stem_the_tide | Rp for captjacksparrow

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Rp for captjacksparrow

As is his wont, James wakens just after sunrise. This is normal for him, as is the sight of the half-hearted sunlight streaming in through the windows, the smell of the sea in the morning. What is not normal, however, is the bed he's lying in- deep and soft- the plush blankets covering him. As his sleep-grimed eyes blink further, he notes that nothing in this room is at all normal, and for a moment he cannot recall where he is nor how he's got here. But then his eyes alight upon the chair he had sat in the night before and there, sprawled in drunken sleep is Captain Jack Sparrow, and with a rush, James remembers all the tumultuous events of the previous day, down to his unaccountable worry about Sparrow before he fell asleep the night before.

Somewhat comforted by this memory (but not much), he slides out of the bed, stretching and yawning cavernously. He can hear his spine crack loudly and winces slightly. It is still fairly quiet aboard the ship, and as James begins to get dressed, he regards the sleeping pirate across from him. The chair is closer to the bed than it was before, as though Sparrow had been watching him before he fell asleep (a notion which could be either disturbing or endearing- he cannot decide which), and Sparrow seems to have melted into it like a liquid; he's clad only in shirt and breeches, and James's eyes rest for a moment on the gaping V of golden skin exposed by the shirt before he looks away. The pirate's head rests on his shoulder, and a nearly-empty bottle of rum dangles loosely from his fingers, cradled in the crook of his elbow; his mouth moves slightly in nonsense syllables. He's as sloppy as ever sleeping, but the light of the rising sun on those high cheekbones and the black-painted eyes now closed give him a strangely feminine air. James shakes his head; he's not usually prone to such poetic rubbish- it must be prolonged exposure to Sparrow, he decides.

Once fully dressed, he ties his hair back in a queue (no reason to wear the wig now, and privately he rejoices that he needn't wear the itchy, hot thing) and seats himself on the bed once again, his legs crossed under him. He keeps his voice soft as he calls out.

'Sparrow...' it's almost sing-song, the way he says it, and he wrinkles his nose. 'Sparrow! Wake up, man. A captain should rise before his crew, should he not?'

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James bites back a smile- it won't do to be too amiable all at once; he might shock Sparrow irreperably- and instead merely nods briefly in the pirate's direction.

'I do tend to be,' he says smoothly, 'It's rather an unfortunate tendency, I suppose, but useful when one is in the Navy. Tell me, Mr. Sparrow,' He leans back, regarding Sparrow as he sways before him, 'When do you ordinarily wake, if this is so early for you? Have I hours of sleep yet that I've been cheated of by my Naval precision?'

It's reassuring, to be back to this with Sparrow- the banter, the friendly jibes back and forth; it makes James feel much better about the entire situation. Last night's Sparrow he simply did not know what to do with, but this he can handle, and indeed enjoy. He turns to look around the cabin, surveying his surroundings; it's a cluttered mess, looking like a bizarre cross between an ordinary ship's cabin and someone's aunt's attic; with curious trinkets and instruments scattered here and there, apparently collected on his myriad journeys, a few books (James is surprised to see titles in French and Spanish as well as English) as well as the expected collection of empty bottles. It's a curious room, all in all, but it suits Sparrow admirably.

"Useful in the Navy? I were always under the impression you lot were rather sharp and straight about whatever morning rituals you might be having." Jack grins a bit lecherously but it quickly pitters out into nothing more than good humour.

The ease between them is an odd thing, especially naught just a few hours before Norrington was ready to shoot him as sure as he was standing and a few hours before that Norrington was asking him to persuade him to stay. That's curious, the reason why Norrington would ask that of him. But of course it matters little now as Jack did do some persuading of a kind and Norrington had no choice left but to stay.

But Jack doesn't want to waste time contemplating such things as such an hour as this. Norrington seems to be a completely different man after a night's rest -- refreshed as it seemed. While Jack still felt run down and run through, though not as jittery and high strung as he once was. This was a new day, new start -- or it would be after Jack has a few more hours of sleep.

"Merciful hours what you've lost, I reckon. I get up when the sun strikes that pane in the eastern window. Don't have a clock worth the reading but when the sun hits that spot, that's as good as time any to be waking. Which it seems to me is still a couple hours from now."

He sways in his spot and then because the bed is right behind hisself, always his person to topple backwards (like a bird glinding across the water on landing, it is; an elegant toppling) onto the plush spread. The threads smells like rum and ship and sea air, and just the barest hint of Commodore. He twists in the smooth silks and fine weaves, letting the aches from sleeping in a chair for half the night be removed by the comfort of having his bed under his back. Finally he finds the best position possible and then rolls his head over to his shoulder, fingers plucking at random points in the air, as he watches Norrington look around his cabin.

Jack notices his eyes widen at the small collection of books he's kept over the years. There's less than a dozen of them, most beated and battered with age and saltwater, but Jack has kept a firm protection over them. They all came to his ownership in a myriad of impossible and outrageous ways, books be having hard to come by in his line of work. But there one isn't with the pile of others.

"If you're wanting something to do, mate, while Morpheus becomes me and Naval precisions keeps you from letting the same be done to yourself, and books are what snag you're interest, might I be recommending that small one of there?"

He points to the small shelf hung above the opposite of the bed. It only hold a stub of a candle cradled in the broken base of a rum bottle and the book he means. The leather of the bind has worn away near completely and it's now bound with a string to keep the pages together between the two sheaths of grey coverlette. It bears a title what's in Italian and beneath that, scraped into the flesh of the leather, two initails.

