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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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.

Jack doesn't even try to withhold the small, almost mewling noises that escape his throat when Norrington won't kiss him back the way he now wants. Teases him instead just as Jack just teased him. But that's what he likes about the Commodore, for all his Commodore-ial fenangling. He gives as good as he gets. Matches Jack play for play. And Jack enjoys that. Oh how very much he enjoys it.

What he does not so much enjoy is pain. Which is currently making itself known when Norrington twists the grip on his wrist just-so. Jack hums a strangled groan, somewhere between a laugh and a wince. Tilts his mouth away from Norrington's to follow the Commodore's gaze down to where he holds Jack's wrist. Sees the white then red bands covering his skin, just over the pirate brand, when Norrington moves his fingers. It will leave a mark, Jack is sure, and the heat in his stomach floods downwards at such a thought. Releases a gutteral moan.

Apparently he rather likes the idea of Norrington marking him in some way. Jack decides not to pursue the train of thought as to why that is, not when he has other, more pressing interests concerning him.

Such as Norrington yanking him closer. Jack inches his head up again, feeling Norrington's words against his lips and smiling into them. With his free hand, the other half-heartedly attempting to wiggle free from Norrington's grasp, Jack gives into his desire to feel the silkiness of those chocolate brown locks running through his fingers and tangles his hand into Norrington's hair. Brushes it back away from his face and begins to massage the back of his scalp with his be-ringed fingers.

"Such language from a Commodore," Jack teases. Places a chaste kiss to the corner of Norrington's mouth. Looks up to find Norrington's eyes, his own eyes dark and longing. Then continues, "All you had to do was ask, love." Jack's tone is laced with playfulness and he cuts off whatever reply Norrington might have tried to form by pressing their lips together. Hard. He moulds his lips to Norrington's, slips out his tongue to trace his lower lip and tries to coax Norrington to deepen the kiss.

When Sparrow insinuates a hand into his hair, tangling the locks among his fingers, clever fingertips massaging and rubbing at his scalp, Norrington very nearly moans, his eyelids fluttering closed. He bites his lip to hold back the noise which wants to escape. Partially as a result of being a Commodore, he often suffered from tension headaches- a tendency not at all alleviated by the events of the past few months and the chase of the Black Pearl. But Sparrow's fingers rubbing like that... the strain dropping away until he feels lighter than he has done in a good while.

But his attention is soon drawn from the feeling of Sparrow’s hands in his hair to the sound of Sparrow’s voice reprimanding James playfully for his language- cheeky- and then the feel of his lips once again on his, this time a firm, chaste press against the corner of his mouth- even cheekier. He’s about to answer, something faux-aloof and Commodorial, no doubt, though he’s not entirely sure what he intends to say, when suddenly Sparrow kisses him again.

Hard.

Now this is the proper kiss James had asked for; Sparrow’s lips firmly against his, moving just so, so that James is compelled to kiss back, lips sliding and pressing against each other, chapped and rough from salt and sea. Sparrow opens his mouth and then there’s a tongue, sliding out, tentatively running along James’s lower lip, and eagerly he meets it with his own.

But Sparrow is being… gentle, coaxing, almost as if he’s- what, tentative? unsure? afraid? No, no that’s wrong. That Sparrow is taking this slowly (and James is sure that the pirate isn’t this gentle with the many conquests he’s purported to have) suggests that there’s meaning behind it, and meaning is something James does not want. Give and take, push and pull. But this gentle, almost affectionate… it’s giving James too much time to think, and suddenly irritated, he kisses harder, fiercer, pushing Sparrow backwards with his body, daring him to push back.

Whether literally or figuratively, he once again doesn’t know, but he doesn’t really care at the moment- either would be fine with him.

What started out as a kiss meant to be sly, teasing has suddenly become passionate. A groan escapes Jack as Norrington pushes into him, entirely without his command. His hand tightens in Norrington's hair as he is forced to take a few steps backwards, humming around the fierce contact the entire time. He wants more of it, more of Norrington's mouth beneath his, and immediately deepens the kiss, stroking his tongue along the other's, kneeding their lips together as he pushes back with the same amount of energy.

Good, good, so good. The words rattle through Jack's brain. Just the hot, wet heat of Norrington's mouth and the softness of his lips and the silkiness of his hair between Jack's fingers as he pets down the slope of Norrington's skull, squeezing the back of his neck and brushing his thumb behind his ear. Suddenly he feels his back hit the wall and he doesn't know how they managed to cross the room but it's good. This passion residing his his Commodore. Jack tilts his head and sweeps his tongue along the edge of Norrington's and hums deep in his throat again. Thinks James.

