The Raptors of Misdirection and Waxing Gibberish - Chapter 7
Title: The Raptors of Misdirection and Waxing Gibberish
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean; Sparrington
Rating: PG-13 for now, going up to NC-17 later
Disclaimer: I have no claim on POTC or the lovely characters who populate it, even if it seems that James Norrington is making himself quite at home in my head, the snarky British bastard.
Summary: James undergoes a bit of a “trust exercise” with the crew of the Black Pearl, befuddles Captain Jack Sparrow once more, and is lectured to by an only slightly intoxicated Theodore Groves, all before he can get any sleep.
Chapter Seven
The two men disembarked from the Gold Hawk, quietly discussing her speed and agility as they made their way toward the Black Pearl. Their companionable talk about ships quieted as they stepped aboard the big black ship. And as the two captains had anticipated, Norrington’s arrival on the Pearl’s deck caused the general noise of conversation and light revelry to suddenly die, smothered by a tense and suspicious silence immediately after once voice, that of a shocked and choked-sounding Mr. Gibbs, all-too-loudly stage whispered, “Dear God, it’s him!” in stunned tones. Only Jack and James felt the contented hum of the ship beneath their feet, which mitigated the silence for them somewhat.
James glanced down at the deck and silently greeted the Black Pearl, who in turn seemed amused and pleased by his politeness. There was something about the idle wickedness of the ship’s mood and her air of mock-grandeur that made James very aware of the fact that she was very much quintessentially Jack Sparrow’s ship.
Of course, Jack’s attention was more focused on his crew. Before any further murmurs of recognition and talk of killing ex-commodores came up, Jack shouted, “So, mates, how many of you lot would like to see the East India Trading Company’s Lord Cutler Beckett tarred, feathered, lit on fire for a bit, until the flames would be put out with lemon juice, keel-hauled, and then finally fed to the Kraken?”
There was chorus of enthusiastic voices shouting “Aye” with Norrington’s sardonic baritone notably among them.
“Very good. Now, this man here wants to help us make life miserable for Beckett. I’m more than willin’ to let ‘im, especially since Our Lady-” he pulled is hat from his head and rested it over his heart “-Calypso saw fit to raise from the depths for ‘im the sister-ship to our bonnie Pearl. His ship is the Gold Hawk off over there.” Jack gestured vaguely.
There was further chorus of agreement until a few highly notable discordant notes came to the fore. Not surprisingly, the most fervent dissent came from Anamaria, who stepped forward, pointing her blade at James; although this was more for dramatic effect than immanent threat, as she seemed unwilling to step within range of James’ sword; The Devil Himself Norrington was a notoriously good swordsman, and Anamaria was no fool.
She was, however, very angry. “The captain of the Gold Hawk is that ex-Navy pirate hunter Norrington. Don’t try to hide that from us, Jack,” Anamaria growled. “Not when he’s standin’ right here on deck wit’ us.”
Jack looked at Gibbs hopefully, thinking that the man who had known Norrington before would be of help, but Gibbs appeared very pale and was staring at Norrington with a look of such great shock and confusion that Jack could almost hear Gibbs’ brain snapping. Jack sighed: of course--Gibbs had known Norrington of the Navy, and Navy-Norrington’s rather abrupt and stark change of appearance, rank, and career would be enough to give Gibbs a headache to comprehend.
Uneasy noises went through the rest of the pirate crew.
“Anamaria-” Jack began, but was interrupted as the ex-commodore stepped away from him and toward his enraged first mate.
“You have me by rights, Miss,” Norrington said, doffing his hat, resting it over his heart, and bowing politely. “But I would like to offer my word that I mean no harm to the Black Pearl or to any of those aboard her.”
“The word of a pirate hunter ain’t worth much here, Navy man,” Anamaria growled.
Norrington straightened back up to his full height and met her gaze. “I am ex-Navy, Miss Anamaria. There is even a certain Admiral who would have a tough time choosing between who he would prefer to capture: myself or your own captain.” He tilted his head, appearing very hawk-like, his eyes piercing. “Also, may I remind you that throughout the course of my career I have had many opportunities to make your lives aboard this ship, under your current captain, far more difficult, but that I never have?” His dry British tone was as politely cutting as ever: his baritone voice polished and elegant and scathing.
He stepped closer to Anamaria, keeping one hand on his hat, which he still held to his chest, and the other harmlessly at his side--not even the side he kept his sword on: deliberately non-threatening. Soon he stood within a foot of her blade, where he stopped and looked down into her eyes cooly. In matter-of-fact, almost bored tones, James listed, “I could have made this ship my primary target, as Beckett wanted me to, and I could have made sure that all of the usual ports that you haunted became all-too-dangerous for you--even Tortuga would not have been a welcome enough place for you to linger about; I could have chased you from Port Royal the day that you came to pick up your captain when he escaped the noose, and simply never stopped the chase; however, I did not. And it would have, in all likelihood, made my life much easier if I had, which I well knew, and which I’m sure you can understand.”
Norrington inclined his head in a single, very deliberate, nod of respect. “I, unlike most of you, am a man of my word,” he said, his coldly sincere green gaze never leaving Anamaria’s eyes even as she inched closer so that the tip of her blade hovered near his throat.
He did not flinch, but his voice grew harder and sharper, indicating his ire at the implications against his honor and intentions, and making a few members of the crew wince visibly; even Anamaria seemed to hesitate as Norrington added, “I respect this crew, and its captain, for the lives saved by the actions of both during the battle at the Isla de Muerta: the removal of the curse by your captain leading to the surrender of Barbossa’s men; and also your commandeering of this ship from Barbossa’s crew, providing notable distraction to the undead force in the time before they could be actually stopped; those actions prevented the slaughter and spilt blood of many of my men, for which I owe you all some measure of gratitude--and while I am indeed still a pirate hunter of sorts, I am not quite such dishonest, ungrateful, and honorless slime as the likes of Lord Cutler Beckett, and I would not disgrace myself by plotting the misfortune of anyone aboard this ship.”