J.T.

James merely raises an eyebrow at the lewd jibe and does not respond, only vaguely listening as Sparrow explains something about sunlight hitting the eastern window. To James's ear, it sounds suspiciously like something out of a bad novel, but fitting indeed that the pirate should keep time not by any civilised clock, but by the lines and angles of light in the sky. It's something all seamen should be able to do, but the Navy is not strict about it- rather foolish, really; after all, what happens when one's clock runs down or is swept overboard? He shakes his head faintly- his mind is prone to wandering in the morning, more than is good for him, especially in the presence of one such as Sparrow.
He is honestly surprised when Sparrow notices the direction of his gaze and actually suggests a book for reading. He murmurs something suspiciously resembling 'Indeed,' and makes his way over to the lone volume, picking it up and looking at it curiously. It's battered and worn, even more so than the others- James wonders if Sparrow has merely had it longer than they or if it has some special significance. He guesses the latter, seeing as the pirate has apparently gone to the trouble to mend it, re-binding it crudely with string. He opens it gingerly, almost afraid that it might break, and leafs through the pages. It has been a long time since he read or spoke any Italian, and he was never fluent in the language, but he knows enough to make out the meaning, and he closes the book with a snap and turns to Sparrow once again.

The words- whatever they were- die in his throat as he turns, for Sparrow is sprawled out across the bed, fast asleep, his fingers twitching slightly and lips mouthing silently. Though he is a small man, he somehow manages to take up the entire bed, and the corner of James's mouth twitches. Why he is feeling so charitable toward the pirate this morning, he cannot tell, but he doesn't feel like fighting it at the moment, so he settles down in his chair from the night before (moving it back from the bed, though- he sees no reason to be as close to Sparrow as that) and opens the book to begin reading.

It’s difficult work, as his Italian doesn’t seem to come back to him as quickly as he might have hoped, and he feels the frustration of his lack of skill. He is sure this is a good book; what he can read seems to be excellent, but he knows that he isn’t picking up the true nuances of prose and description, and he soon shuts the book irritably, looking once again over to Sparrow. He is not used to the sensation of being unskilled- he has, after all, spent his entirely life training in order to be skilled, and it rankles at him when something seems beyond his ability or capacity.

He wonders, briefly, if this bizarre thing with the pirate is something along the same lines- Sparrow frustrates him and intrigues him so because he’s like that slim grey volume of Italian; he can understand some of it, but not all, and not nearly enough to satisfy his interest. Furthermore, the understanding he seeks seems to be beyond even his military skills. He wrinkles his nose; he’s comparing Jack Sparrow to a book. What next, writing poetry about the pirate?

But he watches him nonetheless, thinking absently until with a sudden glint, the light of the sun strikes the eastern window, just as Sparrow had said it would. He tilts his head to the side, looking expectantly at the figure on the bed. Kohl-rimmed eyes wink open and Sparrow stretches, yawning like a lion. James regards him coolly; his ire at the book Sparrow had given him has not entirely subsided, and he finds himself rather less inclined to be as good-humoured as before.

‘And Sleeping Beauty rises,’ he drawls sardonically, ‘Can we get about our business now?’

This time when Jack wakes, it is not from any strange dream or half-drunk hallucinatory visions dancing behind his eyelids. It is simply from the black pool of oblivion what comes when sleep is the most deep and restful. He does the same facial exercises he did before -- one eye open, then the other eye, then the first eye again -- and ends with a huge yawn. Shifts and stretches languidly as the Commodore questions him. In a non-too-pleased, impatient tone.

Bugger. And they were getting on so well. For a moment. Sort of.

Jack tilts his head to look at Norrington, finding it curiously pleasing that the Commodore should be sitting in the chair by the bed that Jack used during his nightly vigil. And he is reading the book Jack recommended.

He isn't exactly sure why he pointed out the book to the Commodore. The very first of his collection of trinkets and memorabilia what he ever acquired. Back was he was just a lad, near thirteen or so, and first learning to fight with a blade. Back when people referred to him as Teague rather than Sparrow. He can't even understand the stories -- speaks more Italian than he reads, the little of it that does exist in his brain.

Maybe there is something insulting to the Commodore in the stories Jack isn't aware of, to account for his sudden change of mood.

“Enjoyed your adventures in literature it seems,” Jack remarks cheekily, trying to bring back the light mood from before his nap instead of responding to Norrington’s question. “And if I’m Sleeping Beauty, what does that make you then? The evil queen come to poison me or the charming Prince come to kiss ol’ Jack awake from his slumbers?” He pauses for a moment in thought. “No, the Queen does the poisoning before the sleep took place. Only thing left is the Prince. Lest you want to be the dragon.” He grins a sleepy half-smirk and stretches again, letting the bones in his spine crack as he arches off the bed and moves fluidly into a sitting position.

It’s still quiet on board, the crew either not yet all awake or enjoying the early morning moments to themselves before Gibbs rings the bell to call them to places. The few on night-watch are keeping their thoughts quiet as they usually do at this time of day, silent from want of sleep. Jack decides to let them be about their business for a while yet, then he’ll track down Gibbs and arrange the day’s headings. Staying anchored for any longer is a bad idea, particularly with Norrington now here.

James pointedly does not react when Sparrow cheekily mentions his 'adventures in literature.' A part of him knows that Sparrow cannot have had any idea that his Italian was not quite up to scratch, and indeed probably had no intention of irritating him at all, but that does not cause his mood to improve at all.