But no. No. Wait. What? James? Norrington was meant to break, not Jack. Not Jack at all. He isn't meant to be beat at his own game, not when he just proverbially won it.

With a start, Jack pulls away, gasping for breath. His wrist is still clutched in Norrington's hand and he looks down at it, mystified. Caught me after all, Jack thinks, and suddenly the urge to run away is greater than the urge to keep taunting. He doesn't look up at Norrington as he gulps down all the air he can.

God, but he hasn't had this in so long. Well really, he's never had this, for kissing Jack Sparrow (being kissed by Jack Sparrow) is like nothing else he's ever experienced. It's good. Oh, it's good, good, good, despite the scratch of Sparrow's ridiculous goatee and the strange, metallic taste of his gold teeth. It's wet heat and tongues and pressure and Sparrow humming into his mouth and hands in his hair urging more, more.

And so he gives more, his body (of its own volition, apparently) pushing up against Sparrow's, seeking friction and more of this incredible heat. And Sparrow's pushing back, writhing up against him, wanting him. Oh, that's an intoxicating thought, and he licks his tongue along Sparrow's, wanting to hear that throaty groan again-- and then Sparrow breaks away, his face no longer playful or teasing, but shocked, almost, disbelieving.

He's looking down at his wrist, clutched still in James's hand (he hadn't realised he'd kept his grip on it this entire time), and suddenly self-conscious, James releases his hold, flexing his fingers stiffly. He backs away slightly; partly to give Sparrow his space, partly to gather his own wits.

He had kissed Jack Sparrow. He had kissed Jack Sparrow

Kissed a man. Moreover, kissed a pirate. The pirate was more of an issue for James, honestly- attraction to men, well, that was something a seaman had to deal with, and something James had squared himself with long ago. But Jack Sparrow!

He had seduced the man. Or been seduced. Or something. He wasn't even sure now, he knew only that not moments before he had been locked in an entirely inappropriate embrace with the man and had enjoyed it thoroughly. What had happened to Sparrow being his enemy? Well, that had ceased to be, really, the moment he had sheathed his sword and agreed to stay aboard the Black Pearl, but there was a great difference between being on cordial terms and... that.

He shook his head, his mind still rattling with the frantic desire of moments before and cleared his throat stiffly.

'My apologies, Sparrow. I don't know what came over me.' He paused. What to say? Apologise? No, he wasn't sorry. At least, not in the way he could apologise for. Instead, he squared himself, proper Commodore once again (desperately squelching the heat that remained).

'So, Captain Sparrow; if I am to reside aboard your ship, I must have duties. I will not suffer myself to languish in this cabin like a prisoner, as you have made abundantly clear that I am not one. What shall I do?'

Norrington releasing him relieves Jack's wish for flight somewhat. Curbs it into something he can manage. Hide behind a brash exterior of swinging limbs and maddening smiles. For a moment though he stares at it, the abused skin circling his wrist. The beginnings of a bruise starting to tinge the corners of the finger-bands blue. Jack rotates his wrist, feeling intently for the crack and snap of the joint resettling into place. Letting his mind wander for a second in an attempt to square with hisself that momentary slip.

What was that? Almost like... a possessiveness. Treasure. Intoxication. But more than that even. He doesn't understand it. Doesn't want there to be something to understand. All he wanted was Norrington, because for some reason Norrignton wants him -- oh, he wants him, certainly, Jack is convinced at this point, thinking of the force the Commodore kissed him with -- and he wants to know just why there is that wanting. Finds Norrington's behavior intriguing. And why now the man still decides to kiss him rather than engage him in a battle when it is apparent that he and Norrington both still have their swords nearby. But his own response is something else curious. Not just playful but demanding. Just as forceful as Norrington's reaction to him.

Maybe he wants to be caught in this circumstance.

That thought needs more time to settle and Jack mentally shakes off his wonderment. Drops his wrist to his side and looks at Norrington when he clears his throat. The man looks not at all effected, straight back and stiffed shoulders. Only the disarranged hair and redden lips give away what they were just at.

And oh, to taste those lips again...

No. The Commodore is speaking. Best pay attention or he might miss something important. Like an apology.

Jack chuckles at that, that Norrington should apologise when Jack suckered him into a kiss. Always the proper one, he is. The inner jibe buoys Jack's mood from the unsure place where it went.

