beside him in bed, muttering mad, oceanic things in Norrington's ear.

He wakes to ropes, and to silk around his wrists.  Jack's gone; his bonds are there, laid across the sheets in an almost-human shape.  The silk ties are on Norrington's wrists, wrapping them tight together.

His sword, at least, is there, laid across the table and sharp enough to cut him loose.  The girl who brings him breakfast only blinks when he asks after Jack.  Others in town saw him, but hours ago.  There isn't an inch of Nassau now that will yield him up.

His orders, at least, are there, tucked into his satchel and waiting for the journey home. 

The first night on the 'Dauntless', he opens the bundle.  Slipped in the Admiralty seals is a leaf of messy scrawl. 

Them as doesn't want to be caught won't run.

He crumples the paper.  Takes it up on deck and hurls it into the sea.

Glitter on the horizon.  Ship's running lights, so far off he can only make them in his glass.  One small, bright flare, like gunpowder, like a cannon without hard shot in it.

He turns back to the deck and he realizes the crew's stilled, and they're all looking at him.  Waiting.




jane
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