Equally, he does not respond when the pirate asks whether he is the Prince or the Evil Queen in relation to Sparrow's Sleeping Beauty. Admittedly, the idea of being the Prince does have in it some strange appeal, but that's certainly that damned corner of his mind from the night before, and James is determined to ignore it if at all possible. Granted, that might not be often if Sparrow continues with such behaviour as he had exhibited the night before, but that's not a thought he's like to dwell on.

And he's got off topic now. Damn. The sleepy smile Sparrow gives him does bring a faint smirk in return- that little corner in his mind taking over again, apparently. He scowls at himself.

'Do you even read Italian, Sparrow?' The question is out before he even thinks of asking it, and he blinks in surprise. Sparrow too, seems rather taken aback by the abrupt nature of the query and James shakes his head dismissively. 'No, I was just thinking- I, ah- no,' he concludes rather lamely and grimaces. Sparrow, however, looks fascinated, and James can see that it's useless trying to detract his statement now.

Being graced with a silent reaction throws Jack just slightly. He has grown accustomed to Norrington reacting strongly towards him and only the unimpressed stare -- it is quite the chilling stare, Jack has to admit -- is rather disconcerting.

Well then.

He is about to rise from the bed and begin collecting his boots when he hears Norrington question him, and then immediately retract the question. Ungracefully. Jack twists himself on the bed and cocks his head at the Commodore. Very interesting, this one. He studies Norrington's face to a brief moment, his own gaze piercing in a different way, and fights with his mouth to hold still into either a straight line or a small intrigued smile that Norrington can become so... discombobulated in his presence by one single inquery. That he himself made no less.

Jack raises a hand to gesture with. "Out loud?" he asks, to finish Norrington's bitten off phrase of 'I was just thinking -- '. He watches Norrington's face for another second for any hint of a reaction. Something to help him know where the sudden question came from, or moreso why Norrington finds it inappropriate to be asking.

"And are you to be doubting, mate, that Jack Sparrow can't read his own literary collections? Though I confess. My Italian is the better in the speaking than it is in the comprehensible enightenment of reading." He shifts his face slightly away from Norrington's gaze because it isn't in his nature to honestly admit to being poor at anything. "Just never got the proper teaching in that respect, I'm afraid."

He looks back to Norrington again. "What of your own fortune with the language, eh? Better go, I take it, then ol' Jack can do?"

James grimaces; he had not wanted to ask that question for this precise reason- he would now have to confess to Sparrow (who had, he was sure, contrived his question to as to push James to such a confession) that he had had such difficulty reading the book that he had been forced to, well, give up. Or choose to stop- that sounds quite a bit better.

He too looks to the side, his mouth twisting irritably. He hates this- he has a hard enough time admitting to himself that is less than perfect at something, to have to say so to Jack Sparrow… the sting is near unbearable. However, there seems to be no way around it and finally he speaks, his voice stiff.

‘It, ah, has been quite the span of years since I last studied Italian. I am quite fluent in both French and Spanish, as well as numerous Carib dialects, but Italian was never the great focus of my schooling.’ He coughs. ‘Undoubtedly my skill is superior to yours in this respect,' A small victory, to be sure, and he feels petty even saying it, but he seems compelled somehow to assure his victory over Sparrow at least in this. He continues. 'But it is… nothing great.’

Jack catches the grimaces and then turns to tug on his boots as Norrington replies, listening half-disinterestedly. The foul mood that the book put the Commodore is his own business, he decides, and if it has nothing to do with Jack or shooting Jack or kissing Jack, Jack could really care less. He pauses and raises his eyebrows when Norrington begins to list off the languages he does have some affiliatory knowledge with. Stands and goes about finding the rest of his outfit as the Commodore finishes speaking.

"Quite an armory of communication you have there," Jack comments offhand, strapping his sword around his waist. "Tough langues to know, all them wordings of the different islands. Would have counted you as one of them blokes who likes his native and nothing but."

He turns to look at Norrington in the chair, pausing awkwardly and tapping his fingers against his side. "But if you don't like the book, you don't have to be -- " The bell to call to places sounds and Jack stares out one of the windows onto the main deck, seeing blurry shapes scatter topside through the dirty panes. "Hold that thought, mate," he says and moves to the door.

It doesn't open when he first tries it. After a few moments of staring at the door, he recalls that yes, he locked in the night before. Good thinking, that. And now the key is... where? Where'd he put the key? Drinking port he could have put it anywhere and he starts patting his person to locate it. Not there, not there, not -- oh, it is there! Right in the pocket. Also good thinking. Jack slips in the lock and looks over at Norrington with a smile.

"In me pocket," he says, then disappears out onto the maindeck, locking the door behind him. Calling over his shoulder just before the door closes, he calls, "Stay there, now!"

As if Norrington has any other option.

Well, that was not as bad as it could have been. He had been expecting- what? mockery, derision- from Sparrow, but indeed, the pirate seemed barely to be interested. But then, why should he be? What pirate would take any exceptional interest in the Commodore's education? He grimaced once again.

But then, Sparrow hesitates, his normal smugly confident demeanour giving way to something strangely awkward, and he looks at James, beginning to speak- and then the bell sounds, and he stops, whatever he was going to say immediately forgotten, and he leaps towards the door. After a moment of searching for the key (James had almost forgotten that Sparrow had locked the door the night before; had it really been only yesterday?), he opens the door with a click and exits with a cheeky smirk and a 'Stay there, now!' at James.

He scowls, knowing full well that he has no other choice, and knowing that Sparrow knows it as well.