A long pause followed, and Anamaria lowered her blade, but kept her eyes narrowed. “An’ what of your men, Captain Norrington. Ex-navy like you?”
“Yes, and all but two of them also fought immortal and skeletal pirates with me aboard the Dauntless that night. All of them are loyal to me, to the point of forsaking their careers and home-lives in order to join my crew against Beckett and the EITC. You may count on their honor as much as you may count on mine.” Norrington’s sea-green gaze was cold and brazen, and even Anamaria asked no more questions, sheathing her blade. Then Norrington smirked. “We are, after all, Navy,” he added, with the same tones that Jack Sparrow usually said the word ‘pirate’ by way of explaining his actions. “And if they were not all men of honor akin to mine, then one of them would have either killed me or sold me to Beckett by now.”
A few members of the crew laughed bitterly, and Anamaria’s eyes glinted with the faintest hint of amusement as she doffed her own hat and inclined her head mockingly, taking a step back from the ex-commodore, who mimicked the movement more somberly: also nodding, also stepping back.
“So, mates: can we sail alongside Captain Norrington and the Gold Hawk in order to make Beckett’s life a little more Hellish?” Jack shouted.
The chorus was all in favor, and Norrington nodded to them as he put his hat back on his head with a hint of a smile and back-stepped a few paces further, to once more stand beside Jack.
“Oh good,” Jack muttered, scarcely loud enough for James to hear and sounding pleasantly surprised. Then he bellowed for the crew to hear, “Very good, lads! Now feel more than free get back to your duties!” He paused to allow some grumbling “And your well-deserved celebrations, as well,” he added with a lecherous grin, which earned chorus of more enthusiastic affirmatives. Then he shouted, “Mr. Gibbs? You got word of our heading?”
“Aye, Captain, and it’s about time!”
“Good man. Get to work, then.” Seeing his crew back to its business and surprisingly willing to ignore the ex-commodore on deck, Jack turned to face Norrington. He patted the taller man’s shoulder. His hand lingered, gripping only very lightly. “You did quite well, there, mate. No gibberish at all.”
“I find that honesty can be a very fine tool on such occasions as this,” James said.
Again, Jack patted his shoulder, this time looking at James as though the man were adorably naive. “And that there’s where you an’ I differ, Jamie, but that’s just as well.” Then he dropped his hand to his side, lest he give in to the potentially disastrous urge to grope.
James snorted and shook his head. “I should return to the Hawk and make sure that my own crew is capable of as much acceptance as yours. I have a feeling that I will have to make a few speeches akin to the one that I just gave to...” James glanced archly back at Jack’s crew “that rather interesting young woman.”
“Aye, Anamaria’s a good pirate, but bloody terrifyin’ sometimes if I do say so myself.” Jack admitted, then glanced in the direction of James’ ship thoughtfully. “If we had the time, I’d suggest tossin’ all both crews together with a few barrels of rum and most of ‘em would all be friends by the morning, but considerin’ our current chronological constraints, I do suppose that your pretty speeches will have to do.”
“Yes, it is a time of waxing gibberish, I suppose,” James mused, eyeing the pirate captain with amusement and a hint of something else: curious and predatory. Then his gaze scanned Jack’s crew again, just for a moment, and he was pleased to note that all of them seemed conveniently focused on a loud argument occurring between Mr. Gibbs and Ragetti about Beckett’s theoretically being fed to the Kraken. No one so much as glanced at the captains as the three absurd men shouted at each other. It was better than a Shakespeare comedy. The ex-commodore smirked in satisfaction, if only for a brief moment, before his mask fell back into place again.
“And also a time of opportune moments, perhaps,” James added as he took a step closer to Jack Sparrow. Aware of Jack watching him, James smirked faintly, turned back to the pirate captain himself and tilted the other man’s bearded chin up slightly, then leaned down and captured Jack Sparrow’s lips with his own before the pirate could react.
Too stunned, at first, to react, Jack froze for a moment, his eyes growing very wide, but he then quickly melted into the contact and the warmth of James’ mouth, because Captain Jack Sparrow’s opportunistic sensualist instincts demanded it of him, and because he’d been spending far too much time this evening wondering what the former commodore might taste like.
The kiss was brief, communicating exploration and challenge, but also languid and unhurried to the point of being almost droll. The pull and slide of their lips provided a tease, then deepened as James’ tongue made an exploratory sweep into the pirate’s mouth, earning a low and quiet noise of encouragement from Jack, whose tongue teased in return, running across James’ teeth. The slick friction was electrifying, and the smell and the taste...
It was an effort for James to keep focused on his original plan: the game. The kiss was meant to be the challenge, not the battle itself; the moment was not quite opportune for that, because they hardly had the time and this was hardly the place. James caught Jack’s teasing tongue gently in his teeth, and suckled on it sharply, promising, which made the pirate’s breathing hitch. As the shock wore off, Jack’s hands started reach out to grab at the other man, pull him closer, keep this going, but James--utilizing every ounce of self-control in his considerable repertoire--pulled back and halted those wandering hands with one of his own, smirking at the slightly dazed look in Jack’s eyes, which provided some consolation.
James’ fingers lingered on the corner of Jack’s jaw for a moment, and his thumb brushed the corner of the pirate’s mouth. Then the ex-commodore silently commanded his hands to return to his sides, with some difficulty. James bowed very slightly as he took a step backward. He wore a slightly crooked grin and his pale green eyes were bright with challenge and anticipation. “Good night, Jack,” he said, his tone easy and sardonic, but with a more ragged edge than Jack had heard before. Then the ex-commodore turned on his heel and walked off, his footsteps audible as they travelled down the ramp to the docks once more.