"Prisoner you are definitely not," he says, twisting a hand around to gesture. "Things maybe different in your Navy but I don't go around kissing prisoners." He tries a leer but it falls flat and so Jack continues around it, as if it were never there. "But a place for you in me crew, eh?" He pauses to think, sauntering past Norrington to pace around the room. "And what would the likes of a Commodore prefer to be doing aboard a pirate ship? Wouldn't think you'd be partial to swabbing decks as it were," Jack muses aloud.

Suddenly he turns, and levels a stare at Norrington. "Decided to turn pirate after all? In the end?"

James is unspeakably relieved when Sparrow seems to collect himself- it's comforting, allows James to gather his own frazzled wits somewhat further. However, the other man is still clearly rattled, his usual casual innuendo forced and flat, and that blinding smile distinctly dulled. But James cannot dwell on that, especially when Sparrow begins pacing about the room, drawing lazy patterns in the air with one hand as he muses on James's query.

But then there's the jibe he knew would come- decided to turn pirate after all?- and James's face twists into a grimace of its own accord as he fights down the ire that Sparrow's words produce. But really, he has not the force or the will to be angry right now, and instead settles on a chilly calmness as he answers.

'I am not a pirate, Sparrow, nor shall I ever be. I believe you know my views on the subject well enough to know that such an eventuality is utterly impossible. However,' he looks Sparrow in the eye, sees that strange openness there, 'I am a man of action, and it would not sit well with me to sit useless in a cabin when there is a deck under my feet and wind to be caught.' He's waxing a bit poetic there, which is odd- he shakes himself out of it.

'Futhermore,' and this is difficult to say, but somehow James feels that it must be articulated, 'I am a sailor before I am a Commodore- I will work where I can, and do my piece. If that place is a pirate ship... then so be it.'

If Jack was the type of man to write little reminder notes to hisself, he would indelibly write one that read something along the lines of: Do not make piracy as a possible future employment option references to the Commodore. Make no comments, no jibes of the nature, because more than anything it seems to be the largest area on Norrington's map that is labelled Not A Laughing Matter.

In fact, it might be a good idea to have it inked somewhere onto his skin so that he mightn't ever forget it again, like his forehead. Except that he could never be able to see his own forehead without some sort of aide. Like looking over the side of the ship into the water to study his reflection each morning. And that would put a crimp in his otherwise easy morning rituals. Maybe he could tattoo it on Norrington's forehead instead...

Jack turns his attention back out to listen to Norrington for a second but the Commodore is still prattling on about something. He doesn't have much a mind to pay attention to what it is at this moment, as the icy tone of voice clearly communicates that Norrington is most likely chastising him for his chosen walk of life. And listening to the side of a debate that can never be completely squared -- at least not yet; Jack has hopes that an extended stay on day on board the Pearl with her charms and at night in his cabin with his charms might cause the Commodore to re-think his staunch stance on the nature of vagabonds -- is not something that will ever appeal. His eyes drift off to the side halfway through Norrington's words to blandly study the woodwork on the walls of his cabin.

It is not until the "Furthermore" that Jack's attention is regained. The pained undercurrent to the words, as if it physically hurts him to admit such a thing, catches Jack's curiosity again. He drifts his eyes back to Norrington's face and watches him with a dawning expression of surprise. Never in all his assumptions of the Commodore did Jack once consider that he would place his position as a sailor before his position as a leader. To be someone who regards decent hours' work over a name and prestigious title. Jack's eyebrows are near his hairline and a baffled smile struggles to spread its way on his face.

It takes him a few minutes to find the right reaction in order to respond to that comment. And even then he can do little more than stare perplexed at Norrington, wrist swivling limping where he's held it out this entire time.

Almost disbelievingly, Jack muses, "I confess I'm finding it a bit hard to be believing you were ever a sailor, mate. More'n likely you were born with that wig on your head and all that..." He gestures to Norrington's dress. "... brocade straight out of your mummy's womb."

Jack tilts his head and this time a wide smile does break loose as he considers. "Just to think on that... a young Norrington, not more than a kiddie, running about wig and uniform clad..." The image is one that Jack finds considerably endearing.

It is with great interest that James sees the surprise manifest on Sparrow's face- it's intriguing, really, because it's something he's never even considered. Do his men think of him like that as well? Nothing but the Commodore, the brocade and wig and the fine sword? Would they find it absurd to think of James as a lad, cabin boy aboard his first vessel, scrambling to do things correct, as the captain wished, so that in time he might be a captain himself? They would, in all probability, and James is not sure how he feels about that notion.