Well, he is alone in the captain's cabin, so it makes perfect sense to begin a search of the place, see what he can find. He may be a captive of the pirate, but he is still a Commodore of His Majesty's Royal Navy, and he certainly can use his current position to his advantage if he plays it correctly. Carelessly tossing the book onto the recently vacated bed, he rises, feeling stiff, and casts about the room for a place to start.

It's difficult, as the place is utter chaos, so (carefully and quietly, so that he might hear Sparrow when he returns) he starts with the table. It's cleared, as it was the night before, save the empty bottle of port, listing aimlessly on its side atop the wooden surface. James removes it and places it on a shelf- with the movement of the ship, he was surprised it hadn't fallen to the floor and shattered already. But there below the table there is a great pile of maps and parchments, Sparrow's charts from previous and (hopefully) current journeys. James crouches down, leafing through them- there at the top is a crude map of the Isla de Muerta, not directions on how to get there, merely a drawing of the island itself. That does not interest him, however, and he continues. There are hand-drawn pirate-charts and letters as well as Navy-issue maps, and James swallows the irritation he feels at that- but none of it seems to be of any use to him. He curses quietly and gets up, taking care to make sure that the papers were all in the order they had started in.

Now what? Perhaps the corner of the room where the bookshelf resides- but wait. There are footsteps approaching the cabin, and James hastily spins around, taking a position leaning casually on the table as if he had been doing nothing but waiting for Sparrow this entire time.

After all, no need to arouse suspicion just yet.

The crew is half above, half below deck, scuttling about here and there in preperation soon to make way. Jack moseys between them, skirting men here and there as they come across his path, nodding his chin to those that greet him with a, "Morngin, Cap'n." He'll never get tired of hearing that. Grinning to himself, he makes his way over to where Gibbs resides near the helm.

"Mornin', Cap'n," Gibbs says. "Still planning to follow through with the plan?"

Jack pauses for a moment, thinking he means Norrington, but then realises Gibbs only means the plan to set sail again. "Course I do," he answers, feinging incredulousness. "Wouldn't ask for a better day for it either."

That's a bit of an ironic statement, given the overcast and grey skies. At least the wind is strong. Jack looks up the sky, studying it for a while. A storm is coming, he's sure of that. A big one. When is the question. He looks back at Gibbs and gives a short nod. "Take her out to open water." Gibbs responds with a nod in kind and begins to yell orders.

His captaining for the moment completed, Jack heads below deck to scrounge up the real reason behind his departure from the cabin. Food. He isn't sure about Norrington, but his stomach has been issuing complaints to him since he woke up the second time. A little peck or two of the Pearl's stores should help quench that ache. He grabs the first things he can find, a few slices of hardtack and two oranges. A banana happens to sneak its way into his palm. Loading up a dish with the meal, he stacks one of the rum bottles filled with fresh water atop the platter and makes his way back to the cabin.

He hopes Norrington has decided to throw his dull mood overboard with the reprieve. Jack rather likes him when he's feisty compared to when he's grimancing and droll. Maybe it's cabin fever setting in already. They'll have to reach some sort of accord on that if it is.

Pulling a tricky manuver to unlock the door -- which in no way almost makes him drop the food or the banana or hissslef in the process -- Jack swings open the door and looks around. Norrington is standing there, innocent as a newborn and being anything but. At least he doesn't have his sword drawn. But what else could he be up to? Jack eyes him then cranes his head to look at the two opposite corners of the room. Nothing and nothing.

Keeping an eye warily on Norrington, Jack kicks the door shut with his foot and sets the plate on the table. That's when he notices it. The port bottle is gone. And his maps are in a neater order than usual.

With a humourless quirk of his lips, he asks, "My maps provide better reading material than me books? All the while I was out scrounging and skimping to feed your sorry hide. Thought you knew guests were meant to have better manners than that, Commodore."

When Sparrow opens the door and enters bearing a tray of food, James's stomach gives a loud grumble. He hadn't realised he was hungry at all, being rather preoccupied with his thoughts and his attempted search of the cabin. The hardtack is hardtack, of course, sustenance and nothing but, but those oranges look unspeakably delicious, and unconsciously his tongue flicks out to wet his lips as if he could already taste the tangy juice.

But then Sparrow's eyes are flicking over the table and under it, and James can practically see the thought process going, and he curses himself. However, there's no point denying it, as Sparrow already as good as knows, so he gives the pirate a brief, lazy quirk of the lips.

'Come now, Sparrow,' he drawls, 'Surely you would have expected no less of me. I wouldn't be half as interesting if I was nice and well-behaved now, would I?'

He eyes him speculatively. 'And surely someone such as yourself would have enough foresight not to leave any truly important documents simply laying about with an enemy in the room, mm? At least, so I assume, as there's nothing in there of any particular interest to me.'

The pointed use of the word 'interesting' causes whatever small ire Jack felt as having his things rummaged through to dissolve. It is very true that he expected no else from Norrington, and indeed would have done the same in his place if positions were reversed.

Not that they could be of course. The Commodore would never let a known pirate, let alone one as grand and famous and crafty and handsome and -- well, Captain Jack Sparrow and the sum of all his attributes, at least -- onto his ship and into his quarters like Jack has done for Norrington. And even then Jack would be hardpressed to accept such an invitation. Surrounded by naught but Navy men who'd so much as run him through as they would look at him. He rather prefers the brig to such circumstances.