Standing very still, Jack stared after him with a mixture of shock and irritation and lust. The pirate captain blinked a few times slowly as he tried to come to terms with a number of perturbing facts, such as: the fact that he had just been kissed by the Ex-Commodore Ex-Pride of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, James “The Devil Himself” Norrington; the fact that James Norrington could kiss quite well, indeed; the fact that the scent and taste of James Norrington had created a flavor combining the whiskey they had both shared, strong green tea, and a hint of something akin to fresh coconut milk, all with traces of black pepper and masculine musk; and finally, the fact that he--Captain Jack Sparrow--was half-hard in his breeches after just that kiss and watching the man’s arse as he had walked away.
The corner of Jack’s lips twitched as his face wore a look of mixed awe and irritation; the man had launched a surprise seduction-attack and then walked away with that damned amused smirk on his... rather flushed face, Jack recalled. In fact, the look that James had given him had been all kinds of interesting, flushed and hungry and... challenging. Added to the games of gibberish they played, James wanted to add in games of lust.
Jack Sparrow’s mind was immediately full of a wide variety of very dirty thoughts. Some of them involved seeking vengeance, others just sought excuses to get the ex-commodore naked. All of them were very, very interesting indeed.
“Captain? Are ye alright?” someone asked. Most likely Gibbs, but Jack was too distracted to check for sure.
“Fine! Fine. I’ll be in my cabin. Carry on.” Hastily, Sparrow retreated.
James Norrington was still smirking as, with curiosity and a hint of smugness, he savored the taste of Jack Sparrow on his lips: the mixture of rum and whiskey the pirate had been drinking, sea salt and cinnamon and a dozen other rich spices, oranges, and the tang of metal and smoke. That, combined with the man’s scent of sweat, sea air, warm leather, gun-smoke and rum, had been at least as intoxicating as the kiss itself, which had been damned good.
James stepped back aboard the Gold Hawk, pausing only for a moment to chuckle softly as he basked in the warmth of his ship’s amusement at his actions, as well as his own, but then he squared his shoulders, his expression turning more somber as he recalled his duties. He sought out his former lieutenant, Theodore Groves, who seemed to have gone into Tortuga proper only to have returned to the Hawk shortly before his captain had. Groves carried with him a bottle of strong rum, a more than reasonable amount of which was already gone. Still, he did not sway or stagger as he followed James to the captain’s cabin.
“More ghost stories come to life. As though we needed more,” Groves muttered, sitting in the seat formerly occupied by Jack Sparrow and stoppering his bottle of rum before setting it on the table. Then he allowed his right hand to rub his left shoulder where his deep scar from the Isla de Muerta gave an unpleasant twinge. “At least my scars from last time seem to be sensitive to storms; that’s a nice early warning system.” He shook his head and gave a bitter half-smile. “Maybe the next ones will be equally useful, somehow.”
James sat down across from him calmly, watching his friend with concern. “At least this time we are both forewarned, and likely to heed what warnings we get. We are wiser for it, for all that it feels like we’ve stepped off the edge of the map of the usual, rational world, and into a rather madder one.”
“Yes: into the territory of sea monsters, undead pirates...”
“And now a heathen a sea goddess, along with Davy Jones and his infamous grave-ship, the Flying Dutchman,” James sighed with a bitter chuckle. Then, at Groves’ questioning look, James started explaining the whole situation. He started with what he had seen and the deal he had made on the day that they found the Gold Hawk, and ended with what he had heard from both Beckett and Sparrow.
Groves reopened and continued to drain the rum early in the tale. By the end of it, he was gripping the neck of the bottle hard enough to whiten his knuckles. He was quiet for a few long moments. “You’re sworn to work on all of this, then?”
“Yes, but you and the rest of the crew are not,” James said softly. “I would prefer not to drag all of you into this...this chaos with a goddess and Davy Jones. It was not what you signed on for, and none of you are obliged to follow me down this path.”
“Of course we are, James; we’re your men. There’s only about two dozen of us, but we’re all more than willing to follow you through Hell and back until we are somehow irrevocably incapacitated.” Groves snapped. “I would say ‘until we drop dead’ but in the world we’re currently in, I have doubts that death’s incapacitating effects are still irrevocable.” He lifted the bottle to his lips again.
James’ eyes widened slightly. “But... why, Theo? Why on earth would any of you--I am not exactly an altogether good man. You’ve all seen me at my very nearly my most ruthless since we fled Port Royal, and you yourself, Theo, know better than anyone what depths I’m capable of sinking to; you know how I escaped the Spanish, and you’ve a good idea of what I did once I had recovered enough to request a few months’ leave of absence. I’ve managed to turn all of you rogue, I’ve sailed us into Tortuga, and now I am allying us with pirates. I’m no hero. I’m no savior. Your good fight is with the corrupt and immoral practices of the East India Trading Company, not with the likes of myths and undead such as mine seems to be aimed for.”
“You’re wrong, James.” Groves sat up, rested his elbows on the table, and pointed at James with the mouth of his rum bottle. “Firstly: you’re a damned good man. I swear to God, you’ve got to be part hawk or falcon as well to be quite as good of a hunter as you are and to see all of what you do, but mostly you’re a damned good man. Secondly: all of us on this ship, we’ve chosen, quite deliberately and after much thought on the matter, that we are your men and that we can see nothing we want to do more than to help you, and, more than that, to fight under your leadership. Thirdly: yes, we’ve seen those marks on your arms and your torso and some of us--most notably myself--know where you got them, and we’ve all seen you fight dead men and merchant men and pirates alike, fierce as any hurricane yourself; but a lot of us also saw you risk your honor twice for the love of one Miss Elizabeth Swann, and all of us watched you lay your head on the chopping block for all of us when that Admiral tried to lead us into the damned hurricane. And you were a savior to us right then, James; you saved plenty of the Navy’s fine men, and a few of its scoundrels, and you did it because Beckett’s man--the Admiral--was a stupid, corrupt and greedy fool and needed to be stopped, and you were the best man for the job. We know that’s why you do what you do, James. We also know that nobody else will, and that’s why we’re here, with you,” Groves said firmly, jabbing a finger at James to get his point across.