Sparrow for his part seems utterly perplexed by his comment, and he waits patiently for the pirate to formulate a response. However, he very nearly laughs when he does hear it, and favours Sparrow with a just slightly superior raise of an eyebrow.

'Are you comparing me to Athena, Sparrow? Sprung fully clothed from her father's forehead?' He scoffs, both mocking and self-deprecating, 'Hardly. I assure you I was born in quite the usual way, much to the relief of my mother.'

He cocks his head at Sparrow, then, thinking suddenly. While Sparrow's idea of an eight year old Commodore is amusing, it makes him wonder about the pirate himself. Surely he was not always the rogue he is now, with his dreadlocks and his kohl and tatoos on his obscenely golden skin. No, that idea is as absurd as the notion that James was born in full dress uniform. The corner of his mouth twitches slightly.

'And what of you- the wee lad Jack Sparrow? I was not born Commodore anymore than you were born a pirate, a little boy with beads in his hair and a bottle of rum in his hands.'

He bites back a smile at that image, his nose crinkling, for he has to admit, it is rather... adorable. Not that he should be finding any aspect of Sparrow adorable, even if it is only an imagined version of him thirty-five years ago. Regardless, however, it is, and eventually the smile breaks free, small, yes, but amused and entirely genuine.

'However, you've not answered my question,' he brings himself back to business (though the smile still lingers for some reason), 'What is a sailor to do aboard the Black Pearl?'

Jack laughs when Norrington speaks of his mother's relief.

It can be a dangerous thing to bring up a man's mother and Jack was not sure if Norrington would play along or scold him for ever daring to even breathe her name. He wonders what her name actually was, if she still lives somewhere (By the look of him, Norrington doesn't seem an older man, so his mother might still be amongst the living. In fact, he probably is younger than Jack, though truth be told Jack doesn't know either of their ages.) and thinks on her Commodore son. If she thinks he is a good man for his efforts under the Crown.

He does not know where is own mother is. Hasn't stopped a day to think of her in many, many years. Doesn't care much for it, family. With a father whose name is known better than his face and a mother much the opposite, lost somewhere in a boyhood memory, Jack doesn't feel the need to have much of family. The Pearl is his family. Wife, mother, daughter, lover. She is all he needs. And where he came from, what he was like as a boy -- well that was Jack Teague, wasn't it? Jack Sparrow rose from the watery depths with his ship, fully formed the pirate he is now.

So he looks at Norrington with darkling eyes and whispers in his best impersonation of encryption and mystery, "And maybe I was. Who said I ever had a mother at all?" He slinks towards Norrington, starting to circle him. "Maybe I rose from the sea, just as I am now," he murmurs lightly into his ear.

And then pulls back with a wide grin. "If you're to be believing the tales, of course," Jack amends, cheeky and cocky once again, relishing in his own near-mythical stories.

He stares at Norrington for a few moments, waiting to see if the Commodore will buy such an answer. Knows full well that he is avoiding his other question.

"And sailors do here what they are to be doing aboard any ol' ship," Jack hums, steering away from the question as soon as he answered it.

He still isn't sure where exatly to offer to place Norrington in the ranks. Doesn't quite believe the man knows how to work the riggings or mend the sails to his liking. A man forgets, after all, what is work when he does nothing all day but stand aboard deck, surveying. Jack isn't keen to the idea of ordering the Commodore around like a simple deckhand, though maybe serving under a pirate would re-order his priorities. He fishes for time to think it over by turning the question back on Norrington.

"Need to see some credentials before I know right what to be placing you."

Sparrow chuckles when James mentions his mother's relief, but the humour soon fades into a curious, closed look. It's pensive, and more than a little unsettling. Perhaps he had misstepped, bringing up his own mother, not thinking about Sparrow's. After all, it was eminently plausible that Sparrow had never known his- more like than not he was the son of a whore and a pirate, or perhaps even a Marine on shoreleave who had spent an unlucky night with the future mother.

Whatever the case, it is clear Sparrow doesn't want to speak of it, as he leans close with that dangerous glitter in his eyes and murmurs some nonsense about him being sprung from the sea. That was Aphrodite, James half-thinks, not Athena, but he refrains from mentioning it. If Sparrow wants to resort to the ridiculously mythic rumours about himself which one seems to find in every port, James will let him. He will not forget, however, that he has done so. Just another part of the pirate he doesn't understand- more Italian to be translated, as it were. So he smiles wanly, as he is sure Sparrow wants him to do, and allows him to continue.