His mind flits back to his short sojourn aboard the Dauntless and the sharp watch Norrington kept on him then, as he was kept out to keep an eye on their bearings as he led them back to the Isla de Muerta. Strange in that, too, that the Commodore didn't simply request the heading and then throw him in the brig. Strange, indeed. And interesting. So very interesting.

Jack smiles a slow, devilish smile as he regards Norrington. "Is that a compliment I hear, my dead Commodore, that you think ol' Jack would be having enough brains to have such capacities as foresight and the like?"

He swaggers up to him, pushing close enough to share body heat, and leans around him for the vacated chair. "And I'd be most aggrieved to be discovering that you were suddenly being of the well-behaved sort. In fact I'd be counting on your penchant to get rather ill-behaved as it were." He raises his gaze to meet Norrington's dead on and murmurs throatily, "Did say how much we both like interesting."

Grabbing the chair from behind Norrington, Jack drags it around him and plops hisself in it right in front of Norrington. Twirling the banana hidden in his grasp, he peels it half-way and takes a first bite, making sure to do it as slowly as possible to raise some for a reaction. He's still smiling to hisself the entire time.

For the first time, it seems, James has been entirely successful in predicting Sparrow's reaction; it's almost entertaining, really. He'd expected some measure of irritation if Sparrow realised that he'd been rooting through his charts, of course, but the calculated use of the word interesting had melted away the pirate's irritation just as he had known it would, leaving James feeling satisfyingly smug.

He's about to answer Sparrow's query when suddenly the man seems to be right in front of him- scratch that, he is right in front of him- his body warm and distractingly close, and that voice rich and smooth like caramel sliding down his throat, and James can feel his lips parting ever so slightly, instinctually. When Sparrow locks eyes with him, James finds himself so distracted by the movement of the pirate's lips that he barely hears what he says (though he does catch Sparrow's repeated use of the word 'interesting').

He swallows. The reaction is the same as before, that slow heat clutching at his abdomen, but now without the port in his system, James realises that he doesn't know what to do. He cannot tease now, as he did before- no, such a thought would be absurd, ludicrous. He cannot deny, however, the effect the pirate's words have on him, nor, he realises, does he want to push Sparrow away. His sense tells him he should, but the slightest possibility of this turning into something... it's a terrifying thought, quite frankly, but the terror is matched by a wave of sheer arousal at the thought, and he backs up slightly, looking away from Sparrow as he sensually peels a banana and takes a teasing bite.

Trying to get himself back onto ground he's somewhat more comfortable with, James looks away and coughs pointedly. 'A banana, Sparrow?' He asks, his voice rather less steady than he might have preferred, 'Come now, I would have hoped for something a little more subtle than that.'

Subtle it may not be, but it is certainly having the desired effect upon James. Not that he'd tell anyone as much.

'And yes,' he continues, answering Sparrow's question of before, 'While you are undoubtedly the, ah, worst pirate I've seen in a long while, I know enough to see you as a thinking man.' He looks at Sparrow curiously. 'You've proved as much with the logic you trapped me on your ship with. You may affect the manner of a drunken bungler, but, well...' His gaze sharpens for a moment, and he tilts his head to the side, permitting himself this one remark, 'And I know you can't resist a challenge.'

The shift to the Commodore's attitude and stance pleases Jack. No that's a bit of an understatement. Pleases Jack immensensely fits better. This is more like them, instead of the almost hesitant coversation from earlier this morning, they are back on the ground Jack knows and loves. He pushes and Norrington reacts. Even if Norrington pushes him first -- and Jack is not beyond noticing that the use of the word was directed to garnish such a reply from him; another interesting tidbit -- he can still rise to the bait more admirally and give as good as he gets.

He hopes Norrington might come to appreciate that talent in a bit more... literal sense one of these days.

Jack's smile turns nearly feral when he hears the Commodore issue a part about a challenge. And it is a challenge in any regard. He looks up through his eyelashes at him, taking another slow bite of the fruit, even more provocative this time 'round now that he knows it draws the Commodore's attention.

"Aye," he murmurs. "But the same goes for you, mate, if I remember. Though yours seems to be more of a challenge of elusiveness than mine. Still want to try your hand at... catching me?" Jack raises his eyebrows and slides one booted foot over to Norrington's leg, slipping one toe innocently against his calf.

He pauses for a moment and then adds, "Or are you too intrigued by my... banana for such things right now? Care for a taste?" It's uttery and shamelessly blunt, not that Jack dislikes subtly, for he'll use it when it suits him. Creating horrible puns at the moment, however, is too, too fun.

The light in Sparrow's eyes is disturbing. Deeply and truly disturbing and God help him, James Norrington cannot look away. That last comment about a challenge was ill-thought out, or at least, put into action by that rebellious corner of his brain before the more rational rest was able to censor it, and James wishes he could find it within himself to regret it.

But he cannot.

Sparrow's lips are sliding around the flesh of the banana in an entirely indecent manner and his eyes, black-painted and glinting, are utterly- alluring, his mind whispers ironically- as he gazes up through his lashes at James; everything about him, in fact, looks absolutely whorish, albeit entirely more enticing than any strumpet James has actually dallied with on his many journeys. He swallows hard, and forces himself to look away from the pirate’s eyes and mouth, only to be distracted by a sudden, slow caress on his calf. He’s wearing his boots, but the slide of Sparrow’s foot against his leg is still easy to feel, and it is only with the utmost effort that he restrains the shiver which is threatening to slink up his spine.