Then he continued, “Now, we know you’re no hero, but that just means that you aren’t stupid, because you’re far more realist than idealist; and that you’re willing to not only listen to, but also to sweat and bleed with, the rest of us mere mortal men; and we love you for that, James.” Groves stoppered his bottle of rum and leaned back in his chair again, crossing his arms over his chest with a mocking grin. “I think that the closest any of us have come to questioning your judgment since then has been me thinking to myself that you should’ve killed the Admiral; although I understood that. I also think you should’ve shot Beckett, since you ran into him in Port Royal. For all the rest: we’ll follow you through Hell. And it’ll be of our own free will, because--as you can see--there’s those among us who listen well to the rest of your crewmen, and who aren’t afraid to argue with you fiercely.” He grinned smugly, albeit with a bitter edge.
James lowered his eyes, feeling rather humbled. “I... Thank you,” he said softly, then bit his lip and took a deep breath, trying to find a way to put into words how deeply he meant it. Failing, he met Groves’ gaze somberly, humbly, and without anything masked. “Thank you,” he repeated.
Groves nodded. “It’s just the truth, James.”
“And therefore its worth is immeasurable. Truly something to be treasured.” The corners of James’ eyes crinkled and his lips curved with the hint of a soft smile. Then it widened into something a little more wry, and James added, “Also, if I had thought that killing Beckett would have done anything more than swarm our waters with Navy and EITC ships out for revenge, their agendas validated, then I would have shot him right then,” he added, almost absently.
His former lieutenant broke out into a brilliant grin, sharp-edged and bright. “See then? We’re in good hands, with you, aren’t we, James?”
“Even if they happen to have hawk’s talons?”
“It keeps us safe from the snakes,” Groves pointed out. “And makes the bastards damned uncomfortable, too, which is worth a lot to me, at least.” He grinned. “I like fighting alongside you because I like fighting, I like the challenges provided and the worthiness of opponents I get here, and because it’s damned entertaining.” There was something haunted in the way he spoke of fighting; it suggested that he had lost hope in more productive lifestyles, or had forsaken them, both of which he had done sometime after the Isla de Muerta, but his irrepressible love for the absurd and his sharp wit allowed him to tolerate it with bitter and ironic humor as well as a healthy modicum of sanity, rather than degenerating into sadism or self-destructive tendencies.
James nodded slowly, smiling a bit himself. He knew how great of a survival tool such humor could be; it had kept him from going mad, himself, on many occasions. “I suppose so.” He took Groves’ rum, uncorked it, and took a respectable swallow. Setting it between them, he smirked slightly to note that it tasted a bit like Jack Sparrow.
“What’s the official word, then? About what we’re doing with Sparrow?”
James thought about it. “Beckett wants to capture Sparrow. We know that much. And not only does he have that compass of his-”
“The broken one?”
“Not so broken, apparently. Magic, it would seem.”
“Ah. Of course.” Groves uncorked the rum again and took a sip.
“Beckett wants the compass, and he wants the chest, which Sparrow plans to find by using said compass.”
“The Davy Jones chest?”
“It apparently contains the beating heart of Davy Jones, yes.”
“That’s...lovely.”
“Quite.”
“And for ‘lovely’ you may as well read ‘exceptionally morbid.’”
“In any case, Beckett cannot be allowed to get his hands on the heart,” James said firmly. “He could do more damage to good men with that heart in his hand than an army of undead pirates could ever dream of doing. Perhaps it would be best if you played storyteller tonight, Groves, and told them a few of your tales, and just happened to include the story of the Flying Dutchman and its captain. Also, perhaps, take aside the two men who were not at the Isla de Muerta and ‘confess’ its story to them. They need to realize that its not just fancy, and that we are not all mad.”
“You could have been in politics, you know, James.”
“No. I am too honest for it, and I require the ability to move a great deal and do real work with my hands, which is apparently illegal for most respectable political figures. Also, there’s the sea, as you might have noticed.”
“Agreed. I doubt I could stand having to go to any kind of court regularly. On land. In all that stiff finery, but just to make small talk all day. It would never satisfy. I would feel cheated out of a day’s work if I could not accomplish anything tangible.”
“My thoughts exactly. It was bad enough how often I was kept in my office or at meaningless social events, just after rising to commodore,” James concurred.
“Doesn’t sound very ambitious, there, James. And here I thought you wanted to be Admiral for a while there.” Groves took his rum back and sipped thoughtfully.
“I did, at one point,” James murmured. “But I came to the realization that my ambitions had nothing to do with what actually made me happy.”
“The sea?”
“No, the wig. Of course, the sea.”
Groves chuckled softly. “Alright. I’ll go play storyteller, then.” He got to his feet. “And I’ll leave you here to compose your pretty speech for the morning. Goodnight, James.”
“Goodnight, Ted.”
Left on his own in his cabin, James shut his eyes and listened. From outside came the sounds of distant debauchery and reveling, the low murmur of the waves in the port, and the faintest sigh of the wind. From within the ship, he could hear muffled voices of men talking, men telling stories and drinking, their footsteps and the occasional creak of wood. From the ship herself, he felt a calm, almost serene hum, her nervous energy put at ease somewhat by docking so near to the Black Pearl. Faintly, if he strained, James could hear the Pearl, too; she was amused, and content, and playing at humming a siren song in an amusing fashion. Truly, she was Jack’s ship.
James went to bed, sleeping as he always did in Tortuga: two easily-triggered and innocuous-looking items placed one apiece against the door and window to make a noise if anyone entered, his pistol in hand pointed toward the edge of the bed, and his sword placed within easy reach behind him on the bed between himself and the wall. It was a firm bed, and not too luxurious, but it was larger than a military cot and it could have easily held two people comfortably.
Perhaps, James thought idly, when I do not need to keep my weapons with me as well.