He seems strangely hesitant, however, about giving James a place on the ship- not that this is surprising, really. After all, he is a Commodore of the King's Navy, and he imagines any pirate would be loath to put such a man to work aboard his ship. Or perhaps it is not that- the look Sparrow is giving him is a measuring one, and it strikes James that perhaps he doubts his use aboard a ship, a notion which is confirmed when Sparrow asks coyly to see his credentials.

He bristles slightly. 'Credentials, Sparrow?' His voice is wryly amused- perfect, 'I am a Commodore, surely; what other credentials do you need? But if you must know- I crewed my first ship when I was twelve years old, as a cabin boy aboard the Empire Gull. I spent several years with her until I eventually became a Midshipman. From there, I went to serve aboard the Diligence as a Lieutenent. And the rest... I'm sure you can imagine.'

While he takes pride in his achievements, certainly- he is, after all, the youngest Commodore possibly ever in the Royal Navy- it seems dull to be listing them all off, and he coughs awkwardly.

'But I'm sure that's not what you meant- you want to know if I still can hoist sails and climb the rigging and all that- do the work of an ordinary sailor.' He looks Sparrow in the eyes- he wants him to know this, wants somehow to prove himself. 'Yes, Sparrow, I can. Like I said- I am a sailor. There's no way I would remain Commodore if I couldn't do the work of the lowliest Marine as well as the command required of my position.'

Jack only nods when Norrington asks if he wants reassurance that he can do the work of an average sailor. It isn't that he has much reason to doubt the validity of his claims, for the way the man lists them, with pride, strikes Jack as the way he himself would bristle at being asked to prove his worth. Still. It is the Navy. Never can be too sure with their lot.

And he can't ask for anything more from Norrington. Names of ships, positions held -- the Commodore is a man of his word and has no cause to lie. The Pearl is always in need a more hands. Jack isn't the type to turn away a willing body, for work or for other things.

But to order around the man still isn't something Jack looks forward to. Can't imagine hisself calling out to a Commodore to trim the sails or swab the deck. Wouldn't look good to the rest of the crew, a Captain issuing directives to "Commodore." (James, his reminds himself, and yes that too.) And even then the crew might take problem working along side the Scourge of Piracy.

There must be a way to twist this for his own benefit, while not putting Norrington in unnecessary danger, and still keeping his crew in check. Still showing the Commodore the real life of freedom. There must be a way...

Jack feels an idea settling in.

A mischievous expression on his face, Jack regards Norrington curiously. "A man of your 'position' wouldn't take too well to filling the work of the lowliest Marine, I imagine. Must be another way to work around that. Say... as part of a higher up? First mate?"

James stares. First mate? Surely, the pirate cannot be serious. No... he may not be a prisoner aboard the Pearl, but he's a Navy man, he's been attempting to capture and hang Sparrow for months- all in all, he is not a man to be trusted. And he knows Sparrow does not trust him- the blindfolds on his way to the Pearl, the locked door, the seduction; Sparrow treats him cordially enough, teases him, plays games with him, but he does not trust him.

And James does not trust Sparrow. Such an offer would not be prompted by the mere wish to cater to "a man of his position," as Sparrow put it. No, there would have to be a reason behind it, some ulterior motive, a trap. He narrows his eyes.

'First mate?' He repeats incredulously, 'Surely, Sparrow, you're not fool enough to offer the second-highest rank aboard this ship to a Navy man. What are you after?'

It's almost funny how quick Norrington is to suspect him of something. Jack smiles his best placating smile. "It's almost as if you don't trust me, mate," he answers, feigning hurt. He places his hand over his heart and looks at Norrington with a sad expression.

But that is the rub, isn't it? Norringtin doesn't trust him. Though Jack cannot fathom why he should have any reason not to. Excluding, of course, the dealings behind why Norrington is here, now, requesting to join his crew. The very thought of it thrills through Jack and he tries to keep his excitement at his plan from bubbling over the edges. He really is just too, too brilliant sometimes.

"Who better?" Jack continues, tossing his hands into the air and swivling on his hips. "You know how to command and I don't have to worry about any... nrmnrmnrm... damage done to my ship."

He studies Norrington's face, trying to see if he's going to buy such a simple explanation. Leans in close. Switches tatics at the end. "Do you really want to be going around, taking orders from pirates? A lowly deck hand aboard a pirate ship, being bossed about by scallyways and blaggards with no respect for the Navy as I m'self have shown you?"

Rp for captjacksparrow

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