Standing straight, he paces over to the unoccupied chair and pulls it over to rest in front of Sparrow and sits, crossing one leg over the other, just close enough to Sparrow that the tip of James’s boot nudges against his. Ignoring the heavy warmth in his gut, he looks Sparrow directly in the eye, one brow raised ever so slightly in what he knows the pirate will take as a challenge, a continuation of this perverse game they seem to be playing.

‘Thank you, Mr. Sparrow,’ he says calmly, ‘but I’m afraid I shall have to decline your generous offer; I have never been overfond of bananas.’ His eyes flicker. ‘Oranges, however, I adore.’

Still smirking slightly, he reaches over to the tray of food on the table and retrieves an orange, his fingers caressing the smooth flesh in a way that is only slightly intentionally provocative. The corner of his mouth curling up, he makes quick work of the rind and peels off a segment, raising it to his mouth in a (decidedly more restrained) imitation of Sparrow’s teasing with the banana. Smiling fractionally, he licks his fingers of the juice.

Come on, he thinks madly, push and pull, Sparrow? Is that what this is? Well, I can push as well as you.

The reaction from Norrington is near delicious. Jack soaks it up, appearing as wonton as he dares, not wishing to push too far too hard too fast. He doesn't want to chase Norrington until he is running scared. He wants to get Norrington to chase him, properly this time. Make him want to. Of his own volition. Push him until he pushes back just as hard. 'Til something breaks.

And by the looks of things the Commodore is rising the call just wonderfully. By eating an orange. Very, ahh, nicely too. Very nicely. With finger licking. Pink tongue and long... juice-covered... fingers...

Jack swallows a rough gulp, eyes pinned to Norrington's action, the way his tongue wraps and laps up the sticky mess from the fruit. He can't help but wonder what it would like to have his own fingers laved with such attention, or perhaps even other parts of his anatomy.

As if caught in the fact that he is staring -- not even staring but openingly staring so that Norrington can't help but notice how atuned his attention has become by such an act -- Jack tries to pull himself back to his senses.

Well he's not to be outdone. Not in this. Now now. Not when he has James Norrington, wigless, shipless, licking juice off his fingers all as a show for Jack Sparrow. Something warm and insistent hums through Jack's veins and pools lower at the thought. All for him.

He knocks his foot against Norrington's, twisting until he's not merely touching but, no, caressing the top of his boot and then in a brash move, props his feet on the arm of Norrington's chair, same as he did last night. This time though he makes sure that his legs cross over Norrington's lap to reach the arm. He smiles again, one of those smug, daring smiles.

"You've never had one of my bananas," he says, voice low, nearly a purr. "They might change you mind." He keeps his eyes locked on Norrington's face as he adjusts one boot on the chair, the back of his knee just lightly brushing Norrington's thigh. "Though you got me wondering, mate, why you can never remember the 'Captain' before me name. 'Round here it's either Captain or Jack. Your choice."

He takes another bite of banana, nearly finishing it off and gaudily winks at Norrington as he smoothes his mouth down the shaft. This is just too much fun for him.

It stirs something deep and twisted within him to see Sparrow's obvious reaction to his teasing; the breathing suddenly shallow, those eyes fixed on his fingers, his mouth. His. Now that is satisfying beyond all imagining, and it suddenly occurs to him that he has more control over Sparrow this way than he ever would gain merely by clapping the pirate in irons. And this way is mutually beneficial as well. How terribly convenient.

The thoughts are driven from his head, however, when Sparrow folds his boots upon the arm of his chair, moving just so so that the back of his knee brushes against James's thigh, and the heat in his belly flares and moves lower, tightening with a delicious sort of discomfort. He's on the edge of ease here, threatening to tip over, but the knowledge of his previous epiphany soothes him, and he looks over to meet Sparrow's eyes. Ohh, yes, he can definitely deal with this.

His lips twitch in a laugh at Sparrow's all-too-obvious innuendo, and he tilts his head to the side, a look of mock-consternation on his face.

'I am afraid, Sparrow, that I am not the sort of man whose mind is... easily changed.' Now that's a dare if ever there was one. 'And as for what I should refer to you as...' He captures his bottom lip in between his teeth as if thinking, and allows his gaze to become heated, 'Would you like me to call you Captain?' His voice is a rumbling purr, and it is with infinite smugness (and not a little arousal) that he waits for Sparrow's reaction, lazily reaching out a hand to draw random patterns on the well-worn leather of the pirate's boot.

It is all Jack can do to keep his mouth from dropping open and lounging there, slackjawed, at the way Norrington is meeting him play for play in this little game. He focuses very hard on keeping hisself from becoming to occupied and then...

Oh, the lip-bitting. And that purr. Jack feels the flame in his veins surge forth, spiking a note higher amoungst the the swirling thoughts of desire, and rushing through him in a heated course. Intoxicating the same as alcohol.

"I would like for you to call me Captain," he answers hungrily, absently.

Suddenly he feels Norrington's fingers tracing lightly over the cover of his boot. So delicate, his touch, yet Jack knows those hands can be strong, powerful. Dangerous. Can set traps for him just as easily as pet him. And is that what this is? A trap?

Along with the quelling urge to reach out and touch the Commodore in return, there is a wariness that abounds. Is Norrington playing a bit too well because he knows he can use this as a way to best Jack? Beat him at his own game? Take the upper hand? A milieu of deicious images flutters through Jack's brain at just what an 'upper hand' Norrington might take... But no! No. Stay on track. Up the stakes and see if Norrington follows.

After all, even if the Commodore is trying to lure him into some sort of compromising position, Jack can bend him into similar positions in return. And why shouldn't he? It is a game he started.