And then he fell asleep.
Previous || Story Index || Next
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean; Sparrington
Rating: PG-13 for now, going up to NC-17 later
Disclaimer: I have no claim on POTC or the lovely characters who populate it, even if it seems that James Norrington is making himself quite at home in my head, the snarky British bastard.
Summary: James undergoes a bit of a “trust exercise” with the crew of the Black Pearl, befuddles Captain Jack Sparrow once more, and is lectured to by an only slightly intoxicated Theodore Groves, all before he can get any sleep.
Chapter Seven
The two men disembarked from the Gold Hawk, quietly discussing her speed and agility as they made their way toward the Black Pearl. Their companionable talk about ships quieted as they stepped aboard the big black ship. And as the two captains had anticipated, Norrington’s arrival on the Pearl’s deck caused the general noise of conversation and light revelry to suddenly die, smothered by a tense and suspicious silence immediately after once voice, that of a shocked and choked-sounding Mr. Gibbs, all-too-loudly stage whispered, “Dear God, it’s him!” in stunned tones. Only Jack and James felt the contented hum of the ship beneath their feet, which mitigated the silence for them somewhat.
James glanced down at the deck and silently greeted the Black Pearl, who in turn seemed amused and pleased by his politeness. There was something about the idle wickedness of the ship’s mood and her air of mock-grandeur that made James very aware of the fact that she was very much quintessentially Jack Sparrow’s ship.
Of course, Jack’s attention was more focused on his crew. Before any further murmurs of recognition and talk of killing ex-commodores came up, Jack shouted, “So, mates, how many of you lot would like to see the East India Trading Company’s Lord Cutler Beckett tarred, feathered, lit on fire for a bit, until the flames would be put out with lemon juice, keel-hauled, and then finally fed to the Kraken?”
There was chorus of enthusiastic voices shouting “Aye” with Norrington’s sardonic baritone notably among them.
“Very good. Now, this man here wants to help us make life miserable for Beckett. I’m more than willin’ to let ‘im, especially since Our Lady-” he pulled is hat from his head and rested it over his heart “-Calypso saw fit to raise from the depths for ‘im the sister-ship to our bonnie Pearl. His ship is the Gold Hawk off over there.” Jack gestured vaguely.
There was further chorus of agreement until a few highly notable discordant notes came to the fore. Not surprisingly, the most fervent dissent came from Anamaria, who stepped forward, pointing her blade at James; although this was more for dramatic effect than immanent threat, as she seemed unwilling to step within range of James’ sword; The Devil Himself Norrington was a notoriously good swordsman, and Anamaria was no fool.
She was, however, very angry. “The captain of the Gold Hawk is that ex-Navy pirate hunter Norrington. Don’t try to hide that from us, Jack,” Anamaria growled. “Not when he’s standin’ right here on deck wit’ us.”
Jack looked at Gibbs hopefully, thinking that the man who had known Norrington before would be of help, but Gibbs appeared very pale and was staring at Norrington with a look of such great shock and confusion that Jack could almost hear Gibbs’ brain snapping. Jack sighed: of course--Gibbs had known Norrington of the Navy, and Navy-Norrington’s rather abrupt and stark change of appearance, rank, and career would be enough to give Gibbs a headache to comprehend.
Uneasy noises went through the rest of the pirate crew.
“Anamaria-” Jack began, but was interrupted as the ex-commodore stepped away from him and toward his enraged first mate.
“You have me by rights, Miss,” Norrington said, doffing his hat, resting it over his heart, and bowing politely. “But I would like to offer my word that I mean no harm to the Black Pearl or to any of those aboard her.”
“The word of a pirate hunter ain’t worth much here, Navy man,” Anamaria growled.
Norrington straightened back up to his full height and met her gaze. “I am ex-Navy, Miss Anamaria. There is even a certain Admiral who would have a tough time choosing between who he would prefer to capture: myself or your own captain.” He tilted his head, appearing very hawk-like, his eyes piercing. “Also, may I remind you that throughout the course of my career I have had many opportunities to make your lives aboard this ship, under your current captain, far more difficult, but that I never have?” His dry British tone was as politely cutting as ever: his baritone voice polished and elegant and scathing.
He stepped closer to Anamaria, keeping one hand on his hat, which he still held to his chest, and the other harmlessly at his side--not even the side he kept his sword on: deliberately non-threatening. Soon he stood within a foot of her blade, where he stopped and looked down into her eyes cooly. In matter-of-fact, almost bored tones, James listed, “I could have made this ship my primary target, as Beckett wanted me to, and I could have made sure that all of the usual ports that you haunted became all-too-dangerous for you--even Tortuga would not have been a welcome enough place for you to linger about; I could have chased you from Port Royal the day that you came to pick up your captain when he escaped the noose, and simply never stopped the chase; however, I did not. And it would have, in all likelihood, made my life much easier if I had, which I well knew, and which I’m sure you can understand.”
Norrington inclined his head in a single, very deliberate, nod of respect. “I, unlike most of you, am a man of my word,” he said, his coldly sincere green gaze never leaving Anamaria’s eyes even as she inched closer so that the tip of her blade hovered near his throat.
He did not flinch, but his voice grew harder and sharper, indicating his ire at the implications against his honor and intentions, and making a few members of the crew wince visibly; even Anamaria seemed to hesitate as Norrington added, “I respect this crew, and its captain, for the lives saved by the actions of both during the battle at the Isla de Muerta: the removal of the curse by your captain leading to the surrender of Barbossa’s men; and also your commandeering of this ship from Barbossa’s crew, providing notable distraction to the undead force in the time before they could be actually stopped; those actions prevented the slaughter and spilt blood of many of my men, for which I owe you all some measure of gratitude--and while I am indeed still a pirate hunter of sorts, I am not quite such dishonest, ungrateful, and honorless slime as the likes of Lord Cutler Beckett, and I would not disgrace myself by plotting the misfortune of anyone aboard this ship.”
A long pause followed, and Anamaria lowered her blade, but kept her eyes narrowed. “An’ what of your men, Captain Norrington. Ex-navy like you?”
“Yes, and all but two of them also fought immortal and skeletal pirates with me aboard the Dauntless that night. All of them are loyal to me, to the point of forsaking their careers and home-lives in order to join my crew against Beckett and the EITC. You may count on their honor as much as you may count on mine.” Norrington’s sea-green gaze was cold and brazen, and even Anamaria asked no more questions, sheathing her blade. Then Norrington smirked. “We are, after all, Navy,” he added, with the same tones that Jack Sparrow usually said the word ‘pirate’ by way of explaining his actions. “And if they were not all men of honor akin to mine, then one of them would have either killed me or sold me to Beckett by now.”
A few members of the crew laughed bitterly, and Anamaria’s eyes glinted with the faintest hint of amusement as she doffed her own hat and inclined her head mockingly, taking a step back from the ex-commodore, who mimicked the movement more somberly: also nodding, also stepping back.
“So, mates: can we sail alongside Captain Norrington and the Gold Hawk in order to make Beckett’s life a little more Hellish?” Jack shouted.
The chorus was all in favor, and Norrington nodded to them as he put his hat back on his head with a hint of a smile and back-stepped a few paces further, to once more stand beside Jack.
“Oh good,” Jack muttered, scarcely loud enough for James to hear and sounding pleasantly surprised. Then he bellowed for the crew to hear, “Very good, lads! Now feel more than free get back to your duties!” He paused to allow some grumbling “And your well-deserved celebrations, as well,” he added with a lecherous grin, which earned chorus of more enthusiastic affirmatives. Then he shouted, “Mr. Gibbs? You got word of our heading?”
“Aye, Captain, and it’s about time!”
“Good man. Get to work, then.” Seeing his crew back to its business and surprisingly willing to ignore the ex-commodore on deck, Jack turned to face Norrington. He patted the taller man’s shoulder. His hand lingered, gripping only very lightly. “You did quite well, there, mate. No gibberish at all.”
“I find that honesty can be a very fine tool on such occasions as this,” James said.
Again, Jack patted his shoulder, this time looking at James as though the man were adorably naive. “And that there’s where you an’ I differ, Jamie, but that’s just as well.” Then he dropped his hand to his side, lest he give in to the potentially disastrous urge to grope.
James snorted and shook his head. “I should return to the Hawk and make sure that my own crew is capable of as much acceptance as yours. I have a feeling that I will have to make a few speeches akin to the one that I just gave to...” James glanced archly back at Jack’s crew “that rather interesting young woman.”
“Aye, Anamaria’s a good pirate, but bloody terrifyin’ sometimes if I do say so myself.” Jack admitted, then glanced in the direction of James’ ship thoughtfully. “If we had the time, I’d suggest tossin’ all both crews together with a few barrels of rum and most of ‘em would all be friends by the morning, but considerin’ our current chronological constraints, I do suppose that your pretty speeches will have to do.”
“Yes, it is a time of waxing gibberish, I suppose,” James mused, eyeing the pirate captain with amusement and a hint of something else: curious and predatory. Then his gaze scanned Jack’s crew again, just for a moment, and he was pleased to note that all of them seemed conveniently focused on a loud argument occurring between Mr. Gibbs and Ragetti about Beckett’s theoretically being fed to the Kraken. No one so much as glanced at the captains as the three absurd men shouted at each other. It was better than a Shakespeare comedy. The ex-commodore smirked in satisfaction, if only for a brief moment, before his mask fell back into place again.
“And also a time of opportune moments, perhaps,” James added as he took a step closer to Jack Sparrow. Aware of Jack watching him, James smirked faintly, turned back to the pirate captain himself and tilted the other man’s bearded chin up slightly, then leaned down and captured Jack Sparrow’s lips with his own before the pirate could react.
Too stunned, at first, to react, Jack froze for a moment, his eyes growing very wide, but he then quickly melted into the contact and the warmth of James’ mouth, because Captain Jack Sparrow’s opportunistic sensualist instincts demanded it of him, and because he’d been spending far too much time this evening wondering what the former commodore might taste like.
The kiss was brief, communicating exploration and challenge, but also languid and unhurried to the point of being almost droll. The pull and slide of their lips provided a tease, then deepened as James’ tongue made an exploratory sweep into the pirate’s mouth, earning a low and quiet noise of encouragement from Jack, whose tongue teased in return, running across James’ teeth. The slick friction was electrifying, and the smell and the taste...
It was an effort for James to keep focused on his original plan: the game. The kiss was meant to be the challenge, not the battle itself; the moment was not quite opportune for that, because they hardly had the time and this was hardly the place. James caught Jack’s teasing tongue gently in his teeth, and suckled on it sharply, promising, which made the pirate’s breathing hitch. As the shock wore off, Jack’s hands started reach out to grab at the other man, pull him closer, keep this going, but James--utilizing every ounce of self-control in his considerable repertoire--pulled back and halted those wandering hands with one of his own, smirking at the slightly dazed look in Jack’s eyes, which provided some consolation.
James’ fingers lingered on the corner of Jack’s jaw for a moment, and his thumb brushed the corner of the pirate’s mouth. Then the ex-commodore silently commanded his hands to return to his sides, with some difficulty. James bowed very slightly as he took a step backward. He wore a slightly crooked grin and his pale green eyes were bright with challenge and anticipation. “Good night, Jack,” he said, his tone easy and sardonic, but with a more ragged edge than Jack had heard before. Then the ex-commodore turned on his heel and walked off, his footsteps audible as they travelled down the ramp to the docks once more.