Jack smiles again, lowering his tone to match Norrington's, "Sounds as if you'd like me to persuade you, mate. Sure you can remember how persuasive I can be." He rubs the back of his knee against Norrington's thigh again, nudging just a bit higher, then leans forward in his chair, placing his face directly in front of Norrington's. "Because I remember being very... very... close to persuading you last time."

Deftly he plucks the orange out of Norrington's grasp and pops a piece into his own mouth, sucking the remaining juice off his fingers as he leans back in his chair.

I would like for you to call me Captain-

The absentness of that admission makes James think that perhaps Sparrow has let slip here a bit more than he would ordinarily, but the hunger, the sheer lust in the pirate’s gravely voice makes it difficult to concentrate on possible strategic advantages. No- James can put as much scheming as he likes into this, but it’s becoming increasingly clear that this is something deeper than that- it’s lust, to put it bluntly; sheer, feral desire for the man in front of him.

When was the last time he had given into that sensation?

Whores in Singapore and the Indies, yes, whores at home in England as well, but with a prostitute there’s a sense of duty, almost; pay the girl, do your thing, get it done. There was none of this strange spontaneity in those dalliances.

James quite liked this. And he can tease as well as Sparrow, oh yes, but with that last comment about persuasion, it seems that the teasing was drawing to a close. He is not entirely sure how he feels about that; his body is certainly clear enough in its feelings on the matter- the swirling, dizzying arousal in his veins and the heat pooling in his loins seem almost to be screaming at him to just jump Sparrow, but-

Sparrow’s leg brushes against his thigh, higher this time, and all thoughts of ‘but’ leap out of his head in the surge of molten heat that suddenly flares in him. Sparrows face too close to his, that voice murmuring deliciously, sinfully indecent, and James shifts in his seat, his gaze fixed on Sparrow as the pirate teasingly plucks the orange from his grasp and leans back triumphantly, lips and tongue wrapped around one clever, browned finger in a way that ought to be illegal.

His thoughts are swirling so close to the edge of coherency, and he can feel his face flushing madly, but mustering his Naval calm he looks at the man before him and clears his throat. He leans back in his chair.

‘Very well, Captain,’ he murmurs, his own voice rough with desire, ‘Persuade me.’

To hear the desire in Norrington's voice invigors him. To see a blush -- he made the Scourge of Piracy blush! -- is almost too rich. It gives Jack the feeling of being the one in control again, the one with ability to do the pushing and not risk himself breaking in the Commodore's stead. And he plans to push all he can. Now that he has permission and all.

Shifting in his seat, under the guise of being more out of sorts by Norrington's statement than he feels, Jack raises another segment of the orange to his lips, letting his hover there innocently. Brushes just the barest hint of the flesh against his mouth before taking it it and swallowing it quickly. Lifts his chin a bit to draw attention to his neck as his Adam's apple bobs.

That leaves him with one segment left. He studies it for a moment, before offering it out to Norrington, one eyebrow rising in a suggestion that the Commodore doesn't use his hands to accept it.

"And how should I go about this persuading, my very good Commdore?" Jack asks in a husky murmur, eyes darkening with clear intention. "Seems to me that a man as... commanding as you would be requiring more forms of persuasiveness than we could really be doing in these two chairs." The smile he wears is a little better than a leer.

His eyes are fixed to the orange segment as Sparrow swipes it along his lips, coy as a prostitute with her lipstick, and he swallows in synch with the pirate as his Adam’s apple bobs enticingly under the curve of his neck and throat. He is struck by a sudden longing to taste that golden flesh, to bite with sharp teeth, to claim. Inside his mouth, his tongue moves slightly of its own accord, as if to trace the line of that neck down into the gaping V of the collar.

When Sparrow holds out the last segment of orange, one brow raised in a clear invitation, and murmurs a question about how precisely he should go about persuading him, uncertainty for a moment battles with desire in James’s gut. Damn the pirate. He had intentionally leaned back there, signalled him to make the first move. Why? Quite honestly, he did not know how to, not with Jack Sparrow, and furthermore there was a small part of him which would feel much less guilty were Sparrow the one to, ah, finish the teasing, as it were.

But James can still ensure that. Oh, yes he can. So he leans forward, eyes dark on Sparrow, but does not take the orange segment in his mouth, as the pirate so clearly wishes. Instead, he slowly reaches out a hand, drawing one finger over the back of Sparrow’s hand before taking the orange segment and sliding it into his mouth, biting down, feeling the sweet burst of juice. He smirks, tongue flicking out to retrieve a droplet of juice from the corner of his lips.

‘Well, Sparrow,’ he drawls, ‘or I should call you Captain, I could not say how you should deign to go about persuading me. Surely a man as admittedly persuasive as yourself should be able to come up with something… creative. Though I might add,’ an eyebrow rises fractionally, ‘That you might still get a taste of this orange if you hasten. If that gives you any ideas.’

It’s even less subtle than Sparrow’s nonsense with the banana earlier, but at this point he doesn’t really feel up for subtlety, and the burn of Sparrow’s eyes as he regards him is more than enough to make him act completely mad.

The desire to force Norrington to act first is slowly draining away and being replaced by the desire to simply act. It's a forfeit of the game, to make the Commodore chase him, to rattle him above and beyond any semblance of decorum or whatever bloody mindset the man carries with him. To see him completely undone -- that's what Jack wants.