Standing very still, Jack stared after him with a mixture of shock and irritation and lust. The pirate captain blinked a few times slowly as he tried to come to terms with a number of perturbing facts, such as: the fact that he had just been kissed by the Ex-Commodore Ex-Pride of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, James “The Devil Himself” Norrington; the fact that James Norrington could kiss quite well, indeed; the fact that the scent and taste of James Norrington had created a flavor combining the whiskey they had both shared, strong green tea, and a hint of something akin to fresh coconut milk, all with traces of black pepper and masculine musk; and finally, the fact that he--Captain Jack Sparrow--was half-hard in his breeches after just that kiss and watching the man’s arse as he had walked away.
The corner of Jack’s lips twitched as his face wore a look of mixed awe and irritation; the man had launched a surprise seduction-attack and then walked away with that damned amused smirk on his... rather flushed face, Jack recalled. In fact, the look that James had given him had been all kinds of interesting, flushed and hungry and... challenging. Added to the games of gibberish they played, James wanted to add in games of lust.
Jack Sparrow’s mind was immediately full of a wide variety of very dirty thoughts. Some of them involved seeking vengeance, others just sought excuses to get the ex-commodore naked. All of them were very, very interesting indeed.
“Captain? Are ye alright?” someone asked. Most likely Gibbs, but Jack was too distracted to check for sure.
“Fine! Fine. I’ll be in my cabin. Carry on.” Hastily, Sparrow retreated.
James Norrington was still smirking as, with curiosity and a hint of smugness, he savored the taste of Jack Sparrow on his lips: the mixture of rum and whiskey the pirate had been drinking, sea salt and cinnamon and a dozen other rich spices, oranges, and the tang of metal and smoke. That, combined with the man’s scent of sweat, sea air, warm leather, gun-smoke and rum, had been at least as intoxicating as the kiss itself, which had been damned good.
James stepped back aboard the Gold Hawk, pausing only for a moment to chuckle softly as he basked in the warmth of his ship’s amusement at his actions, as well as his own, but then he squared his shoulders, his expression turning more somber as he recalled his duties. He sought out his former lieutenant, Theodore Groves, who seemed to have gone into Tortuga proper only to have returned to the Hawk shortly before his captain had. Groves carried with him a bottle of strong rum, a more than reasonable amount of which was already gone. Still, he did not sway or stagger as he followed James to the captain’s cabin.
“More ghost stories come to life. As though we needed more,” Groves muttered, sitting in the seat formerly occupied by Jack Sparrow and stoppering his bottle of rum before setting it on the table. Then he allowed his right hand to rub his left shoulder where his deep scar from the Isla de Muerta gave an unpleasant twinge. “At least my scars from last time seem to be sensitive to storms; that’s a nice early warning system.” He shook his head and gave a bitter half-smile. “Maybe the next ones will be equally useful, somehow.”
James sat down across from him calmly, watching his friend with concern. “At least this time we are both forewarned, and likely to heed what warnings we get. We are wiser for it, for all that it feels like we’ve stepped off the edge of the map of the usual, rational world, and into a rather madder one.”
“Yes: into the territory of sea monsters, undead pirates...”
“And now a heathen a sea goddess, along with Davy Jones and his infamous grave-ship, the Flying Dutchman,” James sighed with a bitter chuckle. Then, at Groves’ questioning look, James started explaining the whole situation. He started with what he had seen and the deal he had made on the day that they found the Gold Hawk, and ended with what he had heard from both Beckett and Sparrow.
Groves reopened and continued to drain the rum early in the tale. By the end of it, he was gripping the neck of the bottle hard enough to whiten his knuckles. He was quiet for a few long moments. “You’re sworn to work on all of this, then?”
“Yes, but you and the rest of the crew are not,” James said softly. “I would prefer not to drag all of you into this...this chaos with a goddess and Davy Jones. It was not what you signed on for, and none of you are obliged to follow me down this path.”
“Of course we are, James; we’re your men. There’s only about two dozen of us, but we’re all more than willing to follow you through Hell and back until we are somehow irrevocably incapacitated.” Groves snapped. “I would say ‘until we drop dead’ but in the world we’re currently in, I have doubts that death’s incapacitating effects are still irrevocable.” He lifted the bottle to his lips again.
James’ eyes widened slightly. “But... why, Theo? Why on earth would any of you--I am not exactly an altogether good man. You’ve all seen me at my very nearly my most ruthless since we fled Port Royal, and you yourself, Theo, know better than anyone what depths I’m capable of sinking to; you know how I escaped the Spanish, and you’ve a good idea of what I did once I had recovered enough to request a few months’ leave of absence. I’ve managed to turn all of you rogue, I’ve sailed us into Tortuga, and now I am allying us with pirates. I’m no hero. I’m no savior. Your good fight is with the corrupt and immoral practices of the East India Trading Company, not with the likes of myths and undead such as mine seems to be aimed for.”
“You’re wrong, James.” Groves sat up, rested his elbows on the table, and pointed at James with the mouth of his rum bottle. “Firstly: you’re a damned good man. I swear to God, you’ve got to be part hawk or falcon as well to be quite as good of a hunter as you are and to see all of what you do, but mostly you’re a damned good man. Secondly: all of us on this ship, we’ve chosen, quite deliberately and after much thought on the matter, that we are your men and that we can see nothing we want to do more than to help you, and, more than that, to fight under your leadership. Thirdly: yes, we’ve seen those marks on your arms and your torso and some of us--most notably myself--know where you got them, and we’ve all seen you fight dead men and merchant men and pirates alike, fierce as any hurricane yourself; but a lot of us also saw you risk your honor twice for the love of one Miss Elizabeth Swann, and all of us watched you lay your head on the chopping block for all of us when that Admiral tried to lead us into the damned hurricane. And you were a savior to us right then, James; you saved plenty of the Navy’s fine men, and a few of its scoundrels, and you did it because Beckett’s man--the Admiral--was a stupid, corrupt and greedy fool and needed to be stopped, and you were the best man for the job. We know that’s why you do what you do, James. We also know that nobody else will, and that’s why we’re here, with you,” Groves said firmly, jabbing a finger at James to get his point across.