And maybe that is what he has. That Norrington is daring to be so bold with him absolutely tickles. Sends a rush of adrenalein through his body and speeds his breathing. He wants to see what happens when Norrington releases that strong chokehold on propriety and lives life, if just for a second, like Jack. Wind in the sails takes you anywhere you want to go. Absolute freedom. Do whatever it is that you are inspired to do.

Running his eyes over Norrington's expression, looking for any sign that he is about to pull away, or better yet give in, Jack tugs his feet from his lap and leans in. "Quite the proposition, Commodore," he purrs. "Can't say I feel inclined to dismiss it. After all, I've always lots of ideas. You should hear them sometime."

He raises one hand to sweep the backs of his fingers over Norrington's cheek, not quite touching skin but the milimetre of air hovering right above. Invades his personal space again, pressing close until he can feel each puff of breath against his lips, eyes locked on the green of Norrington's. What pretty eyes, they are. Colour nothing at all like the browns and blues of the sea, but the lush verdant plains of the land.

"Such nice eyes," Jack mumbles nearly absently, stroking the air from Norrington's cheek down to his neck, brushing past the delicate tendrils of hair that raise to his touch. He focuses in again on Norrington's gaze, how it reads to him, and quirks his lips in invitation. "Come catch me," he whispers, placing his mouth only a fraction of a ways from Norrington's. Then in after thought he adds, "If you dare."

The space between them now cannot be more than a few millimetres, and James’s eyes are practically crossed as he stares at Sparrow, so, so maddeningly close, his breath warm and wet, whispering across his skin, one hand rising to almost, almost touch, just raising the hairs along cheek and neck. He swallows hard, feeling the heat from Sparrow’s body mingling with the heat from his own, swirling in an insane mixture of desire and apprehension.

God damn you, Sparrow, just move!

But he did no such thing, and James felt that he must soon do something or else run mad, even madder than he seemed to be at the moment. But if Sparrow made the first move, then it made this Sparrow’s fault, and that was something which would make this entire affair much easier. Trouble is, Sparrow seems to know this just as well as James does, and is holding back, in his own peculiar way, just as James is.

Oh, sod it, James thinks, and suddenly, very suddenly, he stands up, forcing Sparrow stumbling backwards. Smoothing a wayward hair behind his ear, he stalks over to Sparrow and grips him by the wrist, much as he had done that day on the docks so long ago, one thumb tracing over the lines of veins so close under the surface. He feels Sparrow’s heartbeat speed up, feels the heat of his blood, and he pulls him close, lips almost, almost brushing against the pirate’s. His voice is wicked as he whispers sharp and clear.

‘Oh I dare, Sparrow.’

And with that, he kisses him.

Jack is so deliciously certain that Norrington is close to breaking. So close to reacting to him and quitting that reserved facet of a front he wears. And he wants to see it, experience it. Just what does a Commodore do when pressed to his limit. He is almost prepared to touch his face for real this time when suddenly Jack finds out just what a Commodore does.

He stumbles back from the force of Norrington standing. It has nothing to do with surprise. Absolutely nothing. The chair behind him topples over and Jack staggers, swaggers, a few steps backwards, one hand dancing out to counter his balance and the other nearly reaching for Norrington to steady hisself. Fingers brushing the starched fabric of Norrington's collar as Norrington moves towards him. Almost like a prowl. Almost feral. Tucking a pretty strand of hair behind his ear. The heat in his blood surges forth at the expression on Norrington's face as he grabs his wrist.

Just pure, pure lust. And passion. Jack almost shivers in anticipation, feeling Norrington's words brush against his lips. And then followed by Norrington's own mouth.

Jack smiles into the kiss, sliding his mouth across Norrington's, more of a caress than an actual kiss. The hand not held by Norrington he raises to rest against his neck, cradling the underside of his jaw, running fingers to trace the strong line down to his chin as he moulds their mouths together playfully. Doesn't yet try to deepen the kiss. Tease between light feather touches and firm pressure. He slides his hand over Norrington's chin as he pulls away fractionally, replacing his mouth with his fingers, two gliding over his bottom lip for a moment.

"It's Jack," he says, "or Captain." He flicks his eyes up to meet Norrington's, smiling at the look that meets his, and adds in almost a growl, "Commodore."

Then in a quick motion he presses his mouth back to Norrington's, reintiating the kiss, his hand moving to curl around his ear, brushing his fingertips against the soft hair that is tucked there.

God, he’s a tease. Even now, after James has conceded so much of his dignity, has kissed Sparrow as the pirate has clearly wanted him to do for how long James does not know- still he taunts him with little brushing half-kisses and smug smiles, skating sea-roughened fingers over the planes of his face.

But it’s good. Oh, it’s good. The heat in his veins curls in on itself like a contented cat, purring, urging him to continue. He leans in again, brushes his lips against Sparrow’s in a clear mockery of the pirate’s own kisses, relishing the warmth, the pressure against his skin. Sparrow makes a little noise as he does this, halfway between pain and amusement, and James realises that his right hand is still clutching Sparrow’s wrist, gripping now like a vice. He lifts a finger curiously, and finds that beneath it, Sparrow’s golden, golden skin has gone white with the pressure. A moment more, and the taught whiteness flames into an angry red; it’ll bruise later, he knows, and the sudden image of a hand-shaped bruise on Jack Sparrow’s wrist is eminently appealing.

He does not relinquish his grip, but instead pulls Sparrow closer yet, his other hand clutching at the shoulder of his shirt, twisting and bunching the fabric.

‘I’ll call you whatever you want if you bloody well kiss me properly,’ he mutters fiercely, almost a growl, his grip tightening yet further.

Rp for captjacksparrow

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