Then he continued, “Now, we know you’re no hero, but that just means that you aren’t stupid, because you’re far more realist than idealist; and that you’re willing to not only listen to, but also to sweat and bleed with, the rest of us mere mortal men; and we love you for that, James.” Groves stoppered his bottle of rum and leaned back in his chair again, crossing his arms over his chest with a mocking grin. “I think that the closest any of us have come to questioning your judgment since then has been me thinking to myself that you should’ve killed the Admiral; although I understood that. I also think you should’ve shot Beckett, since you ran into him in Port Royal. For all the rest: we’ll follow you through Hell. And it’ll be of our own free will, because--as you can see--there’s those among us who listen well to the rest of your crewmen, and who aren’t afraid to argue with you fiercely.” He grinned smugly, albeit with a bitter edge.
James lowered his eyes, feeling rather humbled. “I... Thank you,” he said softly, then bit his lip and took a deep breath, trying to find a way to put into words how deeply he meant it. Failing, he met Groves’ gaze somberly, humbly, and without anything masked. “Thank you,” he repeated.
Groves nodded. “It’s just the truth, James.”
“And therefore its worth is immeasurable. Truly something to be treasured.” The corners of James’ eyes crinkled and his lips curved with the hint of a soft smile. Then it widened into something a little more wry, and James added, “Also, if I had thought that killing Beckett would have done anything more than swarm our waters with Navy and EITC ships out for revenge, their agendas validated, then I would have shot him right then,” he added, almost absently.
His former lieutenant broke out into a brilliant grin, sharp-edged and bright. “See then? We’re in good hands, with you, aren’t we, James?”
“Even if they happen to have hawk’s talons?”
“It keeps us safe from the snakes,” Groves pointed out. “And makes the bastards damned uncomfortable, too, which is worth a lot to me, at least.” He grinned. “I like fighting alongside you because I like fighting, I like the challenges provided and the worthiness of opponents I get here, and because it’s damned entertaining.” There was something haunted in the way he spoke of fighting; it suggested that he had lost hope in more productive lifestyles, or had forsaken them, both of which he had done sometime after the Isla de Muerta, but his irrepressible love for the absurd and his sharp wit allowed him to tolerate it with bitter and ironic humor as well as a healthy modicum of sanity, rather than degenerating into sadism or self-destructive tendencies.
James nodded slowly, smiling a bit himself. He knew how great of a survival tool such humor could be; it had kept him from going mad, himself, on many occasions. “I suppose so.” He took Groves’ rum, uncorked it, and took a respectable swallow. Setting it between them, he smirked slightly to note that it tasted a bit like Jack Sparrow.
“What’s the official word, then? About what we’re doing with Sparrow?”
James thought about it. “Beckett wants to capture Sparrow. We know that much. And not only does he have that compass of his-”
“The broken one?”
“Not so broken, apparently. Magic, it would seem.”
“Ah. Of course.” Groves uncorked the rum again and took a sip.
“Beckett wants the compass, and he wants the chest, which Sparrow plans to find by using said compass.”
“The Davy Jones chest?”
“It apparently contains the beating heart of Davy Jones, yes.”
“That’s...lovely.”
“Quite.”
“And for ‘lovely’ you may as well read ‘exceptionally morbid.’”
“In any case, Beckett cannot be allowed to get his hands on the heart,” James said firmly. “He could do more damage to good men with that heart in his hand than an army of undead pirates could ever dream of doing. Perhaps it would be best if you played storyteller tonight, Groves, and told them a few of your tales, and just happened to include the story of the Flying Dutchman and its captain. Also, perhaps, take aside the two men who were not at the Isla de Muerta and ‘confess’ its story to them. They need to realize that its not just fancy, and that we are not all mad.”
“You could have been in politics, you know, James.”
“No. I am too honest for it, and I require the ability to move a great deal and do real work with my hands, which is apparently illegal for most respectable political figures. Also, there’s the sea, as you might have noticed.”
“Agreed. I doubt I could stand having to go to any kind of court regularly. On land. In all that stiff finery, but just to make small talk all day. It would never satisfy. I would feel cheated out of a day’s work if I could not accomplish anything tangible.”
“My thoughts exactly. It was bad enough how often I was kept in my office or at meaningless social events, just after rising to commodore,” James concurred.
“Doesn’t sound very ambitious, there, James. And here I thought you wanted to be Admiral for a while there.” Groves took his rum back and sipped thoughtfully.
“I did, at one point,” James murmured. “But I came to the realization that my ambitions had nothing to do with what actually made me happy.”
“The sea?”
“No, the wig. Of course, the sea.”
Groves chuckled softly. “Alright. I’ll go play storyteller, then.” He got to his feet. “And I’ll leave you here to compose your pretty speech for the morning. Goodnight, James.”
“Goodnight, Ted.”
Left on his own in his cabin, James shut his eyes and listened. From outside came the sounds of distant debauchery and reveling, the low murmur of the waves in the port, and the faintest sigh of the wind. From within the ship, he could hear muffled voices of men talking, men telling stories and drinking, their footsteps and the occasional creak of wood. From the ship herself, he felt a calm, almost serene hum, her nervous energy put at ease somewhat by docking so near to the Black Pearl. Faintly, if he strained, James could hear the Pearl, too; she was amused, and content, and playing at humming a siren song in an amusing fashion. Truly, she was Jack’s ship.
James went to bed, sleeping as he always did in Tortuga: two easily-triggered and innocuous-looking items placed one apiece against the door and window to make a noise if anyone entered, his pistol in hand pointed toward the edge of the bed, and his sword placed within easy reach behind him on the bed between himself and the wall. It was a firm bed, and not too luxurious, but it was larger than a military cot and it could have easily held two people comfortably.
Perhaps, James thought idly, when I do not need to keep my weapons with me as well.
And then he fell asleep.
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